The lift rolls open, and she waits for me to step out before following. She stays close, leaning in.
"Her medical records came back. Not just UK, but for another doctor she saw over here," she says quietly.
"Oh?"
"That time she was meant to be travelling, before Harvard? Lies."
Fuck off with your Big Reveal, Tuij. Fuck off, fuck off, fuck off. "Which is interesting because...?"
"Because she spent those months in rehab," she says gleefully. "I don't know what for, exactly—there's only a brief reference on these records, along with a bunch of old prescriptions for mood stabilizer meds—and I'm waiting for a contact to confirm her stay at the clinic. But this place specialises in emotional trauma. Princess Priss is officially screwed in the head."
Whoop-de-do. Who isn't? I'm the sanest person I know.
Still...it's always useful to know where the weak spots are. Where to push. Where to tease.
"Well say something," Tuija urges, holding open my office door.
"You want a lollipop? A sticker?"
She falls back against the closed door and pouts at me. "Heil."
"Heil yourself. You know what I want?"
"Some grease for the stick up your ass?"
I don't even dignify that with a glare. "A shower. A long, hot shower, a clean shirt, and an empty inbox."
She sighs, bringing her hand up in a weary salute. "No interruptions. Got it."
"Unless it's about the SilentWitn3ss contract. Tell Fliss to buzz any calls straight through."
"Will do."
I thrust my towel in her direction. "Oh, and firecracker?"
"Mmm?" She looks up to catch the towel, her made-up eyes all hopeful and needy.
"You've been an amazing fake girlfriend, but I could use a little less genuine jealousy."
Silence.
She trembles, just slightly. Rocks on her heels. "It's good for your ego," she finally manages.
And then she's gone.
***
That evening, I arrive at my apartment early in anticipation of my guest. After a weights session and an omelette, I head into the shower before changing into a Henley shirt and jeans; it's important that I appear casual. Relaxed. Whoever this asswipe is, whatever he has on me—it ends here. Tonight. And I won't be the one who comes out on the bottom.
I set the scene with low lamp light around the sofa, a bottle of whiskey, a pack of cards. Some acoustic guitar crap on the surround sound, just so the silence doesn't stifle him. I even opt to leave out Optimus Prime; there's something about a child's toy lying alone in the midst of a very adult setting that plays with a person's nerves.
There's something else I've left out too, albeit in a place he can't see it.
At just gone eight o'clock, the concierge alerts me to my guest's arrival, and I approve of his entry to the elevator. A moment later, the doors ring open and out steps a lean, dark-haired bundle of muscle who looks more like a military man than a literary agent. He has pale, curious eyes and a square jaw; he walks with soft grace, even into space that is distinctly mine. Here is a man who is used to blending in.
Like me.
"Mr Wentworth." I stride over from the sofa, holding out my hand. "So pleased you could join me."
Wentworth is not his real name. That part was easy enough, and he knows it.
He takes my hand, careful to maintain eye contact. "Mr Lore."
"Call me Aeron, please. Now." I gesture toward the sofa, and the whiskey on the coffee table. "Can I get you a drink?"
"Please."
"Join me over here. Make yourself comfortable."
Notice he hasn't given me his first name, grasshoppers. Rookie error, right there. If he thinks this gives him power over me, he hasn't been eating his vegetables.
"You have a beautiful apartment, Mr Lore," says Wentworth, seating himself carefully on the arm chair opposite. His accent is faint, almost non-existent. You are not meant to notice this man unless he chooses to impose himself upon you.
"Isn't it? I like the views. Got a great deal on it a few years back." I hand him a tumbler of Scotland's finest. "Ice, of course."
He affords me the merest hint of a smile. "Of course."
"So tell me about your proposition for the biography." I sit back, drink in hand. "I have to admit, I'm intrigued."
"As were we." Still, he keeps his eyes on mine. This is intended to unsettle, but on the contrary—it gives him away. "You've had a very interesting life. We think people will be eager to hear about it."
I'm sure they would.
However.
"Sycamore Media, isn't it? Your agency," I ask.
"I'm an associate agent."
"How long have you been there? You handle any similar projects?"
He cocks his head from side to side, loosening his muscles. "You could say that. I've not been there long, though. This is a somewhat recent project."
"And whose idea was it, if you don't mind me asking?" I lean forward a little, my elbows on my knees. In the background, the guitar album switches to something Spanish, and the notes become aggressive. A duel.
"We were contacted by an outside source," he says slowly. "They felt that a biography would be...in the interests of the public."