by Lime Craven
"You keep being such a cock tease and I'm going to cut you again," I snap.
That does it. She flinches, softening beneath me like a popped balloon.
I shove inside her, my teeth falling to her throat so I can nip and bite in time with every thrust. As I bottom out, she makes a weak, strangled sob of a sound.
I press a sucking kiss to her collar bone. "Good girl."
"Slower. Please."
"No."
"Ah...please."
I come up on my hands to watch her features contort with agony and arousal. To see the sweat emerge on her honey-swept brow, one tiny droplet at a time. "You're so beautiful like this," I whisper, because she's golden and writhing and tight on me, wet despite her protests and rocking her hips with mine because she can't ignore the hot sting of pleasure my cock leaves in its wake. Black smoky eyes, flushed cheeks, bruised tits and a mouth kissed to crimson; my charred angel.
Somewhere further down the bed, a tinny ringtone bleats from the old Nokia. Leo's face changes—it's almost as if Rachel's ears are ringing—but I push into her harder, harder, squeezing my eyes shut to hold off. I want to come with her, to splash into her taut pink insides while they contract around my cock.
The phone keeps ringing.
The past keeps calling.
A single tear falls down Leo's cheek, salty on my waiting tongue.
* * *
Despite the fact that she seems perpetually pissed with me, there's only one way I can truly annoy Tuija: undermine her.
I don't mean to do it this morning, per se. It's just necessary. And when I pull up outside the Lore Corp building evidently still in yesterday's suit and with a freshly-fucked smile plastered across my face, I undermine Tuija; not because she thinks she's really my girlfriend, but because of what that represents. As Leo steps out of the car after me, looking a little embarrassed and, if you peer closely, a little more tired, I undermine my firecracker even more. She's practically spitting sparks.
Not to worry. I can deal.
Tuija waits at the reception desk with her iPad, her outfit slightly less hideous than usual. Perhaps my comments on the tartan actually sunk in.
"Morning," she says hesitantly, trying to catch my eye so she can throw me a what the fuck? expression. "Both of you."
I thread my fingers through Leo's. "Morning."
Leo says nothing, just offers Tuija a weak smile—which only seems to provoke her more.
"Good night?" Tuija asks.
I cock my head. "It was a long one."
"Lucky you."
"Lucky me," Leo murmurs to the floor.
I give her hand a squeeze.
In the elevator, Tuija runs through my itinerary at breakneck speed. Then she turns her attention to Leo, struggling to keep her tone casual. "I heard you made quite an impression at the shareholders' meeting yesterday."
Leo shrugs. "I did my best."
"You were brilliant, sweetheart." I shoot Tuija a warning look—she's drumming on the back of her iPad, evidently desperate to corner Leo and blast her with a classic Big Reveal: He hasn't told you what he plans to do with your shitty little cameras, has he? And he won't. Because you'd crucify him!
This needs nipping in the bud right now. The tension in this fucking elevator is heavier than rock. When the time is right—you know, around the launch of the website—I'll tell Leo about my ideas, and she'll acquiesce because she'll have spent all her fight trying to figure me out in the first place.
"Leo?" I tug at her arm. "Come through to the office with us?"
"I...okay?"
Tuija flashes her teeth at me. So this is going well, huh?
The halls, as usual, have an eerie calm about them, as if braced before the news day bursts. We walk down toward my office in an odd little knot, Leo clinging to my hand, probably for fear that Tuija is going to eat her. Welcome to the jungle, grasshoppers; we've got blood and fame.
In the office, I put Leo in one seat in front of my desk and gesture for Tuija to take the other. Then I make a fuss of getting them both waters from my mini fridge, taking my jacket off, switching my computer on. Pulling open the blinds so the light filters in like warm breath. I only scrubbed Leo's blood off my face a few hours ago; if it left a stain, some pale shadow half-mask, then that fucker's just come into full view. I leave off my flatscreens; they interfere with the ceremonial atmosphere I'm after.
