Sociopath

by Lime Craven

I snort. "Of course not."

  He chuckles. "Shouldn't have asked."

  Before I made a bid on SilentWitn3ss, Harvey performed an initial background check on the company itself; he wanted to make sure nobody was affiliated with an enemy. To be specific: he wanted to make sure that no money flowed between Montgomery—or another media CEO—and Leo, or her employees. None was found. Truth be told, nobody had paid them a great deal of attention. A surveillance company isn't doing its job right if everyone has heard of them.

  Of course, my social media plans for SilentWitn3ss will alter that. It's how I built my empire so swiftly: I became a gamechanger. A catalyst. And the box that just landed on Leo's desk...that's a catalyst, too.

  She'll peel off the silky gold lid to find twenty chocolate hearts. But they won't be flawless, smooth domes. These, as per my request, will gape in the centre, their dark cherry filling spilling out in messy tendrils. One or two split chocolates would simply suggest that they'd been accidentally crushed; each of these is designed to spew its scarlet innards out toward Leo's eye. I noticed her penchant for cherry dark chocolate while in her apartment, and this will not be lost on her. A small part of her psyche will light up because I cared.

  Hans was concerned that they'd not stay fresh for long. And they won't. Broken, bleeding things never do...but then if one looks in the right places, there's beauty even in rot. Not that I expect Leo to keep the chocolates around for long. They aren't really the kind you can share with colleagues or offer to your mother over a cup of coffee.

  Heh.

  "You need me around tonight?" Harvey asks. "For your...dinner." There's a perplexed tone to his gruff voice.

  I ought to be annoyed at that, but then I don't take women out for dinner often. I certainly don't take out eligible, single women. If Harvey wasn't aware of this then he'd be shit at his job, and while his display of confusion is tactless, it's also demonstrative of the public's view of me: unattainable. Already taken by a redheaded rocket, and fiercely private about the fact.

  Even Harvey isn't a hundred percent sure about the nature of my relationship with Tuija, and this amuses me like nothing else. Short of bugging the pair of us, he has no way of knowing what goes on.

  "I'm good," I tell him. "It's not like we're going to Taco Bell."

  "You know there'll be a media circus if you're seen. Speculation."

  "I'll brief my editors. Get a couple stories out." I've already decided to announce a 'split' with Tuija if things with Leo go my way. For things to work...Leo must be mine in public as well as private. Gives her less wiggle room. Closes the cage. "I can deal with a little girl, Harvey."

  "It's not her I'm worried about, sir."

  Ah. "Tuija?"

  "She's temperamental."

  "She and I have an understanding." We turn into a copse of tall, overbearing trees. Shadows swallow us, fat against the grey sky. "I can deal."

  "Her recent alcohol binges haven't escaped me," he adds.

  "It happens. I've spoken to her."

  "And I'll keep watching her."

  Women. Are you reading this? All we do is watch.

  Well.

  * * *

  Just before nine, and I'm waiting alone in a secluded booth at Blue River Kitchen. It's a favourite haunt of mine on the rare occasions I have to entertain; they pride themselves on upmarket, stylish soul food, and I like the crisp white table covers contrasted with their eerie blue lighting scheme. It's like somebody tried to pretty-up a strip club, something raw beneath the moneyed facade.

  I like this booth, too: close enough to the rest of the restaurant to catch faded wisps of dreamy psychedelic rock, but far enough to afford a little privacy.

  I'm not so presumptuous as to order a drink for Leo, though my driver already sent a message to confirm that he's picked her up. A part of me had wondered if she'd come; she's unpredictable, to an extent. Like me.

  So I wait, a beer bottle cooling my left hand, my cell in my right. I take the time to perform a regular ritual: scroll through Facebook and scatter around the comments and Likes. My profile is a carefully orchestrated plethora of funny quotes, photos of Ash and snippets of business news. All very humble. I keep odd acquaintances from high school and college as Friends, and I make sure to congratulate them on their successes or post a sad face on their whiny status updates. It all keeps me looking grounded, and whenever other media is sniffing around for info, they're guaranteed to find an authentic source with nothing but good things to say. Never underestimate the power of offering a select few low lives a little privilege; it's like endless foreplay. You never fuck them, but they don't care. They're conditioned to be grateful for scraps.

