by Lime Craven
"Of course."
"And full creative control."
"Standard." My grin spreads just a centimetre wider. An ache stirs in the flesh of my cheeks; my body's personal brand of pleasure in pain. "I think you'll find me to be very reasonable."
"I don't...Look. Mr Lore." She fixes her smoky gaze on me.
"Yes?"
"I started this company to empower people. People with no other means to help themselves, no money to buy their way out of things or power to seek representation. It's at the core of SilentWitn3ss and everything we stand for. I can't compromise on that."
"And I would never ask you to."
"Then..." She takes a deep breath. Exhales, disturbing the wisps of hair that frame her face. Looks over at her team, who all chew their lips in anticipation. "We'd be interested to see a contract."
"Fabulous. Carson, how soon can we have that ready?"
He shrugs. "Forty-eight hours?"
"Does that sound palatable, Miss Reeves?"
She allows me a small smile. "I can live with that."
"As can I. Now, if you'll excuse me—" I get to my feet, "I'm afraid I have some pressing business to attend to. But I'm thrilled that you came in today, and I can't wait to see what the future holds for us all. Thank you, Miss Reeves."
She takes my hand again, shakes it with a little more conviction. "Thanks for your time."
"Always a pleasure." Three seconds of eye contact. It's all that I need to make her pupils swell; she's like a fucking button-eyed doll.
My exit is just as smooth as the entrance; quiet, determined and paced by measured steps.
"That went better than I thought," says Tuija as she catches me in the hall.
"You thought I'd fail?"
She shrugs. "From what I heard, I guessed she'd be harder to crack."
"Nobody's cracked. Yet."
"She's like putty in your hands. Like taking candy from a baby." She navigates around a pot plant. "Like other clichés I haven't thought of yet, but probably will later when I'm in the bathtub or something."
We reach the end of the corridor near the TV department, turn, and then from the corner of my eye, I spot Leontine and her team leaving the board room.
"Tuij. Do me a favour, please—send some tickets for the Suicide Ball over to SilentWitn3ss? Have them addressed to Miss Reeves."
Her upper lip twitches. "Really? The SB?"
"You have a problem with that, firecracker?"
She peers down the hall, her brow furrowed with curiosity.
"It killed the cat," I whisper.
"Fuck you, Aeron." She clicks her tongue at me before narrowing her blue eyes at Leontine, who now lingers near the bathrooms. "Just remember...you're taken. I don't play well with others."
"You're the best girlfriend I've never had."
She cracks me a wink. "You betcha."
"Now fuck off back to my office and do some work."
"If you insist." Her Prada heels—which were a fair choice—click down the hall. "Heil Hitler!"
This is what I get for hiring an ex-addict. But one has to indulge in philanthropy so that one can pretend to enjoy it, hmm?
Leontine's team, it seems, have already dispersed; I watched her disappear into the bathroom a moment ago, and I imagine she'll jump straight into the elevator when she gets out. So that's where I wait. Nobody dares to step in beside me; perfect.
The seconds tick by on my Rolex. Finally, the doors click open and Leontine stands between them, her eye makeup slightly smudged—perhaps deliberately—and her lipstick freshly reapplied. I can see her heels now, nude and high enough to lift her well-proportioned legs. I know she notices my approval. Quivers a little as she steps in.
I gesture to the control panel. "Ground floor?"
"Please," she mutters. It's like she doesn't know where to look.
We're on the fourteenth floor, which gives me ample time to observe her. To play with this new bud of trust, make it swell. Side by side, we mirror each other in posture and breath, and her fragrance taints the air in bursts of cool citrus and cinnamon. She smells like mulled wine.
I give her hand the briefest of nudges. "Do you mind me asking which perfume you're wearing?"
"Oh no. Um." Her eyes dart about; I see it in the mirrored wall. "Something by Jo Malone. I forget the name now."
"It's beautiful on you."
"Right." She nods. Looks down. "Thank you."
"I really am pleased that you came to meet me today."
"It was mutually beneficial." She says mutually like she knows it's more than a word. It's illicit. Suggests sex. "I'm looking forward to getting your contract."
