Sociopath

by Lime Craven

  Through the window, I watch her on the micro level. The way she carries herself, the way she moves; the soft heave of her breasts as she breathes harder when lifting, and the tight peak of her ass when she turns her back to me. The longer I stare at her thighs, the more the memory of her pussy on my fingers filters into my mind. Tight and wet and shuddering with the start of a violent orgasm—an orgasm I refused to let her have. Now she's punishing me for it. Sulking. Has cast herself as the villain in the silent throb of our war.

  I've always looked down on men who touch themselves in public. Oh, I don't judge; it's not about morals or decency. It's about brain cells, or the lack thereof. What do you stand to lose if you get caught? Too much. But on this syrupy summer evening, as I watch Leo bend over yet another box or play with her damp, knotty hair, I want to get my cock out. Let it thud into the cool mattress of my palm, smack it about while she bites her lip. She'll be walking around my building dressed like this on Monday, and then what will I do with myself?

  Daddy needs to scratch an itch.

  I'd peel that dress up and yank down her panties. Get my fingers in her pussy, smear the juices up over her asshole. Shove my face between her thighs and lick everywhere, everywhere, my stubble rubbing her inner thighs sore, my teeth sharpest on the plump lips of her pussy and her swollen, begging clit. I'd push her down over the garbage-strewn desk and work the stapler into her ass while I fucked her rough and deep. Imagine that—my Leo, spread and completely full. Holy fuck. Haughty little whore. I'd destroy her, lick her wounds, cut her a couple bigger ones.

  And then destroy her all over again.

  * * *

  When I get home that night, Ash and Ethan are parked on the couch with buckets of popcorn, watching American Idol reruns. Ethan clutches Optimus Prime and narrates the performances in a robotic voice, which has Ash in fits of giggles.

  In the kitchen, I crack a beer open and walk through to join them. I'm still in my office shirt, a button open and my tie pulled loose. Ash yells a greeting as he notices me. He shuffles over so he's sandwiched between me and Ethan.

  "Good day?" I ask, to neither of them in particular.

  "No," Ash snipes back. "I had math."

  "He hates math," Ethan supplies, "which is weird because he's really good at it."

  I stare at the TV, one eyebrow cocked. "Should he be grateful that he's good at it? Gratitude isn't happiness."

  Ethan shrinks back into himself, his mouth hanging open a second. "I...I guess not."

  Shitty CEO wisdom smackdown. Keeps the smaller people in their place.

  American Idol breaks for commercials, and Ash starts singing along to some candy jingle.

  "I've been playing him Mozart. Not sure it's working." Ethan sighs.

  I crack a grin. "Try some Motley Crue, then."

  A cereal commercial flashes up on the TV. Usual American Pie scenario: pretty blond Stepford mom, dad in a mid-priced business suit. Two kids in clean, bright clothes gorge on Disney Bullshit Puffs amid a dripping sea of milk. Mom fusses, Dad's in a rush—why the hell are TV fathers never at work on time? I'd fire him.

  Ash is strangely glued to this farce. "I don't have a mama," he says matter-of-factly.

  I swallow. "You have one. She's just not here."

  "She went to heaven."

  "Uhuh."

  Ethan shifts about uncomfortably. I know Ash rarely asks about Mom; he's told me.

  "I don't have a Dad, either," says Ash. "Do I?"

  "You've got a father," I correct. "It's not the same thing. Remember?"

  "No," he mumbles, looking glum.

  "Besides. You have an awesome uncle and an awesome nanny." I poke him gently in the ribs. "And we have awesome times together."

  "Yeah. But I think I'd like a mama."

  Ethan winces; I shake my head and shrug in a whaddaya-gonna-do? fashion.

  Ash's father is almost certainly dead. There was no confirmation of the fact other than the last person to see him was my mother, and there's never been a word from him since—I couldn't find anything. Technically, Ash was fatherless before he was even born; by the time his second birthday rolled around, he was newly orphaned.

  Nobody gave a shit. Just palmed him off to me without question. Lore Incorporated was still a start up; my hours were crazy; I wasn't the media's favourite person at the time. But hey, one less kid for the state to worry about, right?

