Docile Page 17

  But Alex doesn’t seem to mind. “Ah, that would be the horses. Or perhaps my mother, since they’re her horses and I’m obliged to bet handsomely on them.”

  “Isn’t that how parents are.” Tom unlocks the front door for us, then resumes his station behind the front desk. “I try not to guilt my girl too much, but I can’t help that she loves her dear old dad.”

  Quiet settles like snow.

  “Elisha, why don’t you go on ahead. I’ll meet you upstairs.” Alex kisses my forehead and nudges me into the elevator.

  I go, looking over my shoulder the whole way, watching Alex approach Tom’s desk, straining to hear their conversation through the doors even after they’ve closed. I stare straight ahead at the glossy black doors, pulling the diamond chain in and out of my cuff. If I concentrate, I feel the rhythm of the links as they unwrap within the bracelet and break its surface.

  I should tell Alex what happened. About the Empower Marylanders. I don’t want Roger showing up without warning. Don’t want to pass Tom every time I go out for a run or fear being stopped by Eugenia on the street. They’ve already gotten me in trouble once and know more about me than even Alex does.

  Will he be angry? He might. But then again, he might be glad. It might be worth it. Because Alex might be the only one who cares about me, anymore.

  19

  ALEX

  Today was good. As I watch Elisha get into the elevator, I feel the familiar glow of pride return, not only in his progress, but in my work. Not only did I earn Dad’s approval, but he’s going to recommend my Formula 3.0 plan to the Board. All without having to subpoena Javier’s GenEcs. Though I appreciate Mariah’s concern, I’m doing well on my own. And I want to pay it forward.

  I mosey back over to the front desk. Tom minds his own business until I’m so close it would be rude to ignore me any longer. “You never told me if your daughter was accepted to the University of Maryland.”

  “I…” Tom pokes at the desktop, flicking through a menu of documents he has no intention of accessing. “I didn’t want to bother you.”

  “So, she was?” I open a new window on the desktop and log into my bank account.

  Tom averts his eyes, backing politely away from information a doorman shouldn’t know about his residents.

  “Well, yes.”

  I open a separate window, the University of Maryland tuition page.

  “Dr. Bishop.”

  I ignore him, quickly calculating the cost of four years’ tuition, room and board, books, and living expenses. I sign the virtual check, then tap my fingers to one another. The thin slip of paper materializes in my hand.

  “Dr. Bishop, please—”

  “This should cover it.”

  “I can’t accept this.”

  “Why not?”

  We stare at each other, two men made from the same stuff: skin, bone, guts. No one’s here. No photographers. No Dutch to remind me of my image, no Mariah to criticize my behavior.

  “I can’t repay you.”

  I crook my finger.

  Tom leans across the table.

  I point at the amount on the check. “I bet more than this on a horse this afternoon. I can afford to invest the same in a person.” I fold the check and stick it in Tom’s breast pocket. “If you want to repay me, send her my way after graduation. Bishop Laboratories could use a mind like hers.”

  “She does want to major in biology.” Tom smiles.

  “I know.” I touch my temple. “You’ve told me.”

  “You remember too well, Dr. Bishop.”

  I tuck my free hand in my pocket, wink, and back toward the elevator. “I trust you’ll log me out and close up—”

  “Oh, absolutely, sir.” Tom jabs at the screen and wipes his forehead. “Taken care of. Thank you, I can’t—”

  I hold up my hand to silence his gratitude before he can bumble on for too long. I step into the waiting elevator; its doors separate us. I do want people like Tom and his daughter to succeed. Want them to work hard, do well, contribute. Find their places.

  Upstairs, I find Elisha waiting by the island in the kitchen. He looks up when I enter, face tenses as I approach. Something is wrong and I don’t know what and I hate not knowing.

  “Why don’t you go upstairs and get undressed. Shower.”

  Elisha nods before saying, “Okay,” and slipping away.

  I wait. Close my eyes and listen to the gentle pad of oxfords across the hardwood. Slide of his palm over the banister. Creak of the bedroom door and footsteps overhead. Even when the sounds stop, I imagine him sliding his blazer over his broadened shoulders and down his arms. His fingers manipulating shirt and slacks buttons out of their holes, loosening leather laces. The satisfying crumple of worn cotton in the hamper.

