Johnson & Johnston
By Scotch Rutherford
The black Maserati GT plunged all the way into the tight white box. When the front grille filled the valet’s POV, she let go of the stick and jerked the parking brake to his relief. Demi Seville was built for speed. Just like the shiny black sled she drove. With her wraparound shades, she looked like a Patrick Nagel painting, only with honey bronze skin. Demi was a fetish queen, and before you knew it, you just knew it. She flashed a seductive smile, then tossed the key fob to the eager valet. He couldn’t hide his enthusiasm as he slid inside the snug cockpit of the GT.
Walking into Price Tower, there was always a sharp gust of alpine air. The butch in a Tarantino suit holding the door open for Demi had a neck the width of her jaw, with a snarling Bengal tiger on it. “Ms. Seville,” she said with the manners of a hayseed-turned-Marine. She had neatly coiffed black spiked hair as even as a landing strip and warm dark eyes that swallowed Demi whole, the way a woman’s eyes do when the floodgates are lubricated. She’d introduced herself as Olivia.
“Officer Labiana,” Demi said, nodding behind her chic limo tinted shades.
There were two transparent tubular elevators bookending the girth of the wide lobby. The doors swished open as Labiana card-swiped the button box. She fingered the P button until it glowed, then stepped out of the cylindrical pod and watched it shoot up the shaft like a piston. The elevator was headed for the top tier office just below The G-Spot, a domed, rooftop lounge that was all atmosphere. A cathouse for Neon City locals and an expensive cathouse for tourists who liked watered-down, overpriced drinks.
Delores perked right up when Demi walked off the elevator, dressed in red leather pants, black thigh high platform boots, and a black vinyl tube top with no bra. An ensemble Demi had rolled out of bed and thrown on—yeah right. It was hanging, waiting for wear in the closet she wanted to see Delores walk out of. One eye-catching look from Delores said it all. Just one of those things, you know. Like the inside of oyster shells—no matter the exterior, are always shiny and pink.
Demi slipped off her wraparound shades and stared for a full second. Then she curled her lips down, jutting her chin, and made a few subtle Bobby DeNiro chin bobs. “Hey Delores,” Demi said. A deliberate whisper-softening of her normal soprano pitch.
Delores stifled a full second while her eyes panned down, catching the beautifully contoured rift between Demi’s breasts, before Demi met her eyes on the way up. Her eyes—two giant sized pupils. Vanta black, smoldering and magnetic. “Hey Demi,” Delores said. Chin down, eyes up. A glisten of perspiration on her shiny pink forehead. The fabric in her blouse strained at two points, contradicting the constant 74-degree room temperature Andromeda Price insisted on.
“Aren’t you two adorable. Talk about plugging a dyke. Ivory and Mexican Brownie.”
Andromeda Price was a top tier mob lawyer who’d ’d done a shady leveraged buyout of Demi’s Palace of Masochism, Dungeon Tartarus. And now Demi was determined to buy it back, working off her debt with the Price firm by doing a series of dirty deeds. Andromeda was beautiful in the classically plastic sense, like someone made up for TV, a photoshopped glamour shot, or the way anyone with a little style and polish did from across the street. She had on a svelte all-business suit in clitoris pink. Heels that put her ass implants on display and bottle-fed dirty blonde hair frozen like a glacier across her scalp. Her cold blue eyes—always serious. Even back in her escort days, before anyone took her seriously, when they all whispered Robowhore behind her back. Her lips were perpetually curled into the perfect pout for whistling. Or something else that puckers. “Hello, Demi. Hope I didn’t prick a nerve.”
Demi met Andromeda with probing eyes. She wished she’d left her sunglasses on. “I assume you texted me for a reason.”
“Your services are needed at 2185 Fallbrook Place,” Andromeda said, handing Demi a file folder with several depositions stapled inside of it. “Johnson & Johnston. Some paperwork for them. Have them signed. Great outfit, dear. They’re going to think you’re takeout,” Andromeda said with a smug chuckle. Old habits die hard.”
