Gagged (8 page)

“No. I’m tired of playing with you.”
 

But no, she’s not. Not by a long shot.
 

“I’m trying to help you. Nothing was ever put in front of me on a silver platter. Things were
always
hard. But it’s the mill’s grist that refines us. Easy is a curse.”
 

She’s gathering Jasmine. Pulling her like luggage. The strong girl has become meek, and the meek is now strong, because I’m forcing the change.

“Ask me one question,” I say, rising to follow them. “You still have a minute or two.”
 

“I wouldn’t give you the satisfaction.”
 

“You’re being stupid. Just because it’s less than you wanted, you won’t accept what I’m putting in front of you. Baby with bathwater. Nose severed to spite your face.”
 

“You wouldn’t even answer it,” Aurora says, near my now open door, with James moving to Jasmine as if they’re old friends. She finally sparks to life, and it’s obvious they’ve made the connection I wanted them to. Because today is only the first phase, with the sweetest yet to come.
 

“I promise I’ll answer,” I say. “If it’s a good one.”
 

She stops. Maybe believing me or maybe not, but still knowing she’ll regret this later if she doesn’t try, even if I might just laugh and refuse.
 

“Why are you so opposed to educational applications of your software?” Aurora asks.
 

“I thought Jasmine was the interviewer?”
 

Aurora rolls her eyes, shakes her head, and pulls Jasmine forward.
 

“Wait,” I say. “I’m not opposed to it. But like anything worth doing, I won’t do it except for the right price.”
 

“Money,”
she says, sighing. “It’s always about money with people like you.”
 

She drags her friend from my office then through my foyer. James looks at me and fails to open the door as they storm out. He’s a shit assistant, but that’s probably because he’s not really an assistant at all.
 

“Well,” James says, “is that about what you expected would happen?”

I nod.

“So … ?”
 

“Free up Friday night, James. I’ll pay you the same rate.”
 

“Because it’s always about
money
with people like us, huh, boss?” he says, grinning.
 

I don’t respond. I reenter my office and close the door behind me.

I didn’t say anything to Aurora about money. That’s just how she took it, because that’s the way most people think.

But I didn’t say
money
.

I said
price.

CHAPTER NINE

A
URORA

I
RESENT
THE
TIME
I have to spend nurturing cheer back into Jasmine after I see the calendar the following day. I didn’t have time for the Caspian White bullshit or Jasmine’s emotional aftermath. I didn’t have time to waste so much of Monday’s daytime downtown or the night failing to study so Jasmine and I could watch funny movies. Because this week we have a stupid honors reception, and I already promised Jasmine I’d go. Free food and free drinks,
and
it’s an official university event?
Holy shit,
Jasmine said.
Sign us up, bitches.
 

But that means more lost time, and all of this waste is happening with finals rapidly approaching, and my photo essay nowhere near done. I hate cannibalized hours, and this week already has plenty.

The only way to make it up is to cram in more time during the week, so I do my best. But I only last a day until I’m feeling the overload, and by Tuesday afternoon I have a thumper of a headache. I want to relax but don’t think I can. Tuesdays are always brutal, but I can’t shake the feeling that I have to keep pushing.

It doesn’t last. I’m derailed immediately.
 

This Tuesday, the day after we stormed out on Caspian White with nothing but defeat to show for our trouble, I arrive home to find a box on the kitchen counter with my name in script. It’s wrapped in cream-colored paper and tied with a silky white bow.
 

“What’s this?” I ask Jasmine.
 

She’s on the couch. Sprawled out and pawing at her boobs as if comparing their size. I don’t ask. I swear Jasmine suffers from ADHD in addition to her OCD, so she vacillates between periods of intense focus and unabashed sloth. Somehow, applying this to exercise and diet has resulted in a perfectly flat stomach and long, toned legs. She touches herself often — not sexually, but as if she’s inspecting the merchandise.
 

“Dunno.”
 

“How can you not know? It’s on our kitchen counter.”
 

Jasmine peers down. Flicks a nipple through her shirt. It must not do what she wants because she flicks it again.
 

“It was on the porch.”
 

I look down at the parcel. It’s maybe three inches wide by eight or nine inches long, and maybe another three inches tall. It’s so elegant looking in its wrappings, I’m tempted to believe it holds a priceless jewel. The bow is precise, with a white flower tucked beneath it.

“I meant, was it inside another box?”
 

“No.”
 

I watch Jasmine molest herself for another few seconds, then I finger the soft silk bow and the petals. There’s nothing written on it except my name on the tag. No from. No postal markings. No indications of where it came from or how it arrived. But it clearly wasn’t delivered. Someone gently set this on our mat — it wasn’t even handled roughly enough to muss the pristine white bow.
 

“It’s from him,” I say.
 

“Who?”
 

“Caspian White.”
 

Jasmine sits up. Her hand is fully inside her shirt, and it’s like she hasn’t noticed.
 

“Get out.
Are you sure?”
 

I don’t know how, but I am. I dreamed about arguing with that infuriating asshole last night. I spent most of the day crafting clever things I could send to him in an email.
 

But touching the bow, I know he sent this. And it isn’t just the opulent wrapping. I just
know
, and the knowing makes me shiver. Down the back of my neck. Over my scalp. Between my legs — where yet again, I woke sweaty and refused nature’s call in the shower as the water ran down my body. It’s like I can smell his skin on the paper.
 

“Pretty sure.”
 

“Why? You two didn’t come off like old pals.”
 

“I don’t know.”
 

Now she’s rising. Coming forward.
 

“Open it.”
 

So I do, untying the bow rather than cutting it and setting the bloom aside. The box is a simple thing with a top and a bottom like an expensive shoebox, so I simply lift it then slap it shut the second I see what’s inside.

