by Lime Craven
"I will." I peer around to the laptop as the credits screen rolls by. "Dexter? Really?"
"I like me some blood and guts between..." She nods at the files. "Blood and guts."
"Speaking of which. Has anything come back from Leo's old clinic?"
"The therapy place?"
"Uhuh."
She shrugs. "Nope. Trying to crack these places is like trying to fuck a cat in the ass."
"Then get busy lifting tails. I want the intel." I position two fingers behind a lipstick and flick it off the desk. It soars into her full-length mirror with a piercing smack.
"Hey! That's a Dior, asshole." She glares between the lipstick—which is now cracked and looking pathetic on the carpet—and my grin. "You're as bad as a fucking teenage boy sometimes."
I probably am. "Anybody would think that you didn't want me to have the info, firecracker."
"They're classified medical records. They have all sorts of celebrity basket cases at these clinics and they're up to their necks in NDAs. Our best bet is to get our hands on her referral letter, but I've been told it'll be another week."
"Why so long?" I brace my fingers behind another lipstick, but she spots me at the last second and swipes it away. "I'm bored of being patient."
"You're always bored."
"Stop watching that bullshit TV show and answer my question."
"I don't know why it takes so long. You want answers, I'll give you the number of my contact and you can ask him yourself." Her eyes dart left to right. "Although all you'll do is terrify him, and then you'll never get what you want, so..."
"Don't be so overdramatic."
"Don't call Dexter bullshit. This show is genius."
"I don't watch it." I squint at the screen, where the guy from Six Feet Under is hacking someone up with a chainsaw. Have to respect variety. "Isn't it just some serial killer crap?"
"No," she huffs.
"You know what percentage of serial killers are actually caught?"
"Should it worry me that you know this?"
"Three percent. The rest are just walking around like average Joes, murdering when they feel like it. And they'll probably never be brought to justice." I have to be careful that this doesn't sound like bragging.
Not that I'm a serial killer. Of course.
"Yep," she mutters, not looking up. "Definitely worries me."
"You finally figured it out, Tuij." I grin, dimples and all.
"Right. You're not nearly stereotypical enough. I mean, where's your obsession with expensive grooming products? Why has there never been blood on your dry cleaning? Where's your collection of dried-out butterflies, huh? I've seen your apartment. It's way too..." She almost sounds disappointed. "...Normal."
"You realise that most murderers don't hack off their victims' third finger and send it to a police detective in a jar? They just snap. Kill. Go back to their day jobs. If they're lucky, they do a good enough job of clearing up or disassociating themselves, but that's it."
"Dexter kills people because they deserve it," she says matter-of-factly. "He picks out people who've committed crimes and then uses them to relieve his urge to kill."
"Doesn't make him any less of a predator."
"I guess not." She shrugs. "It's like spiders though, right? Some people are afraid of them and some people aren't, but either way, they do a good job taking care of the flies."
I press my lips together. "You're seriously standing up for this guy?" He's not even real!
"Why?" She beams at me, all lipstick and bright white teeth. "You jealous?"
"I think I'll survive."
"You'd make an excellent sociopath. Just work on your cannibalism, or something."
I pull myself to standing. "Right."
"Or maybe psychopath. Cannibals are psychopaths, right?" she calls.
"There's no difference." I glance back, careful to catch her eye. "They just started using sociopath because too many professionals mistook psychopath to mean psychotic."
She pauses, her finger pointing feebly at the laptop screen. "These guys are not sane."
"Yep, they are." I grin again. "Get me my intel please, Tuij."
"I'm working on it." She glances back at her laptop and shakes her head, muttering to herself. "No way they're sane."
We're saner than all of you.
* * *
That evening, I wait for the rest of the SilentWitn3ss clique to leave before knocking on the door of Leo's office. I haven't seen her depart on the security cameras; it's gone seven p.m., but she should still be around.
"Come in," she calls, sounding harassed.
