FIFTEEN

GENA PACES, TREMBLING, FROM ONE room to another, even more brittle than the last time I saw her a few months ago. It’s as if, because of the impending election, they’ve decided to lacquer her up and make her as shiny as they can. She was never going to be the relatable First Lady, comparable to William’s Kate or Charles’s Diana, even if age was on her side. She’s not the type of woman who hangs out with the average woman trading parenting advice or witty jokes. In fact, she’s not a woman at all—she’s a lady, which actually makes her perfect for the job of standing around looking fashionable in photo-ops.

So, the team has gone in the complete opposite direction, making her as plastic as a doll.

It’s a show of unrealistic perfection in the way only Southern belles understand. Fake tits, fake hair, fake smiles—and real claws beneath the fake tips. Because if there’s anyone who will survive anything thrown at her, it’s a girl from the South who has had to keep her poise and stay pretty no matter what life throws at her. Her purse matches her shoes, her feelings are always appropriately smothered, and she’s unflaggingly supportive of her man, never overshadowing his accomplishments with her own, but complementing them.

There’s a different tiny dog from the last time we were here. A constant rotation of dogs with brains the size of chickpeas have dragged their asses on the antique carpets of Gena’s heart in the last four years.

I can’t stop thinking about now juxtaposed with then.

Seeing Bundy did that to me. Even the ignominy and embarrassment of being exposed on national television apparently couldn’t stop Bundy. He’s been given another chance, a second act in his career as a disreputable scumbag, through the patronage of Maximilian Gold, who has given Bundy his own club to run in the bowels of the hotel. But why? Bundy was a laughingstock, a nobody, a shell of his already pretty low self. What was it about him that Max took pity on—or is it more? Bundy is a survivor. He’s not altruistic; he’s always going to look after himself. Maybe that’s what you want in someone working for you.

Make him a part of the business, and that part of the business connected to him will always thrive.

Self-interests are the most strenuously protected—and Bundy has this way of being endearing, making you want to sit back and watch the show even when sometimes you think you should cringe. Now that I think about it, he could have been a temporary sacrifice for reasons unknown.

But what’s the connection between Bundy and Max? Max and Inana?

Everything is mashed together like butter inside a French pastry dough, the two pressed up against each other and ironed together.

Jack called me away from the hotel to have dinner at Bob’s house, but he’s running late, leaving me with the past clinging to me like I’m wearing it as a toga. He’s never late. I can’t even make him late with a surprise blowjob before a meeting. Something’s going on, but I can’t figure out what. I didn’t want to come back here, but I missed Jack, and he wanted to have dinner with Bob and Gena. Now I’m frustrated and fidgety, and I wish Jack had met me at our place and fucked the tension out of me before coming here together with me.

It’s not just seeing Bob that bothers me. I’m irritated at going back to being Catherine. At not getting to stay immersed in Inana’s life. It feels like my authenticity, my depth of understanding of her is being stripped away with every minute I stand around in the uncomfortable clothes I’m forced to wear here because of Politics.

And this isn’t where I want to be.

Not now.

Last night I was in the VIP club, immersed in things that most people will never see outside of a computer screen. I watched a ninety-five-pound dominatrix deny an orgasm to a guy three times her size until he was a crying, drooling mess, begging her for release.

It was amazing. When I walked in, I hadn’t thought much of it except to think, “How the hell is this tiny woman going to overpower him?”

It was an amazing show of power—true power.

Seeing something like that every day would do wonders for the world we live in. Not just about what women can do, what we’re capable of, but about the power of letting go and giving in to experiences to truly be present in them.

That’s what Inana was trying to say with her art.

I was living it for a few short days, and now I’ve been snatched back into my own life.

At the best of times, my patience for Bob is on a very short leash, but right now, now that I’ve been living Inana’s free life, living inside her head, seeing the way she does things, it makes it all that much worse.

The situation chafes at my skin like the tag on a shirt, rubbing, poking, distracting me. I want to tear it off and rub it better.

I want to go back to reading Inana’s diary, tracing the words she wrote, focusing on the things she saw, staying inside La Notte to see what else is happening underground.

“Can I get you another glass of wine, Catherine?”

I’m surprised to see I’ve drained my glass. “No, thank you,” I answer Gena with a smile. It’s been twenty-eight fucking minutes. Where’s Jack?

“I’ll just nip to the kitchen and open another bottle for when Jack gets here, let it air out. He likes white, right?”

“Yes,” I say, since she obviously wants a reason to drink. Airing out white wine? I guess it’s the one socially acceptable vice to have, and she’s going to milk the cork’s teat for all it’s worth before the election.

Can’t say I blame her. Her every move will be on camera. Every smile, every frown, every outfit.

Every flaw and misstep.

It’s exactly how I feel when I come to their house and make small talk.

It’s worse now that I’ve seen Bundy again.

