by Lime Craven
"They always sitting by him," Cole adds with a hint of envy. "In class too."
Lincoln points his deodorant can at me. "Dark hair, real small. Doesn't smile. Fuckin' ice queen."
"Rachel!" calls someone from the end of the locker room. "Rachel Fordham, man."
My throat goes tight. The contents of my locker were vivid a moment ago, but now they're a fuzzy blur. I want to slam it shut, alleviate my temper, but I suck the prickles back down and grit my teeth.
Lincoln whoops. "That's her. Oh, I have heard things. I don't know what the hell she's ashamed of, but it would be worth finding out."
"Yeah." Cole gives me a pointed look. "Why ain't you tapped that yet?"
"Because it's too easy," I mutter.
"She ain't easy," mutters someone to my left. "I tried."
"But she's a slut," Cole goes on. "Lincoln heard."
Lincoln pulls his pants out and starts climbing into them. "I hear a lot of things."
The urge to throw things, to kick things grows; adrenaline fizzes in my fists and thighs. I focus on pulling my sneakers on but keep tugging the laces too tight, leaving a white lattice of pressure along my fingers.
"She's not a slut," I bite out at them. "Alright?"
"Not like a trainwreck slut," Lincoln says matter-of-factly, as if it's a perfectly acceptable distinction. "More like a does-some-fucked-up-shit type of slut. Best kind, if you ask me."
My voice grows thick with threat. I step toward him. "Did you hear me?"
"Woah." He puts his hands up, shaking his head. "No offense meant, dude."
Cole cocks his head at me. "She your girlfriend, or something?"
More laughter from somewhere near the shower. "Yeah. That's why he hasn't tapped that. Hasn't earned his pussy privileges."
"Fuck you," I shout, adding just enough of a forced smile to win these dipshits over. I don't want to smile; I want to rip their hollow heads off.
It takes all the self-control I have to exit the locker room without kicking a garbage can or slamming a door. The parking lot is dimly lit, and a quick glance around tells me I'm alone—for now. A sliver of shadow hangs over Lincoln's red Jeep. His pride and joy.
Ten seconds later and I'm right beside that stupid fucking car, snapping off both the wing mirrors. They come apart in my hands like wishbones. Then I use the jagged plastic edge of one to cleave a hissing gash in his front left tire.
When the throbbing subsides in my temples, I toss both mirrors into the grassy ditch along the parking lot and hurry to my own ride. My bag lands in the trunk with a satisfying thud, and inside, the leather seat is cool on my skin. Relief. That's what violence is.
Rachel Fordham is not a slut.
Not for that bunch of cunts, anyway.
4
Desire (noun): nature's loveliest weapon and cruellest joke
Heady.
Expensive.
Difficult to come by.
Desire is like a black market drug.
A rich man desires little but the things he cannot buy. I hold a great deal of power, but none of it compares to opiate thrill of flesh. Or thought. God, there's power there, too. Something primal.
I'm not a caveman; I can't go around killing people with my bare hands or spitting teeth at enemies. But desire takes me pretty damn close. For this reason, most of the time, I must contain it or risk everything I've worked for.
Not tonight.
From the moment I step on to that red carpet, I'll allow myself the indulgence of desiring Leontine. Will tease myself with the promise of her. Maybe, if the opportunity arises, I'll get a taste.
I shouldn't put my desires before the good of the firm, and once she knows what I am, the little lion won't want to sign my contract. But fuck it. I have ways and means.
Tuija and I wait behind the Grand Palace Hotel, away from the paparazzi and the steaming traffic. We've arranged to meet the employees of SilentWitn3ss here in order to escort them in. The Suicide Ball will be quieter tonight after the JFK incident; networks and publishers are hesitant to spare the staff. Nevertheless, the rumpus around the front of the hotel is all but deafening, and if I'm honest, I can't wait to show off.
Men like me are upper crust A-List. Gold class. I'm not the guy teenaged girls lust over in magazines; I'm the one behind him, pulling the strings. The paparazzi know the value of these things and the ones around the corner are there for two kinds of people: the TV presenters and the CEOs. I may not be Anderson Cooper or Ryan Seacrest, but I have a couple more zeros on my bank balance and a big lick of that pretty thing called class. With five minutes on that red carpet, I'll show Leontine what a big fucking deal I am; regardless of what they say, women love that crap. Every last one of them.