"Have I given you my card?"
"Not exactly. I mean, I have one..."
I slip one out of my pocket and press it firmly into her palm, making sure I graze her skin with the lightest of touches. "Then let me give you another in person. It has my direct number and you can call at any time. Whatever you need." A few more precious seconds of eye contact; she tugs at my impulsive nature. Makes me think of the imagined negligee, of blood rushing beneath the surface of soft flesh. I'm half tempted to ask her if she really is wearing panties, but it's too soon for that.
Give me time.
Leontine studies the card for a moment and then tucks it into her purse. "Thanks."
"I mean it."
"Well then, Mr—"
"Aeron." I grin at her. Full dimples, eyelashes, the lot. "If we're going to work together, you can at least call me by my first name."
"Okay. Aeron." She sighs, harder than she ought to. There's more to her relief than I anticipated—perhaps she actually does care about social justice and all that crap. "I'm Leontine."
"British name?"
"French, actually." There goes her eyebrow again, arching like painted syrup. "It means lion."
"Does it, now?"
Ping.
The doors draw open, piercing the atmosphere and polluting it with lobby noise.
She throws me an apologetic smile. "I'll be seeing you, then."
"Absolutely."
Here comes my favourite part—wait for it—she turns. Steadies herself, just for a second. And then off she strides, her heels making that satisfying click against the marble and her buttocks swaying left and right. There are men who collect hearts. I collect heart-shaped asses. They taste better when you bite them, see; bleed more, too, depending on where you go in.
Leontine Reeves looks like a bleeder.
Fuck, she's going to make me so much money.
TWENTY TWO YEARS AGO
Dr Pescki's Office
Aged Ten
Outside Dr Pescki's office, the sun beats down to bake the pavements. New York smells particularly sweet today; we must be downwind of a deli full of fat, shiny bagels. Pretzels that give so pleasingly between your teeth.
Mother waits until we're a few paces away to pull me closer.
"You did well in there, hon," she says quietly.
I watch myself shrug in the window of a clothing store, follow the rise and fall of my shoulders beneath the tan sweater. "I did my best."
"Good." She tugs the belt of her trench tighter and her voice fades to a rasp. "You fool that bitch and you can fool anyone."
2
Conscience (noun): a vague and inconvenient form of schizophrenia
Sociopaths make up 4% of the US population.
You're probably thinking that's bullshit, that it all got too fashionable after American Psycho and became the diagnosis du jour. Truth is, you're surrounded by sociopaths, but you think most of them are just fucktards.
I have the intelligence to hide myself. Camouflage takes stealth and skill. Most average Joes aren't that clever, let alone most sociopaths; they're dumb shits like the rest of you, and they come off as exactly that. This doesn't make you any safer because a sociopath is still out for your blood—metaphorically or otherwise—and some would say a dumb shit going blindly after blood is the most dangerous thing of al
l.
Of course, they've never met me.
Then there's the Patrick Bateman complex; people look for sociopaths who are obsessed with detail, petty, meticulous. I'm not going to complain—if anything, that does me a favour. Good luck spotting my inner Bateman, sweetheart. He doesn't exist. No, let me explain the one thing that makes me different to you.
I have no conscience.
I have emotions, sure. I don't sit there like a designer sack of potatoes, numb to the rest of the world. On the contrary, I feel a lot of things; just not for other people. I'm self-serving. Impulsive. I like to please myself, and my desires quiver like dominoes all set up and waiting for the right stroke to make them fall.
Above all, this particular state of being demands that I be a people-watching genius because without it, I can't figure out how to fake caring. How to feign being a friend. If it sounds like hard work, that's because it is...but would I swap it for a conscience? Would I fuck.
* * *
At around nine p.m. each evening, I pull up outside my apartment building and let the valet take my car. I drive alone, no security staff. If I have to endure them whenever I go out in public, I sure as hell avoid them when I can.