With Bob’s political career about to go to the next level, I suspect he’ll need another “event” like the last one they attended together. Considering how far he needed to go for stress relief last time, I wonder what he’d need to do now to feel better about everything.

The tinkle of ice hitting the bottom of a heavy crystal tumbler announces Bob’s presence in the room. “I have it on good authority that you’ve recently started a new job,” he says to me.

Why would Jack tell Bob about my new job? “No, still working at the paper.”

“We both know that’s not what I’m talking about.”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” I bluff, turning to where he stands near the bar, tumbler in hand.

His smile is bland. “Sometimes reporters get in too deep. Go native, as they say. Some stories hit close to home. It would be a shame if Jack found out what you’ve been up to.”

“Excuse me?”

His eyes flick to the security guard standing in the doorway. “You heard me.”

But there’s no point lowering my voice. I’m sure his guard knows that Bob isn’t just the typical sleazebag lawyer-turned-politician, and men like that know it’s better to keep your ears shut, because the less you know, the better. “What I’m doing is exactly none of your business, Bob, and I can assure you that Jack knows—and any details he isn’t aware of are harmless and insignificant and none of your business.”

“Oh, but it’s very much my business.” His fake smile goes as brittle as Gena’s, only it lacks the blurry softness of her eyes, and he walks over to me, a shark in a suit. “You’re connected to Jack, who’s connected to me. That makes everything you do my business. Especially in light of certain events.”

I force my hands to stay at my sides, relaxed. “Nothing I do is your business.”

How does he know—what does he know? I’m not stupid enough to admit to anything.

“Don’t think your latest…obsession has gone unnoticed,” he says. “I have reach you’ve never dreamed of, friends higher up—”

“And lower down?”

“—than you could imagine. People like you disappear all the time, Catherine.”

Instead of shrinking back when he invades my personal space, I force a smile, hoping it’s as cold as my hands suddenly are. “Yeah? Should I be flattered that you’re so obsessed with me, even after all this time?” It’s occurred to me that I never revealed anything about Bob, but he also never took action against me, despite my knowing all about his proclivities.

Maybe that wasn’t just out of fear.

The thought is chilling, and goosebumps form on my skin.

His gaze lands on my throat. “Maybe you’re the one who could never forget about that night.” He takes a sip of the amber liquid in his glass, grimacing at the burn.

“Did you forget what happened? Only, I seem to recall that one of us nearly didn’t get back up. Who was that?” I tilt my head.

“I wonder what Jack would say if he found out about that.”

“It’s Jack’s reaction you should be worried about, not mine.” It’s the truth.

He grins, the first genuinely pleasant expression he’s made tonight. “Jack? I think you’ll find out that the one he’s closest to as of late isn’t you.”

What the fuck does he mean by that? I keep my cool. “Don’t flatter yourself into thinking you’re more than what you are to Jack. You’re his boss, not his father, Bob. I’m Jack’s priority, not you.” I take a step toward the table and settle into my seat, fussing with the napkin like I don’t want to stuff it deep in Bob’s mouth until he chokes on it. The truth is, lately it does feel like Bob’s more important to Jack than I am.

“And what about you? What am I to you?”

I don’t know. “Inconsequential.”

His eyes darken, and he moves close to me, looming over the back of my chair. “We both know that’s not true, and so do our friends in the Janus Chamber.”

My mind flashes to the image of the coin in Inana’s diary. A full -on body shudder claims my bones as Bob places a hand on my shoulder, so lightly I think I might have imagined it, because when I look up, his hand isn’t touching me.

“The Janus Chamber?” Part of The Juliette Society, or something deeper, darker? “In Gold’s hotel,” I say, realizing. “That’s what it’s called.” It makes sense now, the drawing of the Janus coin.

He nods. “Do you like it there?”

I keep my mouth shut, refusing to give him anything to work with and twist into being something it isn’t. Of course I like it there. Part of me feels like it’s home. “Do you like it there?” I counter.

“What’s not to like?” He takes a sip of his drink and exhales, the alcohol sweet on his breath.

“What is the Janus Chamber?”

He looks me hard in the eye for a moment. “Whatever you want it to be. It’s the place where desires are born and inhibitions go to die.”

Has he been there recently?

Bob takes a step closer to me. “People like us naturally find places like that, Catherine.”

“People like us?”

“People who need more than what others give us.”

I shiver.

And here’s where Jack should come in and see Bob looming over my body, making me uncomfortable. He wouldn’t need to ask what’s happening, because he’d see it on my face and know that whatever’s gone down, Bob is the one in the wrong.

He’d pull me from my chair, possessively, tuck me protectively behind him while he rails at Bob, quits his job, walks us from the mansion.

And we’d never look back.

But Jack doesn’t walk in.

