Sociopath
LIME CRAVEN
"Miss Lore." Dr Pescki, my psychiatrist, glances between my mother and me before knotting her fingers on the desk. "I can assure you—there is nothing wrong with your son."
My mother drops her gaze to the thin blue carpet. "A hundred percent sure?"
"I've been seeing Aeron for three months now. He exhibits none of the DSM markers I'd expect to see in a child at this point. In fact..." She flexes her bony fingers in exasperation. "For a ten-year-old boy, I'd say he's well-adjusted. Polite. Considerate. Smart, even."
I am all of these things, sitting beside my mother and shrinking into the chair; let them talk over me. Let me exist only in terms of what I do or do not have. We've been to this quiet, chintzy downtown office more times than I care to remember, and I hate missing school for it. Hate being singled out.
"I just...there's something not right," my mother says quietly. She was beautiful once, with her dark hair and shining eyes. Now she has faded like cartoons on an old TV.
"I understand your concern. Given the circumstances...things must be very hard for you. All children are capable of exhibiting eccentricities from time to time; it's part of the process of growing up, exploring boundaries. I see a lot of parents who want a diagnosis to make things easier, but let me tell you, that's not what it does."
My mother tips her chin with an indignant stare. "I'm just looking out for him. That's my job."
"It is," Dr Pescki agrees. "And it's my job to reassure you that your son is emotionally stable. He's healthy." She glances at me. "Aren't you?"
I fiddle with the hem of my tan sweater and offer her a shy smile. "I guess."
"You have a bright future ahead of you, Aeron," the doctor tells me. "Your mother loves you very much, and with that kind of support, you'll go far."
Yes.
Yes, I will.
#1
Trust (noun): the warm, fuzzy realization that you have way too much dirt on someone for them to fuck you over.
I learned the art of trust around the same time I learned to capitalize on it. I've been excelling ever since.
Case in point: my top-floor New York office at Lore Incorporated, a beige abyss of Bang & Olufsen, glass and mirrors. People like beige. It's inoffensive, comforting, and commands respect when used with style. But the mirrored walls either side of my desk make clients and employees nervous; they're afraid of being caught at an awkward angle or seeing undesirable things. In the midst of all that, they get to thinking: the kind of man who enjoys being surrounded by mirrors? He's got his shit together.
They're going to trust that man.
Another case in point is my assistant, who is currently running through my itinerary for the day. Tuija is my redheaded rocket: killer dress suits, sharp eyes and a tongue with a razor edge. She looks—and acts—like she's the bastard child of Christina Hendricks and Chuck Norris, and is framed by the huge twin TV screens that forever roll my two news networks on mute.
"Eight o'clock breakfast meeting with Isenhour—he's getting antsy about the acquisition. Expect eggs'n'Jack." She scrolls along the iPad with a nimble finger. NN24 and Truth Daily bounce off the mirrors to her left, casting dancing lights across her pale skin. "Nine thirty with the lawyers. Your trainer will be here at eleven. Lunch meeting with Phil for the same bullshit, different day don't trash the president treatment. Then the SilentWitn3ss clique arrive at two."
"Including the CEO?"
"Including..." She pauses, scrolls again. Wrinkles her nose. "Yep. The mythical Miss Reeves will be in attendance."
"About time." I peer into the mirrored wall closest to my desk to adjust my taupe silk tie. "What do you think of this shade?"
She cocks her head. Her brown eyes flare as she regards me in the mirror, zeroing in on the brief flash of colour against my tailored grey suit. "It's subtle."
"Good." I give the tie one last pat and then turn to face Tuija with my usual dimpled grin. "Thanks, firecracker."
"Always a pleasure, boss." She rolls her eyes, but I know she likes the praise.
Ladies and gentleman, witness the slow burn of trust in action. Watch Tuija hit the skillet as I seek her opinion. Watch her sizzle in inflated self-worth; watch her sigh when I singe her edges with flattery. She thinks I call her firecracker because of her red curls. Like I give a fuck what she thinks of my tie.
The truth is, Tuija's been with me nine years. After I found her in a heap outside my first premises, I gave her a job. Helped her get clean. I like to think of this as sourcing my produce locally. She had at least thirty percent more brain cells than most people who needed something from me, so I made sure she swapped her addictions to coke and prescription painkillers for an addiction to pleasing me. Suffice to say I have dirt on this girl; if her skeletons ever left the closet, it'd be like Dawn of the fucking Dead.
"So. You have your script ready?" She puts the iPad down and folds her arms, regarding me with the kind of anticipation she usually reserves for Fashion Week. "I can't wait to see you give Miss Reeves the full Lore treatment."
"She won't need it. This offer," I jab my pen at Tuija, "is too good to turn down. She's only coming in because her shareholders will shit the bed if she doesn't."
"And so that people can see she's been here."
"Precisely."
Leontine Reeves is coming in so that people will see her come to me. Wall Street gets wind of it and speculates about the buyout; her stock inflates to about three hundred percent of its actual worth; then she has the power to tell me she doesn't just want to sell. She wants to merge. It's the stuff of overpaid attorneys trying to be cleverer than me. My guess is, she doesn't want to sell at all...but that's what you get with sucucbi. I mean, shareholders. Did I slip up there?
"You'll have her eating out of the palm of your hand in no time," Tuija adds. "And other clichés."
"Clichés get the job done." And are easily disposed of when you're finished with them.
"Oops. Almost forgot. You remember that literary agency? They've called three times already."
"Please tell me we issued the gagging order on the unauthorized biography."
She puts up her hands in exasperated defence. "Do I look like your lawyer?"
"No. Fortunately." Carson, my attorney, looks like his mama dropped him on his head as a baby. I've never seen a man with such a large, flat forehead, although admittedly, said head houses a large and effective brain. "I want an update from him ASAP. What do the agents want?"
She tucks a wayward strand of hair behind her ear. Tuija always plays with her hair when she's anxious; if anyone's a cliché, it's her. "They want you to meet with their biographer."
"Which part of unauthorized don't they get?"
"I don't know." She pretends to wring an invisible neck. "It's your own fault for being such a badass, obviously."
"I don't want some worm in hipster glasses poking around in my personal shit."
"I'm sensing that you want me to tell them no."
I take a seat at my glass desk and flick on my computer. "They can suck a bag of dicks. And you can quote me."
If all they wanted was the American Dream slice of my life, I'd let them have it. Bask in the attention. I started at my college campus TV station, moved on to a couple internships, made some select choices with inheritance money and then built a global news empire in little more than ten years. If anyone deserves recognition, it's me.
But that's not what the agents want. They want the shadows, to parade the half-truths of my childhood like misery porn. Which is about as appealing as it sounds. I keep my private life private for a reason.
"Suck a bag of dicks. Noted. Anyway...I need to go find some heels before breakfast." Tuija gestures to her bare feet; I noticed when she walked in, but said nothing, of course.
I'm quite the gentleman.
I turn my attention to my emails, scanning the inbox for something worth my time. "Go with black. Four inches, minimum," I tell her, not looking up.
"You think? With this dress?"
"Four inches. You heard me."
"Well, if you insist." She scoops her iPad up and turns toward the door. "Maybe the new Prada slingbacks?"
"If you think so."