  I'm That Guy, you know. The one playing on his cell phone at a restaurant. The one in jeans and a nice shirt, the one who looks like you could take him home to mama.

  Leo arrives just after nine. I hear the heels first, and my eyes settle on a pair of sleek black boots approaching the table. Said boots lead to slender knees, firm thighs encased in a slate grey mini skirt. A loose, slouchy black sweater slips from her tawny shoulders, coming into view as she slides into the booth before I can even get up to greet her.

  I make a show of putting my phone away. "Jeez. Sorry."

  Her lips are especially glossy tonight, as if she expects to be kissed and wants me to think about it. The blue lights half-spill over her tanned skin and pick out the purple of her painted mouth. "Did I startle you?"

  "No. Well." I bring my hands up on to the table and lean a little, breathing in her mulled wine perfume. "Good evening to you, too."

  She raises her eyebrows. Glances around, almost paranoid, her loose honey blond hair swishing about her shoulders and jaw. "It's nice in here."

  "You've never been?"

  "I get kinda busy." She gives an apologetic shrug. "You could say I don't get out much."

  "We'll have to change that." As if I'm some sort of social butterfly; I probably go out less than she does. What a strange dance this seduction crap is. I gesture to a hostess, who trots over in her smart skirt suit to hand us menus in thin metal folders.

  "Can I get you anything to drink?" she asks.

  I wait for Leo to order, but she nods for me to go.

  I lift up my beer bottle—European, light and crisp. "I'll take another one, thanks."

  "Same for me," Leo adds, pointing.

  The hostess briefly outlines the specials—which I nod at appreciatively, despite the fact that there's nothing special about clam chowder or an artisan hotdog—and then she disappears.

  "So." Leo spreads her menu open with a little clatter. "What's good here?"

  "You really want to talk about food?"

  "To begin with."

  "Okay." I put my own menu down, lean further in. Flick forward a few pages on hers, so our fingers are only inches apart. "Please tell me you're not a vegetarian."

  "I'm not a vegetarian," she says, hesitant but amused.

  I knew this from looking in her refrigerator. Still. "Then I think you have to try the steak. Fillet, medium rare. Trust me."

  "But do they have Béarnaise?"

  "If you want to sully a flawless piece of beef with French shit, then yeah, I guess they have it."

  She puts her chin in her palm and stares at me. "I was going to tell you that I can't stand dry meat, but the innuendo is too obvious."

  Barely a week ago, I had this girl on her back, my fingernails grazing her cervix while she whimpered and hated and struggled. Now we're sitting in some cosy restaurant booth, exchanging bad sex puns and making doe eyes at each other. It's like we've done date rape backwards.

  I move my finger across her menu; she doesn't move hers, but leaves them lying at the edges like an invitation.

  "To start," I go on, "I like the corn fritters with scallops. Or if you prefer salad, the peach mozzarella is good."

  She gives a short, sharp laugh. "I've eaten too many salads this week already. Sign me up for the lard."

  "So I can count
on you not to flake out at dessert, huh?"

  "Oh." She lowers her eyes. "Not sure if I can manage any more chocolate today."

  At that moment, the hostess returns with our beers. She takes our orders; corn fritters followed by fillets and fries, though Leo adds Béarnaise to her plate. And then we're alone, just shadows and echoed music and soft blue lights making Leo's big eyes blacker than usual.

  Our menus are gone, no longer playgrounds for our fingers, but I want to touch her.

  So I do.

  She watches my hand as I reach across the table; I find the underside of her wrist with my thumb and push in. My breath catches at the feel of veins beneath skin, lithe and springing. I half think she'll pull away, but she doesn't; I reward that with long, smooth strokes across her forearm.

  Pain is useless without pleasure. One highlights the other, and the tension that simmers between them is the sweetest of lines to cross.

  "I hope you received my gifts," I say.

  "I couldn't exactly have missed them." Still, she watches my fingers as if it's safer than eye contact. It probably is.

