“So it’s me versus Kylie? Are those the groups?”
“Hey,” Jessica says, “cunts will be cunts.”
I’m not sure if that’s a yes or a no, so I just sort of bounce on the bed. Jessica stands and walks to the window. I guess we’re done with that topic. Which is okay. If she came in here to make me feel better, then mission strangely accomplished.
“Jess?”
She turns. I have light freckles that I’ve always hated. Jessica’s are a bit more prominent without being obnoxious. For some reason I’m jealous of them. And her lips. And her eyelashes, which seem to stand at attention without much, if any, mascara.
“Why are you being nice to me?”
“Why wouldn’t I be?”
“Because we’re competing against each other. We’re after the same thing.”
“I don’t think we’re after the same thing at all.”
She’s right. We’re not. I’m in a strange sort of purgatory, here mainly due to a combination of spite (at Kylie) and obligation (for my mother). I refuse to get my hopes even slightly up, but the numbers Trevor was tossing around last night, for the finalists, were seriously impressive. Jenny has tossed around a similar-sized figure for the past few weeks, now that she’s decided she can trust me. The number that solves all of Linda’s problems. But until now, that number and that idea have been wallpaper in the background. I could never earn that much, not in a thousand years. But if I made it far enough now …
But no, I don’t want Trevor Stone. I don’t even want his fortune. You hear stories, about lottery winners, where money ruins their lives and they do everything possible to subconsciously rid themselves of what they see as a curse. I can believe it. I’ve always been short on money and I have my dreams with what I’d use the winnings for beyond Linda, but past a certain point I’d honestly rather be without. When you have a lot, everyone thinks you owe them. You’re broke on your own, and that’s how I like it.
Still, somehow, watching Jessica, I don’t think that’s what she means.
“Kylie’s right about one thing, Bridge.”
“What?”
“Daniel.”
My blood chills. “What about Daniel?”
Jessica’s eyes flick up, and it’s as if she’s said it aloud: Cameras.
“I guess nothing,” Jessica says. Although I don’t think she’s saying it to me.
There’s a small rustling sound, and we both turn.
Someone has slipped another of those cream-colored envelopes under the door.
CHAPTER THREE
Bridget
We’re standing in a semicircle, dressed for the day as instructed on those slips of paper, overlooking the infinity pool. The sun is out, and last night’s chill has surrendered to a beautiful day. I’m somewhere between tan and pale, so the sun always makes me slightly uneasy. How long will we be out here? I didn’t bring sunscreen. And given the display at dinner last night, I’m thinking a lot of parts that don’t see the sun might be exposed. I catch Ruby’s eye, halfway around the curve of contestants. Her hair is carrot red. At least if I get burned, I’ll be in good company.
“Whatever they have in store for us, I’m fucking it hardest,” Roxy says.
I look over. Ivy and Erin are between me and Roxy. Erin and Roxy, side by side, are about the same height, but Erin looks slight by comparison. Roxy’s attitude makes the difference. Really, we should be treating it as a thirteenth contestant.
Erin gives me a look that says, Save me. And I can’t help it; I snicker. My hand goes to my mouth, and Ivy glances over.
I think she’s about to say something when Daniel comes out to stand in front of us. Compared to how I’ve seen him throughout the time I’ve known him (although that hasn’t even been forty-eight hours yet if you don’t count the phone sex), he looks casual. He’s wearing jeans that fit him so well they must be custom, scuffed-up biker boots, and a plain white T-shirt with nothing on it. This is the first time I’ve seen him with short sleeves. His arms are so much larger than I’d imagined — and sculpted. This is also the most I’ve seen of his tattoo. It twines and twists, emerging from his tight sleeves before ending in black points at his wrist.
“Welcome to your first official day,” he says, crossing his arms. The small motion makes his chest swell enough to press into the fabric of his white shirt. “As we explained last night, you are here to participate in a competition with each other. The goal of the competition is to win the favor of your host, Trevor Stone, and eight weeks from now Mr. Stone will choose his wife from among you.”
