Sociopath

by Lime Craven

  "I don't know what the point is. What are you saying? You think...you think he's gay?"

  He laughs, high-pitched and crazy. "No, I don't think he's gay. I think he's a manipulative little shit who's upstairs cutting himself, and worse, the only person you're worried about is yourself!"

  Mothers have to take care of themselves. It's like the law, or something. Besides, I have tissue and I don't need stitches. The bleeding has almost stopped so long as I don't move.

  "You're crazy," Mom tells Dr Brody in her this is your fault voice. "You're crazy and you're projecting on to me and my son, who is troubled. He's troubled, and I try so freaking hard with him but when you're on your own, it's not easy to be the mother and the father. How can I give him everything he needs?" And now she's turned on the tears. Here we go. Lights, trauma, action! "He's a clever boy, baby. He has potential. You said that."

  You have to admit, she's good. Me, I'm still learning. Obviously.

  "What he needs is another therapist. I can't deal with this anymore. Em, I'm sorry." He falters; there are quiet weeping sounds, though I can't tell who they belong to. "Let me give him a referral, I know a great guy—"

  "Oh, fuck you. Just get out already." Then she begins to mutter, but it sounds like I'm done, we're done.

  "Good luck dealing with the revolting heap of mommy issues you're breeding up there," Dr Brody spits back.

  I need to remember that. I'll look it up in the library.

  A shrill shatter of glass; a yelp; a stomped foot. Dominoes fall hard when they're bleeding.

  With my forehead cold against the tiled bathroom wall, I listen to Mom lose it. The sounds are familiar, like a heartbeat or favourite song. Like a lullaby.

  My blood dries to paste on the floor.

  12

  Monogamy (noun): the sanitized culmination of desire and obsession. (Note: it is not a cage unless you forget where you put the fucking key).

  The thing about romantic relationships is that I've been pretending so long, it's become second nature.

  Before Tuija, there was college, where lying my way through a six-week "thing" with a sorority girl didn't make me any different to any other guy. And before college there was high school, where I tolerated the expected hook-ups and then concentrated on being too hot and aloof to care. Nobody questions the man at the top of the food chain. He's obviously fucking whomever he wants, whether or not you know about it; why meddle when perhaps, just perhaps, the next person he fucks could be you...?

  One of the biggest misconceptions about sociopaths is that we don't know what we are. Which is bullshit. We vary in levels of intelligence of self-awareness, just like anyone else; I, of course, was repeatedly beaten with the superior end of the stick. I fell out of the better-than-you tree. Let's not be bitter about it; if you want to succeed, you must accept who you truly are. A fault's only a fault if you just lie down and let it walk all over you.

  So here I am grasshoppers, a sociopath, suddenly writhing within the confines of an actual relationship with Leo. Foreign territory, but nothing ventured, nothing gained. People claim you need certain elements for these arrangements to work: communication, they say. Leo and I talk, and sometimes we aren't even threatening each other with weapons (ha).

  Commitment, they say. I appear to have bought her entire fucking livelihood. If that's not commitment, I don't know what is.

  Trust, they say. I disagree. Trust is something you retain for future exploitation, not the kind of buzzkill you want to take to bed.

  I don't need to retain anything to exploit Leo further because I'm exploiting her right now, and not only does she get off on it, but she's utterly complicit—or she's at least pretending as much so she can fail pitifully at screwing me over and then hate herself for still wanting my cock. God, aren't relationships beautiful things?

  You're all fucking doing it wrong.

  * * *

  Since Ethan enjoys keeping his job—and is, to his credit—good at it, Ash is currently flinging himself around the kitchen in a dubok (white ninja robes to you and I).

  "I couldn't find Karate on a Thursday," Ethan says apologetically from over the top of his lumpy brown smoothie. "But I found Tae Kwon Do. That's okay, right?"

  "It'll do."

  "You know, I'm kinda tempted myself." Ethan grins, revealing snotty wedges of banana stuck between his teeth. "I stayed for the first session and the black belts get to break stuff. Like karate chop it. Freaking badass."

  Here's thirty seconds in Ethan's head, courtesy of the fact that I'm not a fucking moron:

  Is this smoothie meant to be brown?

