Chapter One
A deserted room feels a lot like a snowglobe. The dust motes swirl through the air like tiny bits of sluggish snow, and the tragic bed scene in the center is perfectly frozen. The covers remain rumpled, a startlingly shallow divot marks where a dying resident spent a final week. The pillow looks like a tombstone, and on top of it an epitaph rests in the form of a worn note folded over twice, the back heavy with indents from excuses deemed not good enough and crossed off.
This is a perfectly preserved death scene, in which the gristly bits have been removed. The death has occurred far away in an attempted act of preservation in which to spare a loved one the ugliness. It is a failed attempt, but of course the deceased is not yet aware of this fact.
Evander Ives walks in on the scene unprepared. He has a tray of breakfast decorated with a thin vase holding two daisies. It is part of his morning routine--wake up in an empty bed, creep to the kitchen, make a small breakfast for Lins and himself, and bring it to her. If she were sleeping, he would often stand in the doorway and watch the shallow rise and fall of her chest with love diluted by a sense of impending doom.
Discovering an empty bed is a decided interruption in the aforementioned routine. Evander abandons the breakfast tray on the foot of the bed. There, it will sit and the thin porridge that is all that his wife Linsey had been able to eat for the past months, will harden into cement. He picks up the note and smoothes it out with hands possessed by earthquakes while time moves in slow motion, twines itself around his ankles like a cat and does its best to trip him. There had been a full-bodied letter in the beginning, but all of the explanations have been crossed out over and over until they are unintelligible. All that is left are two lines.
It’s for the best.
Love always, Lins.
Typical Lins, he thinks numbly. She would not have found words and excuses to be enough. She would not have wanted him to find her body in this room, stiff and cold and staring at the ceiling with filmed-over eyes. And so she had left, and all that she left him with was a letter with the flowered edges cut out, revealing undecorated bones with sharpened ends. Except that in her mind, this was a gentle let-down, a mercy killing free of fluff.
He does not want these bones. The second he reads the words, they leap down his throat and catch just beneath his sternum. The ends poke into his heart and lungs threateningly. If he breathes too deeply or lets out the ugly things rattling around against his ribcage that dangerously resemble sobs with their bat wings and watering eyes, the sharp bits will puncture him.
He inhales as deeply as he can, and the sobs come rattling out of their cage of bones, cawing exuberantly at freedom. His face ends up buried in the sheets, inhaling a faint trace of Linsey’s blood orange perfume curdled by the stench of the sickness. It has a powdery edge mixed with something a few days past its expiration date, and he hates it for taking even this little bit of Linsey from him and polluting it.
Evander remains there and he cries. Really cries, cries all the tears that he had packed so carefully down the back of his throat. Each one rises, has their shining moment on his cheeks. His face is bright red as his hands search empty covers for a body that is gone.
Finally his feet find him and pull him from the bed, demanding other forms of mourning. Linsey is outside somewhere. Perhaps still alive. If he can find her in time, he can save her. In fact, there is no perhaps. She is alive and well. He would know if she was dead, and his chest is screaming that she is not.
He stumbles out of their small house with three buttons of his shirt out of place, hair sticking out in each direction like a weathervane, and Linsey’s note clenched in one fist. He is running on sheer denial and a raw sorrow.
In the end, finding her is not a struggle. Linsey had wanted to see something beautiful as she died, and her favorite place was a wide field of grass garnished in wildflowers. Most of them were turning brown and stiffening in the autumn season as they withered, but she had found a scattered spray of wild daisies to lay next to.
A flower crown made of long grasses and dead flower heads is clumsily slumping off her head. For a moment, she is sleeping. Her eyelids twitch as she dreams and Evander has never known relief before now.
Then a fly alights on the tip of her nose and crawls towards an ajar mouth, forelegs flicking out to clean its wings and face greedily. The illusion shatters. He sees her pallid skin and the black laces that tie her together in place of veins. Her head is lolled at an unnatural angle a living human would not rest in. Her expression is not peaceful—the lip is curled up in a pained grimace and her eyes are slitted open and filming over. The sickness overpowers the wildflowers and rises to his nose, a stronger reminder of what poisoned her sheets.