I glance at Jessica. Kylie intercepts my eyes and gives me a level look. It’s not angry or confrontational or jaded or vengeful. Its sheer placidity is somehow more daunting than any negativity or hate she could throw my way, but now that I’ve had some time to process, I can handle it. She caught me off guard last night, but I’ve dealt with bullies and bitches plenty before. Oh yes, I can handle Kylie just fine.
“Many of you have taken full advantage of all this situation has to offer. Tony. Richard. Logan. Each other. Our many rooms and play sets.”
This time, I catch Roxy’s profile. She’s practically licking her lips. Practically rubbing herself. Gunning her internal engine, ready and all too willing to show Trevor and Daniel she can out-slut the rest of us.
“But what’s any competition without contests? So that’s where we begin today. I should reemphasize: Simply by staying, you’ll receive a stipend.” Daniel looks right at me, surely to remind me I won’t be receiving a stipend for several more days. But there’s more in his eyes than before, and I can’t put my finger on it. Gone is the softness I saw in the limousine. I know I’m being jittery and insecure, but I’d swear he’s back to being angry. Maybe he’s had time to reevaluate. Maybe he’s decided that if I can’t take a few insults without breaking down, I’m only worth pity — a word that Kylie’s already implied is the strongest bond between us. I’d argue, but does Daniel’s out-of-pocket payment to Jenny, for my mother, prove or disprove that? Does it strengthen Kylie’s accusation or dismiss it?
“It’s important that you understand,” Daniel says, taking a long, panning look at the women standing across from him in a horseshoe. “The stipends are yours regardless, for as long as you remain.”
I’m sharp enough to read between the lines. Daniel is Trevor’s right-hand man, and right-hand men handle so many things for their bosses: organizing affairs, hiring, firing, the delivery of news, both good and bad. They chastise when needed, direct when required. And in the case of sexfests like this one, they make things crystal clear to the participants:
You are paid for being here, not for what you do. You are being paid for your participation in a contest, and quite separately you may or may not choose to participate in rampant, primal sexual activity. In no way, shape, or form are you being paid for fucking, because that would be illegal.
Perhaps what you do with your own bodies, and ours — on your own — will weigh in our decision to keep you, but we’re not saying that at all.
Wink wink.
Meaning that in theory, we could just hang out and they’d decide to keep us based solely on our personalities or Hula-hoop skills. Officially. Technically speaking. By the rules, as they’re written.
Wink fucking wink.
“During your time here, we’ve arranged contests, challenges, and other situations that will show us what kind of people you are, and whether you’re a fit for Trevor. At each round of elimination, we will look at your performance and other factors and decide whom to keep and who should go home. The first elimination will happen in two weeks and will reduce your number from twelve contestants to six. Those who stay receive a fifty thousand-dollar bonus in addition to their daily stipends, the weekly bonuses, and all you received before stepping through the door. The next, at five weeks, takes your group to two finalists, each of whom will receive a half-million dollars.”
I’m doing the math in my head. If I could somehow st
ay, I’d never have to worry again. Even Jenny’s most ridiculous ideas about Linda would become suddenly possible. But of course I’ll never make it that far. Daniel’s only indicated that first elimination at two weeks, so I sort of infer that barring something stupid like last night’s near-miss with Kylie, nobody will be kicked out before then. I earned a five-day stipend suspension, but beyond that I should start earning again. I could make a hundred grand here. It’s not enough to do much with Linda, so really, selfishly, I could probably keep it. I’ll help where I can, of course. But I could also move into a better apartment. Rent that studio I’ve been dreaming about, plus the professional mixer and mics that will get me producing for real. Make the move from being voice talent to an entrepreneur who hires it. And then, with the money I earn after that little parlay, who knows what might be possible?
I can make it two weeks. I haven’t heard anything in the rules about getting kicked out for not sucking every dick that presents itself, so I’m thinking I can slip through a loophole and milk this bullshit without getting dirty. How bad could the challenges be? If Daniel is being this careful with what he says about sex being an augment to this experience but not strictly necessary, then Trevor’s lawyers must be insisting. Even if the challenges are filthy, I can refuse to participate. If they won’t pay me as a result, I can threaten to sue. I’m sure I’ll come out scarred at the end of two weeks regardless, and surely get the axe, but who cares? What I told Jessica was true: I don’t want to marry a billionaire. And really, let’s be honest. I’m so fucked up already, a short stay in Sodom is hardly going to damage me much further.
