Cole cocks his head at me. "She your girlfriend, or something?"
More laughter from somewhere near the shower. "Yeah. That's why he hasn't tapped that. Hasn't earned his * privileges."
"Fuck you," I shout, adding just enough of a forced smile to win these dipshits over. I don't want to smile; I want to rip their hollow heads off.
It takes all the self-control I have to exit the locker room without kicking a garbage can or slamming a door. The parking lot is dimly lit, and a quick glance around tells me I'm alone—for now. A sliver of shadow hangs over Lincoln's red Jeep. His pride and joy.
Ten seconds later and I'm right beside that stupid fucking car, snapping off both the wing mirrors. They come apart in my hands like wishbones. Then I use the jagged plastic edge of one to cleave a hissing gash in his front left tire.
When the throbbing subsides in my temples, I toss both mirrors into the grassy ditch along the parking lot and hurry to my own ride. My bag lands in the trunk with a satisfying thud, and inside, the leather seat is cool on my skin. Relief. That's what violence is.
Rachel Fordham is not a slut.
Not for that bunch of cunts, anyway.
#4
Desire (noun): nature's loveliest weapon and cruellest joke
Heady.
Expensive.
Difficult to come by.
Desire is like a black market drug.
A rich man desires little but the things he cannot buy. I hold a great deal of power, but none of it compares to opiate thrill of flesh. Or thought. God, there's power there, too. Something primal.
I'm not a caveman; I can't go around killing people with my bare hands or spitting teeth at enemies. But desire takes me pretty damn close. For this reason, most of the time, I must contain it or risk everything I've worked for.
Not tonight.
From the moment I step on to that red carpet, I'll allow myself the indulgence of desiring Leontine. Will tease myself with the promise of her. Maybe, if the opportunity arises, I'll get a taste.
I shouldn't put my desires before the good of the firm, and once she knows what I am, the little lion won't want to sign my contract. But fuck it. I have ways and means.
Tuija and I wait behind the Grand Palace Hotel, away from the paparazzi and the steaming traffic. We've arranged to meet the employees of SilentWitn3ss here in order to escort them in. The Suicide Ball will be quieter tonight after the JFK incident; networks and publishers are hesitant to spare the staff. Nevertheless, the rumpus around the front of the hotel is all but deafening, and if I'm honest, I can't wait to show off.
Men like me are upper crust A-List. Gold class. I'm not the guy teenaged girls lust over in magazines; I'm the one behind him, pulling the strings. The paparazzi know the value of these things and the ones around the corner are there for two kinds of people: the TV presenters and the CEOs. I may not be Anderson Cooper or Ryan Seacrest, but I have a couple more zeros on my bank balance and a big lick of that pretty thing called class. With five minutes on that red carpet, I'll show Leontine what a big fucking deal I am; regardless of what they say, women love that crap. Every last one of them.
Exhibit A: Tuija in her tight blue bandage dress, tits and ass on display. She lives for nights like this, where she can shine her way out from beneath my shadow. Look at her, eye-fucking all the butler boys in their penguin suits—ah, I'm like a proud uncle. My redheaded rocket is going to disappoint a hundred men tonight, and they'll all think she belongs to me. Which is always interesting.
Desire is the pipe bomb of power, sports fans. Use it and abuse it for the lesser beings will choose it, but never pretend that it's truly within your control.
Harvey, dressed in his usual smart civilian attire, tucks a receiver into his pocket as he walks up to greet me. He leans in to speak with a low voice. "We'll be outside in the van the entire time. Are you sure you don't want an escort? What with the Sycamore business."
"I told you—I'm dealing with that myself."
Harvey narrows his brown eyes. "But until then..."
"I can handle it, Harvey." I give him a stiff pat on the shoulder. "I appreciate your concern. But you know where I'd rather you aimed it."
He gives a single, silent nod with that angular jaw of his.
Montgomery. I want that bastard watched like a hawk.
"Boss." Tuija gives my sleeve a yank.
"Mmm?"
"Your delivery just arrived." She nudges my shoulder toward a black BMW pulling up at the kerb. "Looky."
Leontine.
She's helped out of the car by a guy I recognise as one of her designers; some stocky ginger asshole called Finn in a clumsily fitted designer suit. Not that anyone is looking at him, of course. They're too busy appraising her.