I make my own coffee for the first time in weeks, and peel back the blinds in my office to let the milky morning light seep through. Both news channels flicker on silent screens, blurs of pixels, moving mouths. At least I won't see myself on there; my relationship with Leo is tabloid fodder, not national news.
Unlike the last time I was so popular.
Tommy's latest report on Rachel Fordham sits in my inbox, and I click straight on it. After our little phone encounter the other night, I expected Rachel's behaviour to change somewhat—and I was right. Yesterday, she didn't come anywhere near the Lore Corp building. Tommy thinks she might have skipped a therapist appointment, judging by her usual routine, but she went to work as usual. Huh. Perhaps I haven't provoked her as much as I feared.
Since I picked up her call, she hasn't called or texted Leo once. Which is...interesting.
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 pussy 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?
Ha.
By the time lunch rolls around, I've learned the true meaning of blue balls. I used to be so good at keeping myself controlled, and yeah, it got difficult sometimes...but it was never like this. My playmate is just down the hall, no doubt meeting with her designers and testing her prototypes; swanning around like everything is normal, like she's normal, like she's not nursing my beautiful, batshit crazy handiwork beneath those sleek clothes. I'm bringing you here to simplify things, I told Leo when I moved SilentWitn3ss to my building, but I never considered how hard I was making things for myself. How the fuck am I meant to work in this state? And why do they call it blue balls, anyway? Why isn't it just called I WANT TO DIE? I'm near enough doubled over here.
Finally, a knock sounds on my door, and Leo slips in carrying a tray of sandwiches and juice. For a moment, I sit back in my chair and pretend she's a waitress in a mythical but very-much-worth-exploring restaurant where you get to bang your server for dessert.
"Has your morning gone as slowly as mine?" I ask as she deposits the tray beside my corner couch. Then I ease back in my chair, giving her space to sit on my desk.
"It started at about five a.m. when the reporters woke me up." She feigns a glare; I can tell, in a way, that she's enjoying all the attention. There's something of a split personality about Leo—half is disgusted with the world and everything in it, but the other half, the little girl...she's in awe.
As I get to my feet and stand over her, my fists flexing at my sides, that little girl is never more visible. She peers up, sucking at me with her black button eyes. I trace down her cheekbone and push my thumb across her glossed lips. Mess them up like she's been naughty. Every inch of my body feels stretched tight—my cock toward her, my gaze bolted to the tilt of her chin, my skin flayed out to melt on hers.
"Did you miss me?" she asks.
"Very much." I walk my fingers back to fist her loose hair, and she tilts with them, her eyes closed rapture. White teeth sink down into her bottom lip.
Leo breathes in and out real slow, her head back as she revels in my touch. "You ever think we're like a cut? We split apart, go our separate ways, but then both sides of the wound keep trying to knit back together."
"Smart mouth," I manage, before falling into a crush of a kiss that I don't even remember initiating.
The world snaps shut. Her taste, her mouth; we're swimming in dark oil. I'm vaguely aware that my cell is ringing, which is unusual at this time of day. Not that I give a fuck.
"Should you answer that?" she says against my shirt collar. Her breath warms the valley between the fabric and my flesh.
"No."
"Oh. Good." Her soft, warm tongue makes its way up my throat. "You want lunch?"
I drag her hand down over my cock. It twitches right into her palm, throbbing and pulsing and making me feel nauseous. "Sweetheart." I haven't fucked her in the office—was trying to avoid it, in case I get carried away—but screw that.