“Kasie.” Robert sighs as if mildly disappointed by my lack of vision. “The way Tom spoke to you . . . the things he said . . . if one of his superiors had overheard him, would he have lost his job?”
“But they didn’t overhear,” I point out. “You’re speaking in hypotheticals, choosing your truth. Tom helped me when Dave was trying to humiliate me. That’s part of the story, too.”
“And if Tom had thought taking Dave’s side would have advanced his own interests, do you still think he would have helped you?”
“I don’t know, Robert.” I throw up my hands in exasperation. “Do you think Stalin would have helped defeat Hitler if he hadn’t invaded Russia? Sometimes we don’t need to analyze motivations. Sometimes we can just put our hands together and be grateful that the Nazis lost.”
Robert leans back into the couch, his eyes brightened by my challenges. “I’m grateful that the Nazis lost, too, but I don’t think that gives Stalin a pass.”
“Tom isn’t Stalin.”
“No, Stalin deserved to die. Tom just deserves to lose his job.” He glances toward the street as a truck rumbles by. “This is business, Kasie. Tom sexually harassed an employee and he angered a very important client. People get fired for these things all the time.”
“But he wasn’t fired for harassing me.”
Robert waves away the point. “It would have been . . . awkward if the charges had come from you, and you didn’t want to take that on. So I simply made sure the allegations came from other people.”
We’re going in circles and now I’m too dizzy to continue.
I stare up at the off-white ceiling above me. I have worked to keep the interior of my home simple, sophisticated, comfortable, but now this room feels complicated, untamed, and I am not comfortable at all. Everything about Robert agitates me. His voice vibrates inside of me like the beat of a rock song, bringing me alive, amplifying emotions that I might otherwise suppress. “I’m just out of a relationship,” I remind him. “I spent years being controlled by someone else’s vision of me and now you want to control me, too.”
“No.” He stands, moves to my side. “I don’t want to control you.” He lets his fingers slide under my chin, guides my face in his direction. “I would like to corrupt you . . . if only a little.”
“Corrupt me?”
“Kasie, if you let me help you, we could have everything. The people who would mock you or try to make your life harder? They’ll bow before us. Tom was a cautionary tale. We need those. People should know what happens to those who try to bring us down . . . to those who try to demean us.”
“You’re talking about a man’s life.”
“I’m talking about winning.”
His hand slips to the small of my back and I instinctively lean into him, pressing my breasts into his chest. “I want you to stop interfering with the careers of my coworkers.”
“Ah, but you want so many things,” he whispers, grazing his teeth on my earlobe. “What is it you want more, Kasie? Fairness? Power?” He gently pushes me back against a wall; his tongue flicks against the base of my throat. “Me?”
I try to answer but his hands are on my shirt, pulling it from me, unbuttoning my pants, letting them fall.
He takes a step back, pulls his phone from his pocket, and points it in my direction. “I want this image. I want to be able to look at you when you’re not with me.”
I immediately feel my face warm and try to cover myself with my hands but he shakes his head. “No, leave your arms by your sides. You should never be ashamed to show yourself. By the time we’re done no one will ever have the courage to question your audacity. They’ll admire it.”
My arms are at my sides but it’s hard. This isn’t right; I don’t know why I’m allowing it . . . except that I want to allow it. “You’re not going to show this to anyone,” I say. Is it a question? A statement? A request? I just don’t know anymore.
I should be horrified . . . but the idea of being seen . . . audacity without consequences . . .
I pull my hair back off my shoulders, lower my head to a coquettish angle . . . and invite the attention of the camera.
He smiles his approval and takes another picture before putting the phone on the side table. He removes his jacket slowly, drapes it over a chair as I stay pressed against the wall, held by an invisible force.
Sitting down on the sofa, he motions for me to come to him.
I walk to him like a woman under hypnosis . . . maybe that’s what I am. Perhaps he’s cast a spell.