by Lime Craven
"Come here." She shifts over to me and takes the glass from my hand, putting it on the sofa. "Let me see." She tips my chin up, nudges my mouth open. Prods at the painful flesh. "She actually bit you?"
"Get off." The stench of alcohol coming off her is almost as bad as the wild, disorientated look in her eyes as she tries to focus on my injury.
"Fine, fine." She climbs away. "You're lucky there, big boy. She only tore the skin on the inside. You'll have a hell of a bruise when it all goes down, but it could be a lot worse." Then she leans on her stomach to reach her purse, and pulls out her phone.
"What are you doing?"
"Calling your doctor. You're gonna need stitches."
"The bleeding already stopped," I mutter. But she's right. I sip the whiskey, enjoying the hard sting of it, and allow her to make the call.
"He'll be here in half an hour," she says, hanging up.
"Leo's not going to sign the contract. Not after tonight."
"Of course she is. Come on. You rescued her from dirty old Montgomery. You're a fucking hero."
I strongly suspect that hero is in the eye of the beholder.
She throws her phone down. "Oh, stop sulking already. Even if she does get difficult, you'll find a way around it. Right?"
Maybe I don't want to be a hero. Not unless it serves a purpose. I like the shadows better, where the dark things hide.
Tuija studies me, rolling her shoulders. "You like her, don't you?"
"Perhaps."
"So...how do we play this? Our arrangement, I mean."
Ah. The arrangement where Tuija poses as my alleged girlfriend in order to maintain my image. It's almost become a facet of the public Mr Lore; nobody looks too hard at my love life these days because they just don't think to. Any encounter I've had, any occasional indulgence, has been swiftly buried under a heap of cash and the odd non-disclosure agreement. And even then, I've controlled myself. Learned from my mistakes.
As a rule, I do not court women in public. It tends to result in assault and battery.
Tuija's looking at me like I'm some rejected puppy, like I've come running to her with my tail between my legs. The idea that she considers me so vulnerable makes my insides shrivel. Although maybe letting her believe that would work to my advantage. Maybe it always has. It keeps her agreeable in circumstances that prevent her taking lovers of her own.
There are CEOs who consult PR companies for this kind of bullshit. Not me. I've made an entire career manipulating the news to suit myself, and I can play the system like chess. Rules: I bend them. Laws: I break them. There's not a smart mouth in this world that I can't buy. And if that sounds like arrogance, it's because it is. Life will not give you lemons if you put your hand out and ask for them nicely—it will just bite your fucking hand off.
"I guess it depends." I roll melting ice around my glass. Listen to it clink and slosh. "I was hardly all over her on the red carpet. And she's not going to talk, not to the press."
"Other press, you mean."
"Uhuh." The image of her bloodied thumb comes back to me, the way she swept it between her lips to lick. "I don't think she's the type to overshare."
"So...?"
"Whatever you're asked, it's no comment. And if anything changes, I'll let you know."
If anything changes.
If Leo and I were to become...involved.
I'd say it was unlikely, but that's only if you factor in this amusing idea of me giving her a choice.
* * *
Monday morning mindfuckery at Lore Corp is most definitely in session. Between the suspect breakthroughs on the JFK incident, the usual inpouring of complaints from the public because our news crews are allegedly obstructing the crime scene, and the press fallout from the Suicide Ball—thank you, Kasha, for rolling drunk off your stretcher to cuss at Aspen Paverley—by eight AM, I'm already itching to escape. For this reason, I turn my security meeting with Harvey into a jog around Central Park.
There are no assistants to annoy us, no phones ringing, no security team; sweat and speed render us unrecognisable. It's just me, Harvey, the soft crunch of stones and dust beneath our running shoes, and the spring green overhang of old trees. Other joggers dart around us, intimidated by the quiet bubble we run in. Harvey and I jog together at least once a week—ironically, for privacy.
"So." We turn to run around a huge maple, and for a moment, are swallowed by its shadows. "You have intel from Friday?" I ask.
