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I should berate her for the way she's talking to me, but it's just easier to hang up.
The blood draws my gaze again in the lamp light. A thin film dulls its sticky surface. Blood is like lust; once out of your system, it quickly loses its lustre. Fuck desire, fuck trust, fuck obsession; time to get off my knees for this meddling bitch.
Leo wants to hunt me?
I'll show her whose teeth are sharpest.
SEVEN YEARS AGO
Bellvue Hotel, downtown NY
Aged 25
I'm twenty-five years old and I just launched my second national news network.
I've got smoking hot redhead Barbie on my arm.
Dietrich Montgomery fucking hates me because I'm awesome.
Drunk. So drunk. I'm celebrating, you know. All that shit. This couch's kinda cheap for the Bellvue New York, huh? You'd think they'd put something that doesn't smell like ass in the penthouse suite. But I'm not getting up because that pseudo antique closet keeps lunging in like it's coming to get me.
Tonight, I put Tuija in a white satin Versace gown that cost more than most people's cars, and we swanned around the launch party like royalty. Me with my God-given dimples and charm, her with her surgeon-sculpted tits and ass. And bottled hair. And capped teeth. And...I forget what else, but she looks damn good for someone who used to have a bowl of Xanax with milk for breakfast.
"I'm gonna call you Frankenklein," I slur at her as she totters into the bucket chair opposite and kicks off her velvet heels. "Get it?"
She holds up an open bottle of champagne, winces, and takes a hearty swig. "I prefer firecracker."
"Tuij. Stop drinking. You're not meant to drink."
"I might take that more seriously if you weren't too slaughtered to get up."
"Can they surgically remove sarcasm? 'Cause I might get that done to you next." I hold my hand out toward the champagne. "Now gimme."
She rolls her eyes, drops to her knees, and crawls around the mahogany table toward me. Her makeup is all mussed up, her tits almost spill out of the front of the gown, and she's kind of a vision in white, this white lump moving along the rug like a—
"Hey." I click my fingers. "You look like you're going to a wedding."
"Absolutely nobody else has told me that tonight," she deadpans.
"Actually...didn't we get asked by like, three people, if we're getting married?"
She looks away, chewing her lip. "A couple."
"That's fucked up." The champagne bottle is heavy in my hand. Smells like piss. I put it down and poke one of her breasts with a shaking finger; it feels weird, soft but not flesh-like. She grunts and glares. "Go sit back down," I mumble.
Tuija sighs and gets to her feet. "Yes sir."
"I swear, you'd think these motherfuckers would want to ask me about my business. But no. All they go on and on about is whether I have a girlfriend. What's this obsession with who I'm boning? Seriously? I'll open Forbes next week and it'll have like, a small paragraph on NN24 and then some massive pull-out called Aeron Lore's Dick: A Destination Guide."
Tuija snorts. "We should get in there first. Run that feature before they all start thinking you're gay."
I pull myself up. Take a breath—shit, I'm woozy. "I need to not be gay."
She blinks a couple times. "What?"
"I'm not coming out, you moron. But you're right. People are just gonna keep asking questions."
At this little scrap of validation, Tuija sinks back into her chair with a smile and crosses her legs slowly—not because she wants to flash her pussy at me, but because frankly, that dress is so tight that she can't do anything fast.
I lean down to find the champagne and almost knock it over. The neck of the bottle falls into my palm just in time. "Maybe we should just give 'em what they want." Then I take a mouthful—and it does indeed taste like piss.
She starts to fiddle with her hair; colour climbs her face like a slow tide. "You mean, um...get married?"
I spit out the champagne and retch all over the couch (which is an improvement in terms of design and smell). "Jesus. God. No."
"Oh."
There's a piece of...something...across the back of the couch. Maybe a towel. Feels like a towel. Whatever—I wipe my mouth with it and pat down my damp shirt. "I meant we should fake it." If I was a cartoon right now, I'd have the biggest light bulb above my head. Which is weird. Fuck you, Nickelodeon. "You can be my fake girlfriend!"
She has the kind of expression you get when a cat brings you something dead. "Your what? Why? Aeron, why don't you just get a real one?"
"Because," I announce, holding my arms out, "pussy makes me stupid."
"Pussy makes every man stupid."
"I'm special," I slur. No, really. I am. Trust me. "Come on, firecracker. Imagine. I'm hot fucking shit right now and it's only going to get better—give me a year and I'll own me some newspapers. Whole empire. You're already my first lady, right? Montgomery's got his shrivelled husk—sorry, wife—"
She titters.
"—And what I need is to not have a shrivelled husk. Or a wife, 'cause I'm too young and everyone will just wait for a divorce."
"You're not really selling it to me."
"Tuij." I put the champagne down, haul my legs off the couch, rest my elbows on my knees and my face on my fists—really look her in the eye...when I can focus. "I'm serious."
"You're drunk," she counters.
"I can be drunk and serious. Come on. You're a clever girl, you know it makes sense."
"If I'm your fake girlfriend," she says quietly, "how am I gonna have a real boyfriend?"
"You're not. I feel like—I dunno. Might give the wrong impression, huh?" I grin at her. She loves my grins; look at her mouth softening, her feet rubbing together. "Middle America needs monogamy. If I'm gonna sell them shares, they need the whole shebang."
"You just said shebang."
"The champagne said shebang. Now shut up. Come on, Tuij. I'll keep you in style, I promise, clothes, shoes. How about an upgrade on that apartment, huh? It'll be like being a really high class hooker, but you don't have to fuck me."
She puts her face in her hands. "Right. What a deal."
I don't think she realises what a favour I'm doing her there. "You know, I can probably find another assistant who'd go for it. Some nice little graduate. A yes girl."
"Oh, fuck you." She peers through her fingers, antsy and suspicious. "You hate yes girls."
"I hate most girls," I say matter-of-factly. With the fire of a thousand fucking suns. "But I don't hate you, firecracker. And I need you to stop me being stupid the same way you do in the office every day. What do you say?"
"I don't know."
I lower my voice. "I've done a lot for you. Everything. And I don't ask for much in return."
"I'll regret this," she murmurs.
"Probably."
"My parents are gonna think it's weird."
I cough. "Your parents are in Finland."
"Yeah. Takes a lot for them to think stuff is weird, but this...ah, fuck it." She holds her hands up and lets loose a shrill, jagged little laugh. "Do I have to sign in blood?"
Jesus.
Don't fucking tempt me.
#6
Honesty (noun): the absence of all fear
At three minutes past eleven on Tuesday, Tuija struts into my office like she's on a runway. Each footstep is a skidding bullet; she barely even blinks.
"Nice of you to make an appearance," I mutter.
"Voila." She drops a single silver key on my desk with a clatter. A yellow Post-It note flutters down in succession, landing on the edge of my keyboard. "Happy?"
The key, no doubt, is for the front door of Leontine's East Side apartment. The Post-It bears numbers for door and alarm codes, as well as an ETA courtesy of Leo's doorman.
I sit back and appraise Tuija, my arms folded. "Fast work, firecracker."
She raises one red eyebrow. The rest of her face is utterly blank. "If you will give me permission to fuck someone." Then she turns back, tossing her wavy hair in a limp gesture of dismissal.