Indelicate and unlovely things have stained the place that Linsey loved so.
He remembers their last trip to the field. It was a good day for Linsey, though her cheer vastly outpowered her physical health.
“I have to see our field.” She told him from where the pillows propped her up. “Today. We’re going.”
He eyed her half-finished toast and the familiar twist of anxiety wrung out his gut.
“You should rest today. Tomorrow.”
“Rest isn’t going to fix me, Vander. That isn’t how this works. I want to go today.”
He wasn’t sure where her energy came from, only that it grated on the sinking sense in his chest. He was more tired than the girl with death in her veins, and the irony was not lost on him. He was just too exhausted to care. Sleeping had been dancing out of his reach more and more. He would get up and wander to Linsey’s room and watch her own fitful sleep. Sometimes he crawled into bed and held her, paying close attention to the rise and fall of her chest. The little signs of life were comforting. If he were there to observe them, he was not wasting a single precious second of them.
It was at her insistence that she take up the second bedroom, and it had caused a thunderstorm of a fight.
“I want a separate room.” She’d told him. The clouds were forming then, threatening from a distance.
He’d laughed. “But this works fine. You don’t need a separate room.” Linsey was avoiding his eyes as she toyed with the edge of the comforter. She was almost always bedbound at that point. Before then she had borne the pain, but now more often than not, it bore her.
“I think I do. All my medicines take up space, and you don’t like the incense—I know you don’t.” Thunder was crackling in the background, threatening.
“I don’t care about the incense.” It was too cloying and occasionally it worked up through his nose and hijacked his head with a dull pounding pain, but it was a livable sacrifice.
“I want the guest room.” Linsey had insisted. It hit Evander that there was an elephant crouched on the back of her tongue.
“Why?” He demanded, anger furling around the words like smoke around embers.
“I told you—“
“Why?” He insisted. Her gaze collided with his and she looked down again, lips smashed tightly together. Lightning flashed above in the clouds, threatening to strike.
“I don’t want you waking up with me dead next to you.” It hit, and it felt as though half a forest had just started on fire.
Evander fought her until her eyes died and the energy trickled out of the cracks in her body, and then he conceded. Life granted only so many wishes, and the dying often found their achievable ones falling into their laps.
Much like Linsey’s request to visit the field. Evander took her—strapped his easel and paints to his back and half-carried and then carried her on their treck through the woods.
How her face lit up. Linsey watched the birds and the leaves, who were beginning to grow orange around the temples, with the fascination of a small child. Looking down at her as she looked at everything around them, her thin arms draped around his neck, Evander felt the familiar bloom and drop in his chest as he fell a little farther in love with her. A little deeper into a bittersweet pit he knew he would never climb back out of.
He had settled Linsey in the flowers, and she had read a book while he painted her in the field. In the strokes of the brush she was glowing with health. The black stains of disease did not exist, and she had not ever informed him that she did not want to sleep in a bed with him because she was afraid he would wake up with her corpse.
Once he was done, he lay in the tall grasses and held her, skimming the pages of the book over her shoulder. On the fifth chapter she closed it and turned to him.
“I’ll love you forever, Evander Ives.” She informed him.
“I’ll love you back forever.” He kissed her as the wind pushed wildflowers over the scent of her sickness, and for a moment she was the healthy girl in his painting. They were young and held a love that would push them into years where they were old and wrinkled together, and everything was perfect.
World of Greed, World of Need
World of greed, keep on turning.
Don't worry about my tears.
Pay no mind to our tragic yearning
Or our cries that no one ever hears.
World of greed, keep your material wealth.
It can't buy me a better life.
Put your consolation back on the shelf.
We were born to fight.
World of greed, turn your back
Just like you always do.
Another day will fade to black,
And I'll still make it through.
World of greed, keep on turning.
Your promises lie in my clenched fists.
My dreams are all broken, and my future is burning,
And hope does not exist.
CONTROL: part two: “Asher”
Emily tasted like honey and milk. Her body yielded to Asher's caresses like butter to a hot knife. He had made her climax twice in the past half hour as he promised. And without taking their clothes off, because that was an important part of the deal.