“Right,” Demi said. “See ya later,” she said to Delores, before donning her shades.
“Later, Demi,” Delores said.
Demi pivoted to walk out, then made accentuated strides for the elevator, letting Delores enjoy the rearview. Glutes like blown glass and thighs of Tungsten steel.
“Back by noon, Dems,” Andromeda said to her. Demi stopped. Fuck, she hated when that bitch twisted her name like that. Now she was in a funk. She took a few more steps and finger fucked the L button.
*
Johnson & Johnston was a brokerage firm, but after fucking over 600 investors out of nearly $29 million through a Medical Capitol scheme; to anyone in the know, they were nothing more than a bucket shop. You had to go to about page 30 on a Google search before anything unflattering popped up. Recently they’d been accused of insider trading.
“It’s all alleged,” Meredith, the receptionist explained. A mousy brunette with unfashionable glasses, she appeared to be parroting phrases she’d heard, many times before. “It’s just a rival brokerage firm trying to smear J & J’s reputation.”
“I’m kind of in a hurry,” Demi said. She stood in front of Meredith’s desk, waiting the just a minute she was told; now a succession of minutes. A blue pale neon fixture overhead made Meredith’s alabaster skin look like it belonged to a cadaver. The place smelled like lilacs. Demi hated lilacs. The reception office was decorated with a cold, cleansed, post-modernist disposable flair. It made perfect sense they were Andromeda’s clients. Meredith’s clean, sparse desk had only a paper-thin computer monitor, a landline, and a digital picture frame in slideshow mode, picturing David Johnson and Levi Johnston, two tall attractive Hebrew MBAs with Meredith’s smiling, but somehow clueless-looking mug wedged between them in every cringe- worthy shot. In the photos she had braces. Now her teeth were straight and coffee stained.
“Ms. Seville?” David Johnson said, standing in the doorway to his office. He swooped in behind the reception desk and began messaging Meredith’s shoulders. “Okay, now let’s get that spreadsheet done by lunch and I’ll throw in some Häagen-Dazs. Double scoop.”
“Yay,” Meredith said as she typed away.
“Shall we?” David said to Demi and ushered her into his private office.
David sat behind his sleek metal desk and thumbed through the paperwork. He was an MBA after all and could read lawyer speak. Demi sat across from him and glanced around the office. The blinds were drawn, but it was well lit. There wasn’t much to look at. David had a few photos framed in expensive looking onyx on the walls. All featuring him either hugging or glad-handing some other slick looking dick in a suit. There were a couple of framed diplomas. An undergrad from Indiana University Bloomington, and a Masters from Notre Dame. One of the photos appeared to be of David on stage, giving a TED Talk.
“I hope Meredith didn’t bother you too much,” he said as he scanned each page before flipping to the next.
“No,” Demi said. “She seems nice.”
“My partner and I are friends with her father. We got her this job shortly after she graduated junior college. She’s, well, a little slow. Asperger’s. She does what she’s told though. We take good care of her.”
There was something in that statement. More stimuli for Demi to hurry up and leave.
“Are you in a rush?” David said, catching an antsy vibe from Demi.
“Well, you know, Andromeda keeps me busy.”
“She worked for my father you know.”
“Is that right?” Demi said, feigning interest.
“Yeah, I guess she was very good at her job,” he said.
“A good lawyer’s important,” Demi said.
“She ah, well, wasn’t his lawyer,” David said. “This was before.”
“Right,” Demi said.
“Mistress. She took good care of my father.”
Demi didn’t like how he was looking at her, and he seemed to relish it.
After a stretch of silence, broken only by the darting swish of David’s pen as he signed multiple copies, the phone on his desk rang. Demi pretended not to be startled.
“Okay, right. Almost done,” David said, and hung up.
“Um, Ms. Seville,” David gestured for her to come over. “Something here on page six.”
Demi got up and walked around to the side of his desk. David pointed out a typo.
“Shit. Okay, um, well, I’ll just have to have them draw up a new one. It’s no problem,” Demi said.
