Sociopath

by Lime Craven

  "Picture this," I tell Tuija as we head into the corridor, my voice raised over the fuss from the control room and Fliss's incessant wail. "All those headless chickens at the airport, running around with their SilentWitn3ss on, streaming directly to my site. Nobody else does that, firecracker. Live crews have nothing on that kind of raw shit."

  "Stop it," she says dryly. "You're turning me on."

  My fists clench as we pass Fliss's desk. She's spotted me, has quietened; is trying to blot her red eyes and running makeup with a tissue.

  "Buck up, sweetie." I reach over to the tissue box, grab a handful and shove them at her face. She recoils into the chair, spluttering. "It's going to be a long fucking day."

  * * *

  It's past midnight when I finally get in; not because they really needed me at the office, but because I like to make them think they do. The bomb, it turns out, went off in a car park east of the airport lobby; eight people were killed, a further forty seven injured, and most of the cars were DOA. No suspects as of yet, but my night shift team will no doubt have something in the morning. It'll be an individual; the MO is all wrong for extremists. A terrorist sect would have claimed it by now.

  In the lobby of my apartment building, the concierge doesn't speak to me as I drift past. Instead, he offers a nod of respect, which I return with the best grateful half-smile I can muster. I've spent way too long today trying to feign horror when all I felt was irritation. Empathy. Jeez. Too much and you're just an annoyance; too little and you're suddenly dangerous.

  Well.

  The doors of my private elevator peel back to reveal a dark, silent apartment. Ash will have been asleep for hours by now. Ethan has gone to bed in the guest room. He left me dinner in the microwave, which I promptly scrape into the bin before fixing myself a sandwich.

  A file waits in my bag. Leontine's background check. I've been waiting all day to get her alone. When I had to sit through another fucking Skype call from Phil at the White House with all his fake agenda bullshit, I ran my fingers over the highlighter tabs Tuija had left peeking from the top of the folder. I plucked at them softly. Thought of plucking other things. The paper tore a little; I smiled and soothed it with the pad of my thumb.

  I have time for her now. And even as I sit in the shadows of my sparse living area, the unopened file a pleasing weight on my half-stiff cock, I can feel the sparks. The adrenaline whispering. This is how obsession creeps in—past blunt synapses, through dark doors.

  It's all here. Black type on white pages. Everything from her credit card bills to a full report on her social media accounts. Leontine Melissa Reeves: twenty-four years old. American mother, British father. Lives alone in an apartment on the East Side. Grew up in Dorset, England, and came to New York at seventeen when her parents divorced. Took a gap year to travel Asia. Entered Harvard School of Engineering at nineteen.

  A lot of it is dull and repetitive. Nobody could be turned on reading a grocery receipt, or a list of previous addresses, or the endless tech discussion the girl likes to have in her Facebook comments. But there are other things. Personal things. Things a man like me shouldn't see...which Tuija, considerate as she is, has highlighted and annotated.

  Photographs of Leontine as a teenager, wearing a navy school blazer and short pleated skirt. Fresh face, pouty smile, a hand braced on her cocked hip to a backdrop of jagged mountains. I think she might actually be legal here, writes Tuija. A man can dream.

  Paperwork for a hand gun permit. Turns out she's hiding some balls in those tight little skirts. Hahaaaa

  Login details for her email accounts. All clean and work-related. Srsly, either they only make prissy choir girls in England, or she's in the habit of deleting shit

  Medical files. Not much here b/c most of it hasn't arrived from UK yet. But I got you the good stuff anyways ;)

  Notes from the gynaecologist's office; God, I love those. Leontine has only been twice, but these are words written by a doctor whose fingers have been inside her. Whose hands have examined her breasts with enough pressure to feel right into the tissue. I wonder if she liked that, my little lion? Whether she lay still and wet and open, or shifted about, uncomfortable and tight.

  It's near enough pitch black in here. I'm reading in a thin gauze of street light, squinting to make out the dirty words. But the photographs speak for themselves, and my cock understands this language. Before popping the button on my pants, I glance about, just make sure I'm alone. Silence. And so out comes my cock, solid and hot in my palm. The head is slick and sticky. It bobs at my touch.