In the lobby—which appears to be going for the beige abyss approach I use for my office, but without the mirror masterstroke—I greet the concierge by name and stop to chat for a moment. How's the shift going? And how is his wife after her stroke? If there's a neighbour around, I'll draw them into the conversation too; I make a point of knowing their names and faces (and their credit scores, or who their husbands are fucking, because I don't pay Tuija for nothing).
After that, I take the private elevator up to my penthouse apartment and step over three random heaps of Lego in the living area. I bought the place not long after Ash was born, mainly for its proximity to a reputable prep school and satisfying views across the city. When you're at the top of the food chain, there's something seductive about lounging on a top floor terrace while the city stretches out beneath you, a lover waiting to be had.
I walk past sleek modern sofas and rows of glass bookcases to the open-plan kitchen, where Ethan, my nanny, is still clearing up from dinner. Ethan is my favourite kind of produce: local, younger than me and hardworking. Has a sick mother with medical bills. Not hot enough to be distracted by girls, but not ugly enough to be embarrassing. He's been with me almost six years, since Ash was barely two; in it for the long game, which is always preferable. If I hadn't hired him, he'd probably spend his days playing Call of Duty and his nights simpering over what a failure he'd become. See what a nice guy I am?
"Ash went to bed early tonight," he comments as I dump my laptop bag on a Perspex chair. "I think he's coming down with something."
"Does he have a fever?"
"Not yet. But I'd can stick around tonight, if you like. Keep an eye on him until morning."
"I appreciate the offer, but it won't be necessary." I pat Ethan on the shoulder by way of gratitude. "I'll finish off the dishes. You go see your ma."
He frowns. "You sure?"
"Of course. Now get lost—I mean it."
"Can't argue with that, I guess." He pauses, folding the dish cloth carefully before laying it beside the sink. "Hey, did you have your big meeting today?"
"Yep. It's looking good." I have big meetings every day, but I like to feed Ethan just enough detail that he thinks he's privileged with insight. "You still good for that overnight on Friday?"
"It's already on my calendar." He peels his fleece jacket from the back of a chair and folds in a scrawny arm. "Sure you don't want me to stay?"
"For the love of God, Ethan."
He holds up his hands, a good-natured smile pulling at the corners of his thin lips. "Okay. But I'd feel bad if I didn't offer."
You see that? Ethan's conscience, if he let it, would get in the way of everything. What kind of jackass doormat offers to stay longer after a fourteen hour shift? Sure, it works for me—if you're hiring someone to look after a kid, you sure as hell want them to have a conscience—but what is it doing for him? Nothing. Nada. Zilch.
After Ethan leaves, I load the dishwasher and run a cloth over the surfaces. Fix myself some eggs. Then I walk down the hall, twist around another heap of Lego and a few random Transformers, and nudge Ash's door open.
His room is always messy. I've reached the point where I tell Ethan to only tidy it once a week. The kid lies starfish on his bed, his Mets comforter rising and falling with each breath. He's got bed hair already and it's a little sweaty, but when I touch my wrist to his forehead, it's still cool.
It's weird looking at Ash, even in the dim light spilling in from the hall. Despite our different fathers, he's like a mini me—dark blond hair, dimples and all—though he's only eight. I remember when Mom first put him in my arms; a younger brother will be good for your business, she told me. Treat him like one big PR op and you'll be fine.
Mom isn't around anymore to share such heart-warming wisdom. I should probably miss her.
Often, at this time of night, I go into my gym room and pound out a few miles on the treadmill. Work on the weights. Not tonight, though; not after the meeting. I'm hungry for other things.
A long, hot shower is where the build-up starts. I rub at my thighs with soapy hands. Take deep lungfuls of steam. Watch my cock harden as the water beats down, making it bounce and bob. I don't allow myself women often—I'm too easily distracted by the ripe promise of flesh. But Miss Reeves and that ass. Jesus. I have to seduce her into selling her business; may as well go the whole nine yards and seduce her into other things, too.
In the bedroom, I don't wait to dry myself, so my damp skin sticks to the sheets. No matter. I wrap a lubed hand around my cock and just squeeze intermittently. Teasing. This is what her pussy will feel like, this tight, ebbing grip. Breath slips through my teeth in a cold hiss.
