"I assaulted her. She fought me off."
"Sounds like foreplay." Tuija lets out a warbling laugh, the kind that grates on my ears. "Dirty boy."
It wasn't foreplay! I want to shout. Because it was more than that. It was inappropriate and intimidating and illegal, and the beast in me wants credit. Recognition. All I get is don't be silly, dear. Boys will be boys.
"Come here." She shifts over to me and takes the glass from my hand, putting it on the sofa. "Let me see." She tips my chin up, nudges my mouth open. Prods at the painful flesh. "She actually bit you?"
"Get off." The stench of alcohol coming off her is almost as bad as the wild, disorientated look in her eyes as she tries to focus on my injury.
"Fine, fine." She climbs away. "You're lucky there, big boy. She only tore the skin on the inside. You'll have a hell of a bruise when it all goes down, but it could be a lot worse." Then she leans on her stomach to reach her purse, and pulls out her phone.
"What are you doing?"
"Calling your doctor. You're gonna need stitches."
"The bleeding already stopped," I mutter. But she's right. I sip the whiskey, enjoying the hard sting of it, and allow her to make the call.
"He'll be here in half an hour," she says, hanging up.
"Leo's not going to sign the contract. Not after tonight."
"Of course she is. Come on. You rescued her from dirty old Montgomery. You're a fucking hero."
I strongly suspect that hero is in the eye of the beholder.
She throws her phone down. "Oh, stop sulking already. Even if she does get difficult, you'll find a way around it. Right?"
Maybe I don't want to be a hero. Not unless it serves a purpose. I like the shadows better, where the dark things hide.
Tuija studies me, rolling her shoulders. "You like her, don't you?"
"Perhaps."
"So...how do we play this? Our arrangement, I mean."
Ah. The arrangement where Tuija poses as my alleged girlfriend in order to maintain my image. It's almost become a facet of the public Mr Lore; nobody looks too hard at my love life these days because they just don't think to. Any encounter I've had, any occasional indulgence, has been swiftly buried under a heap of cash and the odd non-disclosure agreement. And even then, I've controlled myself. Learned from my mistakes.
As a rule, I do not court women in public. It tends to result in assault and battery.
Tuija's looking at me like I'm some rejected puppy, like I've come running to her with my tail between my legs. The idea that she considers me so vulnerable makes my insides shrivel. Although maybe letting her believe that would work to my advantage. Maybe it always has. It keeps her agreeable in circumstances that prevent her taking lovers of her own.
There are CEOs who consult PR companies for this kind of bullshit. Not me. I've made an entire career manipulating the news to suit myself, and I can play the system like chess. Rules: I bend them. Laws: I break them. There's not a smart mouth in this world that I can't buy. And if that sounds like arrogance, it's because it is. Life will not give you lemons if you put your hand out and ask for them nicely—it will just bite your fucking hand off.
"I guess it depends." I roll melting ice around my glass. Listen to it clink and slosh. "I was hardly all over her on the red carpet. And she's not going to talk, not to the press."
"Other press, you mean."
"Uhuh." The image of her bloodied thumb comes back to me, the way she swept it between her lips to lick. "I don't think she's the type to overshare."
"So...?"
"Whatever you're asked, it's no comment. And if anything changes, I'll let you know."
If anything changes.
If Leo and I were to become...involved.
I'd say it was unlikely, but that's only if you factor in this amusing idea of me giving her a choice.
***
Monday morning mindfuckery at Lore Corp is most definitely in session. Between the suspect breakthroughs on the JFK incident, the usual inpouring of complaints from the public because our news crews are allegedly obstructing the crime scene, and the press fallout from the Suicide Ball—thank you, Kasha, for rolling drunk off your stretcher to cuss at Aspen Paverley—by eight AM, I'm already itching to escape. For this reason, I turn my security meeting with Harvey into a jog around Central Park.
There are no assistants to annoy us, no phones ringing, no security team; sweat and speed render us unrecognisable. It's just me, Harvey, the soft crunch of stones and dust beneath our running shoes, and the spring green overhang of old trees. Other joggers dart around us, intimidated by the quiet bubble we run in. Harvey and I jog together at least once a week—ironically, for privacy.
"So." We turn to run around a huge maple, and for a moment, are swallowed by its shadows. "You have intel from Friday?" I ask.
Harvey nods. His breath is harsh but regular. "Followed M home. He went as far as the East Village and then switched to another car—a Prius, sir. Goddam pansy. Said Prius went to a penthouse—"