I ball my fists, almost enjoying the ache of muscles filled with old fluid. "I bet he's having a fucking field day, isn't he?" I can see the headlines now: young media mogul arrested in connection with his mother's murder. Maybe they'll even throw in some cheesy crap like Aeron Lore Not above the Law. Great. Just the kind of publicity I need right now, when I'm bidding to buy a bunch of fucking newspaper brands. And this from an asshole who magically made his last wife disappear when he happened upon a new one.
"I'm sorry. I'm...I'm so sorry." She trails off, beginning to sob. Since this is Tuija, each sob is almost snorted back in. "Your mom, Aeron. I'm so sorry..."
"It's okay," I grind out.
"It's not. It's not. Why the fuck would anyone do that to her?"
Yellow Moustache Officer leans over from the front desk and cocks his head at me. "Twenty seconds. Wrap it up," he calls.
"I have to go," I mutter to Tuija.
"We're taking care of everything, I promise. You don't have to come back real soon. I'm liaising with Ash's social worker, like you asked. He's fine, a little weirded out but fine..." She chokes out another sob. "But he's so young, and he doesn't know, does he?"
Leaning forward, I press my face against the cool tiled wall. Closed eyes are blissful, even if they're nothing close to ignorance. "I'll take care of him. As soon as I get out of here and all this shit is over, I'll move someplace..." With enough room for a kid. A baby. Jesus. What am I going to do with that?
"Aeron," she whispers. "Aeron. I'm here. You okay?"
"I have to go." I slam the phone down, and press my forehead to the tiles again.
If I close my eyes for long enough, perhaps this will all melt into nothing and I won't wake up tomorrow to some circus about me being a fucking murderer.
Who am I kidding?
If I want to control the news...I'm gonna have to own more of it.
#10
Holy fuck (noun): the moment you come inside a woman and believe, for a split second, that there is a god
Mathletes.
Ash's teacher wants him to join. I stare at the letter on the kitchen counter, fighting the urge to literally sneer.
Think this through, Aeron. Ethan's watching for your response with his fucking Bazinga t-shirt again. Okay.
Scenario one: Ash grows up to be some kind of Mark Zuckerberg mecha brain who conquers the world of social media and becomes a billionaire. He then marries Yoko and settles into a life of selling other people's souls for money. I kind of like this one. Besides Yoko, obviously, but we all have our vices. Mine is prickly girls who are too smart for my own good; maybe Ash's will be plain tiger bitches.
Likelihood of scenario one actually happening: about 0.5%.
Scenario two: Ash is a turbo nerd by the time he's ten, plunged head first into a fetid swamp of World of Warcraft and Star Trek quotes. He spends too much time on the internet to make the most of his earning potential, only gets pussy from girls with more neon hair dye than self-esteem, and only goes out in public to rant about the lack of free Wi-Fi before going home to not shower.
I cannot allow Ash to join Mathletes. It's for his own good. I've got way more important things to be doing today—Leo, mainly, though I should probably do some work as well—why do schools insist on pelting this shit at me? Aren't they supposed to care about his future...? If he doesn't grow up to be well-adjusted, I'll never fucking get rid of him, and this set up was never exactly my preference to begin with.
Ethan slurps loudly from his cup of coffee. "Something wrong?"
I prod the letter with my index finger. "This Mathletes thing. No can do. Schedule conflict."
He frowns toward the wall calendar (pissed cats; a Christmas gift from Tuija). "On a Thursday? But I thought—"
"He's got karate on a Thursday."
"He doesn't do karate."
"He does now." I scoop my laptop up from the breakfast table and shove it into my leather bag. "Time he learned to defend himself, anyways."
"I guess." Ethan does a very poor job of hiding his confusion. "Just...he's finally starting to like math, so..."
"Ethan." I sigh. "Let me ask you this. Aged eight, would you rather have been a geek or a badass?"
He looks wounded. "You can't be both?"
Ugh. "No. Not in the real world."
"But—but John Green—"
"Has a tiny cock. Miniscule." Probably.
He recoils, his eyebrows shooting upward. "So...you've, uh, you've got confirmation?"
"You're seriously asking me that?"
"Just wondered." He clears his throat. "So yeah. Karate. I guess I'll find a class."
"Damn right." I check in my bag for the other thing I need to take today: Leo's third gift. It sits in the front pocket, a sleek black box no bigger than a candy bar, its gently patterned sides tied with a neat scarlet bow. "Let me know how that works out for you."
Ethan pretends to check his phone for the time, something I've noticed he often does when nervous. "I should probably go wake Ash."
"You do that. See you later," I call, heading toward the front door.
I bet Tuija could find out how big John Green's cock is.
***
By the time I get to the office—a little after seven thirty—Tuija's already waiting for me in the lobby. She goes through my itinerary in the elevator, Mozart playing in the background. Today, she's wearing a red tartan skirt suit with turquoise satin heels.
"You're due to meet Phil for lunch again," she says. "Want me to cancel?"
"When did we even last run something on the president?"
"Precisely." She swipes along the iPad screen. "Okay. Delay the lunch."
"Shareholders are still coming in, right?"
She peers over my shoulder to look into the mirrored elevator wall before licking a smudge of lipstick off her teeth. "Three o'clock. This prototype had better be fucking good because they've been kicking me like a bad horse since the acquisition."
My upper lip twitches. "They'll like it." Or at least, they'll like Leo. Bunch of dirty old men that they are. "What's up with the dress code today, firecracker? Wasn't it you telling me that this isn't a Tim Burton movie?"
"Fuck you. It's Vivienne Westwood."
"You mean to tell me that I paid for that monstrosity?"
"I'm Hunger Games chic."
The doors peel open, and I shove past to exit. "FYI for the rest of your tenure: I prefer high-class hooker chic. Vastly." Especially when I'm paying for it.
"Fine, fine." She follows me down the corridor, which is pleasantly quiet. "I'll change. Happy?"
"No. But still change." We turn past the noticeboard, the network control room. Then I stop outside the pale beech door of Leo's office.
"She's not here yet," Tuija informs me in an unimpressed tone.
"I know. Now get lost already."
She pouts.
"I mean it." I wave her off, and she starts back toward her own office.
"That letter came back, by the way," she says to a nearby pot plant. "But he doesn't want to know about that, does he?"
Oh, for fuck's sake. "Which letter?" I ask, reluctantly.
"The referral. Miss Reeves' little sojourn to rehab land."
"Already? I thought you said it would take a week?"
She shrugs. "Took less."
I put my bag down carefully by Leo's door, and stalk back over to Tuija. "So what did it say?"
"Well now. Let's see..." She folds her arms and taps her fingers on the repulsive tartan of her sleeve. "Oh yeah. Turns out she was there for OCD."
I lean in, scowling. "That it?"
"Yup. They treat that in rehab. Who knew?"
"Just seems...I don't know." Like a load of bullshit. "You sure you got the original letter?"
"I'll email you the copy. Looks legit to me. You think there's a problem?"
"She doesn't really seem the type." I've seen her apartment; there was nothing OCD about it. Aside from the cameras. Still.