by Lime Craven
She looks so small in the middle of the two men, her shoulders hunched and breasts pushed together beneath the black lace of her dress. There are manners to be considered here—I mustn't pull her away from Montgomery too fast, no matter how slowly she stretches that innocent smile. And she is smiling at me; it's more please help! than come hither, but the effect on my cock is the same.
Montgomery. Cunt of the highest order. Look at him, pretending he isn't near enough fifty with his hair transplant and dyed black mess. Are those jowls? Oh yes. There's no hiding them, you porky bastard. They say time isn't kind, and they're right; this dude must've pissed off a lot of clocks.
I flex my fingers in and out before striding over, as if it will ease the tension in my fists. I'm barely at the table before Montgomery notices Leontine staring at me, and though he visibly recoils as I put out my hand, he shakes it nonetheless.
"Aeron," he calls over the awful swing music. "Thought you'd made a quiet escape."
"I had business to attend to." My eyes never leave Leontine's. "Speaking of which, I'd like to borrow this lady for a moment."
Finn bristles. Either he's not used to playing with the big boys, or he fancies himself as Leo's lover. I don't know which is more pathetic.
"I hope you're not spilling any trade secrets," I tell him with a small smile. "They don't call this the Suicide Ball for nothing."
"We're not talking that kind of shop," Montgomery says in a cool voice which tells me that they absolutely are.
Leontine glances between the men before hopping to her feet. "Do you mind? Seems like this is important."
Finn shrugs like a sulky teenager. "I guess."
Montgomery flashes her a jowly smile. "It's been a pleasure, honey. You let me know if Aeron tries to make you do anything silly, hey?" His words are light and teasing, but you'd have to be a complete moron not to spot the passive aggressive undertone.
Leontine notices, of course. Her perfect eyebrow arches. I can almost hear her say it in that husky English voice: really? And then she comes to me, bunching her skirt as she steps to reveal a sliver of tanned inner thigh. Her bottom lip is a touch swollen from chewing; her eyes are glassy from too much champagne. Even her smile has mellowed from anxious to grateful.
I's too soon for trust. Can't be that. But baby, you're getting there, aren't you? For every twisted, manipulative bastard like me, there's a Dietrich Montgomery, making me look like fucking Ghandi. Karma: I thank you.
I offer her my arm, and she takes it without reservation.
"You okay?" I ask, my voice low.
She breathes in deeply; her ribs rise against my forearm. Silence.
"Let's get out of here," I decide aloud, easing her forward. "Terrace. Come on. We could both use some fresh air."
The walk to the terrace is a slow burning ache. We dodge through clusters of half-drunk people, suits and gowns and waiting staff alike. When the swing band bursts into an attention-seeking drum breakdown, we both wince in tandem. I find myself glaring at the men who stare through her dress, when I would normally proffer a smug smile; a part of me is angry that Montgomery and Finn were ignoring her—it reflects badly on my taste if she is discarded by others so easily.
Not that I could bring myself to discard her. Obsession alone is dangerous; obsession and desire? Give up and give in. Just for a moment, grasshoppers, ride that blissful wave.
When a waitress passes with a laden tray, I swipe two bottles of German beer. The huge terrace doors are swept open by two butlers, and we stride out of the hot bubble into cool, inky night. Beyond the melee of sweating, shouting ball guests, there's a quiet ledge off the staff entrance down several flights of stairs, and I steer us through the crowd toward it.
Leo shivers in the night air. Through the thin mesh of her sleeves, I feel her arm tense; she doesn't ask where we're going, but the thought strokes her nerves. Below us stretches the bruised New York City skyline, effervescent in shades of purple and deep blue. Tea lights shimmer in the wake of our footsteps. The beers grow warm in the grip of my free hand.
The ledge is off the side of a fire escape, affording us the same breath-taking view with a great deal more privacy. It's not large—barely six feet wide—but potted bay trees and a string of flickering fairy lights make it feel cosy. Romantic, even.
