Docile Read online

  I know what I have to do, even if it hurts. Even though my feelings are hurtling forward, I need to stop them here. “I’m going to move on. That’s what I told him to do.” I still hear him—can’t stop seeing him kneeling in the dirt, straining and crying—screaming for me, that he loves me.

  “You told Elisha to move on?” Jess raises her eyebrows. “How’s he supposed to do that?”

  My shrug morphs into a vague gesture as I think. “I’m still giving his family a thousand dollars every month. He can get a therapist, or—”

  “Get a therapist? Alex, he can’t dress himself!”

  “I can’t be the one to pick out his clothes every morning, Jess!” I bang my hand down on the table. “Believe me, I wish he could do it himself, but that’s my fault. Don’t you understand? Every second he’s with me, he becomes more dependent on me. Someone else has to fix him because I can’t.”

  We both sip our tea, diluting the energy in the room.

  “You can stay here as long as you want; you know that,” Jess finally says. “But the longer you do, the more people will talk.”

  “I know.” I can’t look at her when I say, “I’m having my house gutted. That excuse will hold up for a while.”

  “Holy…”

  “Jess.” I flick my eyes up to meet hers, desperate that she understand. “Everything reminds me of him. The piano almost had me in tears.”

  She drums her fingers on the table. “You need to keep busy. Because—I hate sounding like Mariah—” Jess sighs and rolls her eyes. “You can’t be seen crying over this.”

  “I know.” I do. And yet it doesn’t make sense. Why can’t I feel sad? Why can’t I love Elisha, miss Elisha, be with Elisha? He’s not a debtor or Docile anymore, but that doesn’t mean anything to my parents.

  “Come on,” Jess says. “Before you get any other bright ideas. Let’s go to the lab. You can lose yourself in a pile of paperwork.”

  She’s right. I need to focus on something—anything besides Elisha. Because right now her support is all that’s stopping me from driving back out there.

  * * *

  A text lights up my phone. Alexander Bishop, return my calls this instant. I can only ignore Mariah for so long.

  Jess looks up from her tablet, on the other side of my desk, where she is standing guard over me. “You might as well take her call. She’s not going to stop.”

  The phone only rings once before Mariah answers. “Are you fucking crazy?”

  “Hi, Mariah. How are you?”

  “I have only ever tried to help you, Alex.”

  “I’m fine, thanks for asking.”

  “I’ve literally handed you men. Multiple times.”

  “I’m a little busy, right now. Can we reschedule this lecture?” I drag my finger over an open document on my SmartDesk, scrolling through it without reading. Jess glances at the surface, monitoring my work upside down.

  “Absolutely not. Are you aware that you were photographed checking into a hotel room with your Docile—”

  “What?” I patronize that hotel because they’re discreet. I didn’t see any photographers. Not that I was looking, I was—I wanted to help Elisha—I …

  “And not any old hotel room, the fucking Penthouse Suite, like it was your goddamn honeymoon.”

  “I-I don’t—”

  “I know you’re avoiding me, Alex, but you can’t avoid this. Open your goddamn feed and look. They’re everywhere.”

  Jess can only hear one side of the conversation, but she watches me close spreadsheets and databases in favor of my browser. My news feed assaults me with photos of myself and Elisha—photos taken through blurred ferns, across rooftops, and through windows.

  Alexander Bishop III and His Docile Check into Penthouse Suite.

  Image: two well-dressed men in a posh hotel lobby, the older man’s arm draped casually around the younger’s shoulders, pulling him close.

  Bishop and Docile Caught Horsing Around in Penthouse Pool.

  Image: two men embracing in a swimming pool, wet chests pressed together. The younger man holds the older man’s face. The two stare at each other’s lips, only inches apart.

  Alex Bishop and Docile Share a Romantic Night at The Douglass.

  Image: through a crack in the curtains, two men lie together on a California king bed, their limbs indistinguishable.

  The Morning After—

  “Alex, are you listening to me?”

  I remember Mariah and, with a touch, close all the windows on my computer, leaving its generic Bishop Laboratories wallpaper. “Yeah, I’m here.” But when I close my eyes, I am back at The Douglass with Elisha. I’m holding him in the lobby, kissing him in the pool, embracing him like a lover in bed.

