Jasmine's Last Stand, Pt. 01

Jasmine's Last Stand, Part 1: Newton's Cradle

Jasmine rolls over on the mattress, trying to decide what to do. Stay, go. She's not sure. If she goes, she'll definitely have to put clothes on.

Sunlight pours in through the giant windows of...Devon's room. Almost certainly Devon's room. Sorry, Mr. Stockwell. Sorry, sorry, Mr. Stockwell the Younger, as the other ladies at reception like to call him. You have to be precise with them, because they actually like Mr. Stockwell the Elder.

But yesterday, Devon had told her to just call him Devon.

#

"Peggy, don't look now," Glinda muttered under her breath.

"Stockwell the Younger?"

"Mm-hm. Bob warned me he's on his way up."

Glinda had some coy flirting thing going on with Bob, one of the security guards on the building's main floor. He gave her intel on who was being sent up the elevator to their office suite, and she gave him...chocolates, Jasmine was pretty sure. Sometimes champagne. Whatever old people liked to flirt with.

She tried not to think about what else their arrangement might entail.

"He's probably here for the Christmas party," Jasmine suggested. It always made her feel weird when they talked shit about Devon Stockwell. She didn't know him, had only seen him pass by their desk at the front of the office suite a few times, and Peggy and Glinda could never really explain what they didn't like about him. They just told her that when Jasmine had had as much life experience as they did, she would know how to spot a bad seed when she saw one. They were both about forty years older than Jasmine, so she supposed it might be true.

"More like he's hoping to catch his daddy in a good mood before we close for the holiday so he can get some more cash," Peggy said, and Glinda laughed before answering the phone that was ringing. Peggy turned to Jasmine with one of those trust-me-because-I-know-more-than-you looks. "Last time he was here I heard him talking about redoing the tile on his deck. Well, one of his decks." Peggy rolled her eyes. She and Glinda thought it was absolutely abhorrent that Stockwell the Younger had a penthouse of his very own, because as far as they knew, he'd never had a real job. He was being groomed to take over the family business when his father retired, but until then, the other receptionists claimed he was just "coasting," living the Manhattan aristocratic life and sowing all the wild oats he could, occasionally doing some work for his dad when the mood suited him.

Jasmine wondered sometimes what was so bad about that. If she had access to the kind of money Stockwell the Younger did, she'd probably do the same. But she never dared to say that to Peggy or Glinda. She wanted them to respect her, which she was pretty sure they did, even if they repeatedly claimed they thought of her as "their other granddaughter," which she secretly hated. But she had to spend forty hours a week sharing a desk with these ladies, so she indulged them when they wanted to gossip, when they told her she was too skinny, or when they "accidentally" peeked at her checking her Tinder matches and made disapproving tongue clicks.

The elevator dinged and opened, and Stockwell the Younger walked out. Jasmine tried to pretend that she didn't notice him, though he had the kind of presence that was impossible not to notice. He was tall, six feet at least, always dressed impeccably, whether in a suit or just a fashionable T-shirt and well-fitting jeans. Dark brown hair styled perfectly, piled on top but shaved close and faded at his temples. Angular cheekbones. Eyes to match his hair, like warm mahogany.

Jasmine had yet to find anyone on Tinder who could make her forget about Stockwell the Younger, especially when she lay in her bed at night, hand moving to her pussy. But it was hard to picture him falling for someone like her. She'd been told she was pretty by well-meaning people like Peggy and Glinda, with her wavy strawberry blonde hair and her slender frame. But he probably had dozens of prettier girls lined up, and aside from a general attractiveness she was shy and short and frumpy, with barely a penny to her name that didn't go straight back into rent or meager savings. Barely any idea what she wanted to do with her life. He exuded confidence, direction, and of course, money.

"Afternoon, ladies." He smiled at the trio at the large welcome desk. "My dad in?"

"He's in a meeting," Peggy said, friendly but blunt. "I can let his EA know--"

"No need. I'll just hang in his waiting area 'til he's free. Will I see you all at the party tonight?" Jasmine noticed that he was looking directly at her.

But Peggy didn't. "Of course."

"And you, Jasmine?" Jasmine nearly jumped in her seat when he said her name. She didn't even know that he knew it. "You have somewhere cooler to be?" He winked, and she hoped to God she was wearing enough foundation to cover up the heat rising in her cheeks.

"I'll be here, Mr. Stockwell," she said.

