"Tuij. Do me a favour, please—send some tickets for the Suicide Ball over to SilentWitn3ss? Have them addressed to Miss Reeves."
Her upper lip twitches. "Really? The SB?"
"You have a problem with that, firecracker?"
She peers down the hall, her brow furrowed with curiosity.
"It killed the cat," I whisper.
"Fuck you, Aeron." She clicks her tongue at me before narrowing her blue eyes at Leontine, who now lingers near the bathrooms. "Just remember...you're taken. I don't play well with others."
"You're the best girlfriend I've never had."
She cracks me a wink. "You betcha."
"Now fuck off back to my office and do some work."
"If you insist." Her Prada heels—which were a fair choice—click down the hall. "Heil Hitler!"
This is what I get for hiring an ex-addict. But one has to indulge in philanthropy so that one can pretend to enjoy it, hmm?
Leontine's team, it seems, have already dispersed; I watched her disappear into the bathroom a moment ago, and I imagine she'll jump straight into the elevator when she gets out. So that's where I wait. Nobody dares to step in beside me; perfect.
The seconds tick by on my Rolex. Finally, the doors click open and Leontine stands between them, her eye makeup slightly smudged—perhaps deliberately—and her lipstick freshly reapplied. I can see her heels now, nude and high enough to lift her well-proportioned legs. I know she notices my approval. Quivers a little as she steps in.
I gesture to the control panel. "Ground floor?"
"Please," she mutters. It's like she doesn't know where to look.
We're on the fourteenth floor, which gives me ample time to observe her. To play with this new bud of trust, make it swell. Side by side, we mirror each other in posture and breath, and her fragrance taints the air in bursts of cool citrus and cinnamon. She smells like mulled wine.
I give her hand the briefest of nudges. "Do you mind me asking which perfume you're wearing?"
"Oh no. Um." Her eyes dart about; I see it in the mirrored wall. "Something by Jo Malone. I forget the name now."
"It's beautiful on you."
"Right." She nods. Looks down. "Thank you."
"I really am pleased that you came to meet me today."
"It was mutually beneficial." She says mutually like she knows it's more than a word. It's illicit. Suggests sex. "I'm looking forward to getting your contract."
"Have I given you my card?"
"Not exactly. I mean, I have one..."
I slip one out of my pocket and press it firmly into her palm, making sure I graze her skin with the lightest of touches. "Then let me give you another in person. It has my direct number and you can call at any time. Whatever you need." A few more precious seconds of eye contact; she tugs at my impulsive nature. Makes me think of the imagined negligee, of blood rushing beneath the surface of soft flesh. I'm half tempted to ask her if she really is wearing panties, but it's too soon for that.
Give me time.
Leontine studies the card for a moment and then tucks it into her purse. "Thanks."
"I mean it."
"Well then, Mr—"
"Aeron." I grin at her. Full dimples, eyelashes, the lot. "If we're going to work together, you can at least call me by my first name."
"Okay. Aeron." She sighs, harder than she ought to. There's more to her relief than I anticipated—perhaps she actually does care about social justice and all that crap. "I'm Leontine."
"British name?"
"French, actually." There goes her eyebrow again, arching like painted syrup. "It means lion."
"Does it, now?"
Ping.
The doors draw open, piercing the atmosphere and polluting it with lobby noise.
She throws me an apologetic smile. "I'll be seeing you, then."
"Absolutely."
Here comes my favourite part—wait for it—she turns. Steadies herself, just for a second. And then off she strides, her heels making that satisfying click against the marble and her buttocks swaying left and right. There are men who collect hearts. I collect heart-shaped asses. They taste better when you bite them, see; bleed more, too, depending on where you go in.
Leontine Reeves looks like a bleeder.
Fuck, she's going to make me so much money.
TWENTY TWO YEARS AGO
Dr Pescki's Office
Aged Ten
Outside Dr Pescki's office, the sun beats down to bake the pavements. New York smells particularly sweet today; we must be downwind of a deli full of fat, shiny bagels. Pretzels that give so pleasingly between your teeth.
Mother waits until we're a few paces away to pull me closer.
"You did well in there, hon," she says quietly.
I watch myself shrug in the window of a clothing store, follow the rise and fall of my shoulders beneath the tan sweater. "I did my best."
"Good." She tugs the belt of her trench tighter and her voice fades to a rasp. "You fool that bitch and you can fool anyone."
#2
Conscience (noun): a vague and inconvenient form of schizophrenia
Sociopaths make up 4% of the US population.