"Oh, hi," she calls over the static of a crowd. EDM music throbs in the background. "You rang?"
I flex my free fist, stretching fingers in and out, over and over, trying to will the anxious tension away. "I don't care who you have to fuck," I grind out, "but I want a key to Leo's apartment."
"A what now?" She coughs. Smoking, no doubt. Disgusting. "A...? Oh. Right. Jeez, Hitler. You don't think that's going a little too far?"
"I'm not asking for your opinion. I want a key, so you get a key, and it had better be on my desk tomorrow or I promise, firecracker, I'll beat seven shades of candyfloss-flavoured shit out of your silicon ass."
More static; clinking glasses. Tuija gives a heavy sigh. "Well. Since you're asking so nicely."
"Tomorrow."
"Or else. Okay, I get it." She takes a very obvious drag on a cigarette. "I'll bring them right in with your unicorn poop on rye."
I should berate her for the way she's talking to me, but it's just easier to hang up.
The blood draws my gaze again in the lamp light. A thin film dulls its sticky surface. Blood is like lust; once out of your system, it quickly loses its lustre. Fuck desire, fuck trust, fuck obsession; time to get off my knees for this meddling bitch.
Leo wants to hunt me?
I'll show her whose teeth are sharpest.
SEVEN YEARS AGO
Bellvue Hotel, downtown NY
Aged 25
I'm twenty-five years old and I just launched my second national news network.
I've got smoking hot redhead Barbie on my arm.
Dietrich Montgomery fucking hates me because I'm awesome.
Drunk. So drunk. I'm celebrating, you know. All that shit. This couch's kinda cheap for the Bellvue New York, huh? You'd think they'd put something that doesn't smell like ass in the penthouse suite. But I'm not getting up because that pseudo antique closet keeps lunging in like it's coming to get me.
Tonight, I put Tuija in a white satin Versace gown that cost more than most people's cars, and we swanned around the launch party like royalty. Me with my God-given dimples and charm, her with her surgeon-sculpted tits and ass. And bottled hair. And capped teeth. And...I forget what else, but she looks damn good for someone who used to have a bowl of Xanax with milk for breakfast.
"I'm gonna call you Frankenklein," I slur at her as she totters into the bucket chair opposite and kicks off her velvet heels. "Get it?"
She holds up an open bottle of champagne, winces, and takes a hearty swig. "I prefer firecracker."
"Tuij. Stop drinking. You're not meant to drink."
"I might take that more seriously if you weren't too slaughtered to get up."
"Can they surgically remove sarcasm? 'Cause I might get that done to you next." I hold my hand out toward the champagne. "Now gimme."
She rolls her eyes, drops to her knees, and crawls around the mahogany table toward me. Her makeup is all mussed up, her tits almost spill out of the front of the gown, and she's kind of a vision in white, this white lump moving along the rug like a—
"Hey." I click my fingers. "You look like you're going to a wedding."
"Absolutely nobody else has told me that tonight," she deadpans.
"Actually...didn't we get asked by like, three people, if we're getting married?"
She looks away, chewing her lip. "A couple."
"That's fucked up." The champagne bottle is heavy in my hand. Smells like piss. I put it down and poke one of her breasts with a shaking finger; it feels weird, soft but not flesh-like. She grunts and glares. "Go sit back down," I mumble.
Tuija sighs and gets to her feet. "Yes sir."
"I swear, you'd think these motherfuckers would want to ask me about my business. But no. All they go on and on about is whether I have a girlfriend. What's this obsession with who I'm boning? Seriously? I'll open Forbes next week and it'll have like, a small paragraph on NN24 and then some massive pull-out called Aeron Lore's Dick: A Destination Guide."
Tuija snorts. "We should get in there first. Run that feature before they all start thinking you're gay."
I pull myself up. Take a breath—shit, I'm woozy. "I need to not be gay."
She blinks a couple times. "What?"
"I'm not coming out, you moron. But you're right. People are just gonna keep asking questions."
At this little scrap of validation, Tuija sinks back into her chair with a smile and crosses her legs slowly—not because she wants to flash her * at me, but because frankly, that dress is so tight that she can't do anything fast.
I lean down to find the champagne and almost knock it over. The neck of the bottle falls into my palm just in time. "Maybe we should just give 'em what they want." Then I take a mouthful—and it does indeed taste like piss.
She starts to fiddle with her hair; colour climbs her face like a slow tide. "You mean, um...get married?"
I spit out the champagne and retch all over the couch (which is an improvement in terms of design and smell). "Jesus. God. No."