  Do bananas, like, oxidise or something? I read that on cracked.com. They totally oxidise. Gross.

  Can't waste Mr Lore's bananas. Have to drink this mofo. Actually it tastes pretty—

  Where's Ash? What was that noise?

  Aw shit, are we late for little league?

  No, little league's on Tuesdays. We get home just before Big Bang Theory.

  He's a cute kid. And he's lucky. Goddamn, I wish I grew up in a sweet apartment like this.

  My balls are itchy.

  This is the guy who once told me he spent three days of his vacation in a fog of depression because he realised the Game of Thrones TV series will run out of books to adapt quicker than George RR Martin can write them.

  Aren't you glad you're in my head instead?

  "You still out tonight?" Ethan asks.

  "Fundraiser." My cell vibrates in my hand; a message from Leo. "I'll be back early morning." I might be spending the evening with Leo, and the invitation back to her place might be implicit, but I won't be one of Those Dudes who moves in the minute he lays claim to a woman. I like my space. Besides, I have Ash's Fantasy Mom issues to deal with before a girl ever sets foot in here.

  "What kinda fundraiser?" Ethan straightens the collar of his shirt. He's been smartening up for the school run lately; probably trying to bang a bored mommy. If that wouldn't impact his ability to do his job, I'd give him tips—no woman would've touched him in yesterday's black t-shirt, which said My Bad in small pink letters. "Anything cool?"

  He means anyone cool, and what the hell. Let's indulge him. "Anyone who's anyone who's vegan in Hollywood, probably. It's an animal shelter thing." People kiss my ass; I give them money; they feel awkward blocking the ridiculous story one of my columnists publishes about them. Here we go round the fucking mulberry bush.

  "Really? So, like, Jessica Alba?"

  "I have no idea."

  His pout of disappointment is comical.

  * * *

  Tech types have a certain kind of intelligence. It's not as cold as mine, but it's very, very specific—the kind that looks straight beyond people or emotions and sees only numbers and logic. I wouldn't want it for myself; it comes with a lack of social awareness that makes life difficult. But I find these types very useful. They're tools who make tools.

  Exhibit A: three members of The Appening—an unfortunately named but phenomenally successful software development team—sit around the table of my favourite boardroom. These aren't your common garden variety geeks; I'm not braced for one of them to jump up and yell by the power of Greyskull! These men are precise in everything—lean bodies, high cheekbones, eyeballs unnaturally polished with anti-redness drops. In unconscious uniformity, they all wear striped slim-fit shirts and smart trousers, and the only tell-tale sign of their professions is the state of their bitten-down fingernails and shredded cuticles. They even mutter to each other like some kind of hive mind collective.

  They're not bothered about social graces or impressing me. But they like the SilentWitn3ss prototype they're passing around. They like it very much. Good job, too—Carson made them sign an NDA as tight as a gnat's ass before they were allowed in here, and that kind of ceremony tends to raise expectations somewhat. I like to deliver.

  "So it's worn behind the ear?" says Mitch, whose shirt is candy striped. He flexes the curved, flesh-coloured silicon tube. "Or can you p
ut it other places?"

  "Anywhere you want." I take a sip of water and lemon, and try to drain the irony from my voice. "But we're going for the surveillance angle."

  "Of course."

  All three chuckle, low and dirty. Their shudders reveal their crazy eyes.

  Leo isn't this kind of tech type. She's my exception...my much prettier exception. Thank fuck.

  "Gentleman." I give the table a single rap. "Thing is, as much as I'm sure some moron will want to tape a SilentWitn3ss to his cock while he fucks his girlfriend or mother or whatever, I want them to stream directly to site. I'm sure you can appreciate that the public are idiots—"

  More laughter; snider this time.

  "—And they're not going to remember when streaming is on or off. So I need some kind of monitoring system that stops this shit getting through. Now I've been doing live news for over ten years and they haven't figured it out yet...I need you guys to figure it out."

  Ian, who has a prematurely receding hairline, sucks in a breath. "For live streaming?"