  I listen to the shower spurt to life, the thud of Elisha’s bare feet on the tile, and metallic slide when he closes its door.

  Only then do I wander into my office, sit the black box on my desk, and pull the end of the ribbon until it unravels. Inside, a card reads: Didn’t realize how much I missed you. If you ever want to reconnect, please don’t hesitate to call. Yours, Javier. Beneath it, a phone headset embedded in a slim sticker—a piece of technology both fun and redundant that I have no present use for, much like Javier.

  I set it in one of my desk drawers, then mimic Elisha’s motions, undress, toss my clothes on top of his—crumpled, as I’d imagined—and make my way into the shower. Elisha doesn’t startle. His eyes meet mine only for a moment before he tilts his head back and rinses the conditioner from his hair.

  I want to kiss him from throat to navel. Want to hold him against the wall and suck him dry while he calls out my name.

  I can’t do that—can’t go down on my Docile. Patrons don’t do that. I wasn’t really considering it, anyway. My face warms from the steam heat.

  I clear my throat. “Finished?”

  “Yes.” Elisha wipes the excess water from his face and slides past me.

  Our bodies brush. I ignore it, rubbing my hand down my chest to the base of my mostly limp cock, as if holding it down will erase the feeling. Through the fogged glass, I watch him wipe down his body and dry his hair. It’ll stick out until he fixes it.

  Already I can feel my hands in his hair, watch the contented smile settle onto his face. I stroke lazily between my legs, imagining Elisha’s mouth on me. God, I want him. I want him in the shower, skin hot and wet. I want him slippery and wrapped in a fluffy cotton towel. I want to push it down his hips, push him onto the bed. And I’m not sure I’m supposed to want that. I’m not sure I care about what I’m supposed to be, anymore. What my grandmother was and my father was. I care about what I am and what my legacy will be.

  I finish washing, then shut the water off and grab a towel from the warmer. Through the cracked door, I watch Elisha smooth his hair into place, in the mirror. He knows how I like it—how I like him. He is blossoming into the perfect Docile companion. Imagine if Dociline could turn an off-med into him, without the training. A revolution in the field.

  I toss my towel into the hamper, covering our Preakness outfits. Elisha’s face is still tense, in the mirror. He’s not like on-meds; he requires additional care. “I want to make sure you’re okay,” I say. “I’m responsible for your mind, as well as your body. Tell me what you’re thinking.”

  I decide not to be opaque about my intentions. He’s had a long day. We’re both tired. And he deserves an emotional reward for his hard work.

  “About what?” he asks.

  “About everything. Talk to me for a few minutes.”

  “Okay.…”

  Elisha opens his mouth, then closes it. He stands like a Greek statue: youthful, slender, muscled, with a twinge of innocence. I only know he’s real from the way he fidgets with his cuff, pulling the chain out and in. Normally, by now I would have reminded him to answer aloud, mentioned the rules or, more likely, the consequences.

  But I wait.

  Elisha bites his lip and
scratches his head, upsetting his hair. “I’m still processing today.” He looks at his feet while he talks. I don’t want him to feel inhibited around me. I want to know how he feels. “Seeing Dylan when I didn’t expect to. Wondering whether I’m too late—if she’s already—if the Dociline…”

  Elisha begins to pull his trundle bed out from under mine, but I stop him. “Put that away.” We push it back into place, together, and I pull him onto mine. “Just lie with me.”

  Elisha tucks himself inside my arms and takes a deep breath. I stroke his hair and massage his lower back, the skin warm.

  “Dylan’s fine, I promise you. Dociline works. You’ll see.”

  “Yeah.” He doesn’t sound convinced.

  After several minutes, I disturb the silence. “Are you happy?” I hold my breath, waiting for him to say yes. Hoping for him to say yes.

  “Most of the time. I’m happy when I’m here, with you. And I like going to the lab and traveling around the city.”

  “But?”