  “You’ve really fucked this one up,” Mariah says. “You might’ve saved it, if you had only dated the smart, attractive man I all but dropped into your bed. But no. Thank god I made him sign an NDA before he went out with you, because he tells me you called Elisha better than him and then kicked him out.”

  “He hurt Elisha,” I say, quietly.

  “Listen to all the fucks I give. Literally, listen.”

  Silence.

  “Mariah—”

  “No. Do not speak. Every word further damages the company your family and its Board members have worked so hard to build.”

  “Mariah,” I shout, “I sent Elisha home!”

  “What?”

  “I amended Elisha’s contract. His debts are paid, his term served. I took him home. It’s…” I have to say the words for her and for me. “It’s over.”

  “Well, that’s the first good news I’ve heard in six months. But the following still stands, so listen carefully. I am offering you one last chance to clean up this horrific mess you’ve made.”

  I sigh. “What do you want me to do?”

  “Propose to Javier.”

  “Excuse me?”

  “The Board and our legal team have approved his GenEcs.”

  “Did you not hear what I said? He hurt Elisha!”

  “And you’re hurting this company! Your family’s company, Alex.”

  More silence.

  “Now’s the time to decide. Which do you care about more: Elisha or Bishop Laboratories?”

  I don’t answer. I’m not sure, and I don’t think I should have to choose. Business and pleasure exist on different planes; that’s why the phrase “business or pleasure” exists. The stress between my eyes is like a spike being pounded into my skull. I press the spot to ease the pressure.

  “The Board is having a Proposal prepared for your personal attorneys’ review. I expect it executed, notarized, and returned within one week.”

  “Whatever.”

  “You did this to yourself, Alex.” The phone beeps, and Mariah is gone.

  She’s probably right, but I can’t decide if I care. I care that Bishop Labs doesn’t crumble, wasting generations of my family’s work. And I won’t lie to myself; I like owning nice things, eating gourmet foods, and doing whatever the fuck I want. I’m not going to give up everything and move out to Prettyboy Reservoir with Elisha. That’s it. That’s my decision, like I said. I’m moving on.

  “I don’t want to talk about it,” I tell Jess, who is doing a terrible job of pretending to write a report.

  “I didn’t say anything.” She looks around, innocently.

  “Fuck!” I slam my fists against the SmartDesk; documents fizzle out before returning.

  In a week, I could be engaged to Javier, the man who locked Elisha in confinement overnight. I refuse—and yet might not be able to. There has to be someone better, someone I don’t have to rush to propose to. The Board will give me time; Mariah’s being rash. I need time to decompress. Unfeel all this. Forget Elisha. Fall out of love.

  * * *

  The Proposal arrives in a few days, as promised. Tom calls to let me know, since I didn’t answer when he buzzed my place. I’ve spent three nights on Jess’ couch, under a pile of pink and green de
signer quilts decorated with owls and elephants.

  I take the package from Tom. “Thank you.” I’m glad when he doesn’t mention that I’m wearing sunglasses inside or the same clothes as when he last saw me.

  “You’re welcome, Dr. Bishop. There’s something else waiting for you, upstairs. Well, someone.”

  I take my sunglasses off and hook them on the neck of my sweatshirt. Look at the elevator. “Someone?” He wouldn’t let a stranger into my house.

  “He asked me not to tell you.” Tom leans closer. “Your father. Act surprised.”

  I am surprised. I only talked to Jess and Mariah—not that it’s anyone’s business what I do with my Docile. Ex-Docile. “I won’t give you away,” I say. “Thanks, again.” I tuck the package under my arm and head for the elevator.

  For thirty seconds, I enjoy the silence, wishing it would carry beyond these doors. When they open, I’m not prepared for how cavernous my apartment looks. How unlike a home. The hardwood floors stretch wide like an endless beach, the two-story-tall windows opening over the vastness of the city like an ocean. I feel insignificant.

