The music cuts off. "Mr Lore?" Cornell says, his voice uncertain.
"Still here." You idiot.
"Of course. Um...funny thing. It seems there's been a mix up. Nobody at Sycamore has actually sent you a proposal. But if you have any project in mind, any at all, we'd be delighted to—"
I hang up.
And yeah, I thought as much.
Deep breaths. Jesus. Coffee—shit, that's unpleasant when it's lukewarm.
I buzz through to Tuija.
"Yep?" she asks through the faint static.
"When's my next free evening?"
"Hang on...um..." Three vague mouse clicks. "Monday, I think."
A sudden sheen of sweat cools beneath my shirt, damp and sticky. Air drags in my throat. "Book a room for Ash and Ethan. Call Sycamore using the number on their correspondence—tell them I want to entertain."
A pause. "Do I even want to know?"
"No, firecracker."
Whoever they are, they want to dig up my old obsessions.
Looks like it's time for me to bury theirs.
FIFTEEN YEARS AGO
Blackwood High School, New York
Aged 17
I hate playing football. And I hate it when we win.
It's a blending exercise. I'm strong, muscular for my age; people expect me to play. So I tried out. Made the team. Say hello to Blackwood High's star quarterback, sports fans—wave your pom poms, flash your tits, whatever. We're not exceptional this season and agents aren't battering the doors down, but it's enough.
I still hate it. Nothing but meat smashing on meat. Where's the victory in that, really? Where's the challenge? I want to gain brain cells, not lose them.
The things we do to survive.
Tonight's near-miss has the team on edge. We won by seconds, with me hurling a pass to Lincoln Warner just in time. Lincoln is either a tight end hero or a sleazy dickwad, depending on who you ask; he's my least favourite person to be in the locker room with because he insists on sharing bullshit 'wisdom.' He's a player, see. Thinks he knows his way around a skirt.
When I come out of the shower, four other guys are crowded around him, lapping up the Gospel of Linc while they fiddle with their towels.
"What about that Izzy girl?" asks one. "From algebra. She's got these tits, they're like oranges—"
"Gentlemen, please. If you're going to put your eggs in one basket, don't pick a goody two-shoes basket." Linc spreads his hands; listen to the guy. Thinks he's the Jesus of Game. "Because you're never going to get a blow job from some math sweetie. Trust me on that one."
Cole, a running back, parks himself on the bench beside Lincoln, rubbing a towel around his neck. "I ain't going for no easy leftovers, man. She don't respect me, I don't respect her...at least my hand don't give me herpes and then tell everyone I got a small dick after."
Several guys titter to themselves. Lockers bang open and closed. I keep my back turned in silent disapproval, going about the business of getting dressed. If I make a fuss, people notice things on my body. It doesn't help that games sometimes irritate my older wounds.
"You got it all wrong." Lincoln gives a heavy sigh, as if these little boys are hopeless. "You don't go for the whore. Or maybe you do, I don't know—" he cuts off to chuckle— "but the girl you really want, the one who's gonna show you the best time...she's got that look in her eyes. You know?"
"No," says Cole. "So spill already."
"It's hard to quantify. You gotta look hard." Lincoln pauses for tension. "This thing...there's a quietness to her at certain times 'cause she's got something to be ashamed of. And that reason, gentleman, that shame...you wanna get on that."
"Or in it," someone calls, and the room erupts in laughter.
Another guy sprays deodorant, cheap and acidic. Makes me cough.
I ought to join in. Be one of the guys. But God, I hate to think of lowering myself to that level. And it's okay; high school is all about what you do, not what you say. I perform strong on the field, I go to the parties. I tolerate hook ups with faceless girls. All of that speaks for itself.
"Let me tell you what I'm talking about," Lincoln calls over the racket. "Who's that sophomore chick from lunch? Hey, Lore—you sat near her, right?"
Begrudgingly, I turn to look at him. "There are a lot of girls sitting near me at lunch."
"They always sitting by him," Cole adds with a hint of envy. "In class too."
Lincoln points his deodorant can at me. "Dark hair, real small. Doesn't smile. Fuckin' ice queen."
"Rachel!" calls someone from the end of the locker room. "Rachel Fordham, man."
My throat goes tight. The contents of my locker were vivid a moment ago, but now they're a fuzzy blur. I want to slam it shut, alleviate my temper, but I suck the prickles back down and grit my teeth.
Lincoln whoops. "That's her. Oh, I have heard things. I don't know what the hell she's ashamed of, but it would be worth finding out."
"Yeah." Cole gives me a pointed look. "Why ain't you tapped that yet?"
"Because it's too easy," I mutter.
"She ain't easy," mutters someone to my left. "I tried."
"But she's a slut," Cole goes on. "Lincoln heard."
Lincoln pulls his pants out and starts climbing into them. "I hear a lot of things."
The urge to throw things, to kick things grows; adrenaline fizzes in my fists and thighs. I focus on pulling my sneakers on but keep tugging the laces too tight, leaving a white lattice of pressure along my fingers.
"She's not a slut," I bite out at them. "Alright?"
"Not like a trainwreck slut," Lincoln says matter-of-factly, as if it's a perfectly acceptable distinction. "More like a does-some-fucked-up-shit type of slut. Best kind, if you ask me."
My voice grows thick with threat. I step toward him. "Did you hear me?"
"Woah." He puts his hands up, shaking his head. "No offense meant, dude."
Cole cocks his head at me. "She your girlfriend, or something?"
More laughter from somewhere near the shower. "Yeah. That's why he hasn't tapped that. Hasn't earned his pussy privileges."
"Fuck you," I shout, adding just enough of a forced smile to win these dipshits over. I don't want to smile; I want to rip their hollow heads off.
It takes all the self-control I have to exit the locker room without kicking a garbage can or slamming a door. The parking lot is dimly lit, and a quick glance around tells me I'm alone—for now. A sliver of shadow hangs over Lincoln's red Jeep. His pride and joy.
Ten seconds later and I'm right beside that stupid fucking car, snapping off both the wing mirrors. They come apart in my hands like wishbones. Then I use the jagged plastic edge of one to cleave a hissing gash in his front left tire.
When the throbbing subsides in my temples, I toss both mirrors into the grassy ditch along the parking lot and hurry to my own ride. My bag lands in the trunk with a satisfying thud, and inside, the leather seat is cool on my skin. Relief. That's what violence is.
Rachel Fordham is not a slut.
Not for that bunch of cunts, anyway.
#4
Desire (noun): nature's loveliest weapon and cruellest joke
Heady.
Expensive.
Difficult to come by.
Desire is like a black market drug.
A rich man desires little but the things he cannot buy. I hold a great deal of power, but none of it compares to opiate thrill of flesh. Or thought. God, there's power there, too. Something primal.
I'm not a caveman; I can't go around killing people with my bare hands or spitting teeth at enemies. But desire takes me pretty damn close. For this reason, most of the time, I must contain it or risk everything I've worked for.
Not tonight.
From the moment I step on to that red carpet, I'll allow myself the indulgence of desiring Leontine. Will tease myself with the promise of her. Maybe, if the opportunity arises, I'll get a taste.
I shouldn't put my desires before the good of the firm, and once she knows what I am, the little lion won't want to sign my contract. But fuck it. I have ways and means.