"I'll go try them on. Hmm..."
Tuija's clever enough to realize that looking good will take her places. This is obviously to be commended, and so I paid for her breasts and the fine, sculpted curve of her almost-too-big ass, as well as an on-site wardrobe of appropriate attire. She pays me back by letting everyone think I'm fucking her.
Boys get picked on for owning dolls, but nobody gives a shit if a grown man buys himself a pretty puppet. And this, my friends, is the world we have built for ourselves.
***
Here's what the mannequins of SilentWitn3ss see when I walk into that boardroom that afternoon: a tall, broad guy with dark blond hair and shameless crater dimples, dressed in a well-cut suit. I'm hot—let's not beat around the bush, sports fans—but you have to peel back the layers to see what's going on here. They don't just see a person. Behind all that, there's power and money and suspicion, all of it boiling down to a visceral chemical reaction I must somehow turn into trust. Like Jesus turning water into wine, but more of a religious experience.
My boardroom, like my office, is designed with trust in mind. More beige of course, on the walls, upholstering the chairs. More mirrors—a massive antique looking glass positioned right behind my chair at the head of the table—and long, wide windows that spew in natural light. When I need to relax, I come here at sunset and watch bloody sunshine bounce from one reflective surface to the next.
Today, five members of the SilentWitn3ss team sit on the right of the table: Leontine Reeves, her assistant, her financial director and her lawyers. On the left, I have Tuija and my attorney, Carson Jones. Tuija has laid out fruit, muffins and jugs of iced water and lemon, but I don't anticipate being here long enough to do them any kind of justice. This will take twenty minutes.
Watch, grasshoppers, and learn.
"Miss Reeves, at last—it's an absolute pleasure." I stop beside Leontine's chair and offer a handshake.
She stands to take me up on this. "A pleasure, indeed."
She expects her British accent to disarm me, no doubt. And she brought along her bedroom eyes. I can see it now, as I take her small hand in mine: this morning, she sat at a shabby chic dresser, clad in a black silk negligee with lace accents that squeezed her riper curves. She hummed as she pulled her hair back into a ponytail of honeyed highlights. Shifted from one buttock to the other. Then she picked up a black eyeliner pen, leaned into the mirror and drew a careful flick along each lid to frame her mahogany eyes. Pursed her full lips, blushed at her own reflection. Liked what she saw and felt just a twinge of guilt.
All those shades of smoked honey, tawny tan; she's like butter. And she looks like the type who'd forgo the panties beneath her negligee. I know what you're thinking—I'm just another lecherous fuckface—but it's important to ascertain that she cares more about the packaging than what is underneath. She hasn't long graduated from Harvard, and her company is only three years old. Of course she's all about appearances...what else does she have?
"I'm sorry I've been indisposed until now," she offers. Apology pulls at the edge of each word, but her gaze is steady, confident. "I've been looking forward to hearing your proposition in person."
I press her hand between both of mine before carefully releasing it. "We won't waste time, then. Take a seat."
"I suppose what I'm most curious about, Mr Lore, is...well. Why?" She hunches in the chair, evidently used to being behind a larger desk of her own where she can cross her legs for comfort. For defence. "Why does a news corp want with my little tech firm? I don't really understand."
Technically, I own the two biggest television news networks in the US, as well as seventeen global newspaper brands that garner various levels of respect. When I needed to make money, I pinpointed the main thing I was good at: telling people what they wanted to hear. And then I found a way to sell it. "I assume you're aware of what we do here? Television, newspapers. Web media, obviously."
"I received your information pack, yes." She throws me half a smile. "That was very thoughtful."
"I like to be as transparent as I can."
"As do I, Mr Lore. The thing is, SilentWitn3ss is kind of my baby." She sighs. Even that sounds British, all hollow and haughty. "You have the capital to fund further development, which is awesome for us...but I can't see what's in it for you."
I take a moment to pour myself some water. I won't drink it, but it doesn't matter—a little tension is desirable. "See, here's the thing. You and your team, you're a very skilled set of developers. What you've done with SilentWitn3ss, the way you've put surveillance in people's pockets—I admire that. Anyone can record a video on their cell these days, but your equipment makes it possible to amplify and recover audio in way that makes things very...interesting."
She leans in on her elbows. "I suppose it does."
"As a man who trades on news, that kind of technology fascinates me."
"But that's just it. Surely you already have that kind of technology?"
"Oh, I do. We do." I nod, calm and slow, as if it's obvious and thus entirely above board. "But for the general public, it's new to them. Exciting. Miss Reeves, people are excited by SilentWitn3ss. It's a remarkable bit of tech that deserves more attention."
One honeyed eyebrow climbs to a perfect arch. "The attention we've received so far hasn't been so great," she says dryly.
"Precisely. Your legal issues...they're to be anticipated. And I know users are frustrated at the limitations placed on their recordings. There are implications of slander, possible damage suits. It does hinder things."
Leontine and her lawyers glance between themselves; throats are cleared with an air of distaste.
"But I believe we have a solution," I say softly.
The lawyers grow still. Leontine bites her lip. I primped her, primed her and then stuck in the knife; now it's lecherous fuckface to the rescue. She doesn't trust me yet, but she wants to.
With prompting, Carson briefly outlines our legal strategy. A venture like SilentWitn3ss—a small, wearable video camera that allows users to upload their videos direct to YouTube, with or without editing—is both a voyeur's triumph and a lawyer's worst nightmare. They're far from the first company to invent such a device, but they're the first with balls big enough to deliberately market the surveillance angle to the general public. The internet is full of social justice idiots clasping their pearls for this shit. I could pay another company to develop something similar, but that takes time—my most limited resource.
There are things Carson doesn't mention, like how I fully intend to have the tech developed into a cell phone app, complete with its own social network. Screw YouTube—I want Instagram for news. I want footage of the biggest events uploaded to my site as they happen, and I want exclusive rights to every pixel. Now that is interesting.
"I like this idea of the everyman—or woman—making the news," I tell Leontine. I'm using my most earnest of tones, the kind I used to pull out for psychiatrists as a kid. "And I like the idea of levelling with them. Collaborating."
"Sounds to me like you mean exploiting," she counters.
"I work with news. Everything I do involves exploitation, Miss Reeves. My channels, newspapers and websites decide what is worthy of a front-end slot or a front page; we tell people what they want to hear and reap the advertising benefits. We do this because we're not a charity, and we can't run on magic beans." For the first time, I sit back, my hands still firmly on the table—right there with my offer. "But I'm not a hundred percent convinced that we always get it right. Your product offers a way for us to gauge people's interest in various areas of news, something more reliable than click-through rates or angry comments on the internet. I like the organic nature of it and I want to see where it goes."
Honesty. It soars through the air like a bullet and burrows its way between her carefully lifted breasts. How thoughtful of her to come dressed for assault. I watch her brows twitch, the slight hitch in her breath; there's nothing more satisfying than the moment interest melts into the first stirrings of trust. It's like music. Like an orgasm.
God, I could watch Leontine Reeves wonder if she should trust me all fucking day.
I allow myself a hint of a grin—something I haven't offered since my grand entrance. She follows the curve of my lips, practically leans toward them, and then the light in her eyes fades to murky disgust; she hates herself for it.
"So you see," I say, "we're well-placed to help each other."