by Lime Craven
"Careful how you get up there, sweetheart." Oh, she'll be sore inside.
Echoes to remember me by.
Gingerly, she steps toward her full length mirror, where she turns in the spill of corridor light to inspect her new embellishment. The heart weeps down her left buttock, already clotted and sticky.
She braves a single touch, squeaking in discomfort. "Oh my god."
"It suits you."
"A heart, though...?" She glances over at me, black button eyes shining alight. "What next, a Hello Kitty?"
I snort. "You want another?"
"Do you think it will scar?"
"I doubt it. It's not deep." I'm saving that for later. We both seem to realise this at once, and take a long moment to wallow in it. Leo peers over her shoulder at her reflection, her mouth open in awe, and I watch her, my hand on my half-hard cock.
"Why?" she says suddenly, a new cadence to her voice.
"Why what?"
"Why...cut me?" She stalks back over with more confidence, more vigour, and you have to give it to her—five minutes after her first full anal fuck, that's no mean feat. She's probably still dripping. "It's not like every guy does that."
"Come here." I sit up and hold my hand out, beckoning her between my spread legs.
She obeys, smoky blond hair pouring around her flushed face. I watch her brow drip as I draw her fingers down my inner thigh. In this light, she'll barely see the old scars, but she'll feel the rough rise of oddly knitted skin.
I've never done this with another woman, or even wanted to. But I want Leo to know parts of me that nobody else does so that she can own them.
She sucks a breath in. "Aeron," she whispers.
"What? I had to practise on someone."
"You say that like it's completely fucking normal."
"They don't hurt."
"That doesn't answer my question." She presses her warm palm to my skin. "These don't feel...recent."
"I haven't done it in a very long time."
She looks up sharply. "You cut a lot of girls?"
"No, Doctor Reeves." I can't resist a little laugh. "You're the second."
"What about boys...?"
"No boys. Leo." I tug her hand away. "I don't have a reason. I just want what I want, and I love that I want it. But I have to be careful. When you show somebody how you look inside...it's the ultimate honesty, don't you think?"
"I think I'm good with lies," she murmurs.
I take a fistful of hair and pull her in for a kiss. Lazy tongues. "I'm sure you are."
"The thighs thing, though. Why there?"
I nip the tip of her nose. "We're very curious tonight, aren't we?"
"I want to understand you."
"You're cute."
She rolls her eyes. "That's like your classic evasion phrase."
"I like thighs because they're closer to other things. They're an edge, maybe. There. Happy?"
She chews her lip, studying me. "You ever cut the other things?"
"No."
Rachel never told her, then.
"Good. Because there are some places I can't go."
"Point taken." I run a fingertip down her hot cheek. "Thing about edges though...eventually, they wear away."
Leo ignores this. There's an air of finality, of surrender; she knows she can't win.
"It's starting to sting," she says eventually, her eyes low.
"Then lie down, baby." I press a kiss to her throat. Her shoulder. "I'll take care of you."
Later, when she's patched up and sleeping, I lie awake fiddling with my cell. I go through Facebook, squinting at the blazing screen in the dark, Liking all the fundraiser photos. There are comments on the amount of money I donated—considerable—and I avoid these in order to seem humble.
Leo breathes softly beside me, her warmth spreading under the covers to balm my cool skin. It pleases me that she's become curious; it's a sign of acceptance. I told her straight—I am what I am—and she still hasn't walked away. Of course that low, grating suspicion never quite leaves my belly; I know she could play me false. But this girl, if she's still playing...she's one hell of an actress.
The way she moaned and cried while I fucked her; that wasn't drama. You can't perform real fear.
My eyelids are heavy when my phone vibrates with a message from Harvey.
We got M, it reads.
My pulse leaps.
"Fuck, yes," I hiss, so loud that Leo stirs briefly.
That'll teach the bastard. God, if there's anything I love almost as much as an orgasm, it's admissible evidence. Adrenaline roars to life now, flooding my veins with sour possibilities. What will I do with it? I don't have to do anything, and it will just sit there all pretty on my hard drive, waiting for the moment when he pisses me off enough to—
A noise. A tinny, 8-bit ringtone comes from my bag in the corner of the room.