  The photo I like best is from a year ago. Looks like it was taken outside after a run. Her hair is a touch shorter, falling around her shoulders in streaks of honey blond, and she's smiling at the camera with flushed cheeks and lips. White teeth. Not a stitch of makeup, and more than a lick of sweat. It shimmers in her cupid's bow and along the peachy dips of her collarbone. My tongue twitches as if she's close enough to taste—close enough for me to peel away her tight black vest and yoga pants. She's marked with sweat there as well, damp fabric clinging to her round, soft breasts and flaring out at her hips. I like that she's proud of her body. I like that she knows how to show it off. And I love that when she stood beside me in that elevator, it all fell away to reveal a nervous girl who smelled like the best fuck I haven't had yet.

  But I will. I'll have her, every inch, and she'll sweat and shiver in these curious hands. I allow myself so few women; each one must be special. Perfect. Worth the wait. And Leontine brought me her bedroom eyes; I know what she wants.

  What I want is something different entirely. I'll take it anyway.

  It's what I do.

  * * *

  The following morning, I go out to get breakfast for Ash and Ethan. Normally, I insist that Ash eats well; it's what responsible 'parents' do, and while Ethan takes good care of the kid, I'm well aware that it's often easier to bribe him with junk than it is to just get him to behave. But I woke full of anticipation for the Suicide Ball tomorrow and for seeing Leontine, and I'm told that this warm, fuzzy sensation is referred to as a 'good mood.'

  "Pancakes!" Ash yelps, practically throwing himself at the table. "With syrup? You got syrup, right?"

  "Do I look like the kind of moron who'd forget the syrup?" I slap the packets beside his plate and toys. "There. You and Optimus can knock yourselves out."

  Ethan emerges in the doorway, his hair damp from the shower. He's wearing a t-shirt that reads Bazinga! Jesus Christ.

  "Oh, dude. You shouldn't have," he says, almost mortified. "I normally cook—it's just early, it's—"

  "I know." I shoot him an understanding smile. "Thought I'd make myself useful, since I'm not due in until nine." This is a lie; I hate arriving after eight. But the glutton in me is alive and hungry, waiting, wanting. They don't sell smoky blond innocents at Matineau's, so pancakes had to do. I gesture to my laden plate. "I'll just finish these and I'll be out of the way."

  Ethan nods, still blushing a little. I've actually never pulled shit like this; the Lore Corp security team, who take care of the nanny cams, assure me I have nothing to worry about with Ethan, and so I've never done something just to catch him out. Still, the fact that he's worried about it satisfies me.

  It's strangely pleasant, eating together like this. Not something we—or I—ever do. Ash delights in the presence of his favourite people by bouncing around in his seat and randomly shouting bits of Spanish he's learned at school; we all chat about the upcoming Mets game while Ethan tries to rescue flying pots of syrup.

  When I was a child, breakfast was a rushed and aggressive affair. My mother never got up early enough, was never organised enough, and so I ate Pop Tarts in the car while she sniped about dropping crumbs or bitched about Dad.

  Ash doesn't have a mother or a father, but he more or less has two dads. And he's fine. Wonderful. Look at him, blazing about like a sugar-crazed Tasmanian devil and shrieking with glee. There's that Larkin poem—they fuck you up, your parents do�
��but it's wrong. Is all twisted. A mother would only screw with this scenario, would upset the balance and shove it about.

  "Aeron." Ash yanks at my shirt sleeve and hands me a warm, sticky piece of paper. "I did you a syrup picture. Look—that's you, that's me, and that's Super Mario. I'm real good at art now."

  They all look like bits of brown snot, but I smile like he just cured cancer.

  * * *

  The Lore Corp building is a mess of overtired journalists, presenters and technicians. Fliss has scraped herself from the bottom of the barrel and looks like shit warmed up, but at least she's here. I make a mental note, as I walk past her, to do something sympathetic later, maybe flowers or a card with a heartfelt message. I'll borrow Tuija's heart for that part. At least her mother isn't actually dead.

