by Lime Craven
I give a swift nod. "Good girl."
"I'm tickling their prostates as we speak. Figuratively. Anyway—" She perches on the bare edge of my desk, "Word is, he got caught with his pants down. No idea who yet. Wife number three is not going to like that."
"Bet she won't like the pre-nup either, when she finally reads it."
"Maybe. Either way, it's all hush-hush for now. Judge ruled in his favour."
"For now." I can feel my grin spreading, and in front of Tuija, I don't hide it. She doesn't know what I am, of course—nobody really does—but she shares my fondness for cutthroat business and triumph. Human nature is like nails on a chalkboard, no matter what your diagnosis is.
Montgomery is the CEO of my biggest competitor, Global News Systems. He has a couple more channels in the Middle East, but all things considered, we're pretty much equal. On the surface, we get on well—drinks, comfy chatter, the upcoming ball. But neither of us is happy to be equal. Predators never are.
I take Tuija's printed email and scrunch it in my fist. "I want intel. Get Harvey on it. Montgomery'll be extra careful in the wake of this shit...but I'm willing to be patient on this one."
Harvey Bell is my head of security: ex-military, built like an angry quarterback and always, always on the hunt. Probably had some detestable nickname in college like Black Panther. Probably made some lucky girls very happy, and some poor bastards limp for their troubles. He's never afraid of the necessary; he's not a Yes Man, but he never tells me no. Bell is my kind of creature. If anyone can pick Montgomery apart, it's him.
Tuija spreads her freshly manicured nails out and stares at them, sighing. Pure scarlet: atypical choice. "You're going to put the GNS stock in the gutter, aren't you?"
"Yep." I lean back in my chair and put my hands behind my head. "And then buy it in buckets."
"You're such a bastard."
"Language." I roll my eyes at her. "Actually—speaking of gagging orders, did Carson get back to you about the biography?"
Her face falls. "Uh. Yeah. About that..."
"Do not tell me that they can't block it."
"Okay. I won't tell you." She purses her painted, glossy lips. "But it won't make it any less true."
At that moment, my desk phone springs to life, its soft ringtone echoing around the high ceiling of my office. And I recognise the number: SilentWitn3ss. I'd instructed Fliss, my secretary, to buzz any call straight though...but I hadn't expected one this soon. I'll take care of the biographers later.
"Out." I wave Tuija away sharply. "Now."
She glances at the phone before backing away. "Your hooker booking get rejected again?"
"Fuck off and get my fucking sources," I call after her. "Bitch."
"Heil!" she yells, striding out of my office and letting the door click behind her.
I swoop down toward the phone, tucking it between my chin and shoulder. "Aeron Lore."
"Aeron. Hello." That distinctly British voice, husky and tainted with surprise.
"Leontine." The pleasure in my own tone is genuine. I pour it down the receiver with no shame. "I knew Carson was quick, but this is a new record."
"Oh, it's not about the contract. Yet." She pauses. I hear her pink tongue click against her teeth. "I came in this morning to find your tickets." Another pause; an awkward giggle. "The Suicide Ball? Really?"
"The Journalistic Academy Awards," I correct. "I thought you might like the opportunity to network." And she might—it's a prestigious industry event—which just happens to be famous for the fact that every year, at least one idiot gets too drunk, spills classified information, and commits career suicide.
"Sounds risky," she says.
"Sounds entertaining, if you ask me."
"So you'll be there?"
"I have to support the various employees at Lore Corp who excel in their field. Kasha Elliot—you've heard of her, yes?"
"Of course."
"She's won the McAfee three years in a row for her anchor spots. I'm very proud." I didn't pay for Kasha's ass, but it looks like I did. Which is an achievement in itself.
Leontine exhales down the phone. "I'd love to come. We all would, actually—I noticed you sent enough tickets, which is amazing of you—but I find myself a little sceptical. At that point, I expect to be going over your contract...I wouldn't want things to get awkward if we decide not to sign."
"Why would it be awkward?"
