The Juliette Society, Book II

by Sasha Grey

  “Sorry to be handsy, but that guy’s bad news.”

  I smile. “I must be giving off some fabulous ‘don’t touch me’ vibes. I’ve developed a sense for these situations since the first time Jack had me come along to one of these events. I was so worried about saying the wrong thing and making him look bad. Now I try my best not to smash something over the head of the nearest lecherous cretin.”

  Bundy grins. “Maybe I should have waited a few minutes, then.”

  “I couldn’t afford what all these breakables would cost.”

  “I did price them a little high.” He shrugs. “Fuck ’em.”

  “What? You’re the one who decided to make it a silent auction?” The benefits of which are all going to a foundation that helps combat malaria.

  He nods. “I figured that they’d all be trying to impress and outdo each other. Might as well have some good come of it.”

  “I’m impressed.”

  “Thank you.” He bows. “But you’ll have to excuse me. I think I see Senator Crawford’s daughter, and I’d very much like to introduce myself to her tits.” He wanders off, and I roll my eyes.

  Some things never change.

  Soon enough, it’s been long enough to politely make our excuses and leave. I search the room for Jack and find him seated at a small table. But instead of just my fiancé, I see DeVille settled there, too, halfway through a whiskey, grinning like a proud father at Jack, who’s animatedly telling a story.

  DeVille’s presence makes my heart pound. What’s he been saying to Jack? I force myself to relax. If it was bad, Jack wouldn’t be smiling like that. Why did Bob choose this place of all places to showboat?

  I can’t look at him without thinking about our last encounter.

  “The Janus Chamber.”

  I don’t want to think about that right now, but I can feel it below, rippling and pulsating through by body, imagining what’s happening downstairs, right now. Is Bob going to go down and enjoy the facilities later? What will he get up to in a playground like the one in the basement, endless rooms with endless possibilities and endless willing partners?

  I blink hard and take a seat.

  Jack leans over and kisses my cheek. “Hey, babe.”

  Bob smiles at me. “Good evening, Catherine. How are you?”

  “Lust,”he says, drawing the word out like a hiss. “And power. We couldn’t let them take that away from us, so the cult went underground and hid itself in plain view.”

  “How can you hide in plain view? That doesn’t make any sense.”

  But it had made sense, just like the Purloined Letter. The best place to hide is in the spotlight. POTUS.

  Is this my final destination?

  Bob smiles. “I’m not staying long. I’ll let Jack tell you the good news.” He grins and claps Jack on the shoulder as they both stand.

  I stay sitting, because screw him.

  DeVille leaves and Jack sits, eager to tell me.

  DeVille’s offered an opportunity for me—exclusive coverage of his campaign for POTUS. It could make my career, but unable to escape the feeling that I’m being bought, or that my silence is a free gift with purchase, I say I’ll think about it.

  Jack’s face falls. “People would kill for this opportunity.”

  “You know my dream is to be a writer for film, not political journalism.” Though I know they’re not, I feel like everyone in the room is listening in on me with malicious intent, like violence is about to be unleashed upon me.

  Someone’s going to smash a glass into my face, try to kill me to remove me because I don’t belong here.

  The muscles in Jack’s jaw are working overtime. “Some opportunities are stupid to pass up.”

  Yeah, it’s a great opportunity, but it’s the wrong one for me. We don’t talk to each other for the next hour before leaving.

  But later, in the room, after my shower, when I’m still wrapped in a fluffy towel, he comes to me and kisses me sweetly, taking the sting of earlier away.

  This is all we need. The rest is background noise.

  I lean into him and he pulls back. “If you were a part of Bob’s team, we’d get to spend way more time together.”

  “My story isn’t finished yet.” And I also have less than zero desire to spend more time around Bob and his campaign machine of lies and illusions.

  The softness melts from Jack’s face and he takes a step back. “I can’t believe you didn’t snap up the opportunity with Bob if you’re serious about journalism.”

