by Lime Craven
There's a hiss of something that sounds like go fuck yourself, but I'm already too far away to make sure. Or to care.
She had the gun.
She had the secret.
But who's leaving with all the power? Me.
I place the gun on the beech table beside her two phones and her keys, and let myself out to the strange music of her sobs.
Leontine Reeves didn't hunt me down to punish me.
Dirty little bitch wants me to punish her.
TWENTY SIX YEARS AGO
Home
Aged 6
Strange man on the floor with a bag on his head.
Man is very still. Mama sits on the green couch, watching her shows and drinking smelly tea. I pad to her in my bear slippers.
"Mama?"
Her face is dancing colours, lights echoed from the TV. She doesn't look at me. "Go to sleep."
"Can't."
"You and me both, hon."
"What were the noises?"
"Just the movie." She tuts, waves me away like a flappy bird. "Aeron. It's past nine."
The smell of her tea makes my belly hurt. "Where's Daddy?"
She freezes. "Go to bed."
"Can he play me a song? Just to help me sleep." He does good songs on the piano.
Her voice changes. "There was a problem with Daddy."
I frown. "Like what?"
"Nothing. Now get your ass to bed before I lose my temper."
"Okay," I mumble. Maybe I'll play Nintendo, turn the sounds down.
Back to the door and the stairs, past the man on the floor.
Man with Daddy's hairy feet, but not his clothes.
Man with his face covered. So still.
My belly empties, sour taste in my mouth like that time I drank mouthwash. All over the carpet and covering my bear slippers.
"Hey!" I choke out. "I'm s-s-I'm sick..."
Nothing.
Must be a real good show she's watching.
Mama...?
7
Corruption (noun): acceptance of the fact that 'nice boys' still conduct school shootings, and the best place to find a 'nice girl' is on the end of a bastard's dick
Oh, hello there. I'm Aeron Lore. You might recognise me from scenes such as sexually assaulting Leo, or trespassing in Leo's apartment and assaulting her again. It's important that you remember this as you join me for the next part of the journey. Important that you understand how things are here in the land of American Dreams.
I made the mistake of underestimating Leo, but now I know what she's capable of and what she needs from me. Nobody asks to be corrupted, but there comes a time in a man's life when he looks around and realizes how he got this far; the answer is never being nice. It's exactly the same for women, but half of them haven't noticed yet.
This is Leo's time. This is the part where I gamble, and it could go one of three ways.
The first way—and the most obvious—is that she runs. I open my eyes and just like that, she flickers from the world like a candle blown out, taking my secrets with her.
The second is that she makes good on her go fuck yourself threat and exposes everything. Could the police hurt me? Probably not, given time elapsed and my access to good counsel. But it would look bad. Create an aura of distasteful notoriety. Rachel would probably make a couple hundred thou on a cringeworthy tell-all book, and Leo...she's not that kind of victim. But my victim...ah, that, she is.
The third way is that Leo signs the contract and takes my offer. Comes to me, despite my transgressions. Kneels at the feet of the devil, arms outstretched and forehead to the floor. I've made it clear what I'm about. What she'd be signing up for.
I don't know that she will sign. I've hurt her. Threatened her. Humiliated her. She could wield power over me if she wanted; in fact the only thing she can't do is refuse me, should I decide to assert myself upon her again. Though there's something about the image of her willingly spreading her thighs for me that heats my blood a few degrees above longing. Surrender, they call it. White flag, white skin as my canvas, and a mouthful of white truths. Shall I hedge my bets here, after she struggled not to come on my fingers? Yes, I think I shall.
Watch her closely for me, grasshoppers. Leo thinks she's supposed to be a nice girl. Her perception is warped—there's more than a streak of me in the little lion.
There are other things inside her, too. And only one way to find them: cut a hole and let them out.
* * *
The morning after I visit Leo's apartment, I get into work just before eight a.m. and summon Tuija. She bursts into the office a few minutes later, my black coffee in one hand and her iPad in the other. Her hair is tied up today, some complicated kind of bun, and she has applied too much makeup to hide her hangover. She looks like a ballerina in drag.