"Because it's not a done deal yet. And sitting on your table, getting friendly...it's nothing personal at all, but it seems a little premature."
"Leontine. Look. I'm a big boy. If you end up rejecting my offer, I promise not to cry too hard, okay?"
She seems to consider her laughter before letting it go. "Is that so?"
"Absolutely. And it's very flattering that you're worried about spending time in my company, panicking that I might be a little more persuasive than you'd like, but really. You should give yourself more credit."
More laughter. "Oh, so that's how it is?"
"No." I join her, chuckling down the phone. "Though I guess it would make my life easier."
"I'll do my best." There's the tongue cluck again. I can almost see it. "What does one wear to this kind of event?"
"Would one like me to send her a dress?"
"Oh, bloody hell, no."
"I'll have my assistant call you shortly. She'll hook you up."
"That's lovely, really, but it wo—"
"I insist." I drum my fingers against the desk. "And I look forward to seeing the results." I'll get Tuija to pick something prickly and uncomfortable, and then I'll watch the peach squirm all night.
Leontine makes a satisfied hmph sound. "You're very free with your flattery."
"I like to make women feel good about themselves."
"You're ahead of your time."
"I'm punctual." Ha.
"So I'll see you on Friday night, I suppose...?"
"You most certainly will. I look forward to it. And like I said—no pressure."
"No pressure," she murmurs. "Thank you, I...Aeron."
Already, my anticipation of Friday turns chemical; my pulse is offbeat, grating the insides of my wrists. I snap my teeth a few times, relishing the soft ache of the sound.
As soon as Leontine hangs up, I jab at my intercom and buzz through to the office down the hall. "Tuij?"
Static. Tuija clears her throat. "You rang?"
"Did I ever order a background check on Leontine Reeves?"
"Not as an individual, no." She sighs. "It'll be on your desk in the morning."
"I want everything from her kindergarten scribbles to the files from her gynaecologist. Oh—and she's expecting a call about a dress. Find her something couture. Tight."
"Slutty?" she says hopefully.
"I'm thinking red carpet." Red for so many things. "Send her lingerie, too. But no panties."
"Your fucked-up wish is my regrettable command."
You see how I get away with this shit? Tuij is so used to my asshole act, it's water off a duck's back. She even finds it funny.
If I had a conscience, it would weep itself hoarse.
TWENTY FOUR YEARS AGO
Farrow Middle School, New York
Aged Eight
"This is the second incident in a week." Principal Barnes sits back in his old office chair, arms folded against his bobbled navy suit. He fixes on my mother with suspicious eyes.
"I don't understand." She glances between the Principal and me. "Aeron was meant to be performing in the recital this morning. He—"
"We made the decision to withdraw that privilege," the old principal cuts in sharply. "His behaviour during rehearsals has been less than satisfactory. Less than safe, Mrs Lore. First, he lost his temper during choir practise and slammed the piano case on Mrs Pinter's fingers. At least one of them is broken. And then," he cuts his stoic gaze to me, "he shoved an entire line of fourth graders down the staircase in the lobby. They went down like dominoes." He takes a deep breath, as
if to prompt my mother to join him.
"Jesus." My mother picks at the belt of her red trench coat; I know this cue. "Are the girls okay?"
"They were shocked. A few bruises. Fortunately, it's not a long staircase." He turns to me again, zeroes in with those yellowing, beady eyes. "It could have been a lot worse. I think you know that, don't you, Aeron?"
My school blazer feels stuff, heavy. Makes it hard to shrug. "It was an accident," I say quietly.
"And yet three other students—and your teacher—report that they distinctly saw you push."
My teacher. Miss Weisz. Rage simmers in my clenched fists.
"Principle Barnes." My mother reaches over to take one of my fists. She picks it apart, finger by finger, as if to demonstrate my harmless bravado. "He wouldn't be the first eight-year-old to do something silly in the heat of the moment. Or to have a temper."
"I need you to take these incidents seriously, Mrs Lore."
"Miss Lore," she corrects, her voice perfectly cool.
"Miss. My apologies."