“Right about now, I suppose you’re expecting me to tell you what we have in store for you today. But I’m afraid that would ruin all the fun.” Daniel smiles. But there’s something weird in that smile, and I imagine echoes of every odd little interaction we’ve had. He’s so mysterious. So guarded. I’m sure he’s trying to imply that it’s a surprising sex contest ahead, but somehow I doubt it. It’s not that he won’t tell us because he’s being playfully coy. For one reason or another, he’s not telling us because we aren’t allowed to know, like at all, ever.
Daniel walks forward. He moves to the far end of the arc of girls, standing in front of Blair. He touches her shoulder and says, “One.”
He touches Malory. “Two.”
Ruby, beside Malory, is “One” again, not three. And I realize: He’s counting us off into two groups, just like in grade school. Ones and twos, all the way down.
Daniel reaches me, and my heart accelerates. I look away, brush the hair from my face. I’ve been standing perfectly still, but all of a sudden I’m fidgeting like a restless little girl.
He tapped the other girls on the upper arm, but Daniel takes me by the wrist. Fingers tight, his eyes on me. He stays there until I look up and meet his gaze. I’m unsure what I see. It’s not quite pity or affection or compassion. It’s not quite irritation or anger. It’s almost blank, as if he’s holding something back.
“Two,” he tells me.
The hand squeezes my wrist.
Then he’s on to Ivy, who’s a One.
Erin, who’s a Two, like me.
Roxy is a One. She actually licks her lips at Daniel. He’s off limits, apparently, but that’s not stopping her from swinging his vote.
Looking down the line, I watch him touch Kat, next to Kylie, and say, “Two.”
Thank God. Kylie will be a One, so I won’t have to be in her group for whatever’s next.
But as Daniel touches Kylie, he says, “Two” again.
CHAPTER FOUR
Daniel
By the rules of this thing, I’m supposed to be chief arbitrator. That makes sense, despite my obvious conflicted interests. I’ve got the degrees and the history. And like it or not, I have Alexa’s ear and she has mine.
Really I’m a mediator. An on-site referee. The real decisions aren’t mine and never have been. But there are too many moving parts, too many pieces of this big puzzle that must stay hidden. Not because they’re purposeful secrets, or because they’re illegal or immoral or otherwise devious aims that must be concealed. It’s more because that’s how these things must be done. The more the subjects know, the more their actions are influenced.
In other words, I’m a pawn. A knowledgeable figurehead and focus who’s really just another piece on the chessboard. But the girls think this is all about me, that I’m more in charge than I actually am.
So while I attend the Ones, the Twos go into a big room to wait.
And while I work with the Twos, the Ones will be waiting.
But we’re not watching the Ones while I’m with them. Our eyes are on the Twos, who think they’re waiting their turn.
The Ones — Blair, Ruby, Roxy, Ivy, Jessica, and Renee — enter the big room and see the three beds, with Logan and Tony sitting and waiting, arms in lap. Right away, Roxy walks over to Logan, her eyes on mine the entire time, that devious smile on her face. And begins to unzip him.
Then we bring out the cards. There are three bold black lines on one card in each set, labeled A, B, and C. On the other card is a single line. Roxy has her hand in Logan’s jeans when she sees the other girls, all baffled, sitting wherever they can, their attention on Tony.
“Which of A, B, and C,” Tony says, waving one card, “is the same length as this line?” He waves the other.
And Logan blurts out, “A.”
Which is wrong. Really, obviously wrong.
The girls look back at me. Not understanding. And they wouldn’t, because this isn’t merely a rewriting of the Asch conformity study; it’s been totally bastardized. In Asch’s study, the person or people planting the false answer are supposed to be one of the group, not someone who is, from the outset, perceived as different. But it doesn’t matter. It’s all smoke and mirrors. We could have them doing anything in here. Maybe ironing shirts. Counting spots on the backs of a jar full of ladybugs.