"Now." Finally, I take my seat. "Since you've never been formally introduced...Leo, this is Tuija Klein, my assistant and the only person I trust in this bleak, twisted corner of hell." I turn to Tuija. "And this would be Leo. My girlfriend."
Leo glances about, her head bowed and expression awkward. To her right, Tuija grips her iPad like it's the last bar of vegan chocolate on earth. She leans over to Leo and talks from one side of her mouth.
"I've got shit on him, you know. We can totally take him."
A beat. Leo starts to chuckle, thick and dirty.
"Behave," I warn. "Look. Leo."
"Mmm?" She attempts to compose herself, tugging her skirt down and crossing her legs in comic over-gestures—but when the move puts pressure on the sliced skin of her inner thigh, she swallows hard and switches back.
"You know Tuija and I aren't really together. But until...recently, it suited for the world to believe otherwise."
"Oh." Tuija nods, her tone dry. "If this is the break-up talk, you can save it. I saw this coming a mile off."
"This is weird," Leo says, staring between the pair of us.
Tuija reaches over and pats her on the arm. "And now, so are you."
"Shut up. Both of you."
They both scowl; Leo in disapproval, Tuija normally scowls. But still.
"I want a statement put out announcing our separation. All very humble, the relationship ran its course a few months back, usual crap. No interviews, but you can give my Sunday papers the exclusive. Play it all out in nice pictures."
Tuija rubs her hands together. "Ooh. Are we consciously uncoupling?"
"No. Because that's just fucking stupid." In an amusing twist, the concept is ironically appropriate here, but the public hates pretension and consequently, so must we. I pick a pen up from my desk jar and point it at her. "No benders, no public partying. I want this to come off clean."
"I don't like clean," she mutters. "It's boring."
"Work harder. Get a hobby." She's taking this suspiciously well.
"I'm sorry," Leo says to the floor. Then she looks up and shrugs. "What? It feels like the thing to say."
"Nothing to be sorry for," I say. "Tuij? Do you mind?"
"Oh. Of course. I'll leave you in peace." There it is—the jack-o'-lantern smile, broadcast as brightly as any other lie on my networks. She gets to her feet and breaks into a runway walk toward the door. No salute. "All heil Prince Charming."
The door falls shut with a soft click, and then it's just me and Leo and the spectre of last night's carnage, clawing at us from the inside.
Leo pulls at a handful of loose hair. "So I'm your girlfriend now?"
"You said as much."
"I said that I'm yours." Her black button eyes grow wide and nervous. "I didn't expect it to be so...uh...official."
If I were a lesser man, I'd be offended by this. Suspicious, even. But then Leo isn't bothered about what I think right now. "You think it will provoke Rachel," I say slowly, "when it gets out."
"She's not well, Aeron."
"And she'll think you're a horrible person," I go on, teasing, "which I guess technically, you kinda are."
She glances away. "Stop it."
"Sweetheart. Come here." My leather office chair creaks as I ease back in it, patting my knee. "Just for a second."
Leo steps out of her heels before padding around to me. She's walking a little funny this morning; a slower pace, a greater care. It shouldn't get me hard but it does regardless, and when she folds her warm, smooth self into my lap, I know she can feel what she does to me. I'm shoved between her buttocks,
stiff and ready.
What she doesn't know, however, is that I'm aware of Rachel's stalking. Perhaps more than she is. "Are you worried she'll hurt you?"
"Hurt me?" She frowns. "No, nothing like that."
"So this is about saving face."
"No." She recoils, but I won't let her look away this time—I catch her jaw and turn her eyes to mine.
"Let me handle this. You worry about your prototype and your team. Okay?"
"Don't be crass."
See how she mimicked me from the cab the other night? We're mirroring each other. It's so gosh-darned cute, and I'm practically fucking bipolar. I am not, however, stupid. "There's a dinner coming up. A charity thing—animals who can't read or some crap. We can go together; we don't have to confirm anything. If she sees, she sees. She'll learn with everybody else."