  Despite the fact that the whole place is in chaos—I have sixty seven new emails, a stack of memos three inches thick and fourteen voicemails, all bomb-related—my good mood won't quit. We're busy as ever, churning out breakthroughs every ten minutes on my huge twin screens; Carson has sent the SilentWitn3ss contract over; Leontine's stock, it seems, has risen by almost eight percent. In a little over thirty two hours, I'll be sitting with her at the Suicide Ball while she simmers in vague unease. Because I'll watch her, shamelessly. She'll notice. Everyone will. And they'll pull all sorts of interesting crap out of that.

  I love media events. They tug at my ego, make it quiver and throb. What will my little lion think of the attention I'll get on the red carpet? Will she be intimidated or impressed? Both, probably; it will only coax her trusting nature further, make her fingers twitch for the contract and a pen. Still, discomfort will chew at her, running its rough tongue down the small of her back. And I'll watch for the telltale shudders.

  Ten minutes after I arrive, Tuija waltzes in with my black coffee in one hand and a white envelope in the other. Today, her heels border on ridiculous, but she walks toward me with a practised, steady stride. Nice work.

  "Morning." She positions the coffee on a glass coaster. "Somebody had a late night, huh...?"

  "No. I wanted to have breakfast with Ash."

  She cocks a red eyebrow. "Why? Are you ill?"

  "You're a jaded bitch, you know that?"

  "You beat it into me. It's like Stockholm Syndrome, but the office version." She perches on the edge of the desk and proffers the envelope. "I think you might want to see this."

  I take a mouthful of coffee and wash it around my teeth and tongue. This good mood thing has all my senses on alert; I could eat Tuija's shoe right now and it would probably taste amazing. "What is it?"

  "Well, I relayed your message yesterday to those lit agents—"

  "Verbatim?"

  "I did the shit sandwich. You know: Dear Sycamore Media, we thank you for your kind interest in our client. He respectfully asks that you suck a bag of dicks and die. Yours, Tuija Klein."

  "This is why I hired you." Another mouthful of coffee. God, it almost tastes three-dimensional. "You're so professional."

  She shoves the envelope down in front of me and tugs at a stray curl of hair. "Seriously, though. They hand-delivered that around half an hour ago. I haven't looked inside, but all my spidey senses are tingling."

  "That sounds disgusting."

  "Okay, okay. It's my professional opinion that you should give it a look. When you finish all your very important business, obviously."

  Spidey senses. Jesus. She just can't stand the lack of a Big Reveal. "I'll pencil it in between pissing on kittens and Skyping Kim Jong Un. Alright?"

  She grins to herself, stalking back toward the doors. "You're so fucking full of it."

  "Hey—firecracker?"

  "Yep?" She half turns. Clicks her fingers.

  "Did you send Leontine that dress?" Anticipation squeezes me. Even my ankles are tight.

  "Oh yeah. I sent one." Her grin widens. "You'll just have to wait and see."

  She can't know how my cock swells to the music of those words, but she saunters out with the kind of satisfied pout that makes me suspect she does, regardless. I might even praise her later for the background check.

  When the door swings shut again, I pick apart the seal of the white envelope. It bears the Sycamore Media logo across the flap's apex, a tree with bare branches that I tear in two. The front was handwritten in inky black calligraphy, though it only bears my first name, which is far too presumptuous for my liking. Do these shitstains have nothing better to do?

  Inside is a single white card, thick and embossed with another naked tree. There is no greeting, no polite address, but the same flowing handwriting offers a single message.

  We know about Rachel Fordham.

  The room turns hazy.

  Beige flashes red.

  With a slow, steady hand, I put the note card and envelope down before flicking my monitor back on and Googling for Sycamore's website. A few swipes later and I'm dialling the direct line for their office.

  "Good morning, Sycamore Media. Trent speaking," says the kind of voice that belongs to a guy who went to Cornell and wears black square-rimmed glasses.

  Words fall from my mouth like ice chips. "Morning. This is Aeron Lore of Lore Incorporated; I'm calling regarding your proposal. Can you put me through to the agent handling the project, please?"

  Cornell clears his throat. His tone goes up about three octaves. "Mr Lore. I...hi. Let me, uh, put you through now—you'll be on hold for just a second."

  "That will be fine."