“What?” Jasmine says.
 

“That asshole.”
 

“What’s in there?” She’s now over me, pawing at the box.
 

“Jas … ”
 

She gets the top off and laughs: one loud bark, like a seal.
 

“You’re kidding.”
 

“Throw it away.”
 

“You don’t want it?”
 

“Are you kidding me, Jasmine?” But I can barely say it with a straight face. I feel my knees getting weak, pressure inside me demanding release. One quick glimpse of plastic, and my body betrays me.
 

She pulls the smaller box from inside the white one then opens the smaller box and withdraws the device itself. It’s black on the outside with a silvery surface toward the middle of its oblong shape, with a hole in one end where I guess you’re supposed to hold it. I have to admit, if I were to guess what kind of vibrator Caspian, with all his style, would pick for a girl, this is work-of-art enough to be the one.
 

Jasmine snaps the thing on, and it quietly hums.
 

“This is a good one,” she says.
 

“Gross, Jas. Put it down!”
 

“No way. Normally I’d be against men sending my roommate sex toys, but in this case I’ll make an exception. You need this.” She picks up the box and reads. “
Lelo Isla
. I heard about this one.”
 

“You’re so disgusting!”
 

“It’s waterproof,” she says, reading the specs. “Phthalate-free silicone. Listen to how quiet it is! Comes in three colors. Not white, though, I guess.” She pokes me with it, and I jump. Then she turns it over and over like a piece of evidence. “It’s all ergonomic and shit. I can’t tell you how many times I’ve thought I’d get carpal tunnel while I’m down there poking the cat. You could jill off all night and still type in the morning.”
 

“Brilliant. It’s yours.”
 

“You have to try this. Go take a bath right now.”
 

“Get that thing away from me!”
 

But now she’s chasing me around the room, like the world’s nastiest game of tag. We face off across the kitchen island, her face intense as if she intends to inflict an orgasm on me, or die trying.
 

Finally she rolls her eyes, sighing as if I’m no fun, and tosses the vibrator back into the box, still running. It sounds like there’s a courteous rodent inside, quietly trying to escape.
 

“Fine.”
 

“Can we get rid of it now?”
 

“Fiiiiine,”
Jasmine drawls.
 

“You don’t seriously think I should keep it. From that asshole?”
 

“Who cares who it’s from?”
 

“Jasmine. The man toyed with us just because he thought it was funny. Totally insulted us. Was rude, pushy, presumptuous … basically everything I already knew he was. We storm out of his office, and the next day he or one of his lackeys drops a
vibrator
off on our
doorstep
. That’s something you call the cops for, not something you hop into bed with a … a
thing
to celebrate.”
 

Jasmine’s eyes narrow. “Wait a minute. He asked you if you owned a vibrator, didn’t he?”
 

“What? No!”
 

But he did. It was so out of the blue, so wrong, and so incredibly inappropriate that I haven’t been able to stop thinking about it. I’ve thought about it all last night, all morning, all through each of my classes. I don’t like thinking about it because it’s so distracting when I let myself wonder why he’d say such a thing, but I do anyway.
 

“Yes he did. After you were swearing at him. He said you seemed pent up. You
are
pent up, Aurora.”

“I am
not
pent up.”
 

“Please. No wonder you had to buy new panties last week. Your vagina is eating them, isn’t it? You have to feed that thing, you know.”
 

“Gross!”
 

“Just because you’re a virgin doesn’t mean you have to be a virgin to anything inanimate. Just to dick.
Do
you own a vibrator?”

“No!”
 

“Right. You’d be a finger girl if ever there was one. Which is fine, assuming you’re actually
using
your fingers. You are, right?”
 

I feel myself blush. “I’m not talking about this with you, Jas.” I feel acutely uncomfortable. I think I’m unusual in that I don’t like to talk about sex even with my girlfriends, but it’s not like I can outgrow my conditioning.
Thanks, Mom
.
 

“You know, just because it’s got the same basic shape as a dick doesn’t mean you have to stick it in you. It says it’s for vaginal or clitoral use. You just rub it on your clit like you’d — ”
 

“Jasmine!”
 

She stops mid-sentence. Then she says, “Look. I’m not seriously saying you should keep that vibrator and send him a thank-you note. But honey … you’ve gotta take care of
you
.”
 

Ugh. I’m not really getting the
very special episode
talk about masturbation at age twenty-three, am I? It’s not like I’m saving myself for anything. The whole thing has just always been so horribly uncomfortable. I’ve had lots of fantasies. Plenty of dreams. But every time I think about taking matters into my own hands, all those old memories come flooding back, and it’s simply not worth it. I wish she’d accept it and stop acting like I have a terminal disease.
 

“Please stop worrying about me, Jas.” I look at the still-whispering box. “And please. Turn that thing off and get rid of it, okay?”
 

Jasmine watches me for a long second.
 

Then she gives me a sad little smile and tosses the beautiful box into the garbage.

CHAPTER TEN

A
URORA

I
CAN
’
T
SLEEP
.
 

A
T
FIRST
I think it’s my headache. It never really left. I thought food might help, so I ate dinner in front of the TV with Jasmine, failing again to study and hence tightening the screws on my time crunch. But I had no energy left, so I succumbed. And yet the headache persisted; I couldn’t get comfortable no matter what I did. I drank plenty of water, too, because sometimes that helps. I took some ibuprofen. But then it became apparent that only sleep would make the vice stop squeezing my temples, so I admitted failure and hit the sheets. But I tossed and turned the minute I lay down, my mind turning without pause.
 

I think Caspian is the problem. He’s creeping me out. I seriously wonder if this is the kind of thing I should report to someone. But to whom? He sent me a present. It’s gross, but it’s not like he came over here and laid hands on me.