Long day, sweetheart?
The office is surprisingly tidy; besides a stack of brown boxes near the door, everything is in its place and the surfaces are clear. She's even mounted her certificates and product blueprints on the walls, and several large bunches of flowers, dotted about in tall Lore Corp glass vases, make the place reek of cloying lilies.
Leo, seated at her desk, looks down as I enter.
"Miss Reeves," I say, my voice gruffer than I intended.
"Indeed."
"You're still here."
She tips her chin, half-smiles. "I believe they call it work."
I consider pulling up a spare chair, but decide to stand instead. I like to look down on her; it's symbolic in this obvious, delectable way. "And when did you take up floristry?"
"People heard I was moving to your company. They're gestures of condolence."
"Very amusing." I prod one lily and shake away its spatter of pollen. "If the media is anything to go by, people are queuing up to congratulate you."
"But not you." She swallows. "No flowers from Mr Lore."
"Didn't think you'd appreciate them."
"And why not?"
I find her black button eyes, the pupils all dilated for me already. "Because you don't sleep with clichés."
Leo takes a sharp little breath and puts her chin in her hand, staring at something ahead that is infinitely less interesting than me, but probably less threatening. "Why do you do that?"
I shrug. "Do what?"
"Flirt with me like everything's normal. Act as if I'm some girl at a bar you're trying to charm."
"Why don't you look at me, and I'll answer?"
She peers up though curled eyelashes. "I'm looking."
I should hide the way her gaze gets me hard—should knot my hands over my groin, or something. But instead, my fingers fall to cup her jaw, and I run my tongue along the dissolving stitches inside my bottom lip.
"Would you like me to play the gentleman?" I push my thumb through her flesh. Against the bone. "A seduction...is that what you want?"
She winces at the pressure of my hand. "Why bother with seduction when you have knives and guns?"
"I don't know. It might be fun."
"I'm aware of your type of fun."
"Yet here you are."
Silence.
She doesn't even attempt to defend her decision; I find this curious.
I want to shove my thumb in her mouth, make her suck on it. Choke. I want to see those button eyes drowned in so much pleasure that they ebb from the world. And yet this seduction idea—it's so absurd that I warm to it. How better to punish Leo for fucking with me than with a horrible mockery of love?
I drag my fingers down her throat, press lightly. Soak up her badly stifled gasps. And then I stand back.
"Did you come in here for anything specific?" she asks in a croaky voice.
"Probably."
"And is this the part where I tell you to go fuck yourself?"
"It'd be a shame to break the habit of a lifetime."
"Ha."
"Have dinner with me," I say firmly.
She stiffens. "Why?"
"Because I asked you to."
"I have a busy week ahead," she mutters.
"I'm your boss. I'll free you up." And then I turn for the door. I'm about to tell her that Tuija will check my calendar, but it feels too
impersonal. Seduction isn't performed by an assistant. "Wednesday evening. Nine o'clock." Whatever I have, I'll clear it.
She sits back in her chair and like a far more arrogant creature, gives me the once-over. "Go fuck yourself."
"Wednesday," I call over my shoulder. "Bring that smart mouth of yours. I have some new words to teach it."
* * *
I've never seduced a woman before.
Well. That's a lie.
I've never performed a traditional seduction, the hearts and flowers kind. I'm almost excited to play with this. Tear it apart and make it my own.
Later that night, when the apartment is empty and quiet, I load up my laptop and begin my research. Pay her compliments, say the gentlemen. Ask questions and listen to her answers; always pay for dinner. Give foot massages and take the kids for an evening so she can go to book club or running club or sit in a coffee shop and pretend she's married to somebody else. This particular website isn't called Captain Obvious, but it probably should be.
I move on to the Game sites. These guys think they're real players; they like to screw with the mind of a woman, knock her down a peg or two so she feels special just to be in their presence. While I see the logic here, I fail to see the draw for any woman with more than a shred of self-esteem; and while self-esteem can be troublesome, God, it's amusing to toy with. I don't want a puppy to kick—I want a vicious little vixen who doesn't lie still until she's bleeding.