  Sometimes, I don't know what would have been better: corruption via our mother, or corruption via...me. Maybe it's kinder to let him know what the world is really like early on. Ignorance is only bliss if you're ignorant.

  "Any plans for the weekend?" I ask Ethan.

  "Nope. Well. Just gonna take care of Mom," he says, and then catches sight of Ash and cringes, despite the fact the boy hasn't heard.

  "How is she these days?"

  "The meds are helping. Slowly, but they're helping. It's all you can ask for, right?"

  "I told you I'd fund the surgery," I say quietly.

  "I know. And I appreciate it, you have no idea." He sighs again. "She's just old, you know? She doesn't have that kind of fight in her."

  "I like a little fight," I find myself murmuring.

  Ethan's eyes narrow, but he says nothing.

  * * *

  Speaking of corruption: Tommy calls me on Saturday morning. I have to lock myself in the bathroom just to escape the Moshi Monsters theme.

  "What?" I bark, annoyed.

  "Yo, chief. I got something for ya."

  "And what might that be?" Jesus Christ, these jerks and their Big Reveals. Just spit it out already—you're not being clever.

  "Leo went out to breakfast and there was someone following her home," he almost whispers. "That chick you gave me the info on? Miss Fordham? I'm damn sure it was her."

  I sink down to sit on the toilet. "And Leo didn't know she was there?"

  "Don't think so. Fordham didn't attempt to communicate with her once—just walked a while behind."

  "What happened when Leo got home?"

  "Nada. Fordham just waited at the end of the block, did some shit on her phone, and left after about ten minutes. She looked upset, though. Kinda troubled."

  I think back to Leo's second phone; the older-looking one. Had she just received a message from Rachel, begging her to come out...?

  "Anything else?" I ask.

  "That's all. Just thought you'd want to know," he says earnestly. "But I have to say—it don't look like they're friends, if you get my drift."

  "Interesting."

  Rachel used to follow me, once.

  We all know how that ended.

  FIFTEEN YEARS AGO

  Home

  Aged 17

  "Aeron!" Mom yells up the stairs. "That girl's outside again."

  Again.

  I've warned Rachel.

  We can't be seen together. We're not official. Worst of all, she's oblivious to our different positions in the social hierarchy.

  I don't want to tire of her. It's not conducive to my goals. And yet, more and more, I find myself tempted. Careless.

  I put down my PlayStation controller and head downstairs.

  "Oh, so you did hear me." Mom doesn't look up from her makeup mirror; she's perched on the edge of the mahogany dresser in the hall, half way through applying apricot lipstick. Another date tonight, then. "She's hanging out by the car. Get rid of her before I do."

  Empty house. Could be useful.

  I run a hand through my hair before hauling open the front door. Rachel is hunched against the side of our black Subaru. Her dark waves are scraped up into a high ponytail, wispy strands left to frame her face, and she's wearing the purple berry lipgloss I like. A novel hangs between her palms—ironically, something by Brett Easton Ellis—though she glances up as soon as she hears the door.

  I stride toward her with my hands in my pockets. The evening sun is warm; it makes her cheeks flush and my skin sweat, and its mellow light frames the neat line of houses along our s
treet in the Better Part of the Neighbourhood.

  "Rache," I say in a low voice, "you've got to stop coming over like this."

  She peers up at me with her blue eyes. "I just miss you sometimes, is all. And you're not busy. You're only in there—"

  "How the hell do you know whether or not I'm busy?"

  She recoils. "Okay, okay. Sorry. I didn't mean it."

  "It's okay." I reach up to tuck her hair behind her ear. My cock thickens at the way her pupils dilate, the sight of her breasts rising and falling to my touch. Annoying or not, she has something special. Something different to the vapid bitches at school. "Listen. Can you come back later? Around eight?"

  She gives an eager nod. "Yeah. I mean, I can sneak out, yeah. They'll never even know I've gone."

  I raise my eyebrows. "You have a curfew now?" Frankly, I didn't realise her parents cared. They always seem to be of the let teens make mistakes so they can learn from them ilk.