We have dozens of these tests to fill the time, and none of them matter at all. They’re a greatest-hits compilation of history’s most famous philosophical studies, and we’re paying them lip service. Keeping one group busy, fucking with their heads, and knocking them off kilter. It doesn’t matter how we do it. In a later session, we’ll pair the girls off so that one can give the other shocks. In another, they’ll be asked to observe a scene, before being quizzed about it later. The things people miss are shocking. Just another grab bag of mysteries from the human brain.
I’m standing at the back of the room, leaning against the wall, arms crossed. Roxy comes up to me and runs her fingers down my chest, purring, “Come on, Daniel. Let me show Trevor what I can really do.”
But I point her toward the fake testing, urging her back to work, to the challenge she clearly assumed would require the use of her mouth or vagina.
When they’re all fully immersed in this little playacted smokescreen, I back out.
And I go to the control room.
I put the group of Twos on the big screen, minimizing the other observation windows. In this group, today, I’m most interested in Abbie, who has a rare neurological condition called synesthesia. Abbie’s pediatric medical records, provided in a roundabout way via our sample of the GameStorming data, indicate that she sees the letter E as purple, the letter A as red, all due to a curious cross-wiring of senses in her brain. Her name, read from left to right, looks to Abbie like a rainbow. She also tastes months. I understand the neuroscience, but the concept is still beyond my practical understanding. But really, that’s kind of the point. We aren’t looking for normal by the usual definition.
In the other group, though she’s mostly grown out of it, Ruby is somewhat of a semi-savant. She can multiply ridiculously large numbers or recite prime numbers without thinking. We’ve a few other oddities, but the girls are mostly normal, though almost all are highly intelligent. Not necessarily schoolbook-smart, but problem-solving bright. Seeing as IQ is supposed to be confidential even to the child (if the
school does its job), some don’t even know it.
I object to most of this on principle. Not because it’s unethical or wrong, but because it’s stupid. Why would any of these things possibly impact us? Any of us, let alone Trevor specifically? Everyone is malleable. Pavlov proved you could condition dogs. Watson and Rayner, not to be outdone, proved that the same thing can be done with humans. But I don’t need any of the studies to know what I’ll see here, or whom we’ll keep and whom we’ll eliminate.
I understand the idea of an arranged marriage, like the pairing of princes and princesses to strengthen empires.
And I understand why Eros, with its intense interest in human sexuality, wants to try this experiment.
But you don’t need a Ph.D. to know that people will do whatever they can to move toward pleasure and away from pain. That’s 101-level stuff, and usually when motivations seem cloudy and unknown, it’s because someone isn’t interpreting pleasure and pain broadly enough.
The pleasure of winning a contest, or the pain of losing one.
The pleasure of gaining money or the pain of an empty bank account.
The pain of being insulted versus the pleasure of praise.
When people conform, it’s because they’re seeking approval.
And when they fail to conform, it’s either because they take pleasure in being an individual or anticipate more pain from conforming than will come if they don’t.
In the One group, who thinks they’re doing something that matters to this competition, known and unknown will continue to build and war within the women until they act out. We’ve done the profiles and know it’s true. Experimental setting or not, Roxy — the most purely sexual contestant — will almost certainly do something inappropriate. She’ll stick her hand up her skirt and start playing with herself. She’ll bully Tony into abandoning his flash cards by trying to suck his cock. Technically — and I’m careful whom I mention this to, because it’s an easy thing to misinterpret — Roxy is a sociopath. She’s never shot up a school or kept prisoners in her basement as far as we can tell, but she doesn’t understand boundaries. It’s an immensely valuable asset in a contest like this, and Trevor and I both think she can smell it. Roxy’s single-minded. She’s already decided that sex is what matters here: an impression last night’s opening orgy was intended to plant. She and many of the others will bang their heads against the wall for days, trying to figure our angle, trying to decipher how they can use their bodies to get what they want, because clearly that’s what this is.
Burning Rivalry (Trevor's Harem #2) Page 2