  "I had them put together just for you."

  "So I gathered." She takes a deep breath. "Thanks. They're...they're very unique."

  "I want to spoil you," I murmur.

  Silence.

  Eventually, she finds the courage to look up. "I'm already spoiled."

  "Leo." Under the table, I find her leg with mine, rub my knee against hers. She doesn't pull away. "I don't give a shit about anything that happened before tonight. Do you understand?"

  "Seems a strange thing to say for a man who plans so meticulously."

  She really doesn't get it; an impulsive man like me must learn to plan. He must accept consequence, must remember that it exists, and must build a life that cossets him from the risk of his very nature. Without plans, he's just wildfire, attracting too much attention and torching everything he touches.

  Yet all that ever matters to me is the here and now.

  "Besides," she goes on. "There are things that have happened between us that I'd find...difficult to forget."

  "I'm not asking you to."

  "Then what are you asking for?" She makes a soft, frustrated sound. "Because one minute you're all sweetness—odd, twisted sweetness, granted—and the next, you don't ask me for anything. You just take, whether you're talking me around or forcing my hand."

  Twisted? That's all I get...?

  "And now you look highly disgusted with me." Her voice wavers.

  "I'm not in the habit of pandering to some weird alpha fantasy." How to phrase this? "I've not changed since Miss Fordham. I am what I am."

  "O-okay." She tries to drag her arm back from my grasp, but I squeeze it in refusal.

  "So you'll understand if I'm a little suspicious that you are, as you say, okay with that."

  "I don't know that I am," she mutters. "And you still haven't answered my question."

  "Isn't obvious?"

  "What you want?" She gives a hollow laugh. "No."

  "Maybe you haven't dared to imagine." A grin stretches the corners of my mouth. "Maybe you should."

  She grabs her beer and takes a long drink. By the time she's finished, the hostess is standing over us with steaming plates of corn fritters and pan-fried scallops, their white plates garnished with lemony lettuce.

  I allow her to eat because the slicing sounds soothe me. I like that she's just inches away, her knee still pressed to mine; I let my jeans ride up a little around my loafers, let the leather of her boot slide against my ankle. Her sweater dips further as she leans toward her plate, showing me more than a hint of her cleavage, and every time she opens her mouth, I get a flash of white teeth or pink tongue. It's obvious that my scrutiny bothers her—I like this even more.

  "Do you have a thing for watching people eat?" she asks me sharply.

  "Nope." I sit back, shove my empty plate aside. "Just for you."

  We make small talk over steak and fries; the pretend first-date chatter amuses me. Leo tells me about growing up in England—the things she misses, like good breakfast tea and clotted cream—and I listen, like the articles told me to. It's even interesting.

  When she asks me about how I grew up, however, a prickly shiver claws at my throat. "What do you mean?"

  "I just wondered. You know. What your parents do—I mean, did. How things were."

  A voice spits up in my mind; Leo, lying beneath me, the gun to her throat. You deserve it. Not just Rachel. Your mother, your father...

  She can speculate about what happened to my parents, nothing else. The only person who knows the truth is me.

  "Sorry." She looks away. "I shouldn't have asked."

  "My mother didn't work. Trust fund. I never saw much of my grandparents, but for all their sins, they set her up pretty well. Dad...my father was a music teacher at a boarding school."

  "What did he play?"

  "Loads of instruments. All kinds of stuff. But I loved it best when he played piano. He used to do all this rockabilly shit, crazy riffs and rhythms."

  Her lips twitch at the edges; she doesn't know if she should smile. "Do you play?"

  "Chopsticks. And badly."

  Her face brightens. "Really?"

  "Uhuh." I find myself fiddling with the collar of my shirt, rolling it between my finger and thumb. "You play an instrument?"

  "Oh God, no. And I can't sing. I'm terrible."

  "That makes two of us."

  She takes a sip of beer, raising her eyebrows. "This is turning into some sort of confessional."

  "No, it really isn't." I catch her hand again. "Trust me."

  "Oh?" She digs her fingernails into the flesh of my palm. "I feel bad because I still have two parents when you don't have any."