Exhibit A: Tuija in her tight blue bandage dress, tits and ass on display. She lives for nights like this, where she can shine her way out from beneath my shadow. Look at her, eye-fucking all the butler boys in their penguin suits—ah, I'm like a proud uncle. My redheaded rocket is going to disappoint a hundred men tonight, and they'll all think she belongs to me. Which is always interesting.
Desire is the pipe bomb of power, sports fans. Use it and abuse it for the lesser beings will choose it, but never pretend that it's truly within your control.
Harvey, dressed in his usual smart civilian attire, tucks a receiver into his pocket as he walks up to greet me. He leans in to speak with a low voice. "We'll be outside in the van the entire time. Are you sure you don't want an escort? What with the Sycamore business."
"I told you—I'm dealing with that myself."
Harvey narrows his brown eyes. "But until then..."
"I can handle it, Harvey." I give him a stiff pat on the shoulder. "I appreciate your concern. But you know where I'd rather you aimed it."
He gives a single, silent nod with that angular jaw of his.
Montgomery. I want that bastard watched like a hawk.
"Boss." Tuija gives my sleeve a yank.
"Mmm?"
"Your delivery just arrived." She nudges my shoulder toward a black BMW pulling up at the kerb. "Looky."
Leontine.
She's helped out of the car by a guy I recognise as one of her designers; some stocky ginger asshole called Finn in a clumsily fitted designer suit. Not that anyone is looking at him, of course. They're too busy appraising her.
Tuija made poor choices before I met her. She chose coke and prescription painkillers over food and respect and a roof over her head; she chose men who would beat her senseless over those who would pay fairly for her efforts to please. But since our magic little partnership, oh, her decision making has greatly improved, and tonight, Leontine is a walking example.
The gown is black. An obvious choice, perhaps, but the perfect one for buttery Leo, whose light tan sits against the dark shade in tempting contrast. A tight mesh bodice displays the curves of her body, covering her from waist to wrist; swirls of lace suck her breasts and belly. The skirt has the sheen of silk about it, and though it ends just above her knees, a split hints at the tawny flesh of her left thigh. Her blond hair is caught up in a pin of black feathers, the shorter strands left to frame those smudged, smoky eyes. Black heels. A feathered purse. She looks like a charred angel.
I give Tuija's enhanced ass a pat of gratitude. "Nice work, firecracker."
Her Jack-o'-lantern smile melts at my praise. "Oh, it was nothing."
"It's everything."
Leontine heads toward me through a crowd of guests. Even from a distance, I can see her looking me up and down; deciding if she likes my dinner suit. I love the way her pupils stretch when she sizes me up, all tainted with conflict and desire. My button-eyed doll.
I step out closer and hold my arm out as she approaches. "Good evening to you, madam."
She pretends to swoon. "And you, good sir."
"You, sweetheart, look absolutely stunning."
She eyes my arm, her glossy lips parted; again, she wonders whether or not to trust me. Don't, I want to whisper agai
nst the pulse at her throat. Don't, but let me in anyway. Come closer, closer, until all hope fades...and we fall.
Finally, she places her arm through mine, a flustered pink grazing her cheeks. "Thank you."
"And you're looking particularly handsome tonight, Aeron," I deadpan. "I've never seen such a specimen. Is it legal to look that good in a suit?"
She rolls her eyes at me and gives a chuckle. "Does it hurt, trying to get that ego into clothes in the morning? Does it actually fit into the shower?"
"Very subtle, Miss Reeves. Yes, there's room for you in my shower." I give her arm a squeeze. "You don't waste any time, huh?"
"I—" She cuts off, staring at me with the strangest look. "I give up now."
"Come on." I glance back to Tuija and my group of associates, gesturing to the front of the hotel. Then I turn my grin to Leontine. "Ever walked a red carpet before?"
"Not intentionally."
"Right." I laugh, a little more genuinely than I'd intended. "Stay close and let me do all the talking—unless you feel like it, that is. Follow my lead. I'll get you through unscathed, I promise." I give her arm a little pull, but she stands still.