Jesus fuck. Pretend I didn't say that.
Leontine takes a beer from my hand and leans over the railing. The wind picks at her loosening hair, teasing black feathers and streaks of honey against the smooth nape of her neck. My eyes are drawn there, and then so am I, standing just an inch or so behind her, staring down. She's shorter than me by a good six inches; more, if she takes off her heels. I know she can feel my breath on her shoulder, yet she doesn't pull away.
We stand quietly for a moment, drinking in the pale wash of the moon. Every now and then, her hips sway slightly, and I'm tossed back to thoughts of the lingerie she probably isn't wearing. Her buttocks are high and full in this dress, and her waist dips above as if begging me to stroke the curve. I could drag so many things along the line of that heart shaped ass: my tongue. My cock. Or something sharper, something that would turn those soft breaths of hers into a burgeoning yelp.
"You were going to explain something to me," she says, still staring ahead at the sleepy city. "About your girlfriend."
Ah. She knows exactly why I brought her here, or thinks she does; now she wants assurance that I'm not a sleaze.
Oh, Leo. Of all the things you could doubt me for.
"She's not my girlfriend." I sound gruffer than I intend to, for which I blame the cold air and lukewarm beer. "It's complicated."
"So you're sleeping with her."
"You really don't waste any time, do you?" I'm baiting her, revelling in it. She's ridiculous fun to tease because she cares about my answers. Gives weight to my words.
Leontine puts her bottle to the metal floor and then turns slowly. Perhaps she hadn't realised quite how close I am; her eyes widen as I stare down at her, and she brings her arms to cross in defence. They push her breasts up in an invitation she can't possibly have intended, but one I enjoy all the same. I'm reminded of our first meeting, when she appeared to need more than a desk to hide behind.
"I'm not stupid." Her voice wavers in warning.
"I know, sweetheart. You've got your smarty pants degree to prove it."
She tips her chin, defiant. "I've got a lot of things."
"Oh, come on. That's too easy." I gesture to her breasts with a single finger. "Yes, you have a lot of things. I've noticed."
"Am I complicated, too?"
"I'm not sleeping with Tuija." I lean in a touch closer, close enough to place one hand on the railing behind her. "She's my assistant. I've known her a long time. People gossip."
"And do you want people to gossip about the two of us, as well?" She studies me acutely, as if she might hope to catch me out. "Because it sure as hell felt like it back on that red carpet."
"I'm sorry if I offended you, Leo."
She gives a short, sharp laugh. "Leo now, is it?"
"Isn't it?"
"You gave the impression that I'd already signed your contract. And I haven't. I don't even know if I will."
"Can't hurt to push your stock up a little." I cock my head, let my grin seep in. "Get people talking. Don't tell me you won't have a bunch of new interest by the time Monday rolls around."
"You think I'll sign if you seduce me."
"What I think," I say, "is that I brought you here to get away from those chauvinist sleazeballs."
"But you sent me an outfit with no underwear," she retorts.
My grin grows sheepish. "It would have spoiled the line of your skirt."
"You sent me these tickets, and a dress, and beautiful shoes, and now you've brought me down to a quiet balcony because you want to get me alone. I don't sleep with clichés, Mr. Lore."
Now I'm irritated. She's talking in circles—probably because she has no idea what she wants.
I gaze down at her, trying to ignore the heat rushing to my groin. The familiar scent of mulled wine floats up, mellowed a little by her nervous sweat. "Maybe I just want to talk about the acquisition."
She shifts about, obviously uncomfortable. "My lawyer says—"
"Fuck your lawyer."
She swallows. Drops her arms from her body, then appears to struggle with where else to put them. They hang awkwardly at her sides. "You're in my personal space. I'd like for you to move, please."
"That's very cute."
"Please move," she repeats, stressing the words.
"I don't want to," I tell her. And God, she's all the more desirable for thinking I might actually listen.
"What is it you hope to achieve here?"