  I nod. "If Facebook can identify a face in a photo, then SilentWitn3ess needs to be able to identify tits and ass so it can shut down the stream."

  Mitch glances between his colleagues with raised eyebrows.

  I go on. "Here's how I want the site to work: we're not going to approve users to begin with. It defeats the point. But that means people can stream whatever the fuck they want on their channel, and I've got my own ass to cover. A public image to uphold. I don't want this to be YouTube with a bunch of pansies making vlogs and calling it news—I want proper vigilante stuff, where people load up and start streaming as soon as shit hits the fan. Also. This?" I point to the prototype in Mitch's uncared for-hands. "This is going to be expensive, so I need the cell phone app to be usable from the built in camera. Get things a little more accessible for people who don't want to invest."

  "And if they're accidentally uploading porn," Mitch says, "it'll shut straight down, in theory?"

  "They can accidentally upload all kinds of unsavoury shit." I throw each man an individually tailored glare. "Legally, I'll be covered, but I don't want the wrong kind of attention. We're going to have a slight time delay—that's just the reality of the technology—and I'll have a team who'll keep an eye on things. I'll also operate a single strike policy which will see offenders banned immediately."

  Packer tuts. Packer has the kind of drawn-on mouth with suggests he's either tutting, scowling or sucking something about ninety percent of the time. "There'll be ways around that."

  "Of course there will." I shrug. "But I think you'll agree that zero tolerance sounds a lot more trustworthy than we're all out of fucks."

  "Right." Mitch puts the prototype down and starts flicking about on an iPad. "So...was Miss Reeves meant to be here today? Only it would be helpful to talk to the developers."

  Right. They need to talk to her tits about cloud streaming and program models and the size of their...servers. They'll have seen the recent news stories; they know she's mine. Of course she's piqued their interest—few women do, but then not every exquisite blond is a Harvard-educated electrical engineer. When it comes to smart, gorgeous women, I not only hit the jackpot—I rammed it repeatedly with the business end of a sharp stick. On the digital grapevine, Aeron Lore is not fond of sharing.

  So when I stare at these assholes like they're not fit to look upon her, they get it. They buy it. And they have no idea that the real reason I'm keeping Leo away is because she would disapprove of my ideas.

  "I bought the developer." I smile at them innocently. "I am the developer." And that's that.

  Ian tries to smiles back; he looks like an aroused uncle. "Understood."

  "So how long will you need?"

  "For the site and app? A month or so for the first model, but we'll have shop front design work ups in a week." Mitch is still playing with the calendar app on his iPad. "For the recognition technology...that could take longer. I'm reluctant to put an ETA on that."

  "Then I want weekly updates."

  "Sounds feasible."

  Feasible? Jesus. It's like egos at fucking dawn in here. Enough already.

  I get to my feet. "Thank you for your time, gentlemen."

  "It's been great to meet you," says Mitch, who stands to shake my hand.

  Yes, I really have to touch one of those hands. It's every bit as dry as it looks.

  "You appreciate the sensitive nature of this project," I say in a low voice.

  They all make a fuss of nodding and agreeing. Of course. Standard. Oh yeah.

  You see, grasshoppers, I'm going to pay these highly intelligent, socially retarded men stare at tits and ass all day. They'll pretend otherwise, but they already love me for it. Marketing isn't just about getting the public onside; you have to seduce your staff, too.

  Get 'em fat and swollen and ready, and they'll be too busy fucking themselves to ever fuck you over.

  * * *

  Leo insisted on dressing herself for the fundraiser, which I've allowed because Tuija is busy pretending to be sober, and because it pleases me to please Leo.

  It also gives me time to do things like read the Rachel Fordham reports. She's still in therapy a lot; she lives alone; she doesn't appear to be fucking anyone.

  Tommy says she's been circling the Lore Corp building on her lunch breaks. Just walking amid the knots of pedestrians, closer and closer, around and around. Waiting for an invitation, perhaps? Or just drawn like a magnet now I'm finally spilling somebody else's blood...? Is she angry at Leo for stealing her forbidden fruit away?

  I quite like this idea that I'm a thing to be stolen, as if the hands of these little girls are somehow bigger than mine.