I shouldn't. Oh, I know I shouldn't.
I slip out of bed and creep swiftly to the bag, fishing the old cell phone out. The usual unrecognised number flashes on the screen.
I really shouldn't. I've already provoked a wound tonight; my appetite should be sated, and yet every nerve cell in my body urges me onward to the bleak pit of the past.
My finger falls lightly on the Accept button.
I lift the cell to my ear.
A low, breathy voice gusts down the receiver, softened by static. "Lee?"
I swallow. Cast my eyes over to Leontine, who lies splayed on the bed in peaceful, gorgeous sleep. She's still wearing her makeup, her hair is tangled; there's a faint spatter of blood across the sheet. A sly smile crawls across my face. "Lee's busy. Can I take a message?"
The girl on the end of the phone makes a choking sound.
"Rachel," I murmur.
There's a click of disconnection before the familiar tone chimes.
I find myself wondering if I scarred Rachel. If my pretty patterns are still there. Not that it matters so much; not when I glance back at Leo.
Love is just a scar you can't see.
SIX YEARS AGO
Undisclosed location
Aged 26
Dial tone. Phone rings out.
"Harvey?"
"...Sir?"
Breathing hard. "Where are you?"
"At home, sir."
"Good. Good." Calm down. This is the simplest of things. "I need you to do something for me."
"Of course."
"I have to call the Police now. In a couple hours, they're going to start asking where I've been tonight."
A pause. He knows. I'm on the emergency cell, the one with a temporary sim.
"I've been with you tonight, Harvey. Haven't I? I visited you at home."
Another pause. "When did you arrive? And when did you leave?"
"I came to see you at around eight. Left just half an hour ago. We had burritos for dinner and watched the Mets game. I only left your den to use the bathroom—once, during commercials."
"Understood." He clears his throat. "Where did you park?"
"I don't know." Speaking through gritted teeth. "Where did I park?"
"Beside my black BMW, on the right side of the driveway."
"Is there a resident who can attest to seeing my car?"
A gulp. "I'm sure there is." Long, slow exhale. "What clothes were you wearing?"
"Grey track pants and a white tee. You?"
"The same, more or less, sir. Is there anything else?"
"No. I don't think so." Close my eyes. Search for light in the blotted black. "I'm glad we understand each other, Harvey."
"All part of the service."
"Yeah." Lean back against the wall, cold through my damp shirt. "Carson isn't a criminal attorney, is he?"
"No."
Fuck. Shit. Fuck.
Cold voice. Eerie calm. "I doubt I'll be at the office for a few days."
"Sir?"
"Yes, Harvey?"
"Be careful."
Dial tone.
Fade
to black.
13
Optimism (noun): the blind man's outlook.
Looking on the bright side will only hurt your eyes.
There are days when I don't give a shit about the news, and this would be one of them—namely because these fucktards are trying to make news out of me.
An optimist would assume the paparazzi would have a healthy respect for me. I own a good ten percent of the global news market, which is a sizeable chunk of earnings to Mr Clicky. But no; the thing about being at the top of the food chain is that you're still meat at the end of the day, and if your stock rockets overnight...everybody wants a piece. Served rare.
Case in point: five days ago, Leo and I went public with our new relationship. Two days ago, we attended the fundraiser, where my impulsive nature got the better of me and I made more of a show of affection with Leo than I ever did with Tuija. No, I probably shouldn't have been all over her on the red carpet, and now I can't even get to the office without some kind of scrum. The bastards can't hang around outside the Lore Corp building—we have security, and we're also a hundred percent less likely to buy their photos again—so they've taken to hanging around outside my apartment building instead. Yesterday, they were outside Leo's place; today, Ash is going to need an escort to get out for school.
"This is fucking ridiculous," I rant down the phone to Harvey, who is already trying to orchestrate my exit. "It's seven in the morning. Do these fuckers not sleep?"
"You know they don't sleep."
The last time it was this bad, I'd been accused of murder. I'd laugh if I wasn't so pissed. "They're like vultures. Did you send Leo's escort?"