Now there's a question. It cannot be answered with words. I breathe in the scent of her—perfume and panic—and inch closer again so that she's rigid against my chest. Then I slide a hand along her waist to the peak of her ass, just to feel the way her whole body pulls tighter.
I groan softly. Soak in her reluctant warmth. "You please me...so many ways."
A disgruntled hmph falls from her lips. She's noticed my stiff cock, the way it twitches on her belly.
"I could yank your dress up right here," I whisper. "Are you wet for me, sweetheart?"
I'm not sure which of us starts the scuffle. All I know is that desire brings my fingers to the split in her skirt; I thrust them up her thigh in search of her pussy. Before I get there, however, she twists to one side and throws her knee into my groin, which would hurt if she wasn't so short. This makes me laugh—I can't help it—and she's furious, all crushed against me, stamping on my feet with her heels. When her squirming increases, I take a fist full of honey and feathers, pull her head back...and shove my mouth over hers.
Her shocked whimper nearly does me in. She tastes like alcohol on the edge of a mint. A gasp, a muffled breath between us, then her tongue acquiesces to mine. Adrenaline pools at my pulse points. I'm hard, so fucking hard with her writhing up and down like this, that all I can think of is pulling her dress up and pushing inside. I'll put one hand over her mouth, squash her wrists in the other, bend her over the railing so the spikes scratch her dress to shreds...
Leontine stands on tiptoe to suck my bottom lip. Fuck, such a good girl for me already.
Her teeth sink in. Hard. She jerks her head back, tearing, and then spits out the stinging mess of my lip with a snarl.
I swipe at my face only to bring back blood-stained fingers. The sight sets my pulse to lightening, makes the skyline ahead of me blur. "Motherfucker."
Meanwhile, she scrambles out from under me. She's stumbling on her heels now, hissing through those sharp teeth, and there's a scarlet trickle of blood smeared across her chin. "You're one to talk," she snaps. "You touch me again and I swear, I swear—"
"What, you'll tear another chunk out of me?" I step toward her, still clutching at my mouth; she moves back like we're warring magnets. "That all you got?"
"I hurt you." There's a distant, shivering quality to her voice, as if she's talking to herself. She studies me with big black button eyes, brings her thumb up and drags it slowly through the blood on her skin. Her gaze drops to appraise the damage.
"Go on," I urge.
She shakes her head, still staring at her sticky thumb.
"Leo."
"No." Her lower lip trembles. She wants to run—the air prickles with it—but that rough thread ties us together. "No."
Silence.
I bring my fingers to my bleeding mouth, push them in. Taste. She watches.
Come on, baby.
A scrape of her heels, a soft curse...and then she turns from me. But too late.
I see her hand come up to graze her jawline. And I see her pink tongue cut a pale path through the red.
Heady. Expensive. Addictive as opium.
Leo, what have you done?
FIFTEEN YEARS AGO
Home
Aged 17
My junior year is so nearly fucked that it's teetering on the precipice.
I sway with it. Back and forth. I don't remember the last time I cried like this, not since things got better.
My mother marches up and down the hall outside my bedroom, and though my door is closed, I can feel her rage. I hear it in the sharp swipe of each footstep, the moaning creak of the floorboards, and the breath that hisses between her clenched teeth.
All the while, I curl further into myself. Press my hands over tear-sodden cheeks. It's warm outside, but no summer can heat the prickly chill of blood at my wrists or the shivers that claw at my shoulders.
"You've really outdone yourself this time!" she calls, still pacing. "Here was me thinking that you'd learned what was good for you, and then you fuck up so majestically that I have to wonder if you even have ears!"
Nothing. I say nothing.
"Do you have any idea how much money I've had to pay that girl's parents? How much it has cost us to make this go away?"
I take slow breaths. Feel each one climb down my ribs, then up again.
"Because your college fund's looking anorexic right now. Just so you're aware. What the hell were you thinking? She's fifteen, Aeron."
I know. I can count.
