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“It was all lies!”
“I’ve seen part of your world, remember? I was in that theater, under those hot lights. I watched as you all bid on me.”
I couldn’t resist. “So now it’s my fault that you consensually took part in that?”
“Don’t try to be smart. I’m saying that I know shit happens in back rooms around here. And it’s not hard for me to imagine the drugs, the monopolies, the underage women. I’ve seen too much to pretend otherwise.”
How had this gone downhill so fast? A few days ago, I thought Kiki might be the one. I can’t believe I’m admitting that, but it’s true. I’d never felt so close to somebody, especially not that fast. Our connection was something you couldn’t fake. She had seen me in all my fucked-up-ness, and she hadn’t minded.
“I wish you weren’t trying to talk yourself out of liking me,” I murmured, staring directly into those cool green eyes. “You’re finding reasons to push me away, because you’re scared of what’s between us. This is a defense mechanism.”
For a moment, she went silent, and whether she admitted it or not, I could tell I’d hit the nail on the head. I thought perhaps she’d buckle, and allow that maybe some of this was just bluster.
Instead, she took a deep breath, and then said, “I’m quitting.”
“What?” I felt my heart drop through my stomach. “That’s not a funny joke.”
“Who said I was kidding? RES offered me a job, one that pays better. Maybe that’s because Dazzlers has been chronically underpaying workers, by the way. Anyhow, I’m gonna take it.”
“RES?! He’s — they — you don’t even—”
“Stop, Tate,” Kiki said, her hair fluttering as she moved her head left and right. “I don’t want any more snake oil from you, no more pitches. Just let me leave in peace. That’s the least you can do.”
She walked past me once more, back to the front door. After a second of shock, I turned and fell in step behind her. Was I just going to follow her back and forth across the floor until she believed me? That wasn’t exactly a brilliant plan.
“I said go away, Tate,” she called over her shoulder without looking at me.
“Kiki—”
“Go!”
She blew past another computer station, where I could see another employee, maybe a janitor, being let off early by a different sector manager. I was so hot on Kiki’s heels that when she stopped dead in her tracks, I collided right into her back.
“Get off me,” she cried as I stumbled away, disoriented by the run-in.
“Sorry, I didn’t mean to run into you,” is what I was trying to say, but she had already reversed back to the station we’d just passed.
Where was she going this time?
I overheard her say, “I recognize you,” to the man who had just been turned away from work.
Oh fuck.
I recognized him too.
He was one of the employees I’d paid to sit at our poker table.
This wasn’t gonna end well.
I tentatively inched to Kiki as she asked the fellow, “Weren’t you at my poker table the other day, in the high-stakes room? What are you doing in a Dazzlers uniform?”
The guy looked to me helplessly and shrugged. Kiki caught the eye movement, and it was all over.
“Tate?!” she screamed, the word both a question and an indictment, as she reeled around on me.
I slouched forward, hoping that I could weather this storm.
“Tell me,” she whispered, her voice dropping low and shaking with anger, “that this doesn’t mean what I think it does.”
There was no way out of it. She was smart, she’d figure it out. All I could do was tell the truth and hope she appreciated it. And, if I was lucky, take it as testament to my truthfulness as regarding the Mac thing.
But I wasn’t lucky today.
Her eyes darkened as she looked at me and asked:
“Did you set up that poker game as a way to give me money?”
“Yes.”
Her mouth fell open, and she took a step away from me.
“How could you? After I said I didn’t want your money, you made up an elaborate ruse to, to what, make me a charity case?”
“It was supposed to be a romantic gesture,” I said helplessly, knowing that she was past the point of caring about what I said.
“You think it’s romantic to ignore my wishes, to do the exact opposite of what I ask? Communication is romantic, Tate, trust is romantic. What you did was try to make yourself feel better about your privilege and Dazzlers’ years of enabling systemic inequality by using me as some kind of outlet for your humiliation. Well, I won’t help assuage your guilt. I’m not a pawn.”
I gave up. It was clear that, for all she talked about listening, she didn’t actually want to listen to me.
“I’m independent,” she continued, wagging a finger at me. “I’ve been independent for a long goddamn time. Men like you, guys who’ve never had to count on their own wits, you assume women like me are damsels in distress, constantly yearning for your assistance and intervention. Well, we’re not. I’m not. So take your bullshit, fake-ass chivalry somewhere else. I’m doing just fine on my own.”