  “But social events are stressful. I’m afraid of messing up again and disappointing you in front of everyone.”

  “Want to know a secret?” I press my forehead against Elisha’s and whisper, “I don’t like social events, either. You only have one person to worry about disappointing. I have millions.”

  Horror creeps over his face. “I’m so sorry.”

  “Don’t be.” I close my eyes and tighten my hold on Elisha. “Don’t ever feel sorry for me.”

  He buries his face in my neck, breathing in my scent.

  “Is there anything else you want to tell me, before I fall asleep?” I ask.

  A moment passes—long enough for Elisha to consider my question. A little too long.

  “No,” he says. “Nothing.” He begins to pry himself from my grip, but I stop him.

  “Stay here,” I mumble. “Just for tonight.”

  20

  ELISHA

  Alex doesn’t tell me why we’re at the lab. Not that he usually does, but he looks happier at work today than he has in a while. I don’t try to guess—it doesn’t matter. As long as he’s happy, so am I.

  I still hold the railing inside the elevator when we ride it down. Alex rubs a hand down my back to calm the butterflies in my stomach. We stop on a floor I’ve never visited, not that any floor looks that different. The door slides open and Alex leads us down the catwalk, which is empty except for a caretaker and a line of Dociles who trail behind her.

  “I have something to show you.” A smile tugs at Alex’s lips. He knows I won’t ask what. He’s teasing, which I think he enjoys—and I enjoy, too. It feels nice that he’s excited to show me something, regardless of what it is.

  I let the glow of contentment fill me and say, “Okay.”

  Ahead of us, the caretaker signals to the line behind her and they stop. She and Alex acknowledge each other with a nod when we pass, but I can’t take my eyes off the Dociles. They stand facing forward, smiling, with their arms dangling by their sides. Dressed in Bishop Laboratories branded athletic wear, they look like a neat row of mannequins. I’m wondering what would happen if I nudged one, when Alex looks over his shoulder and I realize I’m lagging.

  He waits, unbothered, while I catch up, then points at a room obscured by fogged glass. “Go on,” he says, standing to the side.

  Tentatively, I open the door.

  “Elisha!” Dylan launches herself at me for a hug. “I didn’t think I’d see you again.”

  I wrap my arms around her, rub my fingers over the clean blue scrubs she wears. No more pony gear. “You smell nice,” I say, breathing in the coconut scent of her hair, no longer braided for Preakness. It’s shorter, shaved close to her head, and tickles my cheek where she rests her head on my shoulder.

  “Thanks, I guess.” She steps back and looks me over. “All in one piece, I see.”

  “Yes, thanks.”

  Dylan continues to stare. Did I say something wrong?

  “Elisha, sit down.” Alex taps the back of a chair before taking the one next to it.

  I do as he says, eager to help him get Dylan situated. She, however, does not move to join us. I look between them, growing anxious that she won’t cooperate. Does she know Alex is helping her?

  “Dylan.” Alex gestures to the third chair. “We do have business to handle.”

  She sits, but my relief turns to discomfort as she continues to stare at me. Why is she looking at me like that? Like if she looks hard enough, she can see through my skin. It itches. I shift in my seat, scratch the goose bumps that rise on my arms.

  “Stop fidgeting,” Alex says without looking up from the SmartTable.

  I sit on my hands, so I won’t be tempted. My eyes meet Dylan’s before dropping to the tabletop again, unable to face her judgment.

  “Let’s go over your contract.” Alex finishes typing and rotates the document with his finger so Dylan can see it. “Technically, your debt’s been purchased by Bishop Laboratories, care of me, Alexander Bishop the Third. You’ll live here for the duration of your term—which I convinced our contracts division to negotiate down to three years since you’re coming to us secondhand—in a single room, no roommate. All your needs will be provided for by a caretaker. A variety of activities are available here, from athletics to arts, academics, and so on. All we require is that you complete our tests on a regular basis. A schedule will populate on the inside of your door every morning. If you need anything, feel free to ask one of the on-duty caretakers.”

  “Can I see that?”

  “Of course.” Alex slides it toward her with the touch of a finger.