Enough. I should have guessed, given my unusual intentions, that there would be no help for me here. Still, it's useful to know what to measure Leo's expectations against.
When my thoughts turn to Leo, they melt to greyer shades. Twist to strange shapes and swell in the heat of desire. I plug in my headphones and scroll through a favourite porn site until I find a video with a girl who is suitably similar; blond hair, tanned skin, smudgy black eyes. She doesn't moan like my Leo—Leo isn't fake—but it'll do while I'm waiting.
The girl onscreen is masturbating, almost naked, her purple thong underwear tangled around her ankles as she lies back on a pink bed. Fluffy cushions and pop posters are somehow meant to indicate that she's younger than she is. Something for the lowlife deviants. I'm too busy looking between her legs to pay attention to much else, too busy watching her fingers pump into her wet, open pussy.
I remember doing this to Leo, and I remember how her body went limp when she gave in and ceased resisting. I could've fucked her that night; I knew it then and I know it now. But it wouldn't have been what I wanted. There are plans to put in place and rules to make clear before I can have Leo the way that I need to, and as I stroke myself, I make a list.
Tomorrow, it starts. My backward seduction. Sharp as the blade of a razor and blunt as the first stroke of a fuck. At the end, if she's there, I'll know she wants the same things. I never did imagine such a creature; stupid of me, perhaps. But I've always been alone in my desires. There were girls like Rachel who thought they wanted my particular brand of passion until they realised exactly how much it would hurt...too late. I've been so careful since.
The girl in the video begins to come, her hips bucking, her fingers soaking wet. Soon, I'll see Leo like this; stripped down and desperate, at the mercy of my cock. My tongue.
My knife knows little mercy, but she'll get the sharp end of that, too.
* * *
Early the next morning, I make a phone call to a prestigious florist, who is bemused by my request but agrees to it regardless. I tell her it's for a music video and give her a fake name. She responds with an abrupt little laugh.
Then, I call the chocolatier. I have a sarcastic lover, I explain; she will appreciate his unusual efforts. He asks for twenty-four hours to complete, which I grant him.
I make a final order, online this time. Express delivery to my apartment. This one, I must finish myself.
Gifts for my special girl, one, two and three. Lingerie and flowers, indeed.
Come hunting with me, grasshoppers.
I'mma catch me a lion.
FIFTEEN YEARS AGO
Motel in the suburbs
Aged 17
I got impatient with Rachel. Went too fast, fucked her too early, and now she won't take the cuts in the places I wanted her to.
She lies naked on the crappy motel bed, legs apart, half-obscured by the faded white sheet. Her chest rises and falls with each short, sharp breath. I've put a towel underneath her, and she's bleeding through the tape I applied to her wounds, red trails crusting her cum-stained inner thighs and matting into the cotton.
I'm trying to watch a football game on the old TV while she recovers, but all she does is talk over the fucking thing.
"Aeron?"
Without looking up, I pass her the glass—half amaretto, half Coke—but she shakes her head.
"Makes me feel sick," she whimpers.
"Suit yourself." I'd down the rest of it, but I need to drive us back.
"Aeron?"
I glance up at her. "What?"
"Is—is it meant to hurt this much?"
"Did you think that it wouldn't?"
"I thought—I thought..." Fat tears christen her cheeks. Strands of black hair stick to her sweaty forehead. "Will you help me put my panties back on?"
I peer down between her legs and inhale the scent emanating from her sticky skin: stale arousal, antiseptic, the iron edge of blood. "Why?"
"Because I can't go home without them...but I can't, I can't move properly without..."
Without disturbing her wounds.
