by Lime Craven
"She told you that I liked to cut her while I fucked her," I say matter-of-factly.
Leo flinches. "Yes."
"Then she was telling the truth. There. Are you happy?"
She wraps her arms around herself and shrugs, her jaw trembling. Small girl in the grip of intrigue, as if she's on the edge of a road where two vehicles will crash and is resignedly waiting for impact. There she stays while I step toward her and wipe my cherry-stained finger across her soft mouth, leaving a trail of berry-red in my wake.
I grin down at my handiwork. "Beautiful."
"I said I wasn't going to fuck you," she retorts.
"Oh, like that means anything." I rub the cherry stain into her lips; she grits her teeth beneath them. "If I want to fuck you, I'll fuck you. That's been quite clear from the beginning and I don't see you doing much to prevent it besides spitting your bile."
She lowers her glassy black eyes, now shining with unshed tears; I follow their trajectory to the rise of her breasts, where her nipples have turned so hard under her sweater that they pebble against the fabric. The muscles of my thighs tighten, sending blood jerking through the veins of my cock.
I let my voice drop even lower. "You're the sexiest fucking thing, Leo. I swear to God. But if you'll excuse the pun...curious doesn't really cut it for me. I need a little more commitment to the cause."
"L-like what?"
"See what you think of tomorrow's gift. My last one. It will be on your desk in the morning." I drop my hand from her mouth and stand over her, sucking my finger clean. "You should try one of these, by the way. Fucking amazing."
"I'm sure they are."
I'm about to make an exit when I catch sight of the new prototype again. I swipe up the bag and fix my eyes on here. "Here's my real question. Why this? What's the surveillance issue?"
She folds her arms, frowning. "It's a great product. You like it."
"But I don't understand why you made it. Your entire company is made up of dudes, Leo—there aren't a lot of women who do this stuff." Especially not women who look like her. Not that I want to piss her off any further.
"Ha, I see. Surely there must be some deep-seated psychological reason for me going into a man's industry."
I snort. It's hard to take anything seriously when I've smudged crap over her mouth like a clown. "I don't know any other girls who mount cameras in their fucking kitchens. Why are you so paranoid?"
She throws her hands up. "Oh, I don't know, because there's a fucking psycho in my kitchen?"
"You baited me. You're the reason I'm here." I slap the prototype down on the counter and shove past her. "You don't want to be honest with yourself? Fine."
"Ah, you got me." Sarcasm tugs down her tone. "Maybe something horrible happened to me when I was a little girl."
I pause in the doorway. "Something fucking horrible is about to happen to you, that's for sure," I mutter.
"Maybe I wasn't a little girl."
"Uhuh. Right."
"Maybe I realised that the world's just this bleak, twisted corner of hell, and I need to protect myself."
"From men like me?"
She tips her chin indignantly. "All kinds of men. Even the nice guys are screwed up. Don't they say that the road to hell is paved with good intentions?"
"Huh." I chew on my lip before looking up at her. "Then I guess I'm going to heaven." Then I stride toward the front door, staring straight ahead as I call out to her. "Let me know if you want to come with."
SIX YEARS AGO
Police Station, downtown NY
Aged 26
Jesus, I smell bad. Thirty six hours of questioning at a police station will do that to a guy. I'd sell my shrivelled little soul for a shower.
I've been jostled to the phone by two bored, stale-looking officers who are enjoying feeling superior to me. One has a crooked nose and a beer gut; the other has a moustache like rolled up carpet, its grey tips stained yellow with nicotine. When they finally release my hands, it takes all the willpower I possess not to choke the pair of them.
"You've got a minute," says one in a strong Boston accent. "Sixty seconds and not a fart more. You understand me, sir?"
I try not to glare.
"One minute," he says, edging away.
Thank fuck for that.
My fingers shake as I dial the number. My new lawyer got me this extra call, though I barely have the energy to make it. Blaring artificial precinct lights sting my eyes. My mouth tastes like ass. I'm surviving on adrenaline and sub-par coffee.
Tuija picks up after a couple rings. She sounds exhausted. "Hello..?"