"Aren't you...um..." Her eyes slide sideward to rest on Tuija. She lowers her voice. "Forgive me for being presumptuous, but isn't your girlfriend a little bothered by this?" She nods at our entwined arms.
Leontine cares enough about my relationship status to think she knows something about it. Which is delicious. "No," I tell her, ducking down to whisper, "for many reasons, all of which I'll explain later."
With that, I take her around the corner, down the scarlet path and into the crush of bodies...and yes, the irony is not lost on me. Never is.
Cameras flash, and then the calls begin: my name in twenty different voices and accents, over and over like a brash prayer. I march Leontine past the awards banners, pose with her for photographs, my hand splayed over her soft hip just for fleeting seconds at a time—to help her pose, obviously. When my cheeks begin to ache from all the smiling, Tuija guides us over to a news crew from GNS. A tight-looking witch in a red gown waits to interview us. She was too old for this shit about ten years ago, and judging by the way she eyes me, knows it.
"Aeron Lore." She beams into the camera, "Ladies and gents, we're privilege to have the CEO of Lore Incorporated with us this evening. Mr Lore, would you be so kind as to introduce your guest?" She pushes the microphone toward me gingerly.
"Absolutely. And hello. This is Leontine Reeves; her company will be working with us shortly."
The Witch leans out in feigned surprise. "Really? Is that so?"
She holds the microphone up to Leo, who has gone tense and awkward. My cock stirs briefly at the sight of her fists clenched at her sides.
"We're in the process of negotiating," she manages.
"Leontine is a genius," I go on, still smiling. Fucking smiling. Jesus, my face is about to split down the middle. "She graduated Harvard with a degree in engineering, and started her company in her junior year. Her projects are going to be revolutionary in this industry, trust me."
The Witch cocks a sparse eyebrow. "Cryptic. Not that we expect anything less."
"We'll tell you more when we're ready," I tease.
Leontine has gone prickly beside me, her body bristling with tension. My all-too-public assumption makes her uncomfortable, and her unease makes me hard. God. I told Tuija not to send her any panties with the dress. I wonder...?
Later. I have to behave.
"Your people are up for top accolades this evening," the Witch goes on. "I have to say, we're all anxious to see if Kasha Elliot can swipe the McAfee for the fourth year running. Her reports from Syria earlier this year...as a woman, I was pretty damn proud."
"Kasha has that effect on people. She's very genuine." Kasha is the most underhand bitch I know, which is precisely why she's so good at her job. The only difference between me and her is that she's in possession of a conscience, albeit one melted and singed at the edges. "She'll be a little late this evening, what with recent events."
We chat politely about the horror of the JFK incident, with the Witch and then another crew. Leontine stays silent, smiling when nodded at and standing a measured hand span from my body at all times. Every inch of me is aware of her. I simmer.
Eventually, I'll reach boiling point. And what then?
* * *
The evening goes well. Leontine's seat is a few spots away from mine, so we don't talk a great deal after the red carpet. There's something about picking a woman up and then swiftly putting her down again which sets her nerves on edge; it knocks the confidence out of the most arrogant piece of ass. I love it.
Leontine sits with Finn and a few other members of her team, and the nominees on the table trade stories about car chases and war zone trips. I couldn't have picked a better place to impress her, and I know she sees me watching. All through dinner, all through the speeches, all through the awards themselves, my eyes drift toward hers, and where she first turned away with a shy flush, she now returns my gaze with a quiet curiosity.
Then it all lurches downhill.
While two of my other reporters win awards, Kasha misses out on her fourth McAfee for an Exceptional Contribution to Journalism. This does not please her, and before long, she's had a bottle of tequila and way too much champagne.
I learn all of this around midnight when Tuija peels me out of a conversation with a reporter from Montgomery's camp.
"Tuij," I hiss at her, annoyed at her lack of manners. "What the fuck?"
She tugs me out of the ball room, into the corridor toward the bathrooms. "Kasha."
"Get to the point."
"She's got her head in the toilet and she's muttering all kinds of shit. Won't listen to me, won't listen to Ryan." Her words are slightly slurred; even she's been on the champagne. Unwise. "Somebody needs to talk some sense into her before she becomes the Suicide Ball's latest victim."
