Just One Night, Part 3_ Binding Agreement(38)

“I bet you anything Mr. Dade and this lady were acting out one of those kinky rich-man’s fantasies,” he says, leaning forward. “I bet once all those fake guests got outta here he fucked her, I bet he fucked her right here on this bar. I bet that bartender . . . whatcha call her, Genevieve? I bet she got in on it, too. And those musicians . . . my friend said they got to stay. Maybe they were part of the little orgy or maybe they got to watch.” He shakes his head, no longer here. Instead he’s lost in his own little fantasy, a fantasy that is so much more than a fantasy for me. I feel my cheeks heat up; anxiety accelerates my heart.

“Can you imagine it?” he asks dreamily. “Two hot girls going down on each other in front of an audience right here on my bar. Man, what I would have given to have seen that. Man, he wouldn’t have even had to pay me. I would have bartended for free and I would have recorded the whole damn thing for him, too! You must have seen the girl though, right? You really were there? Was she hot?”

My cheeks are flaming now; I’m clutching my drink like it’s life support. The bartender gives me a strange look and then a slow grin spreads over his face. “You were here. It was you, wasn’t it?” he asked. “You had sex here, on my bar, by a chick while he watched! Oh man, my friend said the girl was hot but I never dreamed she was as hot as you.”

“It wasn’t like that,” I spat.

“No, tell me, what was it like? Did that bartender, that Camelot girl, did you two strip each other down in front of everyone? And the musicians, did they get a turn with you, too? Or was it just you and Mr. Dade? You know, I’ve always wanted to have sex in front of other people . . . but hey, you know, I like to watch, too. If you ever—”

I get up abruptly, almost tripping as my feet hit the floor, and then I bolt for the door. My movements are so tactless, it attracts the attention of the patrons who had been ignoring me. I feel their eyes on me as I leave, but mostly I feel the eyes of that bartender.

People in that bar, they’ll ask him what that was about. And that bartender? He’ll tell them. He’ll tell them in demeaning detail, making up the parts that he doesn’t know . . . which is all of it. But his imaginings are so close to the truth, I can’t say that my reputation is being unfairly sullied.

My hands are shaking so much, I can’t get my keys out of my purse. I lean against my car, try to steady myself, try to catch my breath and get rid of this feeling of humiliation.

You could get him fired.

It’s the voice of my devil. I’m so very familiar with it now.

One call to your Mr. Dade and that bartender won’t ever work here again. He won’t work anywhere! Mr. Dade will discredit him to the point that no one will believe anything he says! You have that power, Kasie! Just dial the numbers and ask for the moon.

And my devil has a point. That’s why Robert’s ways work. He’s able to live without consequences. The only truth that touches him is the truth that he’s fond of. People who deviate from his preapproved version of reality pay the price and so in the end you are left with only followers. I can use that power now. If I stay with him, my mistakes and indiscretions will never come back to haunt me. No one will ever dare to shame me again!

And more lives will be ruined. People will be punished for being outside our circle of two.

This from the increasingly unfamiliar voice of my angel. Tom and Dave . . . they both stepped over the line with me. It wouldn’t be so outrageous to say that I had the right to retaliate.

Stalin, Mao, Mary Tudor, Napoleon, Caligula, . . . how many times did they tell themselves the same thing before they began to retaliate against people who hadn’t done anything at all? These were men and women who ruled by fear. For years, sometimes decades, they got exactly what they wanted. No one was allowed to speak of their mistakes or failings; those were erased from the pages of the newspapers, banned from public discourse.

But behind her back Mary Tudor was called Bloody Mary. You can stop the speeches but you can’t stop the whispers. That’s the cost of ruling by fear.

Can I afford to pay that price? Do I want to spend my life justifying the destruction of others?

“No,” I say out loud, to myself, to the night. “It’s better to live with the humiliations. It’s better to live with consequences.”

I get in my car and drive, my cheeks still burning with shame. Even when I’m miles away, I’m sure I can hear the whispered words of the bartender, I can hear his crude laughter as he tells those strangers my most intimate secrets.

But this time I don’t have to feel ashamed of how I responded.