by Lime Craven
LIME CRAVEN
www.limecravenauthor.com
Kindle Edition
Copyright © Lime Craven 2014
Cover art by Book Beautiful
www.bookbeautiful.com
Publisher’s Note
This book is a work of fiction. Any resemblance to places, persons or events is entirely coincidental and a product of the writer’s imagination.
License Note
This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. Please do not re-sell, copy or distribute this file. Thank you for respecting my hard work.
CONTENTS
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Epilogue
Author's Note
About Lime Craven & Links
TWENTY TWO YEARS AGO
Dr Pescki's Office
Aged 10
"Miss Lore." Dr Pescki, my psychiatrist, glances between my mother and me before knotting her fingers on the desk. "I can assure you—there is nothing wrong with your son."
My mother drops her gaze to the thin blue carpet. "A hundred percent sure?"
"I've been seeing Aeron for three months now. He exhibits none of the DSM markers I'd expect to see in a child at this point. In fact..." She flexes her bony fingers in exasperation. "For a ten-year-old boy, I'd say he's well-adjusted. Polite. Considerate. Smart, even."
I am all of these things, sitting beside my mother and shrinking into the chair; let them talk over me. Let me exist only in terms of what I do or do not have. We've been to this quiet, chintzy downtown office more times than I care to remember, and I hate missing school for it. Hate being singled out.
"I just...there's something not right," my mother says quietly. She was beautiful once, with her dark hair and shining eyes. Now she has faded like cartoons on an old TV.
"I understand your concern. Given the circumstances...things must be very hard for you. All children are capable of exhibiting eccentricities from time to time; it's part of the process of growing up, exploring boundaries. I see a lot of parents who want a diagnosis to make things easier, but let me tell you, that's not what it does."
My mother tips her chin with an indignant stare. "I'm just looking out for him. That's my job."
"It is," Dr Pescki agrees. "And it's my job to reassure you that your son is emotionally stable. He's healthy." She glances at me. "Aren't you?"
I fiddle with the hem of my tan sweater and offer her a shy smile. "I guess."
"You have a bright future ahead of you, Aeron," the doctor tells me. "Your mother loves you very much, and with that kind of support, you'll go far."
Yes.
Yes, I will.
1
Trust (noun): the warm, fuzzy realization that you have way too much dirt on someone for them to fuck you over.
I learned the art of trust around the same time I learned to capitalize on it. I've been excelling ever since.
Case in point: my top-floor New York office at Lore Incorporated, a beige abyss of Bang & Olufsen, glass and mirrors. People like beige. It's inoffensive, comforting, and commands respect when used with style. But the mirrored walls either side of my desk make clients and employees nervous; they're afraid of being caught at an awkward angle or seeing undesirable things. In the midst of all that, they get to thinking: the kind of man who enjoys being surrounded by mirrors? He's got his shit together.
They're going to trust that man.
Another case in point is my assistant, who is currently running through my itinerary for the day. Tuija is my redheaded rocket: killer dress suits, sharp eyes and a tongue with a razor edge. She looks—and acts—like she's the bastard child of Christina Hendricks and Chuck Norris, and is framed by the huge twin TV screens that forever roll my two news networks on mute.
"Eight o'clock breakfast meeting with Isenhour—he's getting antsy about the acquisition. Expect eggs'n'Jack." She scrolls along the iPad with a nimble finger. NN24 and Truth Daily bounce off the mirrors to her left, casting dancing lights across her pale skin. "Nine thirty with the lawyers. Your trainer will be here at eleven. Lunch meeting with Phil for the same bullshit, different day don't trash the president treatment. Then the SilentWitn3ss clique arrive at two."
"Including the CEO?"
"Including..." She pauses, scrolls again. Wrinkles her nose. "Yep. The mythical Miss Reeves will be in attendance."
"About time." I peer into the mirrored wall closest to my desk to adjust my taupe silk tie. "What do you think of this shade?"
She cocks her head. Her brown eyes flare as she regards me in the mirror, zeroing in on the brief flash of colour against my tailored grey suit. "It's subtle."
"Good." I give the tie one last pat and then turn to face Tuija with my usual dimpled grin. "Thanks, firecracker."
"Always a pleasure, boss." She rolls her eyes, but I know she likes the praise.
Ladies and gentleman, witness the slow burn of trust in action. Watch Tuija hit the skillet as I seek her opinion. Watch her sizzle in inflated self-worth; watch her sigh when I singe her edges with flattery. She thinks I call her firecracker because of her red curls. Like I give a fuck what she thinks of my tie.
The truth is, Tuija's been with me nine years. After I found her in a heap outside my first premises, I gave her a job. Helped her get clean. I like to think of this as sourcing my produce locally. She had at least thirty percent more brain cells than most people who needed something from me, so I made sure she swapped her addictions to coke and prescription painkillers for an addiction to pleasing me. Suffice to say I have dirt on this girl; if her skeletons ever left the closet, it'd be like Dawn of the fucking Dead.
"So. You have your script ready?" She puts the iPad down and folds her arms, regarding me with the kind of anticipation she usually reserves for Fashion Week. "I can't wait to see you give Miss Reeves the full Lore treatment."