"It's me," I say quietly. "Still at the precinct."
"Aeron?" Tension pulls her voice tight. "Oh my God, are you okay?"
"Been better."
"Have they stopped questioning you? What's happening?"
"They aren't charging me. I should get out in an hour or so, my lawyer says."
She heaves a sigh of relief. "Goddamn. They saw sense, right?"
"Harvey came in with my alibi. One of his neighbours confirmed she saw me at his place, so...yeah."
"I knew it. We all know you're not a murderer, for crying out loud—I—I'm shaking. Oh God."
"Listen, firecracker. I need to know what's going on with the media. How bad is it?"
"We're containing it as best we can here. We ran your lawyer's statement. But Montgomery—"
I ball my fists, almost enjoying the ache of muscles filled with old fluid. "I bet he's having a fucking field day, isn't he?" I can see the headlines now: young media mogul arrested in connection with his mother's murder. Maybe they'll even throw in some cheesy crap like Aeron Lore Not above the Law. Great. Just the kind of publicity I need right now, when I'm bidding to buy a bunch of fucking newspaper brands. And this from an asshole who magically made his last wife disappear when he happened upon a new one.
"I'm sorry. I'm...I'm so sorry." She trails off, beginning to sob. Since this is Tuija, each sob is almost snorted back in. "Your mom, Aeron. I'm so sorry..."
"It's okay," I grind out.
"It's not. It's not. Why the fuck would anyone do that to her?"
Yellow Moustache Officer leans over from the front desk and cocks his head at me. "Twenty seconds. Wrap it up," he calls.
"I have to go," I mutter to Tuija.
"We're taking care of everything, I promise. You don't have to come back real soon. I'm liaising with Ash's social worker, like you asked. He's fine, a little weirded out but fine..." She chokes out another sob. "But he's so young, and he doesn't know, does he?"
Leaning forward, I press my face against the cool tiled wall. Closed eyes are blissful, even if they're nothing close to ignorance. "I'll take care of him. As soon as I get out of here and all this shit is over, I'll move someplace..." With enough room for a kid. A baby. Jesus. What am I going to do with that?
"Aeron," she whispers. "Aeron. I'm here. You okay?"
"I have to go." I slam the phone down, and press my forehead to the tiles again.
If I close my eyes for long enough, perhaps this will all melt into nothing and I won't wake up tomorrow to some circus about me being a fucking murderer.
Who am I kidding?
If I want to control the news...I'm gonna have to own more of it.
10
Holy fuck (noun): the moment you come inside a woman and believe, for a split second, that there is a god
Mathletes.
Ash's teacher wants him to join. I stare at the letter on the kitchen counter, fighting the urge to literally sneer.
Think this through, Aeron. Ethan's watching for your response with his fucking Bazinga t-shirt again. Okay.
Scenario one: Ash grows up to be some kind of Mark Zuckerberg mecha brain who conquers the world of social media and becomes a billionaire. He then marries Yoko and settles into a life of selling other people's souls for money. I kind of like this one. Besides Yoko, obviously, but we all have our vices. Mine is prickly girls who are too smart for my
own good; maybe Ash's will be plain tiger bitches.
Likelihood of scenario one actually happening: about 0.5%.
Scenario two: Ash is a turbo nerd by the time he's ten, plunged head first into a fetid swamp of World of Warcraft and Star Trek quotes. He spends too much time on the internet to make the most of his earning potential, only gets pussy from girls with more neon hair dye than self-esteem, and only goes out in public to rant about the lack of free Wi-Fi before going home to not shower.
I cannot allow Ash to join Mathletes. It's for his own good. I've got way more important things to be doing today—Leo, mainly, though I should probably do some work as well—why do schools insist on pelting this shit at me? Aren't they supposed to care about his future...? If he doesn't grow up to be well-adjusted, I'll never fucking get rid of him, and this set up was never exactly my preference to begin with.
Ethan slurps loudly from his cup of coffee. "Something wrong?"
I prod the letter with my index finger. "This Mathletes thing. No can do. Schedule conflict."