Instead, the uncertain tapping of Gena’s heels announces her arrival just outside the door, and Bob smoothly moves away from me, composing himself before his wife enters the room with another bottle of white wine and a tray of flaky rolls she made herself. What is it about a lush drinking white wine like water?

White knights only exist in the movies, and mine is running late. Mine’s been texting me instead of phoning me just to hear my voice the way he used to.

Gena wanders to the window, looking out across the lawn, saying something about topiaries that I can’t focus on. Bob sits at the head of the table, spreading his arms out like Jesus at the Last Supper.

I suppress a smile, reminded of Sachs, imagining Bob in his place.

If I could do anything to Bob, what would I do?

Blackness crowds the corners of my vision in a rush of blood and ideas.

Sharp instruments, meant to hurt, flay his flesh from the bone, but too soon the blood fades to reddened skin and rivers of melted red wax, the macabre scene taking a sensual turn. I climb on top of him, feeling the hair on his thighs tickle the sensitive flesh on the inside of mine. The melted wax burns my belly when I press close against him, sealing us together. My hands wander up his chest, viciously pinching his nipples on the way to his throat, and I squeeze hard as I slide down onto his cock.

Bob morphs into Jack, and then I’m choking Jack while he fucks me from below, desperate to come before he passes out.

His eyes are wide and trusting, and he comes with a gasp, filling me so full that I can’t hold it all, and it drips out of my battered pussy, mixing with the red of the candle wax or blood or whatever it is staining our bodies.

I want to lick it off of us.

I squeeze my thighs together underneath the table, desperate to go finish this rhythmic pulsing off in the bathroom, but that’s when Jack finally arrives.

I hug him slightly too hard, breathing in that clean scent that clings to him, wholesome and slightly citrusy. “I missed you,” I whisper, and suddenly all I want is to be alone with this beautiful, good man and never think about the world outside again.

“I missed you, too.” He gives me a quick squeeze before letting me go and nodding at Bob. “Bob, Gena, how are you?”

“We’re good, son, how are you?”

We sit down, separated, and I want to seal us together again, reaffirm our connection after what feels like more than just a few days apart.

But first I have to get through supper with the DeVilles.

Jack makes small talk, catching up with Gena and Bob even though it’s me he hasn’t seen in days. Bob keeps shooting me meaningful glances over the table, as though this proves I’m not the one Jack cares about most.

I refuse to let that seed of doubt bloom into something more problematic under DeVille’s insinuations. He’s not a good man.

I ponder the true nature of evil over my creamed asparagus.

It’s all subjective—morality isn’t absolute, though I do think it’s innate. The vast majority of us have that inner compass that points us in the right direction when we veer off course and fuck up, doing something truly mean or petty.

Or worse, something actively harmful to another person.

I remember one time, when I was about seven years old, I was riding my bike as fast as I could to get home on time—I’d stayed at my friend’s house a little longer than I should have and was going to be late. My mom had warned me that the next time I came home late, I’d lose privileges—a vague threat that my fertile imagination was only too happy to take to the worst possible scenario.

It had rained hard that morning and was still a little drizzly, but there weren’t many puddles.

I heard the squelch of my tire running over something before I saw what it was, and I’d made it twenty feet farther on the sidewalk before stopping my bike, dread forming into a knot in my guts, making it impossible to continue home until I’d seen what it was I’d killed.

I knew it was a baby bird. I just knew it.

I didn’t want to see, but I couldn’t blithely bike home at the same pace as though nothing had happened. Even at seven, I knew I owed it to the life I’d snuffed out to bear witness to its demise.

So I’d put my bike down, steeled myself, and walked back to the scene of the crime, feet heavy with the knowledge that I had killed something.

When I got there, it wasn’t a baby bird at all, but the biggest, fattest worm I’d ever seen, writhing around, nearly crushed in two.

I felt relief and then resentment that I’d been so upset over a worm. It wasn’t until I was zipping toward home on my bike again that I wondered why it mattered when I thought it was a bird, but not a worm. I’d burned ants with magnifying glasses on hot summer days with my brother, but the thought of running over a baby bird made me feel terrible, sick to the pit of my stomach.

Was it the jump across phyla that caused my feeling of relief, or did it come down to the fact that it was accidental? Why should that have mattered?

What makes an act evil, or immoral, or even wrong?

Perception of value? The bird would have been “worth” more than the worm.

Permission?

And what does any of that have to do with good or evil?

Jack nudges me with that look he has when he’s asked a question and I’ve missed it, and that annoys me, so I nod like I know exactly what they’ve been droning on about for the past few minutes.

It turns out I just agreed to stay overnight here instead of going home. I could kick up a stink, and we’d go home, but I know Jack would give me shit, mortified at my refusal of Bob and Gena’s hospitality.

Maybe it wasn’t evil of Bob to offer or Jack to accept, but it sure feels intentional in this moment.