"Fifteen! Which is the number of years you'd be going away for if I didn't bail out your sorry ass." She pauses, grunts, laughs so coldly that I cringe. "And is probably the number of years she'll be in therapy. Which I'm now paying for, by the way."
We have money. We've always had money. I don't even know why she's complaining; it isn't what really bothers her about all this. There's never been a situation we couldn't manipulate ourselves out of.
"I'm cutting off the internet. Maybe you've been watching some twisted shit on there, I don't know. Jesus, couldn't you have done something normal? Couldn't you just have raped her, Aeron? Because we could have at least argued with that."
I wipe my eyes with the sleeve of my red football jersey. "She wanted it." My voice is barely audible. I'm talking to myself. "She did."
"Where did you even get the idea for...oh, jeez. I don't want to know. She had better not talk, not now we've paid her. We'll get some gossip going about where she's gone. Rehab. Rehab will work."
Rachel lay there and took it. I only teased her, really; it was part of our game. Every muscle in my body aches with the consequence of being told otherwise.
Still, I feel the stickiness of her on my fingers. Can smell the sugary undernotes in her sweat. Desire is a weight on my back, always crushing, pleading, oozing between vertebrae.
"Are you listening to me?" Mom yells.
I eye the door through my hands. Pray that she'll stay on the other side. The seam of my shorts grates against a scar on the inside of my thigh; I shift about, almost enjoying it.
"If you can't control yourself around girls, just stay the hell away from them." As if this is my biggest failure. "And stop fucking about with the younger ones. The sentences are longer, we've been through this..."
Just like that, the muffled thump of my own heartbeat drowns out her lecture. I'm alone in semi-darkness, in the greyest of summers. More than ever, I wish that Dad were here. He'd be disgusted, though the normalcy of that would balm my shivers.
My mother is only pissed that I got caught.
5
Manipulate (verb): to tempt a lesser human being with mutually exclusive choices, then sit back to watch while the shit hits the fan
It's near enough 1AM when I rap on Tuija's hotel room door. Downstairs, the Suicide Ball is wrapping up, and I've had to dodge the dregs in the lobby as I crept up here. A timid-looking waitress gave me an ice pack; if anyone asks, I had an incident with a drink.
Aft
er being photographed with Leo on my arm, if I'm caught hanging around outside my 'girlfriend's' hotel room—complete with an injury—it will not look good. I knock again, harder.
Finally, she appears in the doorway, hiccupping. It takes a moment for her to register the ice pack pressed across my jaw, but she stands aside and gestures for me to enter.
"Who'd you piss off now?" she asks, walking back to her drinks counter.
The hotel suite is lit only by a single lamp, but even then, I can see she looks wasted. Which is against my rules. "What the fuck have I told you about drinking?"
"I was networking," she says plainly. "I ask for water and everyone thinks I'm pregnant. You wouldn't want that kind of rumour flying around now, would you?" She holds a tumbler up to check for watermarks, pours whiskey in soft glugs. Adds ice from a bucket. Then she strides over and hands it to me. "Just thinking ahead."
"No more for you." I swipe the glass away. She has a point about potential rumours, but it would help if I could trust her to have a single glass of wine. I don't socialize with Tuija; I babysit her. It's getting on my last nerve.
"Okay, okay. No more booze pour moi." She kicks her heels off. Beckons for me to join her on the curved taupe sofa. "Now tell me what happened to your face."
Ah, fuck it. Not like she'll remember tomorrow.
I sit beside her and peel the ice pack away, revealing the swollen mess of my lower lip. "I sexually assaulted Leo." The words sound perverse and beautiful aloud.
Don't think me ignorant of my sin, sports fans. Don't make that mistake, not here.
Tuija sighs. "No, really."
"I assaulted her. She fought me off."
"Sounds like foreplay." Tuija lets out a warbling laugh, the kind that grates on my ears. "Dirty boy."
It wasn't foreplay! I want to shout. Because it was more than that. It was inappropriate and intimidating and illegal, and the beast in me wants credit. Recognition. All I get is don't be silly, dear. Boys will be boys.
