“You’d think people are used to the sight of blood by now. All those TV shows full of it.” She starts to count on her slender, unpainted fingers. “Sons of Anarchy. Dexter. Blood’s not just a feature on those shows—it’s a fetish.”
“The public aren’t used to the sight of blood. They’re used to the sight of corn syrup. It doesn’t dry and crust like the real deal, you know. It doesn’t turn darker, the longer it dries.” I steal another glimpse at the screen, where Blood Honey’s handwriting—yes, handwriting—is now being analysed. I wish I could tell Gwen about the majesty of real blood—the sugared iron scent, pungent in its release; the scarlet glow of the first seeping drops. “People see these images, the altered texture of real blood in various states, and they’re reminded of the difference. Blood’s supposed to be on the inside, not the outside; nobody has that problem with corn syrup. They realize this and they’re unsettled. Ashamed, maybe, if they’re the type to wallow. And then they get angry at Lore Corp for making them realize this about themselves, and I end up throwing money at shitty slander campaigns just to keep ignorant pigs happy.”
“I read some similar theories when I studied psychology.” She’s still glancing hesitantly between me and the TV screen, which now bears a close-up image of the bloodied inscription on Jamie Perkins’s lithe young inner thigh. “It’s a weird thing.”
“People complain about censorship, but sometimes they prefer us to censor the truth, as if it’s in their best interests to stay in denial about what’s going on around them. And that’s how I built up this company so fast; I figured out people wanted to be lied to, and for a while, we did that.” I shrug. “Eventually, lies stopped paying. In more ways than one.”
“Quite the wonderful world we live in.”
“No, it isn’t.” I nod once toward the door. “You can leave now.”
“Of course.” She’s still drawn to the TV in morbid curiosity. Jamie’s injury looks all the more grotesque blown up; you can see how deep the cuts are, how they segue through layers of flesh and sagging grey muscle. “Is there anything I can do for you?”
“You can wait outside until your office is suitably prepared, and you’re furnished with the usual company package.”
“Oh. Okay.” She rises gracefully, her taut thighs doing all the work.
No more early morning Pilates classes for you, princess. You’ll be too busy praying to a God who doesn’t exist for sleep. Dignity. Mercy. Better shoes.
Cleopatra fucked up, didn’t she? Fucked up and then killed herself when there was no other option. I respect that kind of dedication to one’s personal cause.
Cleopatrassistant and I are going to get on just fine.
***
I promised Gwen an office. Tuija’s office. Yet I don’t trust anyone but myself to empty it, and until now, I haven’t seen the need to do so. I could ask Leo, of course, but the last time she went into that office, she found something she didn’t like and shot me.
Those in favor of avoiding this, please show your hands now…
…Good. Well. Here goes a waste of a whole fucking afternoon. I made sure Tuija practically lived in her office, and here’s my long-due ride on the karma bus; I now get to sort through about three dozen half-used designer lipsticks and a wardrobe full of business casual for Babylonian whores.
Correction: actually, Harvey gets to sort through it. I trust him—I have to, he’s my head of security. Or at least I trust him enough to let him sort through all this crap while I check emails from the velvet couch Tuija used to sleep on half the time. Two birds with one smarmy stone.
“You want me to try this stuff on as well?” he huffs, brandishing a garish set of red lingerie in my direction. “Or is this yours?”
I glare over the top of my iPad. “You got me. The heels are mine too.”
“And here was me thinking you kept this damn mausoleum because you missed her.” He flattens his lips, smiles without humor. “Sir.”