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Of course, they've never met me.
Then there's the Patrick Bateman complex; people look for sociopaths who are obsessed with detail, petty, meticulous. I'm not going to complain—if anything, that does me a favour. Good luck spotting my inner Bateman, sweetheart. He doesn't exist. No, let me explain the one thing that makes me different to you.
I have no conscience.
I have emotions, sure. I don't sit there like a designer sack of potatoes, numb to the rest of the world. On the contrary, I feel a lot of things; just not for other people. I'm self-serving. Impulsive. I like to please myself, and my desires quiver like dominoes all set up and waiting for the right stroke to make them fall.
Above all, this particular state of being demands that I be a people-watching genius because without it, I can't figure out how to fake caring. How to feign being a friend. If it sounds like hard work, that's because it is...but would I swap it for a conscience? Would I fuck.
***
At around nine p.m. each evening, I pull up outside my apartment building and let the valet take my car. I drive alone, no security staff. If I have to endure them whenever I go out in public, I sure as hell avoid them when I can.
In the lobby—which appears to be going for the beige abyss approach I use for my office, but without the mirror masterstroke—I greet the concierge by name and stop to chat for a moment. How's the shift going? And how is his wife after her stroke? If there's a neighbour around, I'll draw them into the conversation too; I make a point of knowing their names and faces (and their credit scores, or who their husbands are fucking, because I don't pay Tuija for nothing).
After that, I take the private elevator up to my penthouse apartment and step over three random heaps of Lego in the living area. I bought the place not long after Ash was born, mainly for its proximity to a reputable prep school and satisfying views across the city. When you're at the top of the food chain, there's something seductive about lounging on a top floor terrace while the city stretches out beneath you, a lover waiting to be had.
I walk past sleek modern sofas and rows of glass bookcases to the open-plan kitchen, where Ethan, my nanny, is still clearing up from dinner. Ethan is my favourite kind of produce: local, younger than me and hardworking. Has a sick mother with medical bills. Not hot enough to be distracted by girls, but not ugly enough to be embarrassing. He's been with me almost six years, since Ash was barely two; in it for the long game, which is always preferable. If I hadn't hired him, he'd probably spend his days playing Call of Duty and his nights simpering over what a failure he'd become. See what a nice guy I am?
"Ash went to bed early tonight," he comments as I dump my laptop bag on a Perspex chair. "I think he's coming down with something."
"Does he have a fever?"
"Not yet. But I'd can stick around tonight, if you like. Keep an eye on him until morning."
"I appreciate the offer, but it won't be necessary." I pat Ethan on the shoulder by way of gratitude. "I'll finish off the dishes. You go see your ma."
He frowns. "You sure?"
"Of course. Now get lost—I mean it."
"Can't argue with that, I guess." He pauses, folding the dish cloth carefully before laying it beside the sink. "Hey, did you have your big meeting today?"
"Yep. It's looking good." I have big meetings every day, but I like to feed Ethan just enough detail that he thinks he's privileged with insight. "You still good for that overnight on Friday?"
"It's already on my calendar." He peels his fleece jacket from the back of a chair and folds in a scrawny arm. "Sure you don't want me to stay?"
"For the love of God, Ethan."
He holds up his hands, a good-natured smile pulling at the corners of his thin lips. "Okay. But I'd feel bad if I didn't offer."
You see that? Ethan's conscience, if he let it, would get in the way of everything. What kind of jackass doormat offers to stay longer after a fourteen hour shift? Sure, it works for me—if you're hiring someone to look after a kid, you sure as hell want them to have a conscience—but what is it doing for him? Nothing. Nada. Zilch.
After Ethan leaves, I load the dishwasher and run a cloth over the surfaces. Fix myself some eggs. Then I walk down the hall, twist around another heap of Lego and a few random Transformers, and nudge Ash's door open.