  Beethoven's Fifth pours down the receiver. I stare at the words on the card until my vision turns double, until I'm aware that my finger is sore from rubbing the stubble on my jaw.

  The music cuts off. "Mr Lore?" Cornell says, his voice uncertain.

  "Still here." You idiot.

  "Of course. Um...funny thing. It seems there's been a mix up. Nobody at Sycamore has actually sent you a proposal. But if you have any project in mind, any at all, we'd be delighted to—"

  I hang up.

  And yeah, I thought as much.

  Deep breaths. Jesus. Coffee—shit, that's unpleasant when it's lukewarm.

  I buzz through to Tuija.

  "Yep?" she asks through the faint static.

  "When's my next free evening?"

  "Hang on...um..." Three vague mouse clicks. "Monday, I think."

  A sudden sheen of sweat cools beneath my shirt, damp and sticky. Air drags in my throat. "Book a room for Ash and Ethan. Call Sycamore using the number on their correspondence—tell them I want to entertain."

  A pause. "Do I even want to know?"

  "No, firecracker."

  Whoever they are, they want to dig up my old obsessions.

  Looks like it's time for me to bury theirs.

  FIFTEEN YEARS AGO

  Blackwood High School, New York

  Aged 17

  I hate playing football. And I hate it when we win.

  It's a blending exercise. I'm strong, muscular for my age; people expect me to play. So I tried out. Made the team. Say hello to Blackwood High's star quarterback, sports fans—wave your pom poms, flash your tits, whatever. We're not exceptional this season and agents aren't battering the doors down, but it's enough.

  I still hate it. Nothing but meat smashing on meat. Where's the victory in that, really? Where's the challenge? I want to gain brain cells, not lose them.

  The things we do to survive.

  Tonight's near-miss has the team on edge. We won by seconds, with me hurling a pass to Lincoln Warner just in time. Lincoln is either a tight end hero or a sleazy dickwad, depending on who you ask; he's my least favourite person to be in the locker room with because he insists on sharing bullshit 'wisdom.' He's a player, see. Thinks he knows his way around a skirt.

  When I come out of the shower, four other guys are crowded around him, lapping up the Gospel of Linc while they fiddle with their towels.

  "What about that Izzy girl?" asks one. "From algebra. She's got these tits, they're like oranges—"

 
; "Gentlemen, please. If you're going to put your eggs in one basket, don't pick a goody two-shoes basket." Linc spreads his hands; listen to the guy. Thinks he's the Jesus of Game. "Because you're never going to get a blow job from some math sweetie. Trust me on that one."

  Cole, a running back, parks himself on the bench beside Lincoln, rubbing a towel around his neck. "I ain't going for no easy leftovers, man. She don't respect me, I don't respect her...at least my hand don't give me herpes and then tell everyone I got a small dick after."

  Several guys titter to themselves. Lockers bang open and closed. I keep my back turned in silent disapproval, going about the business of getting dressed. If I make a fuss, people notice things on my body. It doesn't help that games sometimes irritate my older wounds.

  "You got it all wrong." Lincoln gives a heavy sigh, as if these little boys are hopeless. "You don't go for the whore. Or maybe you do, I don't know—" he cuts off to chuckle— "but the girl you really want, the one who's gonna show you the best time...she's got that look in her eyes. You know?"

  "No," says Cole. "So spill already."

  "It's hard to quantify. You gotta look hard." Lincoln pauses for tension. "This thing...there's a quietness to her at certain times 'cause she's got something to be ashamed of. And that reason, gentleman, that shame...you wanna get on that."

  "Or in it," someone calls, and the room erupts in laughter.

  Another guy sprays deodorant, cheap and acidic. Makes me cough.

  I ought to join in. Be one of the guys. But God, I hate to think of lowering myself to that level. And it's okay; high school is all about what you do, not what you say. I perform strong on the field, I go to the parties. I tolerate hook ups with faceless girls. All of that speaks for itself.

  "Let me tell you what I'm talking about," Lincoln calls over the racket. "Who's that sophomore chick from lunch? Hey, Lore—you sat near her, right?"

  Begrudgingly, I turn to look at him. "There are a lot of girls sitting near me at lunch."