  "My mom saw the marks...well, you know." Her gaze drops. Shoulders slump. "She thinks I'm self-harming, so they're keeping tabs on me." A reluctant small pulls at one side of her lips. "They think I'm at the library."

  "You are reading."

  "Uhuh." She looks up at me through her eyelashes, her breath quickening again. "And learning."

  "I'll look out for you at eight, okay?" I trail my fingertips along her bare throat. Wallow in her little sighs.

  "Okay," she murmurs.

  "So get lost already."

  She pretends to giggle; she's nervous that I meant that maliciously.

  I do.

  "I can't wait for later," she tells me as she walks off.

  "Me either."

  Self-harm is a beautifully appropriate analogy for what I do to Rachel. And I wasn't lying just then—I can't wait to do it again.

  "Aeron!" Mrs Connolly, our senior neighbour, steps out with a watering can and gives me a wave. "Hi!"

  I plaster on a fake smile. "Hey, Mrs C."

  "I heard you won your last game. We're all thrilled for you!"

  "We do our best."

  She wraps a strand of white hair around her finger. Jesus. "You take care now! Eat your vegetables!"

  She thinks I'm such a nice boy. She thinks I'm walking back into the house pondering football scores and barbecue dinners.

  Somewhere beyond her imagining, Rachel Fordham walks half-naked down my driveway, her thighs a grotesque tapestry of blood and cum.

  8

  Predator (noun): entity at the top of the food chain. Also referred to as president, monarch, boss or parent

  At just past eight o'clock on Monday morning, Leo pulls up in the car I sent for her and Tuija escorts her to the door. I watch all this from the wide stretch of window at the back of my office as news reports flicker across the glass. The ink is barely dry on our paperwork, but SilentWitn3ss is officially mine; by proxy, so is she. And she knows it. Look at her bowed head. Her reluctant steps. She doesn't want to be here, mostly—her pissy little board of directors have no doubt ripped her apart.

  But the dirtiest corner of her mind...it does want to be here. Couldn't keep away. That little secret of mine has chewed through her veins, severed arteries, bled its way into her system and blown smoke into the ventricles of her heart. She knows I must keep her close...or dispose of her.

  It works both ways. She could be the one to kill me. A pretty girl is never short of alibis, sports fans—forget that and suffer. But if she planned on that, I'm guessing she'd have already pulled the trigger. I trespassed in her apartment and handed her a self-defence motive on a silver platter. Leo has made, for the time being, the twisted decision to keep me. It's delicious.

  There is, of course, the Fordham complication. Tommy's reports certainly make things interesting. If I handle Leo right, I can unpick all of this...perhaps while I unpick her.

  Did I mention how I'll make a fucktonne of money in the process?

  * * *

  I give Leo the morning to settle her team into the half-constructed offices, and then I ask Tuija to bring her in.

  "You want some champagne and strawberries to go with that?" she huffs on her way out.

  "Play nice, firecracker," I warn. Although I appreciate how she's dealing with jealousy by pretending it's only mock jealousy. At least it's inventive, and at least she doesn't look like she spent the previous night with her face in a bottle of vodka.

  Ten minutes later, there's a single, solid knock at my door.

  "Come in," I call, rising from my desk and straightening my tie.

  The door swings forward and Leo spills in. Smoky eyes, high heels, a silk shirt and that leather pencil skirt; either she wants to evoke a certain memory or she's a capsule wardrobe kind of girl. I'd go for the former. There are no capsule wardrobe girls in NY.

  She isn't holding a gun (this time), but from the look on her face, she may as well be.

  "You asked to see me?" She stops three paces into the room and tries to hide how she's appraising the decor.

  "We haven't spoken since the acquisition. I just wanted to extend a warm welcome." I perch on the edge of my desk and tip my head, inviting her to come closer.

  She doesn't move.

  "How's your new office suite coming along?" I ask.

  She cocks an eyebrow. "It's a mess."

  "But you'll have it whipped into shape in no time, I bet."