What's she going to say to that? Okay darling, you keep your poor victim quiet again and I'll just sit pretty and do my job? It sounds ridiculous because it is fucking ridiculous. And unpleasant. And God help me, I want her all the more for it; I love her silence and its implicit honesty. Suddenly, we're in this together and there's this gorgeous cut on the inside of her thigh that is my handiwork, all mine, a cut below her cunt, and my hand roams up to pet the dressing and our mouths are painstakingly close. She smells like the sex we had at six a.m. this morning, sore and slow and smoky.
"You're nothing like I thought you'd be," she whispers, and she could mean a million things.
When her teeth close around my bottom lip in an echo of our first forced kiss, I could give up. I want to. But if I don't keep tabs on Leo and her desires, I'll probably end up as the meat in a vengeful bitch sandwich.
Still.
Look at that ass, people. What a way to go.
* * *
By the time I've showered and put on a fresh suit, The Break Up statement is on my desk: Aeron Lore, CEO of news giant Lore Incorporated, wishes to confirm his separation from long term girlfriend Tuija Klein. The couple, who dated for more than seven years, parted ways at the beginning of the summer and remain firm friends. Klein will continue in her position as personal assistant to Lore. Short, sweet and not overly revealing; it may not apply to Tuija's fashion sense, but it definitely applies to her PR. The piece goes on to detail some of our happier moments as a 'couple': charity benefits, company milestones. Suicide Balls. It's not even nine a.m. and Tuija's been a very busy bee. Either she's trying to make a point, trying too hard to seem unbothered, or she's jacked up on Red Bull and happy pills. A cocktail of all three, perhaps. Tuij loves cocktails.
It could be problematic if she finds a boyfriend or lover. Someone to trust. Of course she'd need time for that, and in her job, time is not in good supply. There will be speculation after Sunday, the cruel kind that will play with her emotions—people brushed off Leo's appearance with me on the red carpet since Tuija was right behind, but now there's that photo doing the rounds on Twitter. One way or another, Tuija will be humiliated when my relationship with Leo goes public. There's too much overlap. And I won't come out of this badly—I'm rich and hot and eligible, and it's damn well expected of me to swap her in for a younger model—but Tuij will be tainted goods.
Fortunately for both of us, she's used to that. And least now she has better tits.
There are plans to make today. I have to find with an outside company for web development so they can see a new SilentWitn3ss prototype; I can't have Leo talking to the wrong person in the cafeteria. Though I do like the idea of her pussyfooting about the Lore Corp eatery downstairs, trying to walk in the heels she wore to impress me despite her wound—men look at Leo. They fantasise about her smudgy eyes and pouty lips; they can only imagine that pussy. God, I can't wait to show her off some more. I need to decide when I'll fuck her next just so I can concentrate.
Maybe I'll log on to those cutter sites again and refresh my memory on the safe spots. A true gentleman avoids main arteries, hmm?
At that moment, Leo's old Nokia begins to cheep from the depths of my bag. I dig it out, lay it on my desk, and watch the number flash up on the screen as it gently vibrates toward my keyboard.
Rachel fucking Fordham. I could answer this call and hear her sarcastic, breathy voice for the first time in what, fifteen years? I let my hand over the thing, my pulse thumping in the grip of temptation.
Then the ringing stops, and Rachel is no more. Something still doesn't fit here. Not quite.
Which reminds me...
"Chief," says Tommy Chavez as he picks up my call. "What can I do ya for?"
"Remember how you said you could follow Miss Fordham?"
"You want in?"
"I want in." I toy with the old Nokia, my fingers fitting to its plastic keys. "Stop tailing Leo and focus on Fordham. I want everything you can get." The last thing I want Chavez doing is sitting outside Leo's building while I screw her. Ew. "I need your best work here, Tommy. Rachel won't take kindly to being followed. She's paranoid as hell. I'd rather you lose her than you lose your cover, okay?"
He gives a cheap, high-pitched laugh. "Can do. I swear, you give me the best jobs."
"You have her address? Workplace?"
"Lower east side. And she works at the public library downtown." He tuts. "Now if you wanna excuse me, I'll get on it."