  “Oh, hello, Alex.” Dad looks up from a newspaper, a steaming mug in his hand. “Hope you don’t mind, I helped myself.” He presses down on the newspaper and it collapses into the countertop, where he sits. Dad saw the paparazzi photos from the hotel, if Mariah did. Probably showed the whole Board. Oh god, what if he’s come to fire me? “Your Docile wasn’t around.”

  “No,” I say. “He isn’t.”

  “How’s that going, by the way?” Dad sips his coffee.

  He must know, if Mariah is sending me GenEcs. “It’s going nowhere. It’s over.”

  “So, it’s true, then.”

  “Yeah.” I set my envelope down on the counter. “It’s true. I sent Elisha home.”

  “I’m proud of you, Son.”

  “Why?” I slump onto the stool across from him. “I failed.”

  “For your ambition. For recognizing failure. For moving on.”

  When he says “moving on,” I reflexively look at the envelope of GenEcs.

  “You do not need to marry Javier Madera.”

  “Thank god.”

  “I did mean what I said about moving on, though. I have a designer coming over with some craftspeople, shortly, to assess this…” His eyes wander over the barren surfaces. “Situation. Recommend a new look.”

  I know I need a bed, at the very least, but the idea of someone rebuilding on this burnt ground—I thought getting rid of everything would help. I don’t know that I want to make this a new home, as if Elisha never happened.

  “In the meantime, you are I are going to the ODR.”

  “For work?” I ask.

  “No,” Dad says, “a meeting with Charlene. To find you a new Docile. An obedient one, who respects you and recognizes the advantages of Dociline. Come on, Son.” Dad sets his mug down, stands, and rubs my shoulder. “Let’s get you back on your feet. Reimagine your life.”

  Reimagine my life without Elisha, he means. Pretend I didn’t break a person. Fuck. I take Dad’s mug over to the sink, so I don’t have to stand beside him. So I can close my eyes. Wait for the tears to reabsorb. I did the right thing, sending Elisha home. I’m doing the right thing, moving on.

  * * *

  The Office of Debt Resolution is closed to the public, by the time we arrive. I was here with Elisha only, what, a week ago? Two? Despite the completed renovations, it feels even more depressing, now, with holograms displaying new Docile profiles and testimonials neatly stenciled onto the wall:

  “I paid off my PhD in only three years as a Docile. Nothing but opportunity lies before me, now.”

  “With the streamlined matchmaking and interview process, I was able to find the perfect Docile in a familiar environment.”

  A line of Dociles walk past on the new royal-blue carpet, wearing “ODR”-monogrammed scrubs. Their artificial smiles give me goose bumps.

  Charlene approaches, tablet in one hand, white cane in the other, its laser scanning the path. “Two Dr. Bishops! Always an honor, Lex.” She tucks her tablet under her arm, then shakes my father’s hand. “And Alex.”

  “Likewise,” I say because I can’t manage my pleasure or delighted. I’m not. Not that I ever was before, but faking it requires energy I’m trying to conserve.

  “I’m sorry to hear things didn’t work out with Elisha, but I’ve curated a wonderful selection of Dociles for you to interview, this evening.”

  “That sounds lovely, Charlene, thank you,” Dad says.

  Normally, I’d demand to see the profiles in advance. Whittle them down until only the best remained—but what do I know? I broke my last Docile. Maybe, this time, I should trust Dad and Charlene.

  During my first three interviews, I try to perform—try to smile and look alert. The debtors are attractive and smart, well groomed and personable. Most of that doesn’t matter, since, according to their files, they’ve all pre-agreed to inject Dociline.

  The fourth debtor’s chair scrapes the floor—and my nerves—when he pulls it out and sits down. When I do not give him my immediate attention, he says, “Are you okay?”

  “Yes.” I straighten up and clear my throat. “I’m fine.” I don’t tell him it’s not his business. He doesn’t deserve my anger; none of this is his fault.

  The debtor apologizes, anyway. He’s a few inches shorter than me, high cheekboned, dark skinned, and muscled. I wouldn’t mind his mouth on my cock and I suppose that’s all that matters, since he’ll be on Dociline.