“No, no. It’s okay,” David said, looking over her ample cleavage. “I’m going to sign anyway. Just wanted you to be aware. Just have legal draw up this one page. Email it to me, and I’ll send it back over signed by this afternoon through a courier service.”
That was fine with Demi. She just wanted to get the fuck out of there.
“I want to show you something real quick,” David said. He pulled out a wad of bills sandwiched between a gold money clip. Looked like a few thousand. “It’s four grand. A lot of people think because we’re a brokerage firm, most of our capital is liquid. But I also like to play a little poker. You know?”
The office door cracked open discreetly. Demi turned to see Levi Johnston in the doorway. Good. He’s got another meeting. Now she can leave.
“My partner Levi,” David said. “Just wrapping things up here.”
“Hello,” Levi said to Demi.
Demi nodded and turned back to David.
“Hey, does Andromeda ever talk about Pepper? Hey Levi, remember Pepper?”
“Sure do,” Levi said.
“Well, before you, Andromeda used to send over this bimbo, Pepper. Real floozy. She would help in ah, negotiations.”
The two men laughed. Demi didn’t.
“She was, ah, what did she call it? An adult film performer,” David said. “Yeah, that’s it.”
They laughed again.
“Fuck films,” David said. “You know about those, right?”
“Sure,” Demi said. “Well, if I could just get those signed depositions. Andromeda needs them back ASAP.”
David placed the paperwork down on his desk, out of Demi’s reach. Then he tapped the stack of bills. “Four grand for thirty minutes of work.”
Okay, time to go, Demi thought. She turned around to see Levi looking down on her, smugly, salaciously, like a wolf does an injured fawn in the woods. And still blocking the exit.
“It’s okay. Levi’s cool,” David said. “He likes dark meat, too.”
Levi gripped the doorknob and pushed it closed behind him.
Oh fuck. Demi tried to relax.
“Demi Sexual, right?” David said. “Your porn name?”
“That was a long time ago. Different Demi. I’ve evolved.”
“You always did lesbo scenes. I’d like to think you evolved into doing men, too.”
“Okay, look. I just came to get those signed. I’m not Andromeda’s new floozy.”
“C’mon. Dressed like that? Thought you’d just walk in here, get us all hard and leave? C’mon, Four grand. Four grand to get on your knees while Levi and I have a swordfight in your pretty little chicana mouth.”
“She looks a little dark to be a greaser,” Levi said. “Maybe her dad’s a...”
“Just let me go,” Demi said, and cursed herself for saying it. It was the ultimate scared bitch movie line. The one men loved to hear. And now David had the gleeful look of a neighborhood bully torturing a small animal. She flashed the man blocking her only exit a look of rich vulnerability, but with no affectation. It was too late to pull it back.
At that point Demi had thought, ‘fuck the depositions,’ and her only other thought was to escape. Levi blocked the door. In the movie version, she might be played by Scarlett Johansson, who would’ve done an artful spin kick and put Levi on his ass. But in the real world, there were things like the laws of physics, and biology. Men had 20 times the testosterone women had and Levi, even at a lanky 6 feet, still at least outweighed her by 40 pounds. But even in platforms—rubber soled platforms for the record—she could still use her speed.
Demi darted around and tried to rush past Levi, but he quickly blocked her and snatched her up by both shoulders. She was in perfect striking distance to make a field goal out of Levi’s balls. David wrapped his arms around her from behind and lifted her off her feet. He pressed his hand over her mouth. Demi succeeded in kicking Levi square in the face. Blood shot out of his nose as he landed hard against the door. She watched a smug grin flash across his face. In that moment, Demi shut her eyes. She guessed she’d dodged the rape bullet so many instances over the years that it was only a matter of time.
As Levi twisted the lock on the knob, the door flung open. Meredith stood in the doorway. David had dropped Demi back to her feet, dropped his hand from her mouth. Nothing to see here, David’s eyes read. Meredith turned to see Levi wiping blood from his nose.