Even in her distress, there's a softness about the way she looks at me, a hesitance that belies her feelings. I'm the star quarterback. The aloof older guy. I give her my time, my attention; I make her come; she's privileged to be here. And Rachel knows she's special in her own way, too—I could've had any dumb cheerleader on this bed and she'd probably be less of a risk, but where's the fun in that? The fight? Rachel's smart. 4.0 GPA, yearbook staff, prickly with almost everyone except me. A proper little goody two shoes—except right now. Oh, this afternoon...she's been very bad.
I'll take care of her. We love being each other's exception.
Sighing, I slip down on to the worn-out mustard carpet to find her cheap black panties. Then I sit back on the bed—the old mattress creaking toward me and causing her to wince—to lift her legs one by one. She squeals as I tug the fabric past the beautiful red murals of her inner thighs.
"Maybe you should wear bigger ones next time," I chide her. As an afterthought, I throw in a grin. She always likes those.
There will be a next time.
Rachel begins to sob.
9
Foreplay (noun): the lies a man tells before he gets inside a woman
Later in the morning, I stand outside my office and watch from the end of the hall as the florist delivers Leo's arrangement.
Various employees are in transit—SilentWitn3ss, news room staff—and they stop to stare when they catch sight of the bouquet. The delivery girl is evidently unsettled, and she keeps her eyes on the bundle of scarlet cellophane and tissue in her arms; twelve thorny stems emerge from the ribbon and wrapping, arranged so they protrude at even angles to form a dome shape. A dozen perfect red roses...but turned upside down.
When Leo removes the wrapping, she'll be treated to a sea of crushed red petals that bleed to the floor like tears.
Tuija stands beside me, her made-up face wrinkled with unease. "You know this is an office, right? Not a Tim Burton movie."
I elbow her sharply in the ribs, sending her flying into the glass wall behind us. "Don't piss on my picnic."
"Ouch. Motherfu—"
"And mind your fucking language."
She rubs at her side, wincing. "You're doing an ace job of putting the no in Casanova."
I pat her on the head. "You keep telling yourself that."
Leo hides away all day, but that evening, my phone goes off with a text from a strange number.
But he that dares not grasp the thorn shou
ld never crave the rose, it reads. L x
A Bronte quote.
How very English of her.
* * *
Wednesday. The date of our dinner, and the arrival of my second gift.
I deliberately schedule a Central Park run with Harvey for the delivery timeslot. If I'm in the building, all I'll do is think of Leo's face when she opens this particular box, and I hate nothing more than distraction.
The weather is mediocre today: grey skies, drizzle. The sky hangs heavy and swollen. We jog through the groves, gravel and dust spewing from our running shoes, and the damp air cools the sweat on my brow to a film. Clothes stick to me unpleasantly. It's all like being choked by a cold, wet hand.
"So," I say to Harvey, "any developments?"
"With M?"
"The very same."
"We got a couple text messages. He keeps arranging to meet up with his boy toy but then gets waylaid, has to cancel." He huffs. "Twice now, we've been all set to get photos and it hasn't come through. This could take time."
"Then take it."
We come to a small bridge, and the wood shudders and groans beneath the pounding of our footsteps.
"But as soon as you have something," I go on, "I want it. Photos, audio, everything."
Harvey nods. Pauses. "You mind me asking what you planning to do with it?"
I shrug. "Haven't quite made up my mind. But it'll be useful."
"He'll come after you if you expose him," he says in a low voice.
"He can try to come after me. But with his company in crisis and his shareholders squeezing his balls, he'd have his hands fucking full."
"Only means he'll do something quick and nasty. You gotta be careful."
"I'll keep it in mind."
I bring my wrist up to check my watch. Any moment now, a luxuriously wrapped box of chocolates will be delivered to Leo's desk. When she opens them, she'll find a tray of Hans Gaultier's famous dark chocolate and cherry ganache hearts, although these will be a little different. Adapted, you might say.
"How's your acquisition shaping up?" Harvey asks as we thud past a play area. "Everyone playing nicely?"