  “No, I mean, can I hold it?” She talks to him like Jess does, like they’re equals.

  Alex taps several fingers together and the contract materializes between his fingers. Dylan takes the document as if it might fall apart. She reads, slowly, underlining the words with her finger as she goes.

  Finally, she sets it down. “What’s the catch?”

  “No catch.”

  “Mariah told me you wanted me to ‘round out Elisha’s education,’ and now you’re saying I’m free to live out my term in what is basically a luxury prison. Why?”

  “Doesn’t matter.”

  “Does to me.”

  Alex shrugs. “I have no more obligation to explain my decision to purchase your debt than you do for selling it.”

  “I don’t think it’s a mystery that I sold my debt because the alternative is my widowed mother being sent off to debtors’ prison.”

  Alex clasps his hands together and leans forward. “You don’t have to sign this contract. I can take you back to Mariah’s if you wish.”

  “No,” Dylan says, quickly, shaking her head. “I’ll sign; I just…” She picks up a stylus and twiddles it between her fingers.

  “No one here is going to hurt you or have sex with you, if that’s what you’re worried about,” Alex says.

  “That’s most of it,” she says.

  “Well, let me know if you think of anything further. Also, while we’re hammering out details, I’m required to offer you Dociline, if you’d like it. We’re developing the new formula, so you’d inject an improved version that’s not yet on the market.”

  Dylan turns her eyes on me. “Are you on Dociline?”

  “No.” I laugh, but nobody else does. My smile fades. “Isn’t it obvious?”

  Dylan faces Alex, ignoring me. “If I refuse, I won’t end up like him, will I?”

  End up like him. What does that mean?

  “No,” Alex says. “Elisha is special.”

  Wait. If we’re both off-med, why should she end up any different? Is something wrong with me? I’ve done everything Alex has said. He wouldn’t let anything bad happen to me. “Excuse me,” I say.

  “Not now, Elisha.”

  “O-okay.”

  Alex sighs and rubs his forehead. “Go see if Jess is downstairs. Maybe you two can get a coffee.”

  “Okay. See you later, Dylan.”
I wave, but when she doesn’t look, I hug my arm against my chest. As I close the fogged door behind me, I wonder what I did wrong. She said she was happy to see me.

  I take the elevator down a floor and scan for Jess. She’s busy talking to another researcher, so I sit at a nearby station and wait. It lights up at my presence, bringing up my personal settings: the outline of piano keys and “Liebesträum no. 3.” On a music staff, Franz Liszt’s notes arc like waves above the melody. I can hear them if I close my eyes, feel Alex sitting beside me on the piano bench, at home. His hands guiding mine.

  “Hey, you.” Jess sits on the station beside mine. Her smile warms me. “What’s up? Where’s Alex?”

  “He’s upstairs with my friend, Dylan. He won her contract at—”

  “—Preakness. I remember.” She clicks her tongue. “So, you get kicked out?”

  “I think I was in the way. Dylan didn’t seem too happy with me, and Alex…” I don’t know. He wasn’t upset, but wasn’t pleased with me, either. “He told me to find you, get a coffee.”

  “Well, he’s the boss!” Jess hops down and leads me into the break room. Thanks to Alex, I can identify the soft glow of dials that adjust temperatures, open cabinets, and brew hot drinks. I reach for the latter, but Jess beats me to it.

  “Cream and sugar?” she asks.

  “Yes, please. I can do it if—” I glance up at the fogged conference room, where Alex and Dylan discuss her contract.

  “Don’t worry about it.” Jess sets to work brewing coffee.

  No one ever does things like that for me. Maybe a waiter or valet, another Docile, but Jess is a scientist. I wonder if she’ll mind … “May I ask you a question?”

  “Ask away.”

  “Why are you so…”—“nice” isn’t the word; plenty of trillionaires are nice on the outside and monstrous on the inside—“… casual? With me. Doing me favors and stuff. I don’t mind the work; it’s my job.”

  Jess leans against the counter. The rich scent of coffee—black, bitter, and nutty—fills the kitchenette. “You know that feeling when Alex doesn’t want your help and you have to hold back?”