He smiled upon seeing her blouse open to reveal a fire-red silk and satin bra. That was not his doing. She had unbuttoned her shirt herself while he was busy pleasuring her.
"I'm glad you think so." She was still breathless from the delights he had introduced in her. "Although this wasn't exactly what I had in mind when I called to meet you here."
"Would you like to go over the latest revisions on the contract now, Emily? I think there are one or two more stipulations I have to insist we reconsider."
"I know what they are. I'll have Portman and Stewart take care of it." She had her hand on his wrist as he ran his fingers up and down her navel, urging him on.
She wanted more.
So did he.
"Are you sure about this?" he said, unmoving. "Your father was adamant about letting his brother have that 10 percent stake."
"My uncle has been a useless piece of trash since he dropped out of three colleges thirty years ago, and my father is a fool for thinking he'll get him to ever amount to anything more than a waste of space." She leaned forward and hooked her fingers on his belt buckle. "My fiancé is on his way here for dinner. Would you rather talk about my loser uncle or get inside me?"
***
THE NEXT DAY
"Ash, where the hell are you?"
"Nice to hear from you too, Charlie," said Asher, leaning comfortably in his seat. "I'm out having a drink, if you must know." His gaze strayed across the old Hollywood style restaurant to rest on a tall redhead in a clingy white dress and come-fuck-me heels. She was with two other young women sitting at the bar, talking excitedly. But every so often, she would glance over and meet his gaze. "I thought I'd celebrate my coming back to L.A. with some good scotch and ..."
The redhead tossed her hair and licked her lower lip.
"... some red velvet."
"You hate cake," Charlie said. "And you especially detest red velvet."
"I seem to find myself in the mood for it tonight. The kind with the white cream cheese frosting." He gave the redhead a small smile. "In fact I can practically taste some of that frosting right now. Would you care to join me?"
He could picture his best friend rolling her eyes. "No thank you," Charlie said. "I have an early breakfast meeting tomorrow. How did the meeting go yesterday?"
"Perfectly. You're speaking to the new majority owner of Ritter Media Holdings." He pulled out a hundred-dollar bill with his free hand and held it loosely in his fingers as he signaled a waitress.
"You got your 90%?" She laughed. "But of course you did. Old man Ritter really has lost his touch."
"Oh I don't know about that. Emily Ritter handled the negotiations. Quite a shrewd businesswoman, I must say. Her reputation is quite well deserved. Hang on."
Asher clasped the waitress's hand so the money was between their palms, and pulled her down to whisper in her ear. "Is it here?" he said.
"Yes, Mr. Darcy," she said. "Would you like us to send it over to your friend now?"
"That would be perfect, thank you, Vera."
She pocketed the cash with a smile, and left.
Charlie sighed. "You slept with her, didn't you?"
"I can say with all honesty, my dear Charlie, that neither of us got any sleep."
"Congratulations, I guess. Will she be your date to my party next Saturday? You haven't informed my assistant whether you're bringing a plus one, but she's learned from experience that it's just more convenient to assume you will."
"Very sensible. It's good to know Darlene's Princeton education is being put into good use. No, it seems Ms. Ritter is entirely engaged to a very boring middle-aged gentleman from Texas with the most appalling table manners."
He smiled as he watched the redhead and her friends gasp in surprise when Vera set down the beautifully designed cake in front of her on the bar top. Vera spoke to the redhead briefly, and gestured towards him. The redhead smiled at him — palms on her chest, her face flush with excitement. He nodded at her, and raised his drink.
"Well, whoever your plus one is," Charlie said, "be sure to inform her of the dress code. I'll not have another costume party ruined by one of your last-minute dates who show up with whatever they were wearing when you picked them up."
"I promise she will be in full costume, even if I have to dress her myself. Now if you'll excuse me, I'm just about to have some birthday cake. Lunch tomorrow?"
"Of course. I missed you, Asher."
"And I missed you, my love. Goodnight."
He put the phone in his pocket just as the young woman came over. "Hi," he said. His gaze moved from her long slim legs up to her exquisitely formed breasts to her face.
"Have we met?" she said. "How did you know it was my birthday?"
"I didn't."
"Oh?" She looked confused. "So why..."