"She won't need it. This offer," I jab my pen at Tuija, "is too good to turn down. She's only coming in because her shareholders will shit the bed if she doesn't."
"And so that people can see she's been here."
"Precisely."
Leontine Reeves is coming in so that people will see her come to me. Wall Street gets wind of it and speculates about the buyout; her stock inflates to about three hundred percent of its actual worth; then she has the power to tell me she doesn't just want to sell. She wants to merge. It's the stuff of overpaid attorneys trying to be cleverer than me. My guess is, she doesn't want to sell at all...but that's what you get with sucucbi. I mean, shareholders. Did I slip up there?
"You'll have her eating out of the palm of your hand in no time," Tuija adds. "And other clichés."
"Clichés get the job done." And are easily disposed of when you're finished with them.
"Oops. Almost forgot. You remember that literary agency? They've called three times already."
"Please tell me we issued the gagging order on the unauthorized biography."
She puts up her hands in exasperated defence. "Do I look like your lawyer?"
"No. Fortunately." Carson, my attorney, looks like his mama dropped him on his head as a baby. I've never seen a man with such a large, flat forehead, although admittedly, said head houses a large and effective brain. "I want an update from him ASAP. What do the agents want?"
She tucks a wayward strand of hair behind her ear. Tuija always plays with her hair when she's anxious; if anyone's a cliché, it's her. "They want you to mee
t with their biographer."
"Which part of unauthorized don't they get?"
"I don't know." She pretends to wring an invisible neck. "It's your own fault for being such a badass, obviously."
"I don't want some worm in hipster glasses poking around in my personal shit."
"I'm sensing that you want me to tell them no."
I take a seat at my glass desk and flick on my computer. "They can suck a bag of dicks. And you can quote me."
If all they wanted was the American Dream slice of my life, I'd let them have it. Bask in the attention. I started at my college campus TV station, moved on to a couple internships, made some select choices with inheritance money and then built a global news empire in little more than ten years. If anyone deserves recognition, it's me.
But that's not what the agents want. They want the shadows, to parade the half-truths of my childhood like misery porn. Which is about as appealing as it sounds. I keep my private life private for a reason.
"Suck a bag of dicks. Noted. Anyway...I need to go find some heels before breakfast." Tuija gestures to her bare feet; I noticed when she walked in, but said nothing, of course.
I'm quite the gentleman.
I turn my attention to my emails, scanning the inbox for something worth my time. "Go with black. Four inches, minimum," I tell her, not looking up.
"You think? With this dress?"
"Four inches. You heard me."
"Well, if you insist." She scoops her iPad up and turns toward the door. "Maybe the new Prada slingbacks?"
"If you think so."
"I'll go try them on. Hmm..."
Tuija's clever enough to realize that looking good will take her places. This is obviously to be commended, and so I paid for her breasts and the fine, sculpted curve of her almost-too-big ass, as well as an on-site wardrobe of appropriate attire. She pays me back by letting everyone think I'm fucking her.
Boys get picked on for owning dolls, but nobody gives a shit if a grown man buys himself a pretty puppet. And this, my friends, is the world we have built for ourselves.
* * *
Here's what the mannequins of SilentWitn3ss see when I walk into that boardroom that afternoon: a tall, broad guy with dark blond hair and shameless crater dimples, dressed in a well-cut suit. I'm hot—let's not beat around the bush, sports fans—but you have to peel back the layers to see what's going on here. They don't just see a person. Behind all that, there's power and money and suspicion, all of it boiling down to a visceral chemical reaction I must somehow turn into trust. Like Jesus turning water into wine, but more of a religious experience.
My boardroom, like my office, is designed with trust in mind. More beige of course, on the walls, upholstering the chairs. More mirrors—a massive antique looking glass positioned right behind my chair at the head of the table—and long, wide windows that spew in natural light. When I need to relax, I come here at sunset and watch bloody sunshine bounce from one reflective surface to the next.
Today, five members of the SilentWitn3ss team sit on the right of the table: Leontine Reeves, her assistant, her financial director and her lawyers. On the left, I have Tuija and my attorney, Carson Jones. Tuija has laid out fruit, muffins and jugs of iced water and lemon, but I don't anticipate being here long enough to do them any kind of justice. This will take twenty minutes.
Watch, grasshoppers, and learn.
"Miss Reeves, at last—it's an absolute pleasure." I stop beside Leontine's chair and offer a handshake.
She stands to take me up on this. "A pleasure, indeed."
She expects her British accent to disarm me, no doubt. And she brought along her bedroom eyes. I can see it now, as I take her small hand in mine: this morning, she sat at a shabby chic dresser, clad in a black silk negligee with lace accents that squeezed her riper curves. She hummed as she pulled her hair back into a ponytail of honeyed highlights. Shifted from one buttock to the other. Then she picked up a black eyeliner pen, leaned into the mirror and drew a careful flick along each lid to frame her mahogany eyes. Pursed her full lips, blushed at her own reflection. Liked what she saw and felt just a twinge of guilt.