"Of course." She deposits my hand back in my lap almost too quickly. Disowns it. "I'll speak to Aeron at home. He knows that he can't behave this way."
I bow my head. "I'm sorry, Mama."
"Well." The principal clasps the edge of his desk. "As I explained earlier, Aeron is suspended until Monday. We'll see him then."
Suspended. A dirty word, one my mother is furious to hear. She hides it well in the principal's office, but I felt the tremble of her wrist when she touched me. And as we walk out through the lobby—fast, wide steps toward the car outside—her anger begins to pierce the skin. Little ripples, flashes of red on her cheeks. Pink, white. A shudder of matted black eyelashes against blotchy flesh.
It's cold outside. Rain seeps into my blazer, blown deep into the fabric by wind. The anticipation is like toothache. Soon, pain will take her like a molar pushing through.
"In." She holds open the car door and spits the word like a bullet.
I climb into the front seat, shivering. In a small act of rebellion, I don't fasten my seatbelt; she doesn't check. Never has.
The engine disturbs our silence, as does the sound of tires grating along gravel. I watch the raindrops race down the windscreen before the wipers scrape them away.
"You," my mother says through her teeth, "have not been listening."
"I'm listening now," I mutter. There's a piece of torn white skin beside my thumb nail; I give it a tug.
"What have I told you about controlling your anger?"
The skin comes loose. A thrill streaks through me like hot pepper, warming the valley of my spine. A single bead of crimson oozes across my nail.
Mother glances over at me and makes a harsh, frustrated sound. "Why the hell have you been acting out like that?"
I suck the blood from my thumb with a satisfying pop. "Because they deserved it."
"Irrelevant. What was it going to achieve?"
"Consequences," I say, staring at the rain. "Like you told me, Mama. If you do something and then bad stuff happens, you won't do it again." The bitter aftertaste of blood pulls my tongue to the roof of my mouth. "Mrs Pinter sucks at piano. And Jessica and Moira in the hall weren't listening to the teacher, they weren't—"
"It's not up to you to punish people," she says, exasperated. "All that happens is that you're noticed. Or worse, suspended. You want that on your record? Really?"
"But they deserved it!"
"You don't shit on the bottom of the food chain, Aeron. Not when you're the one at the top. Sooner or later, you'll eat your way through, and what will be left for you then? They're already shitting all over themselves."
I watch new blood emerge from the wound on my thumb. Thick and glossy. If I squint, I can see a little of my reflection in the tiny dome. "Then maybe I'll just spit them out."
Mother lowers her tone. "You'll get nowhere if you can't hide. Only place that kind of attitude will take you is prison. I can't have you there. Not happening."
We pull off the freeway into a road lined with tall pine trees. The car grows dark in their shadows, and we drive for long minutes toward the little town where we bought the new house.
"Daddy played piano better than Mrs Pinter," I say quietly.
The car pulls to a sudden stop. I jerk forward, bracing my hands against the dashboard and narrowly avoiding a swift trip into the misted glass.
"Out," hisses my mother. The pain is back, writhing across her face like smoke.
"Out where...?"
"I said, out. You're walking."
I glance out of the window, suddenly wary. I don't even know my way home from here.
"I told you not to mention him. This is an obsession, it's unhealthy...we talked about this, I told you..."
"Is he here?" My voice breaks as I take in the forest either side of us, the bracket of overbearing trunks and sinister green. "We left him by the trees."
Mother throws herself over me, yanking open the passenger door. "Out!" she screeches. "Or God help me, Aeron..."
I climb out on to the edge of the road, my school shoes crunching on autumn leaves. It's colder than I remember.
"Dinner's at six," my mother mumbles. And then she pulls the door shut, flicks the radio on loud, and speeds off down the narrow road. As the orchestra music fades, so does she.
I breathe in the scent of gasoline and wet grass. Survey the endless stretch of trees. Close my eyes a little.
When I open them, my thumb has bled a spider web of crimson on my scuffed black shoes.
3
Obsession (noun): a bullshit psychobabble word for focus
The single key to my success is obsession.
