Something knocks against the front door. The sound of a bag landing on the floor, perhaps. A key bites into the lock from the outside, and then the door creaks open, heels totter along the tiles. A big lick of heat rolls up my spine. I stretch back like a cat to enjoy it.
She stops almost immediately. Has noticed the distinct lack of alarm and the fact that the lights are on. Jesus. This is better than any drug imaginable, this brief stretch of a moment before she discovers me—the thread between us struggles to unpick its own knots.
Slowly, I reach out toward her lamp and run my fingers through the cascade of glass beads. The jingling sound is faint, but I know she hears it. I can almost see the way it makes her shiver.
Her bag hits the floor again.
Heels, cautious steps.
A familiar clicking sound.
Honey, I'm home.
I sit on the end of her bed and knot my fingers. A slow ache of a smile makes its way across my face, and my eyes fall closed as if I'm being touched. When I open them, Leontine stands in the doorway not three feet away, her gun pointed straight at my head.
Her voice is hoarse, her hair loose and half-hanging over her face. "What the fuck are you doing in my apartment?"
I'm still smiling. "It's nice to see you, too."
"You touch me and I'll blow your head off." Panic pulls at her words, tugs their edges up an octave. "I'll do it."
"You haven't signed the contract."
She blows the hair out of her face to reveal flushed cheeks. "Fuck you."
"Sweetheart. Put the gun down." I raise my hands, spread them in mercy. "I'm not going to hurt you—can't you hear yourself? This is ridiculous."
"I know what you are," she whispers.
"Mmm. Your friend Wentworth filled me in."
"I know what you are, and I won't let you do the same things to me."
Interesting, that she assumes it's what I want. Ah, little thread. You talk to her in your strange language of frayed knots and loose ends.
"Well?" The gun shakes slightly. "You have nothing to say for yourself?"
I shrug. "You have a script? If I read it out, will you feel better?"
"No." She gulps. "And it wouldn't make Rachel feel better, either."
"Ah. So that's what this is about."
She chokes out a stale laugh. "If you say so."
I give her outfit an appreciative nod. She wears a black leather skirt, tight and cut almost to the knee, with a fitted white shirt tucked in. "You're awfully dressed up for a day at a tech office."
"Fuck. You."
"I like it."
"Thanks to your little red carpet trick, I'm now being followed by Us-freaking-Weekly and a bunch of other low lives."
"And you want to look good for their cameras, huh?"
"Stop trying to change the subject."
I grin. "Bad Aeron. Very bad."
"You think all this is funny? You think this is some kind of joke?" The gun shakes again; her palms are sweaty, filming the black metal with a damp gauze of panic. "What kind of monster are you?"
There's no man in monster. And yet, there could so easily be.
"The kind who doesn't get shot by overambitious little girls." I glance about, pretending to observe the corners of her room. "I bet there's no camera in here. It might pick up a few things you'd rather it didn't."
"There's a camera," she says in a weaker voice.
Lies, transparent like glass. Leo, Leo.
"I don't think you bring men here. Or women." Now I get to my feet—gradually, letting her absorb each movement. My heartbeat begins to stutter. "But you undress in here. Show off your body." I step closer; she doesn't move. "You touch yourself."
"There's something very wrong with you," she whimpers.
"You think?"
And then I lunge at her.
She knew it was coming but can't react fast enough, not with her arms locked in place to hold the gun. We fall sideways before she finds the nerve to pull the trigger, and I land atop her in the hall, my torso muffling her pained cry. Within seconds, we're both scrabbling along the floor for the gun; I almost crush her wrist in the process but she yelps defeat at the last moment, dropping the weapon and curling into herself. I leap up to stand over her, pointing the gun at her frightened face.
"Up," I tell her in a calm voice. "Walk back into the bedroom."
"W-why?"
"Up." I offer my free hand, pull her up with it. "Now walk into your room. I'll be right behind you."
She obeys, and what a beautiful thing it is. Head bowed, eyelashes shining with tears she refuses to weep over me. Glossy, pouty mouth drawn and tight. Breath pouring through her teeth in little snares. Perhaps I should be ashamed of the way this gets me hard, but then I'd have to be ashamed of so many things.
"Lie on the bed." I nudge the base of her spine through her shirt. "On your back. Look at me while you do it."
She goes rigid. "What happens if I don't?"
"I'll take what I want, regardless." I run my hand around her hipbone, breathe down over her cheek. "You still think you know what that entails?"
No answer. She fights a cry, but crawls forward on to the bed. Her skirt rides up, pulling tighter over her heart-shaped ass and revealing more of her thighs. Then she lies back and turns to look at me. I'd say there is hate in her eyes, but it's a cocktail of something different entirely, a Russian roulette each time she blinks.
"Hands by your sides," I instruct.