"Will you sit with me?"
. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .
To be continued.
Two
My Uncle was checking me out.
It felt weird. Actually, no. It felt weird that it didn't feel weird. It felt nice. If he weren't married to my Aunt, and he was just some random guy at a party checking me out, I'd be totally into it.
I was totally into it now.
I wondered how long he'd been staring at my legs. If he was still looking now. If he had been checking out any other part of me while I was busy thinking up things to say.
What happened next I attribute mostly to a sudden flash of naughtiness, and also because I had been thinking of doing something really bad to Rita and for some reason, this opportunity fell on my lap, so to speak.
I dropped my fork.
When I bent over to pick it up (slowly), I was fully aware of the hem of my short skirt rising up to just below my butt.
Oliver caught his breath.
Inwardly, I smirked. I had him.
I straightened up, looked him in the eye and and said, "Oops."
He swallowed. Hard.
I gave my fork to a passing catering staff, who gave me a fresh one. It was time to finish my lovely cake.
Slowly, I forked bits of mousse into my mouth, taking great care to lick the tines of my fork each time. I ran my tongue over my lips much, much more than I needed to.
In the corner of my eye, I could see Oliver just standing there, motionless. Watching me.
I could hear his heavy breathing.
Great. Now what?
At that moment, Aunt Rita finally looked up from chatting with her group of fawning minions to notice her husband was standing on a corner next to her niece. "Oliver, darling," she called out. "Come say hi to my friends."
I glanced at him, and gave him a little smile. He nodded at me before going over to sit with Aunt Rita.
Mom came over with a glass of soda for me. "Are you having fun, dear?" she asked.
"Mom, this is Aunt Rita's best party yet," I said. "I'm so glad we came."
"That's great, sweetie. Did you say hi to your Uncle Oliver?"
"Oh yes, Mom. We had a lovely chat."
I spent the next few minutes trying to figure out what my game plan was.
Seducing my Uncle Oliver wasn't something I'd actually thought about. Sure, I had fantasized him a few time. Okay, I'd fantasized about him a lot. But I'd never really thought I'd do anything close to what I'd just done a while back. And now I was dying to know if there was any way in hell I'd actually pull off what was basically the most terrible thing a niece could do to her aunt.
An aunt who hated her. A really vile human being who humiliated her and her mother any chance she got.
I made my decision.
I went over to my Mom, who was talking to a young couple on the other side of the room. As I walked over, I swear I could feel Oliver's eyes on me. So I glanced his way. He was sitting next to Aunt Rita, not paying any attention to the conversation around him.
Our eyes met.
I held his gaze for a while. I had to make sure he knew what I was knew. What I was thinking.
Then I looked away, a secret smile playing on my lips.
"Mom, do you mind if I stay in the den for a bit?" I asked. "Jenny was home sick today, I promised her I'd go over today's Physics lecture with her over Skype."
"Of course, dear. Did you leave your backpack in the den?"
I nodded. "We're not leaving anytime soon, are we?"
"Maybe in a couple of hours," she said. "Around ten, maybe?"
"I'll be back in an hour."
I made sure I walked past Oliver again on my way to the hall. I glanced at him briefly and found him looking at me again.
When I got to the door that went out into the hallway, I paused and glanced back at him again. Our eyes met, and I held his gaze for several seconds before I turned and left.
I hadn't spent that much time in my Aunt Rita's house, for obvious reasons. It was a large house, with around ten bedrooms. I didn't know my way around so well, but I did remember that there was a library on the second floor. Whenever I couldn't stand being around my Aunt, I'd go there to hide. I liked books, so I was never bored there. It was my sanctuary.
I was going there now.
As I was halfway up the grand staircase, I looked down to see if Oliver had gotten the hint.
He was at the base of the stairs looking up at me.
I could feel, rather than see Oliver following me the rest of the way to the library. He kept his distance, keeping a good ten feet between us. It was a long walk to the library, as it was at the very end of the hallway.
I was half afraid he could hear my heartbeat hammering through my chest. At first I thought I was simply nervous, then I realized that wasn't why my pulse was racing.
I was excited.
I'd never been more excited in my whole life.