  "I'm willing to bet at least one of your parents is a complete cunt, so don't pity me too much."

  She squeezes harder. This is becoming a contest. "I should have thrown those freak roses back in your face."

  "But you sent me a pretty quote instead."

  "I should have called the Police when I found you in my apartment."

  "But you didn't."

  "I shouldn't be here. Rachel—"

  "But you are here. Leo." I lean in, almost whispering. "Don't confuse should with want. All it does is make you miserable."

  She won't look at me. Her nails press so hard into my palm that they sting like nettles.

  I go on. "The trick is manipulate one for the sake of the other. Know the shoulds, consider the shoulds, but only comply when they lead to a want."

  She gives a bitter laugh. "And that's how the world works, is it?"

  "You want to tell me it doesn't?"

  "No." Her eyes are bright and black beneath long, curled lashes. "But I probably should."

  The hostess chooses that moment to appear with dessert menus, but I wave them away and pay the bill instead.

  Leo peers at me, her cheeks flushed with anticipation. "I thought you wanted pudding?"

  "I do." I get to my feet, my jacket slung over one arm and my free hand offered to her. "At your apartment."

  "I'm not going to fuck you," she mutters.

  The hostess passing by nearly drops her tray.

  We spend the cab journey to her building in silence. Lights flash past. Sirens blare. I reach across, catch her sweat-damp hand, knot our fingers tightly and press her palm to my thigh. Flesh on flesh, separated by a thin layer of fabric; fabric we should wear to obscure the skin we want. Heat flares between us. Crackles in nerves and licks old wounds. I half think I'll cut off her circulation, and she winces...but doesn't pull away. Just sits and trembles and when we arrive, refuses to let me pay for the cab.

  "You paid for dinner," she says quietly.

  "I also pay your salary. Don't be crass."

  She rolls her eyes and turns to leave the cab. I don't want to make a scene—not out in the open—and so I toss the driver a couple more bills.

  "Give me twenty minutes," I tell him.
And then I make a swift exit.

  At her door, she fumbles with her key so much that I'm half tempted to get out my copy.

  I stand behind her, pressing my chest to her back. My mouth is just inches from her ear. I stroke away honey waves—partly because it pleases me to touch her, and partly to check for one of her pesky little cameras—and lean in to whisper. "Don't panic, sweetheart."

  "I'm not panicking." She shoves the key into the lock. "Beer makes me anxious sometimes."

  "You're a terrible liar."

  The key turns, crunches, and the door slips open. A shrill alarm wails; she stumbles forward to tap the code into the keypad above her hall table, where her old phone still sits. The screen looks dead, blank, unresponsive. She scoops her newer phone from her handbag and puts one beside the other, along with her keys.

  I make my way into the kitchen—without switching on lights—and find the camera I remember is mounted on one of her wall units. With a quick snap, I sever its wire, rendering it useless. That's that taken care of. Then I find the box of chocolates I sent her, laid neatly on the counter beside a clear bag containing a new SilentWitn3ss prototype. I can hear Leo unzipping her boots out in the hall. The scent of cherry liquor wafts up as I peel the lid off the box; it reminds me of cough medicine that I took as a child. The untouched chocolates stare back at me with burst eyes, cherry innards spattered across their dark, smooth tops. I dig my finger into the middle of one and shake into the cool ooze of it.

  "Oh, I see." Leo pads into the room on bare feet. "You came for the chocolate."

  Without heels, she's shorter than I'm used to, which only serves to make her seem more vulnerable. I like this. My cock likes it. I've been half-hard all evening and now I'm alone with her, the front of my jeans is looking pretty damn full.

  I retrieve my scarlet-stained finger, hold it up to the tapering light from the hall. "Why aren't you afraid of me?"

  She freezes. "I—I am."

  "Why did you let me in?"

  "I don't know."

  I step forward toward the airborne echo of heat that is Leo. "Why did you fuck with me?"

  She bites the gloss from her lip. "Because I could. I was curious."

  "Bullshit."

  "I wanted to know who I was dealing with." Her voice is barely audible. "I wanted to know if Rachel was telling me the truth."