"She's not due out for a half hour, but yes, it's in place." He clears his throat. "I've briefed Tuija on the M situation. She'll fill you in."
"Amazing. You're amazing, Harvey."
He grunts, unsure what to do with such rare praise. But even a guy like Harvey Bell enjoys a little ego massage. "I also sent one for Tuija," he adds, still gruff.
"She actually went home...?"
"Uhuh. She didn't even detour to a bar."
"Good. That's good." Though it doesn't mean she didn't down a fifth of vodka as soon as she got home. "Listen—I'll be down in ten. Can you hang around once you get me into the car? Ash is due to leave at eight fifteen."
"It's already taken care of."
I hang up and walk over to join Ethan, who has been watching the paparazzi through the window for the past ten minutes. From up here, they look like a cluster of black ants on the sidewalk. Like pollution. Ethan's got his arms folded, his shoulders tight; he wasn't here the last time the media were interested in me, and he's never dealt with this kind of attention before.
"So this is what it's like to be famous, huh?" he asks.
"Infamous, more like," I mutter.
"She seems nice, your girl. I mean, from what I've read."
I eye him, side-on. Oh really? "She is nice."
"She's English, right?"
"Right."
His smile is a watery reflection in the window. "Like Hermione Granger."
"Isn't she, like, twelve?"
"What? No. She's at college. Legal, very legal." He clears his throat. "Ash read about her too, you know. Your girl."
I turn to pick up my suit jacket from the back of a chair. "And how did that come about, exactly?"
"He saw your picture on my iPad. Started reading over my shoulder. I know, I know—I shouldn't be reading it around him—that's my bad." He holds up his hands. "But he's excited. Pretty sure he's planning your wedding, just FYI."
"I'm not going to bring Leo back here. Is that clear?" I yank my jacket on and straighten my tie. Then I gesture around to the apartment. "This is separate. Even if I did marry her, she still wouldn't be here, being a..." Mother. Because Ash does not need a mother. Things are good; why disturb the food chain?
Ethan swallows and gives me a nervous nod, as if this kind of arrangement would be perfectly commonplace. "Absolutely."
"I'll be late tonight," I tell him on the way out. "Say goodbye to Ash for me, okay?"
"Aeron!" Ash screeches, tumbling through from the living area, half-dressed in just his pyjama pants. "I'm Batman today!"
I pat him on the head and square my shoulders. "You know what? So am I."
* * *
After smiling and waving for about thirty cameras like I'm a fucking circus monkey, I'm finally allowed into my car. I even get to the office before Tuija, which is a rare occurrence—she must be having more trouble than me. Not that I expect her to be quite as polite to the paparazzi as I was. She doesn't have the same kind of image to uphold, or quite the same level of control where her temper is concerned. I don't call her firecracker for nothing.
I make my own coffee for the first time in weeks, and peel back the blinds in my office to let the milky morning light seep through. Both news channels flicker on silent screens, blurs of pixels, moving mouths. At least I won't see myself on there; my relationship with Leo is tabloid fodder, not national news.
Unlike the last time I was so popular.
Tommy's latest report on Rachel Fordham sits in my inbox, and I click straight on it. After our little phone encounter the other night, I expected Rachel's behaviour to change somewhat—and I was right. Yesterday, she didn't come anywhere near the Lore Corp building. Tommy thinks she might have skipped a therapist appointment, judging by her usual routine, but she went to work as usual. Huh. Perhaps I haven't provoked her as much as I feared.
Since I picked up her call, she hasn't called or texted Leo once. Which is...interesting.
Ten minutes later, Tuija arrives with the most interesting folder of all.
"Project M," she declares, dropping the non-descript brown file in front of me and standing back to bask in her Big Reveal. "Knock yourself out, Hitler. We can slay this bitch." Today, she looks good—classic Tuija skirt suit, tits out just a little, high heels. Maybe her perfume hides the vodka, or maybe she's excited.
Or maybe she made a special effort for the mosh pit of cameras that were no doubt pitched outside her apartment from about five a.m.
Slowly, I peel back the cover and prepare myself for the images.
"Harvey," I murmur, "you're a genius."
