Ten minutes later, Tuija arrives with the most interesting folder of all.
"Project M," she declares, dropping the non-descript brown file in front of me and standing back to bask in her Big Reveal. "Knock yourself out, Hitler. We can slay this bitch." Today, she looks good—classic Tuija skirt suit, tits out just a little, high heels. Maybe her perfume hides the vodka, or maybe she's excited.
Or maybe she made a special effort for the mosh pit of cameras that were no doubt pitched outside her apartment from about five a.m.
Slowly, I peel back the cover and prepare myself for the images.
"Harvey," I murmur, "you're a genius."
No wonder Montgomery was being such a shit the other night—he was all wound up in anticipation of his booty call with Gregory. Gregory who is the son of the FCC chair. Gregory who studies drama at a liberal arts college and has less body hair than I have morals. Gregory who is probably twenty-one, but looks about fourteen. If I believed in horoscopes, I'd say my planets were aligning—they're fucking twerking, grasshoppers—because Harvey managed to get a photo of Dietrich Montgomery in a topless clinch with a twink.
Tuija walks around to lean over my shoulder. She sighs in wonder. "Isn't it beautiful?"
"It's...it's a sight to behold." They were standing near a window; a lamp illuminates all the right features of Montgomery's profile, the protrusion of his belly. How the tongue-laced kiss he's sharing with Gregory accentuates his jowls. I'd ask why the morons didn't think to close the blind, but let's be honest: cocks aren't great with logic. Cocks think about hands and mouths and tight little holes, not whether the curtains are open or closed. This is why men like Montgomery and me should avoid thinking with our dicks—it's what the public are most interested in. They will eat that shit with a spoon.
"I mean, beautiful might not be the right word." She tuts. "I could easily go with grotesque, or profitable, or my eyes are bleeding. But hey...look at the tits on him."
"And to think, when yours cost me a good ten grand, his were free."
She pokes me in the neck with a sharp, painted fingernail. "You love my ten grand tits."
"Easy now, firecracker." I shrug her off.
She straightens up, stalking back toward the door. "So what are you gonna do with it?"
"I don't know yet. I just—I want..." I ball my fists, squeeze an ache into them.
"Leverage," she says quietly. Tuija doesn't do a lot of things quietly at all, but this is one thing she understands. Back when I was arrested, Montgomery and GNS made serious bank from peddling accusations and exploitative crap. And as they picked me apart, Tuija was there, steaming.
"When the time comes," I reply in a low voice, "I'll give the fucker what he deserves."
She knots her fingers. Nods once. "You know you have to be careful."
"Come on—what do you take me for? I'm a big boy. I can handle it." More than she knows.
"Just don't let other things get in the way, okay?"
"Like what? What?"
She scowls. "You're the one who said that * makes you stupid."
"About ten years ago," I retort.
"Seven, actually."
"I was twenty-five, Tuij. That's like adolescence for guys." I wave her off. "Anyway. Go do something useful."
She runs her hands along the curves of her body. "I'm being useful right now."
"Fuck off."
Tuija yanks the door open with a sigh and a mediocre attempt at a salute. "Heil Hitler."
I can never be bothered to tell her that she gets a Nazi salute all wrong. I'm assuming that's what she's going for, anyway.
***
I've avoided Phil from the White House for too long, which means I'm treated to an hour-long Skype where we trade threats disguised as niceties and negotiations. I nod along like one of those dashboard dogs, listening to precisely none of it and all the while, picturing the moment when I'll pull the dressing off Leo's heart cut and inspect the state of the wound. She'll have to bend over my desk while I do it, her skirt pushed up and her ass on display. Low-rider panties, probably—the kind with a thong back or lots of lace. Leo and lace is a masterful combination, almost as good as Leo and no panties at all.
Phil. Shut up, Phil. Can't you see that I'm busy? I'd foist this kind of crap on to one of my editors if I got nothing out of it, but because I'm Aeron Lore, Phil always slips me a tip off or two. He wants my cooperation; I have a price. And then most of the time, only half of my publications cooperate anyway. We can't have uniformity within the media, can we?