It's near enough pitch black in here. I'm reading in a thin gauze of street light, squinting to make out the dirty words. But the photographs speak for themselves, and my cock understands this language. Before popping the button on my pants, I glance about, just make sure I'm alone. Silence. And so out comes my cock, solid and hot in my palm. The head is slick and sticky. It bobs at my touch.
The photo I like best is from a year ago. Looks like it was taken outside after a run. Her hair is a touch shorter, falling around her shoulders in streaks of honey blond, and she's smiling at the camera with flushed cheeks and lips. White teeth. Not a stitch of makeup, and more than a lick of sweat. It shimmers in her cupid's bow and along the peachy dips of her collarbone. My tongue twitches as if she's close enough to taste—close enough for me to peel away her tight black vest and yoga pants. She's marked with sweat there as well, damp fabric clinging to her round, soft breasts and flaring out at her hips. I like that she's proud of her body. I like that she knows how to show it off. And I love that when she stood beside me in that elevator, it all fell away to reveal a nervous girl who smelled like the best fuck I haven't had yet.
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.