"Good, good," he said. "Call me Devon, by the way. I'll see you later." He drummed his fingers quickly on the desk, smiled, and walked off.

"Ugh," Peggy said under her breath when he was out of earshot. "I hope you're not falling for his routine."

Jasmine blinked a couple of times, forced a smile that she knew could fool Peggy. "Of course not."

#

She's been awake for a good five minutes, and somehow, she's just noticed. There are cuff bracelets on her wrists and ankles.

Jasmine examines them. They're black, thick leather, with metal loops and buckles.

She wishes she could remember Devon putting them on her last night, what he did with them. Why can't she remember? Why isn't she more disturbed by the fact that she can't remember?

Instead of disturbed, she's just fascinated. Curious. She runs her fingers along the cuffs on her wrists. She smells them. They smell like real leather. She has no doubt that they are. She has no doubt that they're expensive. She reasons to herself that she probably drank more last night than she thought, and simply can't remember her time with Devon getting a bit kinky.

She examines the buckle of the one on her left wrist. They're not locked shut or anything, at least. She places her thumb on the buckle, readying to get the cuff off.

Except, she can't.

In her head, she can picture a buckle. She can picture pulling out the strap, lifting the prong. It's one of the easiest movements she can think of. She's done it a million times before.

But for some reason, right now, she can't go any farther. She can't do anything to unfasten the cuff from her wrist. It's like every time she tries, her fingers freeze up and forget what to do.

She takes a deep breath and tries to remove the cuff from her right wrist, but she can't. Her fingers freeze again. She tries for the cuffs at her ankles. Same result.

Okay. Okay.

Now she's getting disturbed.

#

The party officially started at 6. A few people went home to change in the interim, but Jasmine didn't need to. She'd bought a green knit dress on Amazon just for the occasion, accessorizing it with a wide black elastic belt around her waist.

She hadn't even thought that Devon might attend the party, even though he was technically on the payroll. She would have assumed he had cooler places to be, just like he'd suggested to her. But as soon as the caterers finished setting up, there he was, slumming it with the other employees. Jasmine had never seen him talk to anyone but her and the other front desk ladies before, and was surprised to see that some people actually seemed to like talking to him. But she shouldn't have been surprised. He was quite charming; it was just that Peggy and Glinda seemed immune to his charms, and wanted Jasmine to be too.

She wanted to find an excuse to talk to him, but he always seemed to be on the opposite end of the room from her, making the rounds. Instead, she got caught up in a conversation with Phil from Accounting, who launched into a fascinating lecture on the differences between 401Ks and Roth IRAs or something like that. Jasmine struggled to keep her face alert in between sips of white wine.

Just as she was coming up with a good reason to excuse herself, she felt a hand on her shoulder, and heard a man's voice in her ear. "Phil, buddy, I heard you got a new boat," Devon said.

Phil beamed with pride. "Sure did, Mr. Stockwell."

"Devon."

"Devon. She's a real beaut. We've got her docked at our place in Mystic--"

"Wonderful." Devon flashed a charming, toothy smile. "I'm wondering if I can steal Jasmine from you for a bit. I have to ask her something."

"Oh, of course, no problem, Mr. Stockwell."

"Devon."

"Devon. No problem, Devon." Phil chuckled like he'd never heard a more ridiculous suggestion than to call his boss's son by his first name.

Devon led Jasmine away from Phil, his arm around her shoulder. "Thought you could use a rescue," he whispered. "Phil's got what I like to call a lobotomizing drawl."

Jasmine laughed. "He's nice."

"Well, you're easy to be nice to," Devon countered.

Jasmine was so caught up in the compliment that she didn't notice Devon had led her out of the main room. "Where are we going?" she asked.

"Somewhere more private," Devon said. They were approaching his dad's office.

Jasmine's breath caught in her throat as he pulled the door open, giving her another wink. Her mind was reeling with what he might be suggesting they do in there, until he spoke again. "Jasmine, meet Grace, Charlie, Tasha, and Sport. Everyone, this is Jasmine."

Jasmine gave a limp wave to the other, very bored-looking twenty-somethings sprawled out on the couches in Mr. Stockwell's office, and wasn't sure if she should be disappointed or relieved.

#

Clothes.

Get clothes on, Jasmine tells herself. Get some clothes on, feel a little more normal, and then you can worry about the cuffs.