"Are the news editors still using conference suite three for their meetings?" I ask, not looking up from the computer.
"Good morning to you, too." She places my coffee on a glass coaster. "And yes, they are. Why?"
"Clear it out." I flick off my email screen and sit back to appraise her. "It'll hold, what, sixteen desks? I want Silent Witn3ss in there."
She blinks matted black eyelashes against circles of too-pale makeup. "What? I thought—"
"No contract yet, I know. But there will be."
"She wanted to keep her downtown offi—"
"She wants an office in my building. On my floor." I click my fingers. "Oh, and clean Stefan out of the single office beside it. Leo should have her own space."
Tuija sets her iPad down on my desk, her brows furrowed in confusion. "Are you practising some kind of Jedi mind control?"
I snort. "No."
"So how the hell have you pulled this off?"
"Persuasion." I hope.
"Oh, I see." She gives a slow nod. "Right. Okay. So let me get this straight: you want me to throw a dozen pissed editors back into the main newsroom to make space for your little camera cartel?"
"I'm glad we understand each other."
"Where are they meant to meet?"
"They can use one of the conference rooms downstairs." I shrug. "Although it's really not my problem, is it?"
"They could make it your problem. You know how shitty they get."
"Then they know where the door is." I pause for a sip of coffee. "Harvey get back to you with anything?"
She grabs the iPad again, skimming through screens with a finger. "Yep. Nothing to be excited about, though—just a general update, no evidence yet, yada yada."
"How reassuring."
"You want the rest of your itinerary?"
"Already read it." I grin, and she blossoms at the sight. "But you do perform it so nicely."
At that, she turns to leave, but I reach across my desk to yank the hem of her skirt.
"Tuij."
"Mmm?" She glances back, her face falling.
"Stop drinking. I'm not going to ask you again."
It's not the first time we've been through this. Tuija has relapsed two or three times in the years I've known her; she'd tell you it was stress-induced. I, on the other hand, call bullshit. Look at the way she softens in the caress of my concern.
"I'll try," she says quietly.
"No rehab this time. I've got too much going on to lose you."
"Okay." She presses her lips together. "I get it."
"Now go fix our little office problem, and tell Fliss to buzz me as soon as the contract comes through."
She raises two fingers to her forehead in a good-natured mockery of a salute. "Yes, sir."
Indeed.
Sir.
Perhaps I'll make Leo call me that.
* * *
Two hours later, there's a signed contract on my desk. Leontine Reeves, reads the top signature. Fluid, soft-fingered writing; a flourish around the foot of the R. I run my thumb over the words the same way I did along her inner thigh, mourning the lack of goosebumps, the absence of her trembling flesh.
A stran
ge taste blooms on my tongue; Leo and sweat and the orgasms she hasn't bled for me yet. The hairs on the back of my neck stand on end.
Our lawyers will spend the next few days handling the paperwork, but by next Monday, SilentWitn3ss will be legally mine. Leo will take longer, but not by much.
My phone call is picked up in three rings.
"Hello, SilentWitn3ss," says a polite female voice. "How can I help you?"
You can start by changing to SilentWitn3ss, a division of Lore Incorporated. "Miss Reeves, please."
She clears her throat. "Who's calling, please?"
"Aeron Lore."
Here it comes: the hitch in her breath. Never fails to arouse me, just slightly. "Of course. I'll put you through."
There's no on-hold music at the company, which is somewhere between refreshing and irritating. Not to worry; in a week or so, they'll be in my building and they'll share the same on-hold news updates as everyone else who calls.
"Hello?" says a man, coolly. I recognise the sulky tone. "Finn speaking."
Is he, now? "Is Leo not available?"
"She's in a meeting."
Funny—she wasn't "in a meeting" just two minutes ago. I could bait him, ask him if he'll fetch her regardless because I'm on the line, but it would be pointless when she's already trying to bait me. "I need to speak to someone about office arrangements."
