Burning Choice (Trevor's Harem Book 3) by Aubrey Parker

Author:Aubrey Parker [Parker, Aubrey]
Language: eng
Format: azw3
Publisher: EROS
Published: 2016-03-01T00:00:00+00:00

CHAPTER SIXTEEN

Daniel

Trevor grabs me by the lapel and says, “What the fuck do you think you’re doing?”

I swear, for a bulletproof system, everyone seems to think I have way more influence than I should, or can, or ever could.

“I’m going to the courtyard,” I say.

I pull again, but Trevor’s grip on my arm is tighter than I thought. I’m much bigger than he is, but Trevor is scrappy-strong. Part of his upbringing, I suppose, always fighting who he is — always struggling to prove himself in new ways because he never had to prove himself in the ways most of us need to. I can sympathize. I fought more than I should have, too. I owe my physique to childhood torment, to pain I couldn’t expunge. Every fiber inside me, other than what’s strictly necessary to move my bones, is Bridget’s doing. I built myself into something she’d desire so that I could never let her have it. So I could use my body to punish her. And today, with all I know, I can see it for the shell it is. Just as I can see what Trevor truly wants from me and what he’s afraid of, as if he were made of glass.

That’s the problem with my line of work. The more I study and the more I design experiments like this one, the more people become automatons. I see every person for who he or she is, including — reluctantly — myself. I used to ask questions about free will versus determinism, but I don’t anymore. Now I know that of course we have free will, to do what our biology and collected pasts determine we do.

“You know what I mean.”

“I’m sorry, Trevor. I don’t.”

Again, I pull past him. The girls are waiting, and today it’s another of them on trial. Any one of them might go. There are limits to what I can and can’t control. The programmers, in their tamperproof wisdom, saw to that rather abundantly.

But Trevor still holds my arm.

“Don’t fuck with me, Daniel.”

I turn. We’re both dressed casually in jeans. The analytical part of my brain wants to make something of it, beyond the fact that we dress well for events and down for everyday wear. It’s totally random and up to whim. But it’s so hard to believe in chance these days, and to not believe we’re dressing this way for a reason, rather than because we want to.

“I know you’re with her. I know you’re still with her.”

I could deny it, but as much as I’d like to treat Trevor like a brainless pretty boy, he’s anything but.

“And?” I say.

“She was supposed to be eliminated next.”

“I’ll tell you what I told the board: You have a problem with the selections, talk to Halo. Believe me, I’d consider it a favor. Logic is no substitute for intuition.”

“If you were in charge of making the selections, as you want,” Trevor says, “you’d eliminate Bridget.”

“I’d eliminate the least-fitting candidate each round.”

“And you’d be objective.”

“Of course.

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