There's a chair in the corner, with her green dress draped over it. She gets out of bed and rushes over to it, pulls it over her head without another thought. Her panties and belt are on the seat of the chair, and she puts both of them on too. Her bra is nowhere to be seen, but at this point that's the least of her worries.

She puts her ear to the bathroom door to listen for Devon. Silence. She's pretty sure he's not in there. So where is he?

Her gaze falls to the bedroom door. There's a good chance he's somewhere else in the penthouse, that if she goes out of this room, she'll see him.

But it's an absolute certainty that leaving this room is her only way to freedom.

#

"Sport's not his real name," Tasha said. "It's just what everyone calls him."

"Thanks, Tasha," Sport said, rolling his eyes as he took a sip from a whiskey glass.

"What's your real name?" Jasmine asked. Devon pulled over a leather chair for her to sit in.

"I don't tell that to people I've just met," said Sport.

"It's Merriweather," said Tasha, and Jasmine realized she was already drunk. At least tipsy. "Like Lewis and Clark."

"God damn it, Tasha," Sport said. "You're the worst."

Tasha just giggled.

"So, what department do you all work in?" Jasmine asked, and realized what a dumb question that was as soon as she said it, even before Devon's friends laughed at her.

"My dad's been wanting me to make an appearance at these parties ever since I got on the payroll," Devon explained, sitting on the armrest of her chair. "My friends hide out in here to keep me company for an hour or two, then we split and go somewhere more our speed."

"It was more fun before we were over twenty-one," Grace pointed out. She was leaning against a couch armrest and staring at her phone.

"I kind of like it," said Tasha. "Makes me feel like we're kids again. And Devon's dad gets an open bar with top shelf liquor." She grinned and put her drink to her lips.

"Well, I got us the VIP lounge at Phobia," Charlie said. "So, I say we bail now."

"Ew, Charlie, did you get an Early Bird special for senior citizens?" Tasha made a face.

"Doors open at seven," Charlie said defensively.

"And if we show up before nine, the waitresses will laugh at us. No thanks."

Grace dropped her phone into her lap. "I'm fucking bored." Her tone implied if someone didn't do something about it soon, heads were going to roll.

"We shouldn't leave yet anyway," Devon said. He put a hand on Jasmine's shoulder, and she tried very hard not to react. "Jasmine works front desk with Peggy and Glinda, and if they notice her leaving too early, with me of all people, they'll never let her live it down. I had to be very subtle to sneak her in here in the first place."

Sport cackled. "Those two dinosaurs are still kicking? My condolences." He gave Jasmine an imaginary hat tip.

Wait a second...had Devon just said she was coming with them? To a club? To a private lounge at a club? Fuck, she definitely wasn't dressed for that.

"They've been trying very hard to turn her against me, haven't they, Jasmine?"

She looked up at him, and caught his eyes. "No," she said hurriedly. "No, they hardly--"

He laughed, a piercing interruption. "They've hated me since I was fifteen," he said. "And it's only gotten worse because they think I'm just out to steal my daddy's money." He wiggled his fingers like he was the boogeyman, and the group laughed in the kind of way Jasmine recognized as a private joke among them. Jasmine managed a small smile, but was careful not to seem too familiar. Every second she sat in the chair, she felt more and more out of place. "You don't have to protect them," he said. "I don't give a shit what they think, anyway."

Tasha blinked. "I know what we can do while we're stuck here," she said.

"We're not stuck here, Tasha," Grace said.

Tasha ignored her. She turned to Devon. "You can do that thing, you know."

Devon frowned. "That thing?"

"Oh, you know." She waved her drink at him, and a few drops of liquid sloshed onto her fingers and the floor. "That hypnotism thing."

Hypnotism thing?

Sport groaned and took another sip of his whiskey. "Tasha, we're not in high school anymore. Devon doesn't actually--"

"He does, he totally does!" Tasha turned to Jasmine. "Devon can do hypnosis. Like a hobby, right, Devon?" Jasmine looked up at Devon, who shrugged. "Senior year, Mitzi Blankenship stole my boyfriend, and he hypnotized her so that every time someone said the word, 'come,' like, 'come here' or, 'are you coming to the thing,' she moaned like someone was eating her out. Even in the middle of class. It was glorious."

"It was pretty funny," Charlie said with a laugh and a wistful smile.

Jasmine looked at Devon, who actually seemed embarrassed. "It was just a favor," he said, as if it was the equivalent of giving Tasha a ride to the airport.