Harvey nods. His breath is harsh but regular. "Followed M home. He went as far as the East Village and then switched to another car—a Prius, sir. Goddam pansy. Said Prius went to a penthouse—"
"You checked the ownership, right?
"I'm getting to that." He holds up a bulky hand. "The owner of the apartment is listed as Gretchen Piers."
I wipe a drop of sweat from my eye. "As in, chair of the FCC, Piers? His daughter? You're shitting me."
"Oh, it gets better. Gretchen isn't the only one who lives there."
As we emerge from the cluster of maples, the lake comes into view. Sunshine bounces along the water in streaks of rippling silver.
"Go on," I urge.
"The other resident is her twin brother, Gregory."
Oh, this is too good. "Tell me he's gay, Harvey."
A calculating grin spreads across his stubbly face. "Gay as they come."
Middle America pretend they don't care about who everyone else is fucking, but that's garbage. If this came to light, GNS would forever be dubbed Gay News Systems and would probably lose at least a quarter of its audience. They'd have to kiss any business in the Middle East goodbye. Montgomery does a lot of underhand shit—his last wife was involved in the most convenient of 'accidents'—but honestly, this is far better than anything I could've got on that. "We're thinking drunken booty call, right? Because that's what it sounds like."
"Something like that."
"In bed with the FCC. I love it." I return his grin, squinting into the sunshine. "In bed with the FCC's cock. Fucking exemplary. You have evidence?"
He swipes his forearm across his damp, shiny forehead. "A couple photos of him going into the building. I've already assigned a full detail for the next week to see what we can pick up."
I glance around, making a hundred percent sure we're out of earshot. The nearest jogger, some senior in a headband, is a good twenty feet away. "Hack the bastard's phone," I say in a low voice.
Harvey frowns. "I thought we weren't going there again."
"Officially...we aren't."
"You know how these things get."
Bloodthirsty. "Uhuh."
A solemn nod. "You want voicemails?"
"And texts. Whatever you can get. Just use them as leads, things we can attribute to coincidence."
"Understood." He pulls to a stop, leaning over to brace his hands on his thighs.
A second later, I join him. My calves are on fire, yet feel strangely light. A little like the way I felt standing over Leo on that balcony.
God, there's a thought.
"You still planning on entertaining the literary agent tonight?" Harvey asks.
"In a word."
"You have any idea who they actually are?" He stands up straight. "We've got nothing besides the security camera footage of the guy who hand-delivered that last letter. And he's just a John Doe."
"Not tonight, he isn't." I cock my heel and lean into a calf stretch. "I'll get it out of him."
"Try not to get your other lip bitten off, hey?"
"Oh, fuck you." I press my lips together just to feel the twinge of pain. The swelling has eased off now, but a purple crescent of a bruise hangs beneath my bottom lip, and I needed three stitches on the inside where the lion sank her teeth. "She was drunk."
Harvey's eyes grow distant. "Of course she was."
My head of security knows more about me than any other member of staff. Over the years, he's been more than an employee; he's been a trusted source. An alibi. There are other things, thin
gs I'd never tell anyone—things like Rachel Fordham. But Harvey knows when to push for answers and when to shut the hell up; it's half the reason I hired him. The other reason is that for a security professional's client to get caught out—that's career suicide. Harvey has a good deal here, and he's too selfish to sacrifice himself.
"I'll be on call if you need me," he adds in a tone that suggests he thinks it likely.
This is a shut-the-hell-up moment, and he knows it.
Fifteen minutes later, we arrive back at the Lore Corp building. Tuija, who waits for me by the tall glass reception desk, strides over and hands me a towel. Together, we walk to the elevator. I pat myself down as we go.
"Good run?" she asks.
"Oh yeah." The elevator doors draw closed, and the slow hum of acceleration pervades our silence. I can smell the salt in my own sweat. "Any news on the contract?"
She tugs at a curl of red hair. "Um...no. Sorry, boss."