I should have been afraid. Or scared. But I wasn't, not one bit. I knew I wanted to do this. I desperately wanted to do this.
When I opened the library door, I felt like I was opening a Christmas present. I went inside and shut the door.
A minute after, Oliver came.
I was sitting on top of a desk that was facing the door, watching him as he came inside.
He didn't say a word as he closed the door.
I heard a lock click.
"What are you doing here, Kaylie?" he asked.
"I got bored," I said.
He didn't make a move towards me.
"What about you?" I asked him.
"I came to see what you were up to. Do you mind that I followed you?"
"Well, it's you're house," I said. "You can do whatever you want." I put as much meaning as I could in those last words.
You can do whatever you want.
Oliver began to fiddle with his cufflinks. "I suppose you're right," he said, not looking at me. "You know, Kaylie, that desk isn't for sitting."
"I'm sorry. Will you help me down, Uncle Oliver?"
He looked up from his cufflinks in time to see me spread my legs apart, and rest my hands on the table, between my thighs.
He walked toward me slowly. As I expected, he seemed nervous, but the way he was breathing heavily told me he was excited too.
As I was.
Oliver laid his hands gently on my thighs, pushing up my skirt a little.
"Do you always show such little respect for furniture, Kaylie?" he asked, his voice thick. His hands started moving slowly up and down my thighs.
God his hands felt so good. They were big and strong, and I could feel their strength and power as he stroked my thighs. "Sometimes," I said, trying to keep my voice from trembling the unbearable need I was feeling. "Is it so wrong?"
Oliver moved his mouth close to my ear. "Yes," he whispered. "So wrong. Very wrong." His hands had moved higher up my thighs. I could feel his thumbs slip under my panties with every upward stroke.
I lifted my hands to give him more room to touch me. I put my arms behind me, my hands resting on the desk for support.
"Will you punish me, Uncle Olie?" I asked, breathing heavily. I wanted to beg him to touch me ... more. I wanted his fingers deeper inside my panties.
"Stop it. Stop making me ... do this."
For a brief moment, I almost pitied the poor man. Very few men could refuse the young, nubile flesh I was offering up to him.
But I was so horny, I couldn't have stopped even if I wanted to.
______________
Please vote for this story if you like it! I'll post the next part very soon. Thank you. - Iliada T.
CONTROL: part one: “Lizzy”
It is a truth universally acknowledged that when you're having a bad day at work, something will come up to make everything worse.
Lizzy Bennet shut her eyes and pinched the bridge of her nose. At this rate she was going to need another aspirin soon. "Mom, this really isn't a good time," she said. She stood behind the desk in her tiny office, unable to sit still. Not after the news she had just gotten over email an hour earlier.
"It's never a good time for you, Lizzy," said her mother's voice over the speakerphone. "It's almost like you never have a minute to spare for your poor mother."
"I'm sorry. There's an emergency at work and—"
"Listen, Lizzy, sweetie. Lucy has been offered her own reality show. Can you believe it? They think it may even be a bigger hit than Tyrell's show even at its peak. We're signing the contract on Friday."
"That's ... great, Mother." Lizzy sighed. So her twin sister was getting her own reality show. It was not at all surprising. After being featured prominently in her ex-boyfriend and rapper Tyrell Ramsey's reality show that had run for three seasons and was a massive ratings juggernaut, apparently Lucy had gained enough popularity to headline her own show. Lizzy wasn't sure why there seemed to be an endless public craving for Hollywood celebrities partying and behaving badly, but while there was an audience for it, there would always be people like her sister who was willing to give them what they want. "Please tell her congratulations and I'll give her a call as soon as I can."
She wished she could be happier about the news, really. But it was difficult. Because of Tyrell's show, Lucy had been transformed from unknown struggling actress to famous screen ditz to tabloid fodder. While she revelled in the attention, unfortunately, that meant Lizzy got more than a fair share of the fame, too. It was something she was never comfortable with. She worked in a magazine and considered herself a serious journalist. She reported the news, she didn't want to be part of it.