  His words hit like a slap to the face. “The things I want to cover are more substantial than political posturing. Excuse me for wanting to cover things I’m actually interested in.”

  “Human interest,” he sneers, and for the first time I really get it.

  He doesn’t take my journalism seriously, and having me work with Bob is the only way he’d respect what I do. “Is that how you see my work, Jack?” I cross my arms to feel less vulnerable, but if I have to have this fight in nothing but a goddamn towel, so be it. “Pretty little op-ed pieces that are designed to make people feel good?”

  He huffs. “That’s not what I said.”

  I don’t fall for the change in tactics. “You didn’t answer my question.”

  “You’re not doing anything earth-shattering. I don’t understand why you keep doing this when it’s coming between us.”

  “How is it coming between us? Because I’m not doing what you think I should be doing?”

  “You don’t need to do it. I’ll take care of you.”

  He says it so matter-of-factly I want to slap him. “I’m not your child—this isn’t the fifties, Jack. I don’t work as some kind of rebellion. I love what I do, and by the way? Art is the most important thing we have. I can’t believe you think I should give up something I care about so much.”

  He puffs out a mirthless laugh. “I thought you cared about us more. You came back to our apartment, put on some sexy lingerie. I thought that was your way of saying you’d finished whatever the hell this was.”

  “What, I have to choose between who I want to be and you? Why? There’s no reason for that choice.”

  “I think there is. And if our paths go in different directions, take us different places because of your choice?”

  My heart stops. “Are you giving me an ultimatum?”

  “I shouldn’t have to. But you’re putting me in an uncomfortable position.”

  “How?”

  He crosses his arms. “I’ve heard some things about Mr. Gold that make my skin crawl.”

  “Things like what?”

  “Kinky shit. He puts people’s lives in danger.”

  “I don’t think he does. Besides, it’s not like Bob’s an innocent little thing either. I could tell you things about Bob that—”

  “I’m so fucking tired of your jealousy of Bob. He’s done more for me and my career than you ever have, so don’t you dare say another word about him. I won’t hear it. You’re trying to deflect.”

  “Deflect what?”

  “Come on, Catherine. I’m not an idiot. Max Gold has built a goddamn empire on perversions and you’re here at his hotel chasing an alleged story. What have you done for research? How close have you and Max gotten?”

  “That’s ridiculous.” The thing is, Jack is becoming more and more rigid and controlling of me but we are simultaneously changing. Like the opening of L’Avventura, we are drifting apart from each other, and it’s not fair that he wants me to change after all the time we’ve been together. “You should know me by now and accept who I am. But all you’ve done lately is make me feel bad about myself and set insecurity breeding beneath the surface of my skin like mold.”

  “You’re being melodramatic,” he scoffs.

  But I’m not. We’re already bombarded by all the things we’re told we should be.

  Body image shapes our dreams and perverts our reality. We’re all aware of unrealistic expectations, not just about how we look but how we perform. I
’ve started thinking about all the buxom, blonde, terribly white models that are held up as the beauty standard these days. How limited that is in terms of body shape. I wanted to address the way we’re not only surrounded by images and narratives concerning sexual violence and sexual titillation, but that they are promoted side by side.

  But only one of these is supposedly wrong.

  It’s like the Ludovico Technique in A Clockwork Orange, but instead of aversion therapy, it conflates sex and violence in our heads and stimulates desire. Society is trying to instill this in us while also telling us it’s unnatural.

  It’s keeping us off balance and on the treadmill, not sure what we’re supposed to be aiming for, but damned if any of us are getting off.

  I sit on the edge of the bed, feeling weak and hating it. “You’ve been trying to mold me into this unrealistic idea of perfection. Is this what happens when you settle down? If it’s just boyfriend/girlfriend then it’s okay if your partner has flaws because someone better could always come along and replace them, but when forever comes up, people panic and look to ‘fix’ their partner’s perceived flaws.”