All those shades of smoked honey, tawny tan; she's like butter. And she looks like the type who'd forgo the panties beneath her negligee. I know what you're thinking—I'm just another lecherous fuckface—but it's important to ascertain that she cares more about the packaging than what is underneath. She hasn't long graduated from Harvard, and her company is only three years old. Of course she's all about appearances...what else does she have?
"I'm sorry I've been indisposed until now," she offers. Apology pulls at the edge of each word, but her gaze is steady, confident. "I've been looking forward to hearing your proposition in person."
I press her hand between both of mine before carefully releasing it. "We won't waste time, then. Take a seat."
"I suppose what I'm most curious about, Mr Lore, is...well. Why?" She hunches in the chair, evidently used to being behind a larger desk of her own where she can cross her legs for comfort. For defence. "Why does a news corp want with my little tech firm? I don't really understand."
Technically, I own the two biggest television news networks in the US, as well as seventeen global newspaper brands that garner various levels of respect. When I needed to make money, I pinpointed the main thing I was good at: telling people what they wanted to hear. And then I found a way to sell it. "I assume you're aware of what we do here? Television, newspapers. Web media, obviously."
"I received your information pack, yes." She throws me half a smile. "That was very thoughtful."
"I like to be as transparent as I can."
"As do I, Mr Lore. The thing is, SilentWitn3ss is kind of my baby." She sighs. Even that sounds British, all hollow and haughty. "You have the capital to fund further development, which is awesome for us...but I can't see what's in it for you."
I take a moment to pour myself some water. I won't drink it, but it doesn't matter—a little tension is desirable. "See, here's the thing. You and your team, you're a very skilled set of developers. What you've done with SilentWitn3ss, the way you've put surveillance in people's pockets—I admire that. Anyone can record a video on their cell these days, but your equipment makes it possible to amplify and recover audio in way that makes things very...interesting."
She leans in on her elbows. "I suppose it does."
"As a man who trades on news, that kind of technology fascinates me."
"But that's just it. Surely you already have that kind of technology?"
"Oh, I do. We do." I nod, calm and slow, as if it's obvious and thus entirely above board. "But for the general public, it's new to them. Exciting. Miss Reeves, people are excited by SilentWitn3ss. It's a remarkable bit of tech that deserves more attention."
One honeyed eyebrow climbs to a perfect arch. "The attention we've received so far hasn't been so great," she says dryly.
"Precisely. Your legal issues...they're to be anticipated. And I know users are frustrated at the limitations placed on their recordings. There are implications of slander, possible damage suits. It does hinder things."
Leontine and her lawyers glance between themselves; throats are cleared with an air of distaste.
"But I believe we have a solution," I say softly.
The lawyers grow still. Leontine bites her lip. I primped her, primed her and then stuck in the knife; now it's lecherous fuckface to the rescue. She doesn't trust me yet, but she wants to.
With prompting, Carson briefly outlines our legal strategy. A venture like SilentWitn3ss—a small, wearable video camera that allows users to upload their videos direct to YouTube, with or without editing—is both a voyeur's triumph and a lawyer's worst nightmare. They're far from the first company to invent such a device, but they're the first with balls big enough to deliberately market the surveillance angle to the general public. The internet is full of social justice idiots clasping their pearls for this shit. I could pay another company to develop so
mething similar, but that takes time—my most limited resource.
There are things Carson doesn't mention, like how I fully intend to have the tech developed into a cell phone app, complete with its own social network. Screw YouTube—I want Instagram for news. I want footage of the biggest events uploaded to my site as they happen, and I want exclusive rights to every pixel. Now that is interesting.
"I like this idea of the everyman—or woman—making the news," I tell Leontine. I'm using my most earnest of tones, the kind I used to pull out for psychiatrists as a kid. "And I like the idea of levelling with them. Collaborating."
"Sounds to me like you mean exploiting," she counters.
"I work with news. Everything I do involves exploitation, Miss Reeves. My channels, newspapers and websites decide what is worthy of a front-end slot or a front page; we tell people what they want to hear and reap the advertising benefits. We do this because we're not a charity, and we can't run on magic beans." For the first time, I sit back, my hands still firmly on the table—right there with my offer. "But I'm not a hundred percent convinced that we always get it right. Your product offers a way for us to gauge people's interest in various areas of news, something more reliable than click-through rates or angry comments on the internet. I like the organic nature of it and I want to see where it goes."
Honesty. It soars through the air like a bullet and burrows its way between her carefully lifted breasts. How thoughtful of her to come dressed for assault. I watch her brows twitch, the slight hitch in her breath; there's nothing more satisfying than the moment interest melts into the first stirrings of trust. It's like music. Like an orgasm.
God, I could watch Leontine Reeves wonder if she should trust me all fucking day.
I allow myself a hint of a grin—something I haven't offered since my grand entrance. She follows the curve of my lips, practically leans toward them, and then the light in her eyes fades to murky disgust; she hates herself for it.
"So you see," I say, "we're well-placed to help each other."
"I'd want to keep our offices downtown," she muses.
Her lawyers nod along with her, their eyes like saucers.
