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But I will. I'll have her, every inch, and she'll sweat and shiver in these curious hands. I allow myself so few women; each one must be special. Perfect. Worth the wait. And Leontine brought me her bedroom eyes; I know what she wants.
What I want is something different entirely. I'll take it anyway.
It's what I do.
***
The following morning, I go out to get breakfast for Ash and Ethan. Normally, I insist that Ash eats well; it's what responsible 'parents' do, and while Ethan takes good care of the kid, I'm well aware that it's often easier to bribe him with junk than it is to just get him to behave. But I woke full of anticipation for the Suicide Ball tomorrow and for seeing Leontine, and I'm told that this warm, fuzzy sensation is referred to as a 'good mood.'
"Pancakes!" Ash yelps, practically throwing himself at the table. "With syrup? You got syrup, right?"
"Do I look like the kind of moron who'd forget the syrup?" I slap the packets beside his plate and toys. "There. You and Optimus can knock yourselves out."
Ethan emerges in the doorway, his hair damp from the shower. He's wearing a t-shirt that reads Bazinga! Jesus Christ.
"Oh, dude. You shouldn't have," he says, almost mortified. "I normally cook—it's just early, it's—"
"I know." I shoot him an understanding smile. "Thought I'd make myself useful, since I'm not due in until nine." This is a lie; I hate arriving after eight. But the glutton in me is alive and hungry, waiting, wanting. They don't sell smoky blond innocents at Matineau's, so pancakes had to do. I gesture to my laden plate. "I'll just finish these and I'll be out of the way."
Ethan nods, still blushing a little. I've actually never pulled shit like this; the Lore Corp security team, who take care of the nanny cams, assure me I have nothing to worry about with Ethan, and so I've never done something just to catch him out. Still, the fact that he's worried about it satisfies me.
It's strangely pleasant, eating together like this. Not something we—or I—ever do. Ash delights in the presence of his favourite people by bouncing around in his seat and randomly shouting bits of Spanish he's learned at school; we all chat about the upcoming Mets game while Ethan tries to rescue flying pots of syrup.
When I was a child, breakfast was a rushed and aggressive affair. My mother never got up early enough, was never organised enough, and so I ate Pop Tarts in the car while she sniped about dropping crumbs or bitched about Dad.
Ash doesn't have a mother or a father, but he more or less has two dads. And he's fine. Wonderful. Look at him, blazing about like a sugar-crazed Tasmanian devil and shrieking with glee. There's that Larkin poem—they fuck you up, your parents do—but it's wrong. Is all twisted. A mother would only screw with this scenario, would upset the balance and shove it about.
"Aeron." Ash yanks at my shirt sleeve and hands me a warm, sticky piece of paper. "I did you a syrup picture. Look—that's you, that's me, and that's Super Mario. I'm real good at art now."
They all look like bits of brown snot, but I smile like he just cured cancer.
***
The Lore Corp building is a mess of overtired journalists, presenters and technicians. Fliss has scraped herself from the bottom of the barrel and looks like shit warmed up, but at least she's here. I make a mental note, as I walk past her, to do something sympathetic later, maybe flowers or a card with a heartfelt message. I'll borrow Tuija's heart for that part. At least her mother isn't actually dead.
Despite the fact that the whole place is in chaos—I have sixty seven new emails, a stack of memos three inches thick and fourteen voicemails, all bomb-related—my good mood won't quit. We're busy as ever, churning out breakthroughs every ten minutes on my huge twin screens; Carson has sent the SilentWitn3ss contract over; Leontine's stock, it seems, has risen by almost eight percent. In a little over thirty two hours, I'll be sitting with her at the Suicide Ball while she simmers in vague unease. Because I'll watch her, shamelessly. She'll notice. Everyone will. And they'll pull all sorts of interesting crap out of that.
I love media events. They tug at my ego, make it quiver and throb. What will my little lion think of the attention I'll get on the red carpet? Will she be intimidated or impressed? Both, probably; it will only coax her trusting nature further, make her fingers twitch for the contract and a pen. Still, discomfort will chew at her, running its rough tongue down the small of her back. And I'll watch for the telltale shudders.
Ten minutes after I arrive, Tuija waltzes in with my black coffee in one hand and a white envelope in the other. Today, her heels border on ridiculous, but she walks toward me with a practised, steady stride. Nice work.
"Morning." She positions the coffee on a glass coaster. "Somebody had a late night, huh...?"
"No. I wanted to have breakfast with Ash."
She cocks a red eyebrow. "Why? Are you ill?"
"You're a jaded bitch, you know that?"
"You beat it into me. It's like Stockholm Syndrome, but the office version." She perches on the edge of the desk and proffers the envelope. "I think you might want to see this."
I take a mouthful of coffee and wash it around my teeth and tongue. This good mood thing has all my senses on alert; I could eat Tuija's shoe right now and it would probably taste amazing. "What is it?"
"Well, I relayed your message yesterday to those lit agents—"
"Verbatim?"
"I did the shit sandwich. You know: Dear Sycamore Media, we thank you for your kind interest in our client. He respectfully asks that you suck a bag of dicks and die. Yours, Tuija Klein."
"This is why I hired you." Another mouthful of coffee. God, it almost tastes three-dimensional. "You're so professional."
She shoves the envelope down in front of me and tugs at a stray curl of hair. "Seriously, though. They hand-delivered that around half an hour ago. I haven't looked inside, but all my spidey senses are tingling."
"That sounds disgusting."
"Okay, okay. It's my professional opinion that you should give it a look. When you finish all your very important business, obviously."
Spidey senses. Jesus. She just can't stand the lack of a Big Reveal. "I'll pencil it in between pissing on kittens and Skyping Kim Jong Un. Alright?"
She grins to herself, stalking back toward the doors. "You're so fucking full of it."
"Hey—firecracker?"
"Yep?" She half turns. Clicks her fingers.
"Did you send Leontine that dress?" Anticipation squeezes me. Even my ankles are tight.
"Oh yeah. I sent one." Her grin widens. "You'll just have to wait and see."
She can't know how my cock swells to the music of those words, but she saunters out with the kind of satisfied pout that makes me suspect she does, regardless. I might even praise her later for the background check.
When the door swings shut again, I pick apart the seal of the white envelope. It bears the Sycamore Media logo across the flap's apex, a tree with bare branches that I tear in two. The front was handwritten in inky black calligraphy, though it only bears my first name, which is far too presumptuous for my liking. Do these shitstains have nothing better to do?
Inside is a single white card, thick and embossed with another naked tree. There is no greeting, no polite address, but the same flowing handwriting offers a single message.
We know about Rachel Fordham.
The room turns hazy.
Beige flashes red.
With a slow, steady hand, I put the note card and envelope down before flicking my monitor back on and Googling for Sycamore's website. A few swipes later and I'm dialling the direct line for their office.
"Good morning, Sycamore Media. Trent speaking," says the kind of voice that belongs to a guy who went to Cornell and wears black square-rimmed glasses.
Words fall from my mouth like ice chips. "Morning. This is Aeron Lore of Lore Incorporated; I'm calling regarding your proposal. Can you put me through to the agent handling the project, please?"
Cornell clears his throat. His tone goes up about three octaves. "Mr Lore. I...hi. Let me, uh, put you through now—you'll be on hold for just a second."
"That will be fine."
Beethoven's Fifth pours down the receiver. I stare at the words on the card until my vision turns double, until I'm aware that my finger is sore from rubbing the stubble on my jaw.