He frowns toward the wall calendar (pissed cats; a Christmas gift from Tuija). "On a Thursday? But I thought—"
"He's got karate on a Thursday."
"He doesn't do karate."
"He does now." I scoop my laptop up from the breakfast table and shove it into my leather bag. "Time he learned to defend himself, anyways."
"I guess." Ethan does a very poor job of hiding his confusion. "Just...he's finally starting to like math, so..."
"Ethan." I sigh. "Let me ask you this. Aged eight, would you rather have been a geek or a badass?"
He looks wounded. "You can't be both?"
Ugh. "No. Not in the real world."
"But—but John Green—"
"Has a tiny cock. Miniscule." Probably.
He recoils, his eyebrows shooting upward. "So...you've, uh, you've got confirmation?"
"You're seriously asking me that?"
"Just wondered." He clears his throat. "So yeah. Karate. I guess I'll find a class."
"Damn right." I check in my bag for the other thing I need to take today: Leo's third gift. It sits in the front pocket, a sleek black box no bigger than a candy bar, its gently patterned sides tied with a neat scarlet bow. "Let me know how that works out for you."
Ethan pretends to check his phone for the time, something I've noticed he often does when nervous. "I should probably go wake Ash."
"You do that. See you later," I call, heading toward the front door.
I bet Tuija could find out how big John Green's cock is.
* * *
By the time I get to the office—a little after seven thirty—Tuija's already waiting for me in the lobby. She goes through my itinerary in the elevator, Mozart playing in the background. Today, she's wearing a red tartan skirt suit with turquoise satin heels.
"You're due to meet Phil for lunch again," she says. "Want me to cancel?"
"When did we even last run something on the president?"
"Precisely." She swipes along the iPad screen. "Okay. Delay the lunch."
"Shareholders are still coming in, right?"
She peers over my shoulder to look into the mirrored elevator wall before licking a smudge of lipstick off her teeth. "Three o'clock. This prototype had better be fucking good because they've been kicking me like a bad horse since the acquisition."
My upper lip twitches. "They'll like it." Or at least, they'll like Leo. Bunch of dirty old men that they are. "What's up with the dress code today, firecracker? Wasn't it you telling me that this isn't a Tim Burton movie?"
"Fuck you. It's Vivienne Westwood."
"You mean to tell me that I paid for that monstrosity?"
"I'm Hunger Games chic."
The doors peel open, and I shove past to exit. "FYI for the rest of your tenure: I prefer high-class hooker chic. Vastly." Especially when I'm paying for it.
"Fine, fine." She follows me down the corridor, which is pleasantly quiet. "I'll change. Happy?"
"No. But still change." We turn past the noticeboard, the network control room. Then I stop outside the pale beech door of Leo's office.
"She's not here yet," Tuija informs me in an unimpressed tone.
"I know. Now get lost already."
She pouts.
"I mean it." I wave her off, and she starts back toward her own office.
"That letter came back, by the way," she says to a nearby pot plant. "But he doesn't want to know about that, does he?"
Oh, for fuck's sake. "Which letter?" I ask, reluctantly.
"The referral. Miss Reeves' little sojourn to rehab land."
"Already? I thought you said it would take a week?"
She shrugs. "Took less."
I put my bag down carefully by Leo's door, and stalk back over to Tuija. "So what did it say?"
"Well now. Let's see..." She folds her arms and taps her fingers on the repulsive tartan of her sleeve. "Oh yeah. Turns out she was there for OCD."
I lean in, scowling. "That it?"
"Yup. They treat that in rehab. Who knew?"
"Just seems...I don't know." Like a load of bullshit. "You sure you got the original letter?"
"I'll email you the copy. Looks legit to me. You think there's a problem?"
"She doesn't really seem the type." I've seen her apartment; there was nothing OCD about it. Aside from the cameras. Still.
"This was like six years ago," Tuija says with a shrug. "Maybe the rehab actually worked."
"Maybe. Huh." Then I remember my bag. The gift. And the time. "Let me know if anything else comes in."