"You think I should send her some flowers or something?" I'm only half-asking to flatter Tuija's ego. The other half of me is actually curious about this idea, despite the fact I've always considered sending flowers to be code for they were all out of bullshit apologies.
"Who? Leontine?" She scowls, her painted upper lip twitching almost up to her nose.
"Leontine." Who doesn't sleep with clichés. She'd probably bite the head off every single rose.
"If anyone should be sending flowers, it's her. She completely maimed you. Although—"
"I told you what happened," I snap. Why won't she acknowledge my part in it? Does she really think I'm just a misunderstood choirboy with a snotty temper?
"Will you let me finish? Jeez."
The lift rolls open, and she waits for me to step out before following. She stays close, leaning in.
"Her medical records came back. Not just UK, but for another doctor she saw over here," she says quietly.
"Oh?"
"That time she was meant to be travelling, before Harvard? Lies."
Fuck off with your Big Reveal, Tuij. Fuck off, fuck off, fuck off. "Which is interesting because...?"
"Because she spent those months in rehab," she says gleefully. "I don't know what for, exactly—there's only a brief reference on these records, along with a bunch of old prescriptions for mood stabilizer meds—and I'm waiting for a contact to confirm her stay at the clinic. But this place specialises in emotional trauma. Princess Priss is officially screwed in the head."
Whoop-de-do. Who isn't? I'm the sanest person I know.
Still...it's always useful to know where the weak spots are. Where to push. Where to tease.
"Well say something," Tuija urges, holding open my office door.
"You want a lollipop? A sticker?"
She falls back against the closed door and pouts at me. "Heil."
"Heil yourself. You know what I want?"
"Some grease for the stick up your ass?"
I don't even dignify that with a glare. "A shower. A long, hot shower, a clean shirt, and an empty inbox."
She sighs, bringing her hand up in a weary salute. "No interruptions. Got it."
"Unless it's about the SilentWitn3ss contract. Tell Fliss to buzz any calls straight through."
"Will do."
I thrust my towel in her direction. "Oh, and firecracker?"
"Mmm?" She looks up to catch the towel, her made-up eyes all hopeful and needy.
"You've been an amazing fake girlfriend, but I could use a little less genuine jealousy."
Silence.
She trembles, just slightly. Rocks on her heels. "It's good for your ego," she finally manages.
And then she's gone.
* * *
That evening, I arrive at my apartment early in anticipation of my guest. After a weights session and an omelette, I head into the shower before changing into a Henley shirt and jeans; it's important that I appear casual. Relaxed. Whoever this asswipe is, whatever he has on me—it ends here. Tonight. And I won't be the one who comes out on the bottom.
I set the scene with low lamp light around the sofa, a bottle of whiskey, a pack of cards. Some acoustic guitar crap on the surround sound, just so the silence doesn't stifle him. I even opt to leave out Optimus Prime; there's something about a child's toy lying alone in the midst of a very adult setting that plays with a person's nerves.
There's something else I've left out too, albeit in a place he can't see it.
At just gone eight o'clock, the concierge alerts me to my guest's arrival, and I approve of his entry to the elevator. A moment later, the doors ring open and out steps a lean, dark-haired bundle of muscle who looks more like a military man than a literary agent. He has pale, curious eyes and a square jaw; he walks with soft grace, even into space that is distinctly mine. Here is a man who is used to blending in.
Like me.
"Mr Wentworth." I stride over from the sofa, holding out my hand. "So pleased you could join me."
Wentworth is not his real name. That part was easy enough, and he knows it.
He takes my hand, careful to maintain eye contact. "Mr Lore."
"Call me Aeron, please. Now." I gesture toward the sofa, and the whiskey on the coffee table. "Can I get you a drink?"
"Please."
"Join me over here. Make yourself comfortable."
Notice he hasn't given me his first name, grasshoppers. Rookie error, right there. If he thinks this gives him power over me, he hasn't been eating his vegetables.
"You have a beautiful apartment, Mr Lore," says Wentworth, seating himself carefully on the arm chair opposite. His accent is faint, almost non-existent. You are not meant to notice this man unless he chooses to impose himself upon you.