"Then you can speak to me. I'm on the board of directors."
SilentWitn3ss is so small, they're all on the fucking board. Please. "Well. Finn. Do me a favour, and tell your boss to submit her office requirements via my assistant. She's preparing a space for you as we speak."
Finn splutters. "But—I don't think—Mr Lore, relocation wasn't part of the deal."
"It wasn't on the contract, no." I smile to myself. Run my thumb over Leo's signature. "But trust me, given the level of my investment...Leo is aware of the stipulation."
"She hasn't said anything about it," he retorts.
Snotty little shit.
"No, I doubt she has. Anyway. Pass on the message, please. The space will be ready on Monday, and you're all welcome to visit in the meantime."
"Uh...thanks."
Who will hang up first, I wonder?
"Actually," he says, "if you could just—"
Oh, look at that. It was me.
* * *
The rest of the week crawls by on its hands and knees.
Finn emails Tuija with a list of requests for the office: furniture, equipment, layout suggestions. Part of the space will need altering for workstations and a small lab, but it's nothing unreasonable. I'm almost disappointed; part of me wondered if she'd push for her own floor. I do have a floor for her, but that pun is way too predictable.
Finn visits the offices. Leo does not.
I release Tuija from her day-to-day duties to project manage SilentWitn3ss's relocation, partly because somebody with a brain needs to do it and partly because I think we could use some time apart. Let her yearn for me a bit so she's grateful for my eventual presence. I'm not an idiot—she's drinking because of me. Flattering as that is, I can't have my inner circle implode just because I've dared to show interest in a woman. The jealousy bus, sports fans: it has two stops only, Purgatory and jail. And Tuija already got off on the first one.
In the meantime, I'm interviewed by Forbes magazine, and a journalist accompanies me to one of Ash's little league games for a semi-biographical feature where I come out looking like a man you could take home to grandma. I want Leo to see these articles. I want her to pass a news stand on her way home and catch a glimpse of the creature who put a gun to her throat while he finger-fucked her sore, only to see what a wholesome role model the public thinks he is—and I want her world to snap shut.
Friday comes and there's been no contact from Leo. Each night, I've spent long minutes thinking back to our encounter in her apartment, touching myself to the memory of her scent. Her voice. The feel of her, deep inside. Surely, she knows that my shadow aches for hers; this is all part of a tease I promised to quit.
But a man has his vices, and mine won't shut up until it has been fed.
I leave the office an hour earlier on Friday and drive to a parking lot downtown, where Tuija reserved a space for me. The streets are crowded—people finishing early shifts, or on their way out to meet friends and lovers—and with my head down, it's easy enough to blend in. I pass restaurants and cocktail bars already filling up, art cinemas with irritating, makeshift signs outside, and delis selling off the last of their cupcakes. New York is a haze of old and new cigarette smoke, traffic and bodies; a warm, acrid sludge of air.
A few blocks later, I spot the car I'm looking for parked near the back of Leo's office block: a silver Honda with scratched paint. I glance about before getting into the passenger seat—have to check for prying eyes.
I may be infatuated, but I'm done with being careless along with it.
"Hola." Tommy Chavez presses his lips together and gives me a pat on the shoulder. A familiar greeting, as if he's relieved to see me, yet is the bearer of bad news. Neither is true. He wipes a bead of sweat from his tanned forehead and smoothes back his black hair. "Just in time, chief."
"Glad to hear it." With another glance into the wing mirror, I reach into my jacket pocket and retrieve his envelope. "For the next few weeks."
He takes it with a nod. "Gracias."
"Any hits on the girl I asked you about?"
"Miss Fordham, right?" He waits for my nod of acknowledgement. "Nah, chief. Nada. No email, no social media. I stayed away from her phone, like you asked."
Leo is a surveillance professional; only a retard would attempt to hack her phone. Not that I haven't been tempted.
"She had two phones," I say.
"Not unusual. One's probably for work."