"Enjoy stalking Leontine all day," she says, turning back down the corridor. Her usual mocking tone is decidedly absent.
"I'm looking after my investment. Are there shareholders I have to consult before I fuck someone, too?"
Nothing. She bursts into her runway walk, probably off to multitask by sulking and bitching in the newsroom.
With the hallway empty, I take the opportunity to sneak into Leo's office. It's even tidier than the last time I visited; the boxes are gone, and her sleek plastic-topped desk is clear but for an iMac, a neat stack of papers and a bottle of cinnamon-scented hand lotion. I'd be rethinking my opinion on her alleged OCD if the upside-down roses I sent weren't stuffed under the desk at a crumpled, awkward angle.
Well, well. Hardly a display of gratuity, is it, sports fans? Anyone might think her ashamed of them. But not angry. If she were angry, she'd have just thrown them out.
This sends a ripple of heat down my spine, diffusing through my ass cheeks and warming my thighs. Other places. Heh. Little lion's taking to hoarding her obsessions like I do mine. Those chocolates came straight home.
I wonder what she'll do with this particular gift?
The black box is so smooth beneath my fingers. In some places, its pattern is slightly raised; velvet and bumps like skin under duress. Under fear. I wind the scarlet ribbon around my finger, enjoying the sight of the package beside her keyboard and the contrast between necessity and luxe.
"Can I help you?"
I jerk up, only to see Leo standing in her doorway. She's carrying a clear crate full of plastic and wires—more prototypes, perhaps—and has teased her hair back into a French braid. Shove a pair of glasses on her and she'd be some kind of Big Bang Theory porn fantasy. Not usually my type, but damn...you know how I like exceptions.
I give the gift box a pat, smiling faintly. "I wanted to leave this one myself."
"I'm not going to thank you." She eyes the box with disdain. "Also not sure how you can out-dark your previous efforts, if I'm being honest." Then she walks through, pushes me aside, dumps her crate on her desk and starts fishing around in one of the drawers, as if I'm not even there.
"Sounds like a challenge."
"Oh, goody." The sleeve of her red dress catches my bare wrist; she reaches to switch on her computer and then lingers, waiting for it to load.
She's so close now, my chest just an inch from her back. Her gr
own-up, spicy perfume infiltrates every breath I take and the warmth radiating from her body suffuses into mine. I bend slightly to blow along her exposed collarbone.
"Meeting later," I tell her.
"I can hardly wait," she says tonelessly. But she doesn't step away. In fact if anything, she tilts back into me, eager for touch. "Am I demoing the new camera?"
"If it works, yes."
"It's getting there. Still working on the Wi-Fi issues for streaming."
This isn't sexy conversation. There's nothing arousing about tech talk, or with watching Leo type her password in on the computer. Nevertheless, our bodies suck at each other in this hot little bubble, and seduction waits at the edges, its fingers splayed. Already, I'm hard, and I know she can feel it; what else is a man to do pressed against that gorgeous heart shaped ass? My greyest gift yet awaits her, and if she accepts...God. Rage and tension chew at my nerves.
"Aren't you going to open your present?" I ask.
"You're doing that thing again," she mutters, "where you're in my personal space."
"I like your personal space."
"So I gathered."
I breathe down on her again. Watch goose bumps spring up beneath my trail of warm air; buttery braille on her skin. "You have personal spaces that like me a lot, too." I'm tempted to hike her dress up, get my fingers inside her. Show her exactly what I mean.
She tips her chin to glance up at me. "Subtlety isn't really your forte, is it?"
"I prefer plain old lying. I'm a philistine."
"Ha."
"You say that far more than you laugh. I should be immensely annoyed by it." It's no good—my willpower this morning is absent. With light fingers, I reach down and brush the stockinged inside of her thigh. "Why am I not annoyed?"
She goes rigid. Pauses. Exhales with the weight of the world.
I step closer, cocooning her body with mine. The same fingers that caressed the top of her stocking find their way to the crease between her thigh and panties, probing until she gasps and falls back against me.
"Admit it, Leo," I murmur. "You love it when I touch you."
"I...I hate you..." she whispers.