  I’m lying to myself. Of course that’s not all that matters, but as much as I want to, I can’t fake caring about him. I wish I did. How much easier it would be …

  “Why are you here?” I finally ask.

  “To pay off my debt.”

  Not what I meant and he knows it.

  “College debt,” he adds. “Turns out a philosophy major isn’t what it used to be.”

  He can say that again.

  “I assume, since you’ve been selected for me, that you’re gay or otherwise interested in men?”

  “Pansexual.”

  “Even better.” Easier to share him, not that it really matters. I keep forgetting I won’t have to train the new one. It’s almost too easy, Dociline.

  “W-why’s that?” he asks.

  My phone rings before I can not-answer his question. My caller ID speaks calmly into my ear. “Incoming call from Alexander Bishop.”

  “Hold on; I have to take this.”

  Incoming call from myself? “Call location?”

  “Unmapped location, Baltimore County, Maryland.”

  “Answer call.” The line connects. “Who is this? I know you’re not Alexander Bishop.”

  46

  ELISHA

  I’m no longer holding myself up. I am held tight, whispered to, laid down on something soft. Someone is holding me, squeezing. It stills me. I want the pressure, like suspenders and bits and bow ties and leather. Like Alex holding me tight against him, telling me everything’s going to be all right.

  “It’s okay.” A whisper. “Elisha, it’s okay. Breathe.”

  Breathe. I remember to breathe, shaky breaths that are wet with snot and saliva.

  “Here, take this.”

  I take the soft cloth and blow my nose, clear my throat. A glass of water is pressed into my hands, then moved to my lips.

  “Can you hold it?”

  “Yes,” I whisper.

  Water dribbles between my lips as I drink. Soon, the glass is empty and color returns to the room. I recognize Micah’s face opposite me.

  “I’m sorry,” I say.

  He takes the empty glass and sets it on the small table. “Oh god, no, Elisha. I’m sorry. I didn’t know—I’m not sure what I said.… Are you okay, now? Okay isn’t what I mean. Of course you’re not okay.”

  I know what he means. “I know where I am and who you are.”

  “Good.” He rests a hand on my shoulder. “Do you w
ant me to take you back to Nora’s?”

  Want. Why does he keep asking me questions when I have no answers for him? If Alex were here, he’d know what was best.

  “Maybe you should just stay here.”

  Breathe: in and out.

  “That sounds nice,” I say.

  “I can sleep on the floor or keep you company. Whichever you need.”

  Company. I know what that means. I can keep Micah company like I did for Alex. It won’t be the same, but that’s okay. It will still feel good.

  I pull the borrowed shirt over my head while Micah watches. He continues to stare while I untie the shorts.

  “What are you doing?” he asks.

  “You want to sleep with me.”

  “Not—not like that. Elisha, I meant keep you company. Make sure you’re okay.”

  I stand with my thumbs hooked in my waistband and flush with embarrassment. “Oh.”

  Micah helps put my clothes back in place until I’m snug on the bed, once again. He holds me flat against him, breath rustling my hair. Micah doesn’t want me to please him; I can’t tell if I’ve done something wrong. So few people want nothing from me.

  But his grip eases the pain, so I focus on breathing: in and out.

  * * *

  “Hey, Elisha!” Micah walks past, while I tend Nora’s garden.

  I muster up a smile and wave.

  “I’ll see you later, right?”

  “Yeah.” I watch him walk off.

  “Looks like you’re finally settling in,” Nora says. “Making friends.”

  “I guess.” I rip out a handful of weeds by the roots and set them aside. The past few nights, Micah has come for me and I’ve followed happily to his bed, where he’s held me until I’ve fallen asleep. It’s hard without the city noise.

  “Well, you always bring a smile to my face, kiddo.” Nora gathers up the weeds in a burlap sack. “Get inside and wash up for dinner. Your father’s coming over.”

  My arms go limp. He hasn’t spoken to me the entire week I’ve been back—at least, that’s how long Nora says it’s been. I’ve barely glimpsed Dad. Haven’t seen Abby at all.

  Maybe he’s changed his mind. Maybe he’ll help me.