"Isn't it? I like the views. Got a great deal on it a few years back." I hand him a tumbler of Scotland's finest. "Ice, of course."
He affords me the merest hint of a smile. "Of course."
"So tell me about your proposition for the biography." I sit back, drink in hand. "I have to admit, I'm intrigued."
"As were we." Still, he keeps his eyes on mine. This is intended to unsettle, but on the contrary—it gives him away. "You've had a very interesting life. We think people will be eager to hear about it."
I'm sure they would.
However.
"Sycamore Media, isn't it? Your agency," I ask.
"I'm an associate agent."
"How long have you been there? You handle any similar projects?"
He cocks his head from side to side, loosening his muscles. "You could say that. I've not been there long, though. This is a somewhat recent project."
"And whose idea was it, if you don't mind me asking?" I lean forward a little, my elbows on my knees. In the background, the guitar album switches to something Spanish, and the notes become aggressive. A duel.
"We were contacted by an outside source," he says slowly. "They felt that a biography would be...in the interests of the public."
"Oh? What makes you say that?"
Wentworth sets the tumbler down. "I think you know what I'm implying, Mr Lore."
This is going too fast. Effective manipulation is like sex: you need foreplay. A build-up. He has to want to let go of the information; it should be his relief and release.
I take a pack of cards from the table and hold them up. "You play poker?"
"From time to time." This earns me a slightly bigger smile. A creepy one. He hasn't worked on his airs and graces nearly enough to hide what he is.
"I'll deal." The cards slip into my palm, smooth and silky on my fingertips as I count out two hands. "Five card draw. No bets. Just for fun, hey?"
"Just for fun," he says coolly.
Five card draw is so simple, it may as well be for kindergarteners—a low blow, but one I can't resist. It's not like he's in the dark here; he knows where this is headed.
To an extent.
"That's quite the bruise you have there," Wentworth says, eyeing the purple bloom beneath my bottom lip. "You get into a fight wit
h a sandwich?"
"I find myself in the middle of the odd altercation."
"So I hear." He reaches to slip two cards off the top of the deck, appraises them, and discards two from his hand. A dark eyebrow lilts toward them. "We planned a chapter on such matters, if I recall the proposal correctly."
"There were some interesting choices there." I don't look at my cards. If you invite a snake into your home, you keep both fucking eyes on it.
"My favourite," he says slowly, pretending to ponder his own hand, "was Rachel Fordham. Now that's a story, isn't it, Aeron?"
"Do you like stories, Mr Wentworth?"
"I'm not much for happy endings."
"Ah. Me either. I think we're on the same page." I'm enjoying myself so much, I'm even in for the puns.
It's important to analyse the prey before you throw in the bait. Wentworth here has been frisked by my concierge. This doesn't mean he isn't carrying a weapon, but it does mean that if he is, he can't get to it in a hurry.
Now this tells me two things about my new cards partner: one, he's not here for himself, because a guy on his own wouldn't come in here under that kind of risk. Somebody has hired him. And two, he's afraid of that person enough to be playing me like I'm fucking Jenga.
Perhaps my hidden toy ought to come out and join the games.
I reach to swap a card. It's an ace, which is fitting. Even a bastard like me appreciates a little serendipity from time to time.
"What kind of story were you hoping tonight would be?" I ask.
The man eyes me over his whiskey glass before taking a sip. "One with new beginnings."
Wait for it. Wait. Any second now, he's going to reach for another card, his arm stretched across the glass table, fingers wide to grasp...
Beneath the table, I find the cold metal with my socked foot. Pull it silently along the rug, just a little closer. Run my tongue along the three neat stitches inside my bottom lip.
"Shit." I drop my hand of cards, duck slightly to pick them up again. Manage to pick up something else.
Here's what you do with a story that won't bend to your liking, sports fans: you deus ex machina the bitch.
Wentworth sips his whiskey again, surveys the splayed cards in his hand. Reaches toward the deck. It almost happens in slow motion, and then—