"But it worked," Tasha said. "Can you still do it? It'll be like those old-timey parties. They used to do that shit all the time in fancy parlors just like this." She waved her hand at the expensive walls, furniture, and décor of Mr. Stockwell's office.

"You don't even know what a parlor is," Sport said.

"So what?"

"I think it actually sounds fun," Grace said with a conciliatory shrug.

"Oh, I knew I should have worn my flapper dress," Tasha groaned. "This is so Gatsby."

Sport opened his mouth like he was going to say something, but just sighed, rolled his eyes, and took another drink.

"Guess it's as good a way as any to kill some time," Devon said. "What do you think, Jasmine?"

"Hm?" She looked up at him, realizing how he towered over her when he was seated on the armrest like this. It did little to make his gentle smile less intimidating. "Sure, we can try it."

"Oh, I think we have a volunteer," Tasha squealed, grinning at Jasmine.

"What?" Jasmine blushed. "Oh, no, I don't think I could--"

"It's fine," Tasha insisted. "He's not going to make you do anything like what he did to Mitzi. It'll be totally classy."

"Well, hold on," Devon said. He slipped off the armrest. "I'm not going to do anything to Jasmine, or anyone, unless she agrees."

"Did Mitzi agree?" Tasha asked with a raise of her eyebrow.

"In a way," he said. "Just not to what she thought. And that was years ago. I like to think I've matured a bit."

Sport let out an almost-involuntary guffaw.

Devon knelt on one knee next to Jasmine's chair. "It's really not a big deal," he said. "I promise I wouldn't make you do anything embarrassing."

She wanted to ask, why her? Why did the newest person in the room have to be the one to go under? Plus, what specifically did he plan to make her do? The potential to humiliate herself seemed way too high.

But if she said no, what would her night look like? They'd probably find a reason not to let her go with them to Phobia, and even though she knew she would stick out like a sore thumb there, it was still better than dealing with Peggy and Glinda and the rest of the Stockwell employees who were set on boring her to death. She still wanted to know what Devon's plans were, but that was probably counterintuitive to the whole thing.

And maybe it was because she'd had just enough wine to shed some of her inhibitions, or the fact that she reminded herself that she'd moved to the city from the suburbs because she wanted to be more adventurous, or the fact that she thought it all sounded like dumb bunk anyway, but either way, she straightened her spine and said, "Okay."

#

For some reason, Jasmine expects the bedroom door to be locked.

It's not.

In fact, it's not even clicked shut. She pulls on the handle and it opens, without her needing to turn it.

She vaguely remembers the layout of the apartment from the brief glimpse she got the night before. It has two floors, with the bedrooms on the bottom floor and the living area and main entrance on the second. The stairway is in front of her, with the other bedrooms down the hallway to her left. She knows Devon lives here alone, so the other rooms are used for guests, or for office space.

One is for something else, though.

The thought comes to her as if beamed in by an unblockable radio signal. A certainty that leaves behind more questions than it answers. It waves and skips off, and she has absolutely no idea what it means. All she knows is that when she thinks it, when she knows it, that there is a room that isn't used the way anyone would guess it's for, she feels a throbbing between her legs, a pressure in her lower belly, a flutter in her gut. Arousal and dread at the same time.

She should look in the other rooms. Do her own investigation.

But no. Leaving, yes, leaving. Getting out of here. Getting to the front door. That's more important than anything.

She creeps up the stairs to the main floor.

#

Tasha grinned and clapped. Grace sat up lazily and leaned forward on the couch. Sport swirled his drink with an appraising frown at Devon and Jasmine, and Charlie mumbled something about the price of the lounge at Phobia, which prompted Tasha to lean over and punch him in the arm.

"Do you need a pocket watch or something?" Jasmine asked. That got an approving chuckle from Grace, at least.

Devon laughed too. "Mine's in the shop. All we really need is something rhythmic." He looked around the room, went to his father's desk, and came back a minute later with a small apparatus.

"Oh, those pendulum balls!" Tasha exclaimed.

"It's called a Newton's cradle," Devon said gently. He set it on the coffee table that separated the couches his friends were sitting on from the chair that Jasmine was in. There were five steel marbles hanging from a frame. He pulled back one on the end, and let it go. It hit the rest of the marbles, causing the marble on the other end to swing away and come back. Back and forth the end marbles swung. Back. Forth. Back. Forth. Jasmine watched them for a moment, then realized Devon hadn't actually told her to do so, and she wasn't about to give him access to her mind earlier than necessary.