No wonder Montgomery was being such a shit the other night—he was all wound up in anticipation of his booty call with Gregory. Gregory who is the son of the FCC chair. Gregory who studies drama at a liberal arts college and has less body hair than I have morals. Gregory who is probably twenty-one, but looks about fourteen. If I believed in horoscopes, I'd say my planets were aligning—they're fucking twerking, grasshoppers—because Harvey managed to get a photo of Dietrich Montgomery in a topless clinch with a twink.
Tuija walks around to lean over my shoulder. She sighs in wonder. "Isn't it beautiful?"
"It's...it's a sight to behold." They were standing near a window; a lamp illuminates all the right features of Montgomery's profile, the protrusion of his belly. How the tongue-laced kiss he's sharing with Gregory accentuates his jowls. I'd ask why the morons didn't think to close the blind, but let's be honest: cocks aren't great with logic. Cocks think about hands and mouths and tight little holes, not whether the curtains are open or closed. This is why men like Montgomery and me should avoid thinking with our dicks—it's what the public are most interested in. They will eat that shit with a spoon.
"I mean, beautiful might not be the right word." She tuts. "I could easily go with grotesque, or profitable, or my eyes are bleeding. But hey...look at the tits on him."
"And to think, when yours cost me a good ten grand, his were free."
She pokes me in the neck with a sharp, painted fingernail. "You love my ten grand tits."
"Easy now, firecracker." I shrug her off.
She straightens up, stalking back toward the door. "So what are you gonna do with it?"
"I don't know yet. I just—I want..." I ball my fists, squeeze an ache into them.
"Leverage," she says q
uietly. Tuija doesn't do a lot of things quietly at all, but this is one thing she understands. Back when I was arrested, Montgomery and GNS made serious bank from peddling accusations and exploitative crap. And as they picked me apart, Tuija was there, steaming.
"When the time comes," I reply in a low voice, "I'll give the fucker what he deserves."
She knots her fingers. Nods once. "You know you have to be careful."
"Come on—what do you take me for? I'm a big boy. I can handle it." More than she knows.
"Just don't let other things get in the way, okay?"
"Like what? What?"
She scowls. "You're the one who said that pussy makes you stupid."
"About ten years ago," I retort.
"Seven, actually."
"I was twenty-five, Tuij. That's like adolescence for guys." I wave her off. "Anyway. Go do something useful."
She runs her hands along the curves of her body. "I'm being useful right now."
"Fuck off."
Tuija yanks the door open with a sigh and a mediocre attempt at a salute. "Heil Hitler."
I can never be bothered to tell her that she gets a Nazi salute all wrong. I'm assuming that's what she's going for, anyway.
* * *
I've avoided Phil from the White House for too long, which means I'm treated to an hour-long Skype where we trade threats disguised as niceties and negotiations. I nod along like one of those dashboard dogs, listening to precisely none of it and all the while, picturing the moment when I'll pull the dressing off Leo's heart cut and inspect the state of the wound. She'll have to bend over my desk while I do it, her skirt pushed up and her ass on display. Low-rider panties, probably—the kind with a thong back or lots of lace. Leo and lace is a masterful combination, almost as good as Leo and no panties at all.
Phil. Shut up, Phil. Can't you see that I'm busy? I'd foist this kind of crap on to one of my editors if I got nothing out of it, but because I'm Aeron Lore, Phil always slips me a tip off or two. He wants my cooperation; I have a price. And then most of the time, only half of my publications cooperate anyway. We can't have uniformity within the media, can we?
Ha.
By the time lunch rolls around, I've learned the true meaning of blue balls. I used to be so good at keeping myself controlled, and yeah, it got difficult sometimes...but it was never like this. My playmate is just down the hall, no doubt meeting with her designers and testing her prototypes; swanning around like everything is normal, like she's normal, like she's not nursing my beautiful, batshit crazy handiwork beneath those sleek clothes. I'm bringing you here to simplify things, I told Leo when I moved SilentWitn3ss to my building, but I never considered how hard I was making things for myself. How the fuck am I meant to work in this state? And why do they call it blue balls, anyway? Why isn't it just called I WANT TO DIE? I'm near enough doubled over here.