  He doesn’t answer.

  Maybe things would be better if all we did was have sex.

  I don’t understand why people complain about having meaningless sex. As if that’s a bad thing. Isn’t sex meant to be meaningless? Isn’t that the whole point? To lose yourself. When you’re fucking and you’re really in the zone, your mind is blank, your body is working on autopilot. You’re changing gears, shifting up, switching positions, and hitting different rhythms. Total submission to pleasure. You are one with the person inside you and outside of yourself at the same time. When you’re fucking and you’re really in the zone, that’s all there is. The zone. A place without limits, restrictions, or rules. No ego, no agenda, no philosophy, no meaning. Just sweat and electricity. Nothing else.

  After a moment, Jack sighs. “You don’t fuck your wife, you make love to her. You can fuck your girlfriend’s brains out, but that’s not appropriate to do to the mother of your children. You’re supposed to respect her and—”

  “And obviously women are demoralized and devalued by the act of sex itself. We’re a commodity with a value that decreases with every strange cock’s thrust inside our cunts,” I interrupt. “Is that how you see me? Am I some fixer-upper project, someone whose edgy indie views seemed interesting when we were dating, but they’re not suitable for your wife?”

  He shakes his head. “I just want you to be proud of yourself.”

  Translation: He’s the one who’s not proud of me. Somehow, I reflect poorly on him.

  This infuriates me, and I get up and push against his chest. “Do you even realize how political you’re becoming? What the hell are we doing? I bet you only wanted to set a date to get married because of image, not because of an inner need to be with me.”

  “You don’t understand,” he practically shouts, pushing me aside. “This is bigger than you and me and your need to be spanked or whatever. I got a call in DeVille’s office from a woman—a very frightened and desperate woman in fear of her life—who made allegations of sexual assault against one of Bob’s aides. It occurred in Maximilian Gold’s hotel, and she threatened to make it public.”

  We’re in Gold’s hotel, where eyes could be everywhere. “Are you sure she wasn’t sent by a political opponent or someone trying to scam money from him?” The words are bitter on my tongue, but Jack shakes his head and flops onto the bed.

  “She wants justice, not money. I wanted to make sure it was false before telling Bob anything. Before I told him, I decided to do my own quiet investigation into the validity of the woman’s claims. I happened to stumble onto something else entirely: there’s a criminal conspiracy to hand valuable state gaming contracts over to Gold, who in turn will finance the orchestration of a dirty-tricks campaign to smear the image of one of DeVille’s political rivals in the election.”

  I should be doing backflips about the fact that the blinders are now off where DeVille is concerned, and yet seeing Jack so destroyed by the fact that his idol has fallen only makes me feel sad and protective. How can a man who’s been neck-deep in politics for years not understand how that world works—how the world works? He honestly thinks politics is a clean game where no one lies or gets their hands dirty?

  It’s so innocent and naïve I want to laugh, but you don’t laugh at the broken-hearted child who just learned Santa isn’t real.

  “Some people are good at hiding their true colors.” I step closer, taking his head in my arms and pulling him close so his ear is pressed against my chest.

  His face is trusting and sad when he looks up at me. “Why would someone want to do this?”

  “At least you know. Now we can put this all behind us. You’ll get another job easily and never have to speak to DeVille again.”

  He jerks back. “Are you kidding? I spend hours with the man every day. Bob isn’t involved in this—it’s all Gold. Bob fired the aide immediately when I told him last night. Someone’s done this to try to frame DeVille—to smear him and make it look like he’s doing something wrong. We need to gather enough evidence to turn whistleblowers and expose Gold’s malfeasance to the media. We owe it to the voters—to the people.” He paces around the room before stopping in front of me again. “This will be the biggest story of your career.” He laughs. “And DeVille had thought that you covering his campaign was the biggest favor he could help you with.”