  Heh. The things I will do with my hands later...oh, she's not ready.

  I go to this fundraiser every year, and I'm always on the same table as Montgomery and Wife Number Three. Normally, I have Tuija on my arm, but tonight I have my Leo and the cameras are hungry. They stalked us outside; they flashed as I posed with her. I couldn't resist closing my teeth around the tip of her ear, and I bet that made a pretty picture. It's not in me to be modest.

  I grew up an only child, which means you can look at my toys—I'll show them off, in fact—but god help you if you lay a finger on them.

  Now we're sitting around an overdressed table in an overdressed ballroom, in the belly of an extravagant hotel (spend money to make money, sports fans, but never forget that it makes you look like a dick). They're going for the midnight feast atmosphere with low lights, tall burnished candelabras, and faux ivy strewn about like bunting. The menu is entirely vegetarian and already, I long for meat, consoled only by the feel of Leo's thigh beneath my fingers as I stroke her under the table. She's wearing a floor-length, strapless dark blue gown with a mesh cut-out over the belly, the kind that would display my handiwork like a trophy cabinet if I'd thought to carve over her stomach instead.

  There's an idea. Mmm.

  "Yes," I murmur in her ear during the speeches, "they're always this dull."

  "You're not meant to talk," she whispers, though her hand finds mine anyway and she squeezes, just once. "It's rude."

  "Blah blah, save the animals," I mumble into her neck. She smells like almonds tonight; a new perfume, perhaps. My little lion's all grown up.

  "So let's leave."

  Several of our fellow tablemates glance over, annoyed. I raise my eyebrows in apology.

  "Somebody's eager to get home," I say quietly.

  She says nothing. Just stares ahead at yet another anorexic young actress wining the Vacant Vegan of the Year award. I'm a firm believer in rewarding people for the useful things they do. You don't want to eat animals? Fine. So how come the whole thing turns into a back-slapping circus where people congratulate themselves on the things they don't do? It's just fucking lazy.

  Montgomery isn't a happy bunny tonight. His usual smarmy dialogue is missing; cat's got his jowls. Gretchen Piers is just a couple tables away; maybe she's m
aking him antsy? There's an air of eau de pissed around his wife too, who has downed enough champagne for three Tuijas but barely says a word. She's an improvement on dried-out Wife Number Two—looks like one of those Amazonian Swedish tennis players, all lean long legs and white-blond hair—but her nerves get the better of her.

  On several occasions tonight, she's cast a glance my way. I guess she picked the wrong media mogul, huh? I wonder, given the opportunity, how many girls would let a man like me cut them if it kept them away from a grotesque old cunt like Montgomery...? He's noticed his wife looking at me. Hates it.

  I drag Leo's hand to the strain of my stiff cock, and lean into whisper again. "You're gonna take care of that for me as soon as we find the car."

  "Oh really?" She drags her thumb across the bulbous head of me.

  Ah, fuck. I grit my teeth. "When the speeches are done, we're leaving." She's been busy with work, with letting her wound heal; I've been busy having secrets. We've both been waiting for tonight.

  The speeches break as the presenters switch, and a waiter in a white tuxedo stops to take drinks orders.

  "I'm good," I tell him, patting the top of my half-empty glass.

  Montgomery fiddles with his tie, eyes me, and then smiles at the waiter. "Do you have Glen Fiddich? I could murder a single malt."

  Unintentionally, my hand crushes down on Leo's and she yelps, shaking me off. Heat scrapes my cheeks, makes my skin prickle.

  "Sorry there, Aeron. That was insensitive of me." He gives a vague smile. "Too much champagne. What can I say?"

  Wife Number Three winces in apology. She may as well have sorry he's a dick written across her forehead. I give her my best yeah, and he's your dick sigh of acknowledgement.

  "You know, Leo and I should be making a move," I tell the table. "We have plans."

  It's childish to stomp off when you've been insulted; it's crass to drag your girlfriend away for a very blatant fuck. But I pick number two because I know it'll only grate on him further. He sees me touching beautiful Leo; he sees his wife squirm with envy. And he might not be getting hard for her—I know his boy-shaped secret—but this kind of public show is humiliating.