Leontine told me that her name means lion, and it makes for a pretty line but it's not what she is. Beyond those bedroom eyes and that surly, almost submissive manner, I know her type exactly; she's the kind of girl who'll let me play with her pussy until she's wetter than an April morning, who'll look pained and keep still while I lick her overripe clit. She won't want it, not really, will keep the fight inside and pretend it isn't happening. And then her orgasm will come from nowhere—desperate and aching—and she'll claw at me while I claw at her sweet spot, fingers jabbing harder than she ever thought she'd like.
The words she'll say in that accent. The haughty, breathy hitch in her voice when she comes—now that's my kind of drug. Why has nobody figured out how to charge for that yet? Hookers don't come like good girls; they rarely come at all, actually, but even when they do, it's always spoiled with fake gratitude afterward. I don't care if a girl thanks me for her orgasm, and I prefer it when she's still too traumatised to get the words out, but Jesus. Sex is all about honesty—that's what makes it sexy. And sex is one of the few things I can actually be honest about.
Which is why I don't have it too often.
I stroke myself; long pulls, short twists at the head. The throb of impending orgasm climbs the muscles of my inner thighs. With each new streak of heat, I lean further into the pillows, back braced, chin tipped. Eyes squeezed shut. In the darkness, Leontine comes back into view, walking away from me in the lobby with her perky, sculpted ass bobbing in goodbye. The mere thought of it bare sets my teeth on edge; I can see her bent over, ass high, her pussy peeking out beneath like a wet split peach. She'll want to be fucked when I'm done with my tongue and fingers. She'll want to be full, to feel something else. Something risky. Bloody. Ah.
She looked almost frightened of me earlier. If I had a conscience, I'd feel bad for thinking of her like this: bent over, begging for it, trembling with pleasure and fear. But I don't. And when I spray half a hell of cum over my abs, groaning and panting with the force of it, there's no devil on my shoulder.
There's just an empty room, a damp bed, and the dark undertow of impending sleep pu
lling me down, down, down.
* * *
Tuesday morning: fuck off, you fucker.
Ash wakes me at five a.m. by catapulting Optimus Prime into my left eye socket. If he's ill, I'm Stevie Wonder.
"Frosties!" he trills as he bounces on my bed. "Can I have a grown-up sized bowl, Aeron? Like your kind. I'm starving, I want a grown-up breakfast!"
I roll over, rub the sleep from my eyes, and squint at him. After Assaultimus Prime, this hurts like a mofo. "You want a grown-up breakfast, you can have a protein shake with me."
He croons with childish disgust. "They taste like feet."
"How do you even know what feet taste like?"
"Like this." He throws himself back and shoves his bare foot between his teeth. "Psshwarrf."
"Right. So you've having oatmeal."
He spits out the foot. "But I don't liiiiike oatmeal."
"No, you don't want oatmeal. But it's good for you. You need to grow up big and strong, like me."
"Why...?"
"I'm awesome." I sit up, leaning to ruffle his hair. He squirms with a mixture of embarrassment and pleasure. "Look at me, champ. You know anyone more awesome than me?"
This is how most of my mornings start. Logic dictates that it's easier to get up with Ash at little shit o'clock than it is to fend off his plastic weaponry. I find him easy enough to get around; so far, so normal. I don't think mom had time to get to him, the way she did with me. Maybe he'll be like us. And maybe he won't.
If I can't love him, I can at least be fascinated by him.
Ah, children.
* * *
"So." Tuija drops a piece of paper on my desk with a gleeful smirk. "Looks like there's trouble in paradise."
I scowl at her. She knows I hate being made to read things just so she can bask in a Big Reveal. "So?"
"Dietrich Montgomery slapped a massive gagging order on Redworld Media this morning."
Now I'm interested. "Did he?"
"They've got something on him. I don't know what—"
"And why the fuck not? Jesus, what do I pay you for?"
She feigns a pout. "Like I haven't already reached out to our sources."