  “Jack, whatever action we take will have serious ramifications for our future.” He doesn’t even know half the story, and I’m unable to tell him why without revealing my own secret life. I know full well that by going public, effectively revealing the existence of The Juliette Society, Jack would put us both in mortal danger.

  This earnest expression on his face proves he doesn’t care.

  He’d burn both our lives to the ground to expose Gold and save DeVille—and why would DeVille let Jack do that?

  “What proof did this woman have?”

  “There’s a photograph. She’s being choked.”

  “Are you sure he was choking her and it wasn’t just a weird angle?”

  He glares at me. “He was on top of her. There’s no other possible explanation.”

  “Well, maybe—”

  “And she’s in her underwear and he’s undressed, so it was definitely a sexual thing.”

  “Where were they?” Chills coat me like a wet suit.

  “I don’t know. Some hotel room, he’s got her on a bed. You know, she’s become a real ally to Bob in all of this.”

  “Jack,” I say as I stroke his shoulders and upper arms. “Did you ever think that maybe it was consensual? That they were having sex and doing other things together?” He’s already shaking his head, but I push forward. “Then why was it filmed? Who filmed it? You said it was the woman in the picture herself who called you and e-mailed the pictures? What’s she got to gain from this?”

  He nods. “I believe her. If you’d heard her voice…no one’s that good a liar. And she’s got nothing to gain. No way she’s lying. No one’s that good.”

  “Yes, they are. You know, some women like darker things.”

  He grimaces. “This isn’t like about that time when you and I—”

  “It might be exactly like that, Jack. Just because you don’t want to believe that there are people out there who like it doesn’t make it not true. You judge me for liking things I do and we’ve been together for years. You want to marry me, but you refuse to even entertain the thought of my tastes being more extreme.”

  “We’re not talking about us right now.” He stands and paces the room. “I hand you the biggest story of your career and you’re talking about sex.”

  “I’m talking about us—because lately I’m the only one who gives a damn about this relationship. Since when did you only care about angles and politics? Out there you can be as rigid and fake as Bob, but behind closed doors, you don’t get to dictate m
y pleasure like a crowd’s watching. Has that been your hangup the whole time?” I tear the front of his shirt open and rake my nails down his chest. I need to know he’s still mine and not just morphing into Bob Junior. “Well, guess what? No one’s watching now. It’s just you and me, Jack, and I like it rough.”

  “This isn’t normal,” he shouts in my face. He grabs my wrists and throws my hands away from his body. “Keep your hands off me. I don’t want you anymore.”

  He storms out and I let him go, stunned.

  Does he really think I’m sick? Am I?

  I don’t think so. I can’t believe that the things I want are wrong. It feels more like an excuse for his beloved political aspirations.

  He’s ashamed of my work and said as much. Is that what this is really about? Appearances? What does he want for me? Is it that he wants to take care of me, or that he wants someone docile and pretty who does nothing with her time but clap for his accomplishments and shower him with accolades on the road to Washington?

  I don’t ever want that same blank stare Mrs. DeVille has, and that’s exactly who he’s trying to change me into. He’s trying to become Bob. I’m not Gena and never will be. How can he think that’s what I would want for my life—to be someone’s wife rather than having my own accomplishments and dreams? I love him, love us, but I’m still an individual. What he wants is…archaic. Stifling.

  When I first started at the paper, people would do everything to put me down and tell me in a thousand ways how I wasn’t going to make it, but then they turned around and acted like they were my friends when I started getting a little notoriety and my articles got more attention.

  People told me that the only reason I made it so far was because of Jack’s political connections, even though I’d never once used them because my pride wouldn’t let me.

  It’s not like being any kind of artist or creator is easy. Don’t fool yourself. The hours suck; it’s a lot of eighteen-hour days and sleepless nights when inspiration strikes and you have to act right then at 3:00 a.m. because it might disappear if you sleep on an idea.

  Days where nothing comes to you, until you haven’t written anything in weeks and you wonder if you were deluding yourself that you ever had any talent at all.