"Oh, but there's more, Lizzy, dear. The producer Hannah Covey — you remember her, don't you? — wants to focus a bit on our Lucy's family life. They're especially interested in you as her twin—"
"Absolutely not, Mother," Lizzy said, cutting her off. "We'd settled this. I didn't agree to participate in Tyrell's show, and I won't be part of this one. Not even for two seconds of screen time. I'm a magazine editor, for god's sake." For now, at least, she reminded herself. "I've been very supportive of Lucy's career but—"
"That's exactly why Hannah wants you on the show, honey. You and Lucy are so different. She lives such a glamorous lifestyle while you ... well, you seem serious and so different from anyone in Lucy's circles."
Lizzy bent over, palms flat on her desk. "That's because I am different from Lucy's friends, Mother. Just because my twin decides she wants to make a spectacle of herself on TV, it doesn't mean I have to."
"I feel you're quite judgmental, Lizzy. Just because your sister isn't as boring as your friends, it doesn't mean she isn't as good as any of them. And she always has time for me."
That's because you're the only one enabling her, Lizzy wanted to say. "You know I do my best."
"Honestly, I don't remember raising you to be this selfish. You could learn something from your sister. Why only yesterday, she told me she thought of volunteering a weekend at the soup kitchen downtown."
"They'll be filming the whole thing, I take it?"
"Well, yes. They said they'd be very happy to have the charity center featured on the show. Honey, it won't hurt to give exposure to the conditions of the homeless. Why must you be so cynical?"
Maybe because the only time her sister thought of others was in terms of whether or not they could be of use to her? Lizzy loved her sister but she also knew her well enough to be cynical of any "charitable" activities the latter tries to undertake.
"I'm sorry, Mother," she said, looking at her watch. "I'm sure that will do a lot of good uplifting the plight of the homeless." Or exposing more of her sister's shallowness to the world. "I'm sorry if it seemed like I'm not being supportive. But I have to go now. We have an editorial meeting in two minutes."
"It's a Saturday night, sweetie. You should be out meeting a nice man. Do you want to die an overworked old maid?"
There was a knock on the open door. Lizzy's best friend Sharlene Lucas leaned against the door frame, her iPad clutched to her chest with one hand. She made a fist, stuck out her thumb and ran it across her throat.
Lizzy grimaced. "Not if you have anything to do with it, I'm sure, Mother. Goodnight." She pressed a button to disconnect the call. "Is Jade back?" she said.
"Yup. Let's go."
***
"Perhaps it would be best if you let me drive, sir?" William Fitzpatrick said. The Scotsman was trying not too sound too alarmed at the way the convertible he was riding in was careering dangerously through the long winding roads that lead up the hill.
"Relax, old man," said Asher Darcy. He looked almost completely calm as he navigated another turn on the road. "We're barely going over eighty, and there's hardly another car in sight."
"Right. Good! That would be excellent if the speed limit in this county was, in fact 80 miles per hour."
"It would, yes." His flight to L.A. had been delayed, giving him barely an hour to get to Joseph Ritter's home in time for their meeting. He couldn't resist taking this opportunity to see how far he could push the abilities of the Ferrari Spider, his new favorite sports car. A car that was built to run should be allowed to run, the way a bird should fly. It was the nature of things and it should be respected. "I've done this many times, Fitz. I promise I won't get us killed."
"I shall hold you to that promise, sir." Fitzwilliam sounded less panicked now.
"Good."
"Mr. Darcy?"
"Yeah, Fitz?"
"You know I'm most grateful for this opportunity to move to the States to work with you. The compensation package is quite good."
"Don't forget the dental plan."
"Right, yes. That too. However, I've been your chauffeur for almost a week now and I was wondering ..."
"Are you quitting on me, Fitz?"
"Oh no sir. I would just like to inquire, respectfully ..."
"Yes?"
"When I might actually, well, drive you."
***
"Asher Darcy. He's chairman of the board of the Darcy Capital Group, and he's branching out to media now."
Groans filled the room, and not a few pens were thrown down on the table.
"Are you serious?" Garret Wilson said. The bearded, middle-aged marketing manager looked almost livid. "This is what we've been reduced to -- some billionaire's hobby for God's sake?"