I stroke the screen of the phone. Missed call. "I want a report every morning. Email it over, even if it's only a record of when she goes to the bathroom." Time to play on Tommy's chick-centred sympathies. "I'm worried she's going to hurt Leo, and I can't have that. Do you understand?"
"She don't look like the hurting type, chief. More like the kind to throw herself off a bridge, or somethin'."
"If she does that, put it in the report. But until then, just do what I ask you to and treat her like she's dangerous."
He whistles. "That was cold."
"My concern is for Leo."
"Oh yeah. You're just tryin' to get by," he says in a sing-song voice.
Yes.
Yes, I am.
* * *
When Harvey stops in later to discuss the Montgomery situation, I decide not to give him Leo's old phone. It's been a long time since I spoke to Rachel; I don't want her to disturb my newfound peace, even if it's short-lived. She had her chance and she fucked it up, but no doubt has enjoyed a cushy, comfortable life courtesy of the guilt money my mother lavished on the Fordhams after The Incident. Working at the library...yeah, that's not paying an NY rent.
So I'm keeping the damn phone and if she so much as lays a hand on Leo, I'm picking it up to call. Rachel might've had fifteen years of therapy, but she's not over me. How do I know this? Because she hasn't exposed me. When she could.
You kinda have to feel for Rachel. I can see why you might. I mean, I'm just the big bad, stringing up the puppets and making them dance. If I told you that she asked for it, you'd call me a misogynist, and if I told you that it's just the way the cookie crumbles, you'd call me a cynic. Go right ahead, grasshoppers.
You know how I like a little fight.
TWENTY ONE YEARS AGO
Home
Aged 11
Three jagged cuts on the inside of my thigh. I wish they were neater.
Mom and Dr Brody wish they weren't there at all. I can hear them fighting from downstairs, and they know I can hear them. That might even be the point. Tissue paper stems the slow ooze of blood; on TV, it's a lot quicker. Proper gushing. I need to grow bigger balls and just do it real hard.
It stings. I haven't decided yet if I like that, but then I'm kinda woozy. Huh.
"I'm not stitching him up!" Dr Brody yells, incredulous. "For the love of God, can't you hear yourself? He needs to go to an ER!"
"It will go on record," she hisses back.
This is what you get for dating a doctor, Mom. I warned you. You didn't like it, but I told you so.
Dr Brody is pacing. I can see him now, his bald head shining under the lights of the dining room and his stupid little beard bobbing up and down whe
n he talks. "I can't do this anymore. You need to take him back to that therapist."
"Why? She said he was fine, he is fine--"
"Tell me what he just told you. Say it again, out loud. Tell me his excuse!"
"Why are you doing this to me?" she whines. "This isn't my fault!"
When Mom barged into the bathroom ten minutes ago, she saw the cuts I'd made with her razor. I'm practising, I told her. And I don't even know why I said that, but it felt right coming out of my mouth.
Mom loses it all the time...just not in front of other people. We have to hide, see. But it boils over sometimes. We can't help it. Tonight, we're like dominoes; I fell and I pushed her into being a bitch to Dr Brody. The cuts are open and my sticky red insides are falling out and Mom and I, we're just exposed.
"He's not fine. He's not goddamn fine, Em. He exhibits seriously worrying behaviours."
"Don't you dare label my son like that," she snaps. "You have no idea."
There's a dull thump, as if someone just struck a wall. "No idea? How can you not notice his issues? You're his mother. I swear, I've tried with him—you know I've tried!—but he's a closed shop."
When something bad happens to me and Mom, I try to learn from it. And what I've learned here is that although Mom and Dr Brody have only been dating for like, four months and two weeks, the asshole has been watching me. I need to hide a lot better.
"He's been through a lot. You know that. His father just disappeared."
"But it isn't just me he's dysfunctional with, Em. You watch him—he doesn't form relationships with boys, or men. Not real ones. And he surrounds himself with fawning girls that he gets to do his dirty work. That incident at the little league thing, that fucking chilled me. He needs help."
"He's going to play football instead." There's a soothing tone to her voice, as if she can bring him down from this. "It'll be fine, baby."
"You think that's the point? Seriously?"