  "Time that would be better spent researching our streaming device. The one you were particularly interested in." She folds her arms beneath her breasts. "I also hear our relocation forced some of your employees to move offices. Hasn't exactly made us too popular."

  "Ah. I see." I experiment with a grin. "You're more than welcome to join me at lunch, you know. Nobody'll bother you then."

  "You're hilarious."

  "Leo." I hop up straight and edge closer to her, just by a few paces. Close enough to get the tension prickling along my skin, along hers. "I brought you closer to simplify the acquisition. By the time we're fully integrated, trust me, it will be of great benefit for you guys to be so close to the main news room."

  She stiffens. "And why would that be?"

  I haven't told her about my intention to have her products stream directly to a Lore Corp website—nor will I. It'd be suicide. But I can drop breadcrumbs in conflicting directions, just to have a little fun. "We want SilentWitn3ss products and the public to help us make the news. I thought that was quite clear."

  "But the footage will belong to the user," she says slowly.

  "Indeed."

  "Okay." She gives a single nod. "Will that be all?"

  "Jeez, Leo. You're not one of my assistants—you don't have to talk like one."

  At this, I'm treated to a small smile. She offers them so rarely; they highlight the blunt angle of her cupid's bow, the fullness of her bottom lip. "But I am part of your staff. We didn't merge, which would make you my boss."

  "I don't want you to think of me like that."

  Now, she finds the nerve to walk closer until we're just inches apart. My whole body braces; I stare down at her with heavy eyelids and a thudding heartbeat.

  Leo clears her throat. "Funny. You've been rather bossy during our previous encounters."

  "I'm prepared to treat you as an equal, professionally speaking."

  "How very big of you."

  "So you keep saying."

  "Ha."

  I should cut to the chase. I should put her over my desk, shove her skirt up and fuck her stupid—I wouldn't even lock the door. If Tuija came in, she'd probably just roll her eyes and start taking notes.

  But this isn't just about a fuck. I saw it in her eyes when I had my fingers deep inside her, and as she looks at me, it rears its grotesque head again. Dark business afoot here. Power plays. Leo doesn't laugh at my crimes or shrug them off; she gives my horrors the reverence they deserve.

  "Is there anything else?" I ask.

  "No." She drops her gaze. "Like I said, that will be all."

  "Then go cl
ean up your offices before I lose patience."

  She turns then, her head bowed and her cheeks flushing. "It will all be in order by the end of the week."

  "I'll be keeping tabs, don't you worry." I want to touch her. My hands feel so empty in her presence, unsure whether to ball into enraged fists or splay to caress the full lines of her body. If I want her, I should reach out and take her, right?

  Of all things, I am not gentle. It's not in me to be the tender lover or the merciful master who yields. But she makes me curious about that strange land between force and submission. The spiderweb of between.

  I follow her, intending to hold the door open. She expects me to lunge. I see it in her unsure steps, the slight tremble of her fingers on the door handle, the very faint quiver in her voice as she says goodbye.

  Here is a girl who knows of my sins, and has come to me anyway.

  I know what I will do with her.

  God help her, I can do nothing else.

  * * *

  When I enter Tuija's office at lunch, she's eating sushi at her desk and watching Netflix on her laptop.

  I had the office built for her especially when we moved into the building seven years ago. It's not large, but half of it is taken up with her walk-in closet and ensuite bathroom. A plush leather couch against the left wall is draped with throws in linen and velvet, and a mini refrigerator holds bottled water, Coke in glass bottles and a tray of yoghurts. The scent of her sharp, clean perfume hangs in the air. The whole place is testament to the fact that quite often...she doesn't leave.

  "You couldn't knock, Hitler?" She pushes her empty sushi box aside.

  "Hard at work, I see."

  "I'm allowed a lunch break. It's in my contract."

  At that, we both snort—as if a contract has ever dictated Tuija's responsibilities. If I were to put those in writing, I'd be hauled in front of a judge faster than she can down shots.

  I nudge aside a stack of files and a haphazard scatter of makeup, making room for my ass on her desk.

  She waves to the space and sighs. "Oh yeah, just make yourself comfortable."