People get uncomfortable that word. They consider it extreme, that it's a sign you should worry. Let me tell you, sports fans, the only time you should worry about something is if you fucking fail. And if you're obsessed by something, your chance of failure is significantly lower. Your brain just won't let it happen.
Maybe I'm more prone to preoccupation than most. The devil is in the detail, they say; I guess the devil and I get along rather well. But I was obsessed with blending in, with seeming neurotypical, and now I'm known throughout the industry for being firm but fair. I was obsessed with being the best in this business, and that gave me wings to fly. Sure, other things fall by the wayside in the wake of obsession—relationships, mostly—but that only matters if you care about them. And I don't.
I like the view from the top. Even with all the shitting beige I have to put up with, I've made up for that in shadows. With crimson and scarlet and deep, wine red.
The devil is certainly in my details there.
* * *
The next morning, there are three files on my desk: the background check on Leontine, which is as thick as my wrist and must have taken Tuija all night; a preliminary report on Montgomery, from Harvey Bell; and a biography proposal from the agents.
I put Leontine's file aside initially because it requires my undivided attention. I want an hour with hot black coffee and zero interruptions, and I want to soak in her, absorb everything. The Bell report is nothing I don't know already—given that it's been less than a day since I commissioned him to dig up the dirt on my competitor—so it goes straight through the shredder.
God, I love the shredder. It's my happy place.
For a moment, I'm about to put the proposal straight through the shredder too, but then curiosity gets the better of me and I peel it open to scan the document. I want to see what their pitch is, what their angle would be. These unauthorized pieces can go one of two ways: either they lick you all the way from your balls to your butt crack, or rip you to shreds.
I should have guessed that it would be the latter.
Whoever these assholes are, they're more interested in my childhood than my career. There are chapters planned on my mother. How the hell did they get a hold of this? The more I read, the louder my pulse in my ears; they've even got a section on my father's death. The investiga
tion, the theories surrounding it. This is bullshit.
Being the creature I am, I smell blackmail a mile off. It's distinctive: sweat, old flesh. Blood rusted to iron salt. They're showing me the dirt in the hope that I'll co-operate. That I'll trust them. And they know what I do, that to see the dirt on a pristine persona, you have to look close. Get right down on the nano level where the real beasts crawl.
They have no idea who they're dealing with. If they think they can manipulate me, they're going to be unpleasantly surprised.
I shove the file through the shredder, my eyes watering as it demolishes the white paper and brown card. Normally, the buzz of metallic teeth is comforting, but not today. Carson explained that we can't stop them from publishing information already in public domain, but if they as much as hint at anything else, I'll string them up by their dicks.
I'm about to buzz through to Tuija when there's a strong, familiar rap at my door.
"Hitler!" she shouts from behind the wood and glass. "We've got a live one!"
"Come in." I'm still pissed, and it sharpens the edges of my words.
Tuija hurries up to my desk, a can of Red Bull clutched in one hand.
"You're wearing too much perfume," I tell her, without looking up.
She brings her wrist to her nose and sniffs, dejected. "Huh. Well—"
"What were you saying? A live what?"
"Oh." All at once, her entire face lights up: eyes like bonfires, cheeks like apples. Mouth stretched like a Jack 'o' Lantern. "A bomb, Aeron. Somebody dumped a fucking bomb in a bag at JFK. Kasha's en-route as we speak."
"But it hasn't gone off?" I ask.
"Not yet. Not—"
Somewhere down the hall, there's a shriek, followed by an assault of loud curses about planes.
Tuija winces. "Guess it just went off."
"Fuck's sake." I haul myself up from behind the desk and grab the suit jacket from my chair. "Okay. Control room. And get all the managing editors on a conference call in thirty." I pause, swallowing dry air. "Coffee on the way."
"Yes, sir." She mock salutes.
Another shriek sounds in the hall: Fliss, my secretary, screeching something about her mother being on a flight. Her mother is a wasp-faced lizard—she usually comes in for lunch once a month. Not any more, it seems.
