Eventually, I'll reach boiling point. And what then?
***
The evening goes well. Leontine's seat is a few spots away from mine, so we don't talk a great deal after the red carpet. There's something about picking a woman up and then swiftly putting her down again which sets her nerves on edge; it knocks the confidence out of the most arrogant piece of ass. I love it.
Leontine sits with Finn and a few other members of her team, and the nominees on the table trade stories about car chases and war zone trips. I couldn't have picked a better place to impress her, and I know she sees me watching. All through dinner, all through the speeches, all through the awards themselves, my eyes drift toward hers, and where she first turned away with a shy flush, she now returns my gaze with a quiet curiosity.
Then it all lurches downhill.
While two of my other reporters win awards, Kasha misses out on her fourth McAfee for an Exceptional Contribution to Journalism. This does not please her, and before long, she's had a bottle of tequila and way too much champagne.
I learn all of this around midnight when Tuija peels me out of a conversation with a reporter from Montgomery's camp.
"Tuij," I hiss at her, annoyed at her lack of manners. "What the fuck?"
She tugs me out of the ball room, into the corridor toward the bathrooms. "Kasha."
"Get to the point."
"She's got her head in the toilet and she's muttering all kinds of shit. Won't listen to me, won't listen to Ryan." Her words are slightly slurred; even she's been on the champagne. Unwise. "Somebody needs to talk some sense into her before she becomes the Suicide Ball's latest victim."
Tuija herds several women out of the ladies' bathroom before ushering me in. We follow the sound of retching to third cubicle. The door hangs open, and Kasha is on her knees beside the toilet, a half-moon of vomit christening the marble floor.
She looks up at me and glares. Kasha could glare professionally; she's a dark-haired Beyoncé, cat eyes and all, but dresses with more class.
Usually.
"Boss." She gulps, her eyes bulging, and then turns back to the toilet to retch some more.
"Tuij," I call. "Radio Harvey and get a car out back for Mc Shitfaced here."
"Already done," she murmurs from the mirror, where she's touching up her red lipstick. She pouts at her reflection and winks.
"Kasha. Jesus." I go to step into the cubicle, but then the smell hits me—sour bile mixed with overly sweet floral air freshener—and I lunge back. "You look like a two dollar whore."
"I don't care," she slurs. "Fuck Oprah. Did you see she won that award for the...the thing? The thing. Fuck her!"
"Get your shit together. Come on."
"Fucking Aspen Paverley from GNS. She couldn't report on a kindergarten bake sale, let alone Syria. What the actual fuck?" She retches again, and my temper flares. I don't have time for this.
"I'm going to count to three," I say quietly, "and if you're not up, I'm dragging you up. Which is not going to be pleasant for either of us. One..."
"You come over here with that big smart mouth of yours and show me what you got, then." She laughs, lilting and bitter and uncontrolled. "Aspen Paverley. Well, shit."
"...Three." I reach behind and grab Tuija by the arm. "Give me a hand here. Get her against the wall."
Together, Tuija and I scoop Kasha up by the shoulders, circumnavigating the pool of cold vomit. Tuija, obeying my nod, steps away once I have Kasha pinned, and the sound of the door closing echoes around the bathroom as she leaves.
"Just me and you, now," I tell Kasha. I'd put my face in hers, but she stinks. So I settle for speaking from one side.
She flinches away from me, so heavy in my hands. "I deserved that award." Her voice cracks. "I did."
"You cry on me and I swear to God, I won't be responsible—"
"Yes. Boss." She sniffs. "My therapist warned me after Syria, you know. Said I should take some time off."
I snort. "Nice try."
"I just think...space...space would be good..."
"You can have all the space you want if you leave, Kash. But you're not pulling a no-show the day after you lose an award—it's a PR disaster waiting to happen." There's enough uninvited scrutiny on me as it is. "Harvey's got a car waiting outside. You're going to go home, sober up, take the morning to wash the shit out of your hair, and then come the fuck to work. Do you understand me?"
She whimpers. "Yes."
"Good."
At that moment, Tuija inches back into the bathroom with several Lore Corp security staff on her tail.
"Leaving you to it," I mutter, throwing my hands into a basin and rubbing in liquid soap. Behind me, Kasha slips slowly down the wall, and the staff step through to catch her.
"Boss?"
"Mmm?" I glance up from the steaming basin. "What?"
Tuija purses her lips. "Might want to check on your little piece. Montgomery was circling her like a shark."
"Huh? Wh—oh, shit." Leontine. Fuck, fuck.
I barge out of the bathroom, still shaking the water from my hands. I hadn't intended to completely abandon her; what if Montgomery poached SilentWitn3ss from Lore Corp? What if Leontine left?
Ten minutes of searching the ballroom later, I finally spot them; she sits at the GNS head table, sandwiched between Montgomery and Finn. They talk over her, and she looks uninspired, bored. Poor little lion, reduced to being the filling in a fucktard sandwich—looks like they haven't even topped up her drink. This won't do at all.
A few seconds, a beat, and she meets my eyes.
God.
More than once, I've wondered what draws me to Leontine. I've spent barely an hour in her company, one way or another; almost everything I know about the girl, I read in a fat brown file. But that afternoon in my conference room, she put her hand in mine and I saw how she'd dressed for me that morning. A thread pulls taut between us, frayed already where the dark things chew, and I see it in those shaded, pleading bedroom eyes—fuck. She makes my thighs tight and my ears ring. She makes me feel like an orgasm without her is a waste of precious desire.
She looks so small in the middle of the two men, her shoulders hunched and breasts pushed together beneath the black lace of her dress. There are manners to be considered here—I mustn't pull her away from Montgomery too fast, no matter how slowly she stretches that innocent smile. And she is smiling at me; it's more please help! than come hither, but the effect on my cock is the same.
Montgomery. Cunt of the highest order. Look at him, pretending he isn't near enough fifty with his hair transplant and dyed black mess. Are those jowls? Oh yes. There's no hiding them, you porky bastard. They say time isn't kind, and they're right; this dude must've pissed off a lot of clocks.
I flex my fingers in and out before striding over, as if it will ease the tension in my fists. I'm barely at the table before Montgomery notices Leontine staring at me, and though he visibly recoils as I put out my hand, he shakes it nonetheless.
"Aeron," he calls over the awful swing music. "Thought you'd made a quiet escape."
"I had business to attend to." My eyes never leave Leontine's. "Speaking of which, I'd like to borrow this lady for a moment."
Finn bristles. Either he's not used to playing with the big boys, or he fancies himself as Leo's lover. I don't know which is more pathetic.
"I hope you're not spilling any trade secrets," I tell him with a small smile. "They don't call this the Suicide Ball for nothing."
"We're not talking that kind of shop," Montgomery says in a cool voice which tells me that they absolutely are.
Leontine glances between the men before hopping to her feet. "Do you mind? Seems like this is important."
Finn shrugs like a sulky teenager. "I guess."
Montgomery flashes her a jowly smile. "It's been a pleasure, honey. You let me know if Aeron tries to make you do anything silly, hey?" His words are light and teasing, but you'd have to be a complete moron not to spot the passive aggressive undertone.
Leontine notices, of course. Her perfect eyebrow arches. I can almost hear her say it in that husky English voice: really? And then she comes to me, bunching her skirt as she steps to reveal a sliver of tanned inner thigh. Her bottom lip is a touch swollen from chewing; her eyes are glassy from too much champagne. Even her smile has mellowed from anxious to grateful.