"One was a pretty outdated model. An old Nokia. Seems weird for someone who works in tech."
He purses his lips. "True."
"Keep watching," I instruct in a low voice. "Sooner or later, she'll make contact with Fordham. Will meet her, probably."
"Of course. Although she don't meet many people, truth be told. Goes to work, goes to the gym, comes home. I think she met her grandpa once for dinner."
"No men?"
"Not that I saw. If she's got a man, he's creepin' in through her bedroom window at three in the morning and shimmyin' down a tree when he's blown his load."
I checked out Leo's Fordham story. Turns out, Rachel has been through several therapy stints at the same centre, and one stay overlapped with Leo's. That was six years ago. Leo claimed that I handed myself over on a silver platter; it's true that I was the one to make first contact. After reading about SilentWitn3ss online, I sent Tuija to see them at an expo, and made a bid soon after. But Leo's history means none of this amounts to coincidence. They way she's come after me...this has been building a long time, and I'd bet my own asshole that Rachel is somehow involved.
Revenge, perhaps. Hell hath no fury and all that shit. Something doesn't make sense yet, doesn't fit. Although, lying on that bed with me...Leo found herself curious in unprecedented ways. She sure as fuck hadn't planned that. The girl is a bag of snakes, a riot of contradictions; I can't walk away without sampling.
"You want to see her?" asks Tommy.
I clutch the door handle a little too tightly. Release it as my knuckles begin to ache. "I want to see her."
"Then follow me, and ye shall receive."
We walk up behind the office block and climb up the fire escape. The SilentWitn3ss office is six floors up, and the escape itself leads to a balcony stretching all the way along the back of the building.
"She won't see us from here. Wrong angle," he tells me. "I checked it out good."
"Does she still think you're from Us Weekly?"
He gives a quiet snort. "Ha, yeah. Keeps tossing her hair at my camera."
I could never have used members of my own security team to keep tabs on Leo; she'd have recognised one sooner or late
r. But Tommy has done me favours over the years and is a seasoned PI. After her suspiciously clean background check, only a moron wouldn't have commissioned someone to watch Leo, and now the Fordham crap is complicating things, I'm far more comfortable using an investigator who's a little more removed from my personal life.
"You gotta drop down on one knee," Tommy explains, gesturing toward a wide window. "That's the main office, right through there. She's been clearin' up. Box after box, all sweaty. You sure give me the shittiest jobs."
"I know how much you hate staring at pretty girls all day." I do as he instructs, my knee hitting the cold metal floor with a soft creak. Up ahead, the office comes into view—a mess of design posters, stacked boxes and half-assembled iMacs. "You're certain they don't have cameras around here?"
"Certain, yes sir. There's one just above the window—see it? The grey box. But it doesn't cover this spot."
At that moment, Leo strides into view. She wears a dark green dress that sweeps across her breasts in layers of tight jersey; her hair is tied up to reveal the nape of her neck. "Leave me here," I murmur.
Tommy gives my shoulder another pat as he creeps past. "Enjoy, chief. Enjoy."
Jesus. I'd berate him for touching me, but firstly, it disrupts my One of the Guys act, and secondly, it's a waste of breath when I could spend it watching Leo.
For long minutes, she and I are alone together. Her office is mostly empty—no doubt she's sent them all out to celebrate the acquisition—but there are files for her to organize and tech workstations to pack away. It annoys me that the rest of her team just fucked off and left her with all the hard work. Who are the real assholes here, huh?
The space itself is modern and open plan, white with the occasional spatter of black or green; she moves about it with a confidence that keeps her shoulders back and her eyes half-lidded with suspicion. The world, it seems, fills her with disdain, and she is not fit to look upon it.
God, I love a good superiority complex in a woman. On some level, she loves that I challenge it, too. We're sandpaper, rubbing each other in all sorts of painful ways, but she doesn't realise until one of us is bleeding—even then, she can't resist a taste. That night she licked my blood from her finger, it was a sucking kiss of corruption. The games, grasshoppers, have begun.