Tuija herds several women out of the ladies' bathroom before ushering me in. We follow the sound of retching to third cubicle. The door hangs open, and Kasha is on her knees beside the toilet, a half-moon of vomit christening the marble floor.
She looks up at me and glares. Kasha could glare professionally; she's a dark-haired Beyoncé, cat eyes and all, but dresses with more class.
Usually.
"Boss." She gulps, her eyes bulging, and then turns back to the toilet to retch some more.
"Tuij," I call. "Radio Harvey and get a car out back for Mc Shitfaced here."
"Already done," she murmurs from the mirror, where she's touching up her red lipstick. She pouts at her reflection and winks.
"Kasha. Jesus." I go to step into the cubicle, but then the smell hits me—sour bile mixed with overly sweet floral air freshener—and I lunge back. "You look like a two dollar whore."
"I don't care," she slurs. "Fuck Oprah. Did you see she won that award for the...the thing? The thing. Fuck her!"
"Get your shit together. Come on."
"Fucking Aspen Paverley from GNS. She couldn't report on a kindergarten bake sale, let alone Syria. What the actual fuck?" She retches again, and my temper flares. I don't have time for this.
"I'm going to count to three," I say quietly, "and if you're not up, I'm dragging you up. Which is not going to be pleasant for either of us. One..."
"You come over here with that big smart mouth of yours and show me what you got, then." She laughs, lilting and bitter and uncontrolled. "Aspen Paverley. Well, shit."
"...Three." I reach behind and grab Tuija by the arm. "Give me a hand here. Get her against the wall."
Together, Tuija and I scoop Kasha up by the shoulders, circumnavigating the pool of cold vomit. Tuija, obeying my nod, steps away once I have Kasha pinned, and the sound of the door closing echoes around the bathroom as she leaves.
"Just me and you, now," I tell Kasha. I'd put my face in hers, but she stinks. So I settle for speaking from one side.
She flinches away from me, s
o heavy in my hands. "I deserved that award." Her voice cracks. "I did."
"You cry on me and I swear to God, I won't be responsible—"
"Yes. Boss." She sniffs. "My therapist warned me after Syria, you know. Said I should take some time off."
I snort. "Nice try."
"I just think...space...space would be good..."
"You can have all the space you want if you leave, Kash. But you're not pulling a no-show the day after you lose an award—it's a PR disaster waiting to happen." There's enough uninvited scrutiny on me as it is. "Harvey's got a car waiting outside. You're going to go home, sober up, take the morning to wash the shit out of your hair, and then come the fuck to work. Do you understand me?"
She whimpers. "Yes."
"Good."
At that moment, Tuija inches back into the bathroom with several Lore Corp security staff on her tail.
"Leaving you to it," I mutter, throwing my hands into a basin and rubbing in liquid soap. Behind me, Kasha slips slowly down the wall, and the staff step through to catch her.
"Boss?"
"Mmm?" I glance up from the steaming basin. "What?"
Tuija purses her lips. "Might want to check on your little piece. Montgomery was circling her like a shark."
"Huh? Wh—oh, shit." Leontine. Fuck, fuck.
I barge out of the bathroom, still shaking the water from my hands. I hadn't intended to completely abandon her; what if Montgomery poached SilentWitn3ss from Lore Corp? What if Leontine left?
Ten minutes of searching the ballroom later, I finally spot them; she sits at the GNS head table, sandwiched between Montgomery and Finn. They talk over her, and she looks uninspired, bored. Poor little lion, reduced to being the filling in a fucktard sandwich—looks like they haven't even topped up her drink. This won't do at all.
A few seconds, a beat, and she meets my eyes.
God.
More than once, I've wondered what draws me to Leontine. I've spent barely an hour in her company, one way or another; almost everything I know about the girl, I read in a fat brown file. But that afternoon in my conference room, she put her hand in mine and I saw how she'd dressed for me that morning. A thread pulls taut between us, frayed already where the dark things chew, and I see it in those shaded, pleading bedroom eyes—fuck. She makes my thighs tight and my ears ring. She makes me feel like an orgasm without her is a waste of precious desire.
