“I didn’t sic anyone on you,” I hiss. Slowly I rise to my feet. “I am grateful that you didn’t act like an asshole when Dave tried to use you as a weapon against me. I’m grateful that you called Mr. Dade. None of that gives you the right to treat me the way that you did on Friday. But despite all that, I did not get you fired.”
“You expect me—”
“I don’t care what you believe!” I snap, not allowing him to finish his thought. “I told my lover about my day at work. That’s it. Period. I have the right to do that! Everything I’ve done since I’ve last seen you I’ve had the right to do!”
“And can the same be said for him? Do you honestly believe he had the right to do this?” Tom blurts out the question with vehemence, but after it’s spoken it hangs in the air like a sword above my head.
Tom seems to see the sword, too, and it calms him. He’s apparently satisfied that he’s shaken me. But with the calm comes a new melancholy. I watch as his shoulders drop, the red color drains away, and suddenly Tom just looks old. At least ten years older than how he looked on Friday when he laughingly and unknowingly sealed his fate.
He exhales loudly. It’s a despairing and mournful sound.
When he turns from me he seems empty. After so many unexpected theatrics he leaves my office with the silence and weight of a ghost.
Tom has always been more of a troublesome ally than an enemy. Like China or Saudi Arabia. Not governments I love, but countries whose value I recognize. As Tom would say, I recognize the symbiotic relationship.
And if this is a war . . . if it ever was, then Robert’s a mercenary. He fights by his own rules, not those of a more honorable soldier, but he fights for me. I’ve paid him in . . . in what? Sex? Affection? Have I paid by giving him control of my own life?
I stand up again; my legs are wobbly but I manage to gather my purse and leave the office. “I’m taking the rest of the day off,” I say to Barbara.
“Oh I know,” Barbara says, smiling up at me. “Mr. Dade already called to say that you would be. He said he’d meet you at his place. I would have rung him through but you seemed . . . busy.”
I stare at her, sure I’ve misheard. She takes a moment to lean forward, whispers conspiratorially, “I had no idea! He’s so hot, Kasie!”
I stiffen; my throat constricts, so I answer only with a stiff nod before turning and walking away.
On my way to the elevator I run into Asha. She stops, offers me a thin smile that hangs in that no-man’s-land between admiration and resentment. “I heard you’re getting promoted to Tom’s position,” she says.
I freeze. Everything takes on a surreal quality. The shadows cast by the light take on the shape of specters and shadow people.
“I’m impressed,” she continues. “You did it. You won.” She gives me a reluctant nod of deference. “To the victor goes the spoils.”
To the victor goes the rules.
“I have to go.” I push past her before she can say more. The elevator ride makes me nauseous. I know I’m not fit to drive but I get in my car anyway. I stay below the speed limit, hoping to give myself time to think. But it doesn’t help. The only things in my head are anger, confusion, fear . . . fear of what?
But the answer to that is easy. I fear my protector.
When I get to Robert’s the gate is open. I move into the driveway, pull my keys from the ignition, and carefully make my way through the gated front yard and into the house. Nothing is locked against me. Everything opens with a touch.
I find him sitting in the living room, reading some report. He looks up at me and smiles. “You’re welcome,” he says before turning his attention back to the papers in his hand.
I shake my head. “You think I’m here to thank you?”
“Why not? I’ve taken care of Tom for you. If Dave’s a problem—”
“He won’t be.”
“But if he is,” Robert continues, “I’ll take care of him, too.”
Behind him is a painting. I’ve admired it before. A picture of abstract lovers surrounded by a chaotic swirl of nonfigurative and colorful shapes that seem impotent in their efforts to pull them apart. When I had first seen it I had thought the painting was a testament to the power of love.
Now I wonder if it’s just a testament to power.
“This is not how I do things,” I say. “I don’t live in a world where it’s okay to destroy those who cross me.”
“Trust me, you’ll get used to it.”
“I’m leaving you.”
He finally puts down the papers, gets to his feet, moves to me. We’re a foot apart now. I don’t want to respond to him but my body won’t cooperate. It’s almost Pavlovian. He comes near me and my heart speeds up, my breathing becomes more shallow, and then there’s the gentle throbbing between my legs.