"I'm sure Mr. Darcy takes this magazine considerably more seriously than his golf game, " Jade said. She did not have the look of someone who had to deliver bad news. The tall, thirty-two year-old editor-in-chief of The Fold was her usual pleasant self, and was in fact sounding quite pleased. As though the acquisition of the magazine by a billionaire playboy with questionable motives was not quite that big a deal.
It was, however, a big deal to Lizzy. A massive deal. "The New York Tribune folded two months after Terry Holding bought it," she pointed out. "Surely we have a better chance of making it without this Darcy taking over."
"Darcy is not completely without qualifications, Lizzy. He does have a bachelor degree in journalism, and a two-year stint at the New York Times under his belt."
"It was an internship, Jade," said Wilson.
"Which he probably paid to get," added Lizzy.
Jade sighed. "You've been quiet this whole time, Sandra," she said. "Thoughts?"
Sandra Las Marias linked her fingers. "Does it really matter what I think?" she said. "I take it this is a done deal?"
"I'm afraid so. Old man Ritter is eager to have Darcy take us off his hands, I think. Honestly,with the way he's been running things, I'm not convinced we're not better off with a new publisher."
"Even if that new publisher is Asher Darcy?" Wilson said.
"The man's no fool," Jade said. "He may have inherited his billions from his late father's estate, but his family's hedge fund company has been doing better since he took over as chairman of the board. The fact that he had a more experienced manager take over as CEO speaks to his leadership abilities."
"Looks like he already won you over, Jade," said Sharlene. "The man is quite charming, I hear." She had her elbow on the table, her chin resting on her palm. "I saw him at a benefit once. So dreamy."
"We haven't met," Jade said. "Emily handled the negotiations."
"Emily Ritter?" Wilson said. "I suppose old man Ritter has lost his touch since he retired."
"Rumour has it that it's Alzheimer's," Sharlene said.
"I'm sure Emily got the best deal she could out of Darcy," Lizzy said. "She's not called the Ice Queen for nothing."
***
"Oh Asher, that was just..." gasped Emily Ritter. She arched her spine slightly, head thrown back.
She lay on the bed with her arms splayed on her sides and her knees bent. The red silk shirt under her white suit jacket was unbuttoned down to her navel. Her skirt was hiked up to her waist.
Asher was crouched between her parted legs, arms hooked under her knees. He moved his hand from her left knee down her thigh, his lips following the trail of his fingers on her perfect alabaster skin. "Worth the ten-mile drive up here I should say," he murmured.
All else is dream.
Just go to sleep.
Shut your eyes.
It's natural, it's easy, it's free.
They're burning like a throat full of cinnamon, so just close them.
Yes cinnamon, like the video that just auto played on some bright white social media site.
What a time to be alive.
The Age of Enlightenment?
The Greek philosophers?
Shakespeare?
All of it foreplay for this the age of;
ego thriving,
sleep depriving,
jealousy driving,
attention striving,
corporate conniving,
moral compass diving,
All else is reality and dying.
Slowly trying yet realising, pressure equalising nihilistic life.
Nothingness without the cyber waves of furious, bright, white..
Switch it off an hour before, they say.
Intravenous, eyetravenous, brain-tra-fucking-venous.
Venus, love me to sleep.
Love thy sleep.
Know thy repose.
One last check, notification enslaving mechanism, I surrender to thee.
For only insomniacs left alive.
Maniacs thrive in habit forming, slumber time ritual.
Down with sleep!
Off I creep to a cyber land of fantasy and guise, where none can see a darting eye.
..But isn't that also in dream?
Heads In The iClouds
It's a modern and worldwide routine
To wake up and check what's on your screen
Open up, take a look
At who's on Facebook
Before you have started to preen
It's a custom that lasts the whole day
You're consumed while the train's under way
It takes some application
To get out of the station
While you're stuck in the App Store, I'd say
It's the same for both women and men
Getting off on an iThing based zen
The boss won't have words
He's been on Angry Birds
From half seven until half past ten
But what we do not realise
Is we're wired with no compromise
It'll take some real bravery
To escape modern slavery
Or we'll end up with Apple shaped eyes
So it seems that it's customary
And routine, who or where you may be
Be it paddy or phone
We're all smart but alone
Ooo hold on, that looks good, and it's free...