“Meredith, sweetie,” David said. “Did you get that spreadsheet done?” Meredith was silent, and in an almost trancelike state, looking on awkwardly with a blank expression behind Coke bottle glasses. “Ready for some ice cream? We’re just finishing up in here.”
“She has to go. She’s in a hurry,” Meredith said.
“Just give us a minute, okay?” David said. Meredith looked over Demi blankly, like a sheep dog.
“One minute, okay—”
“She has to go NOW,” Meredith said.
Demi pulled away from David. As she passed Meredith, she knew a voice inside Meredith’s head wanted to cry out, ‘take me with you’, and Demi could see the pain in the girl’s eyes. But all they communicated was ‘just go’. And Demi shot out the door, was back on the street, and behind the wheel of the Maserati in a mere two minutes. She drove erratically for ten minutes, then pulled over, somewhere. Somewhere no one could see, buried her face in her hands and wept.
When her eyes finally relaxed: The waterworks had stopped. No longer seized shut like clenched fists. She felt immobilized. Cold and lifeless. Until she remembered what was waiting for her. There was a warmth, a ray of eternal loving sunshine that called to her. She missed Diane. She missed what they would do together. The loving, and then…She reached for her purse, slid her cold hand inside. When she wrapped her hand around it, she felt the warmth. Direct sunlight, instead of the debilitating shade. It was hard and ready. Demi pulled her red leather pants down under her ass and to her knees. She stared down at her pussy, thinking of Diane doing the same, before going down on her. She gripped the shaft and whipped it out. Its beautiful warm brown liquid waited on her, in the light. The light flickered off the metal tip, a wink to old times. She tapped her lips. How far she’d come was the last thing on her mind, when she found a nice thick vein on her inner thigh and grasped the needle. She held the needle over the vein. Her phone went off at full volume. She almost stabbed herself reflexively.
The number said unavailable. She picked it up. There was a pause. A human pause. Not a machine waiting to click on after “hello.”
“Ms. Seville. It’s Officer Labiana. I hope I didn’t catch you at an inappropriate time.”
“Hello, Olivia,” Demi said.
“Hello. I’m sorry, I wasn’t aware you knew my first…”
“You told me your first name.”
“Of course. I wasn’t aware I had, ma’am.”
“Oh stop, for fuck’s sake. How can I help you, Olivia?”
“Well, ma’am. A woman came by asking after you. Someone I didn’t recognize.”
“Oh?”
“Yes, Ms. Seville. She—”
“Demi. Please.”
“Demi. She told me to give you a message.”
“Which is?”
“She told me to tell you, ‘Even cameras have blind spots.’”
“What did she look like?”
“Built like a bodybuilder. Tanned. About five-eleven. Blue contacts. Red hair—but I think it may have been a wig.”
The powerlifter who’d come onto her at the G-Spot.
“And what did you tell her?” Demi said.
“That if she attempted to access the Price Tower again and her name wasn’t on the approval list, that I would remove her personally.”
Demi couldn’t help but snicker.
“Ma’am—Ms—Demi. I assure you, I am capable of…”
“Of course you are,” Demi said. The thought of Labiana with the meaty part of her arm around that muscle-chicks horse neck in a rear naked choke, almost made her want to diddle herself. “I believe in you, Olivia.”
There was a pause.
“Olivia, I could kiss you,” Demi said, and ended the call.
She tucked the needle back into its dark place, at the bottom of her purse, and hiked her red leather pants back up over her ass.
Scotch Rutherford recognizes that it’s inappropriate for crime fiction to include graphic sexual descriptions, and should instead be about wholesome “anti-heroes” who are tough on the perps, but drink too much (preferably penned by authors with badass sleeve tattoos like Justin Bieber’s). Also, he uses adverbs. Fortunately, he has become very used to disappointing people. Some of his other indelicate works have been published by the likes of such nonconformist, anti-corporate ‘zines as The Yard, and Close to the Bone. He lives in Los Angeles.