His room is always messy. I've reached the point where I tell Ethan to only tidy it once a week. The kid lies starfish on his bed, his Mets comforter rising and falling with each breath. He's got bed hair already and it's a little sweaty, but when I touch my wrist to his forehead, it's still cool.
It's weird looking at Ash, even in the dim light spilling in from the hall. Despite our different fathers, he's like a mini me—dark blond hair, dimples and all—though he's only eight. I remember when Mom first put him in my arms; a younger brother will be good for your business, she told me. Treat him like one big PR op and you'll be fine.
Mom isn't around anymore to share such heart-warming wisdom. I should probably miss her.
Often, at this time of night, I go into my gym room and pound out a few miles on the treadmill. Work on the weights. Not tonight, though; not after the meeting. I'm hungry for other things.
A long, hot shower is where the build-up starts. I rub at my thighs with soapy hands. Take deep lungfuls of steam. Watch my cock harden as the water beats down, making it bounce and bob. I don't allow myself women often—I'm too easily distracted by the ripe promise of flesh. But Miss Reeves and that ass. Jesus. I have to seduce her into selling her business; may as well go the whole nine yards and seduce her into other things, too.
In the bedroom, I don't wait to dry myself, so my damp skin sticks to the sheets. No matter. I wrap a lubed hand around my cock and just squeeze intermittently. Teasing. This is what her pussy will feel like, this tight, ebbing grip. Breath slips through my teeth in a cold hiss.
Leontine told me that her name means lion, and it makes for a pretty line but it's not what she is. Beyond those bedroom eyes and that surly, almost submissive manner, I know her type exactly; she's the kind of girl who'll let me play with her pussy until she's wetter than an April morning, who'll look pained and keep still while I lick her overripe clit. She won't want it, not really, will keep the fight inside and pretend it isn't happening. And then her orgasm will come from nowhere—desperate and aching—and she'll claw at me while I claw at her sweet spot, fingers jabbing harder than she ever thought she'd like.
The words she'll say in that accent. The haughty, breathy hitch in her voice when she comes—now that's my kind of drug. Why has nobody figured out how to charge for that yet? Hookers don't come like good girls; they rarely come at all, actually, but even when they do, it's always spoiled with fake gratitude afterward. I don't care if a girl thanks me for her orgasm, and I prefer it when she's still too traumatised to get the words out, but Jesus. Sex is all about honesty—that's what makes it sexy. And sex is one of the few things I can actually be honest about.
Which is why I don't have it too often.
I stroke myself; long pulls, short twists at the head. The throb of impending orgasm climbs the muscles of my inner thighs. With each new streak of heat, I lean further into the pillows, back braced, chin tipped. Eyes squeezed shut. In the darkness, Leontine comes back into view, walking away from me in the lobby with her perky, sculpted ass bobbing in goodbye. The mere thought of it bare sets my teeth on edge; I can see her bent over, ass high, her pussy peeking out beneath like a wet split peach. She'll want to be fucked when I'm done with my tongue and fingers. She'll want to be full, to feel something else. Something risky. Bloody. Ah.
She looked almost frightened of me earlier. If I had a conscience, I'd feel bad for thinking of her like this: bent over, begging for it, trembling with pleasure and fear. But I don't. And when I spray half a hell of cum over my abs, groaning and panting with the force of it, there's no devil on my shoulder.
There's just an empty room, a damp bed, and the dark undertow of impending sleep pulling me down, down, down.
***
Tuesday morning: fuck off, you fucker.
Ash wakes me at five a.m. by catapulting Optimus Prime into my left eye socket. If he's ill, I'm Stevie Wonder.
"Frosties!" he trills as he bounces on my bed. "Can I have a grown-up sized bowl, Aeron? Like your kind. I'm starving, I want a grown-up breakfast!"
I roll over, rub the sleep from my eyes, and squint at him. After Assaultimus Prime, this hurts like a mofo. "You want a grown-up breakfast, you can have a protein shake with me."
