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I move on to the Game sites. These guys think they're real players; they like to screw with the mind of a woman, knock her down a peg or two so she feels special just to be in their presence. While I see the logic here, I fail to see the draw for any woman with more than a shred of self-esteem; and while self-esteem can be troublesome, God, it's amusing to toy with. I don't want a puppy to kick—I want a vicious little vixen who doesn't lie still until she's bleeding.
Enough. I should have guessed, given my unusual intentions, that there would be no help for me here. Still, it's useful to know what to measure Leo's expectations against.
When my thoughts turn to Leo, they melt to greyer shades. Twist to strange shapes and swell in the heat of desire. I plug in my headphones and scroll through a favourite porn site until I find a video with a girl who is suitably similar; blond hair, tanned skin, smudgy black eyes. She doesn't moan like my Leo—Leo isn't fake—but it'll do while I'm waiting.
The girl onscreen is masturbating, almost naked, her purple thong underwear tangled around her ankles as she lies back on a pink bed. Fluffy cushions and pop posters are somehow meant to indicate that she's younger than she is. Something for the lowlife deviants. I'm too busy looking between her legs to pay attention to much else, too busy watching her fingers pump into her wet, open pussy.
I remember doing this to Leo, and I remember how her body went limp when she gave in and ceased resisting. I could've fucked her that night; I knew it then and I know it now. But it wouldn't have been what I wanted. There are plans to put in place and rules to make clear before I can have Leo the way that I need to, and as I stroke myself, I make a list.
Tomorrow, it starts. My backward seduction. Sharp as the blade of a razor and blunt as the first stroke of a fuck. At the end, if she's there, I'll know she wants the same things. I never did imagine such a creature; stupid of me, perhaps. But I've always been alone in my desires. There were girls like Rachel who thought they wanted my particular brand of passion until they realised exactly how much it would hurt...too late. I've been so careful since.
The girl in the video begins to come, her hips bucking, her fingers soaking wet. Soon, I'll see Leo like this; stripped down and desperate, at the mercy of my cock. My tongue.
My knife knows little mercy, but she'll get the sharp end of that, too.
***
Early the next morning, I make a phone call to a prestigious florist, who is bemused by my request but agrees to it regardless. I tell her it's for a music video and give her a fake name. She responds with an abrupt little laugh.
Then, I call the chocolatier. I have a sarcastic lover, I explain; she will appreciate his unusual efforts. He asks for twenty-four hours to complete, which I grant him.
I make a final order, online this time. Express delivery to my apartment. This one, I must finish myself.
Gifts for my special girl, one, two and three. Lingerie and flowers, indeed.
Come hunting with me, grasshoppers.
I'mma catch me a lion.
FIFTEEN YEARS AGO
Motel in the suburbs
Aged 17
I got impatient with Rachel. Went too fast, fucked her too early, and now she won't take the cuts in the places I wanted her to.
She lies naked on the crappy motel bed, legs apart, half-obscured by the faded white sheet. Her chest rises and falls with each short, sharp breath. I've put a towel underneath her, and she's bleeding through the tape I applied to her wounds, red trails crusting her cum-stained inner thighs and matting into the cotton.
I'm trying to watch a football game on the old TV while she recovers, but all she does is talk over the fucking thing.
"Aeron?"
Without looking up, I pass her the glass—half amaretto, half Coke—but she shakes her head.
"Makes me feel sick," she whimpers.
"Suit yourself." I'd down the rest of it, but I need to drive us back.
"Aeron?"
I glance up at her. "What?"
"Is—is it meant to hurt this much?"
"Did you think that it wouldn't?"
"I thought—I thought..." Fat tears christen her cheeks. Strands of black hair stick to her sweaty forehead. "Will you help me put my panties back on?"
I peer down between her legs and inhale the scent emanating from her sticky skin: stale arousal, antiseptic, the iron edge of blood. "Why?"
"Because I can't go home without them...but I can't, I can't move properly without..."
Without disturbing her wounds.
Even in her distress, there's a softness about the way she looks at me, a hesitance that belies her feelings. I'm the star quarterback. The aloof older guy. I give her my time, my attention; I make her come; she's privileged to be here. And Rachel knows she's special in her own way, too—I could've had any dumb cheerleader on this bed and she'd probably be less of a risk, but where's the fun in that? The fight? Rachel's smart. 4.0 GPA, yearbook staff, prickly with almost everyone except me. A proper little goody two shoes—except right now. Oh, this afternoon...she's been very bad.
I'll take care of her. We love being each other's exception.
Sighing, I slip down on to the worn-out mustard carpet to find her cheap black panties. Then I sit back on the bed—the old mattress creaking toward me and causing her to wince—to lift her legs one by one. She squeals as I tug the fabric past the beautiful red murals of her inner thighs.
"Maybe you should wear bigger ones next time," I chide her. As an afterthought, I throw in a grin. She always likes those.
There will be a next time.
Rachel begins to sob.
#9
Foreplay (noun): the lies a man tells before he gets inside a woman
Later in the morning, I stand outside my office and watch from the end of the hall as the florist delivers Leo's arrangement.
Various employees are in transit—SilentWitn3ss, news room staff—and they stop to stare when they catch sight of the bouquet. The delivery girl is evidently unsettled, and she keeps her eyes on the bundle of scarlet cellophane and tissue in her arms; twelve thorny stems emerge from the ribbon and wrapping, arranged so they protrude at even angles to form a dome shape. A dozen perfect red roses...but turned upside down.
When Leo removes the wrapping¸ she'll be treated to a sea of crushed red petals that bleed to the floor like tears.
Tuija stands beside me, her made-up face wrinkled with unease. "You know this is an office, right? Not a Tim Burton movie."
I elbow her sharply in the ribs, sending her flying into the glass wall behind us. "Don't piss on my picnic."
"Ouch. Motherfu—"
"And mind your fucking language."
She rubs at her side, wincing. "You're doing an ace job of putting the no in Casanova."
I pat her on the head. "You keep telling yourself that."
Leo hides away all day, but that evening, my phone goes off with a text from a strange number.
But he that dares not grasp the thorn should never crave the rose, it reads. L x
A Bronte quote.
How very English of her.
***
Wednesday. The date of our dinner, and the arrival of my second gift.
I deliberately schedule a Central Park run with Harvey for the delivery timeslot. If I'm in the building, all I'll do is think of Leo's face when she opens this particular box, and I hate nothing more than distraction.
The weather is mediocre today: grey skies, drizzle. The sky hangs heavy and swollen. We jog through the groves, gravel and dust spewing from our running shoes, and the damp air cools the sweat on my brow to a film. Clothes stick to me unpleasantly. It's all like being choked by a cold, wet hand.
"So," I say to Harvey, "any developments?"
"With M?"
"The very same."
"We got a couple text messages. He keeps arranging to meet up with his boy toy but then gets waylaid, has to cancel." He huffs. "Twice now, we've been all set to get photos and it hasn't come through. This could take time."
"Then take it."
We come to a small bridge, and the wood shudders and groans beneath the pounding of our footsteps.
"But as soon as you have something," I go on, "I want it. Photos, audio, everything."
