Chapter Text
Even the most lavish penthouses in the East Lansing area couldn't seem to air out their flat, fresh 'hotel' smell. That utterly unique scent that couldn't be too sterile, but jointly had to mask the smell of hundreds of temporary stays throughout the year. A uniquely discomforting reminder that this is not a home. What cruel irony for an establishment built on hospitality and comfort!
The warm glow of the light gave the bland furniture in the luxurious room a rich, velvety texture. At the foot of the king-sized bed, a young woman stood, hands busy in her suitcase and back to the door. The gold bangles at her wrists chimed with every movement, becoming clearer when she pulled a smaller bag from the luggage and strode to the vanity.
Tall, gold stilettos with a gem dangling from the ankle strap clicked across the floor. They supported sculpted, athletic legs. Not an aesthetic muscle mass for bodybuilding purposes, but certainly functional, lean, the result of a lifestyle that demanded physical activity.
Before sitting down at the vanity, the young woman brushed down the front of her little black cocktail dress, doing what she could to smooth out the 'Clearance Rack' vibe it had going on. Eventually, that look would have to be in style. She was just ahead of the game.
The smell of the hotel room wasn't the only thing that felt foreign or unwelcoming to her.
Heather Lark looked up into the mirror, finally facing herself against the unfamiliar backdrop. This wasn't a hotel room that a nineteen-year-old could typically afford, and this college student was no different. The reason she was there was stepping out of the shower now, preparing for the evening party they were to attend in an hour or so.
This wasn't an uncommon scenario for Heather, despite her shaky breath and hands. Actually, this had almost become a kind of routine for her.
Back in her first year of college, Michigan State was set to host 'The Man of the Century' in its Psychology Building for a talk and a question-and-answer session afterwards. Someone unfamiliar with the man of the hour would have guessed that the second coming was taking place in East Lansing. It was all anyone could talk about.
It was a week-long ordeal when he did arrive. Being a world-famous, genius inventor, he was disgustingly equipped and provided an opportunity to speak not only in the psychology wing but also in the math wing and the humanities hall. It was pretty huge. Getting anywhere in town was a nightmare.
Heather had been sitting outside the lecture hall for three hours on one of his tour days, anxiously tapping her heel against the linoleum floor. She was there to make up a missed exam that her psychology professor was kind enough to let her get credit for if she came in. Recently, she'd been hospitalized, released earlier in the week.
She looked a bit like hell, but that was far from the most annoying thing that was happening that day. Heather's professor was kinder than most, but her timing was less forgiving. He just so happened to be hosting the current panel with the guest speaker, who was oh-so graciously drawing his final segment for the day on another hour.
After a grueling study period that lasted all of three hours, she decided to give herself an energy boost. There was thunderous applause from inside the auditorium that lasted long after Heather stepped into the coffee line across the cafeteria. She guessed that she had another 30 minutes or so of questions before she could get this cloud over her head cleared away and enjoy her break.
Many things in Heather's life likely would have resolved cleanly had Heather not been so easy to identify. She was an attractive woman, but nothing neck-breaking. Her defining features were uniqueness, not beauty.
The seconds pass slowly, and the thoughts sift through her head. Heather is focused on nothing outside her coffee order, and not accidentally asking for a cold-Freud instead of a cold-foam. She stepped to the service window and ordered, before getting settled at a small table near the pick-up window.
Freudian-slip.
Freud-foam.
No, cold-Freud.
Should I drop out and be a comedian? Is that anything?
Engaging in impulsive behavior like dropping out of college would-
"Excuse me?"
"Hmm?" Heather turns over her shoulder, hugging her arms.
"Is this the end of the line?"
"No, I've ordered already. The end is over there."
"Much obliged."
"Yep."
Turning back towards the pick-up window, Heather's nose wrinkled. She physically reached back in her memory for where she had left off, eventually pulling her train of thought from befo—
I'm 99% sure that was Elijah Kamski.
I'm 99% sure you just snubbed Elijah Kamski because you were trying to work your tight five.
Is that what he looks like in person? He's shorter than I thought.
Has he made a time machine yet? What happened to the Q&A panel he was—
OH SHIT! My exam. Guess it's starting now.
There weren't many women on Michigan State campus with such an uncommon style and color palette. Her eyes were dark, deep, and blue. Her hair was primarily cool-black. The hair that sprouted from the front of Heather's crown was stark white. The money pieces cascaded down with the rest of her thick, wavy hair. It wasn't hard for Kamski to find her profile, socials, and shoot her a message. Jump forward a year, and a rather unconventional date proposal and off-nights in a strange hotel room had become a regular thing when the CEO was in the East Lansing area.
In no reality were Heather and Elijah a legitimate item. At least, not publicly. On top of his lifestyle, their decade-long age gap, and a million other reasons, Elijah made it clear that he had no intentions of tying himself to her or allowing her to claim him. It was a headache that you'd both— happily— avoid.
Heather attempts to adapt some fluidity over tonight, her hands trembling as she tips her makeup out onto the vanity. The nice, clean, white vanity.
"Shit!" Her exclamation is a hidden hiss, her false confidence shattered. One of her eyeliner pens had leaked in the bag without her knowing, covering not only the interior of her makeup bag, but everything else that had just been spread over the desk.
The damage isn't too severe, but a small puddle of black had already formed under the nib of the pen. She sopped up the liquid with a cotton pad, but a blemish in the pure white, expensive material remained. Heather swiped a thumb over her tongue before taking it to the spot, rubbing the stubborn blemish. Again, and again.
After the third attempt, Heather pulled her thumb back and accepted defeat. This cheap, dollar-store makeup could barely last a night on her lids, but clung to this furniture without any issue. Hopefully, the actual process of her makeup would go better.
"Everything alright?"
The wrench in her routine coaxed Heather into a subtler makeup look, trying to deny her brain any foothold of insecurity that she didn't already have. "Yes," she answered the man coming up behind her from the bathroom. Her stomach churned briefly.
There was little romance in their interactions, and oftentimes, fewer instances of kindness from Kamski. He didn't have an ample amount of patience. Elijah was never a cruel man to Heather, but these were the moments when Heather was reminded of their divide the most. Maturity, financial, intellect; he knew how to hit every point with just a look.
The negative space around Heather's bust in the vanity mirror lessens as Kamski approaches. His hand on her shoulder was soft, carefully preserving the shape of waves in her hair as he pulled it over her arm and down her back. He hadn't noticed the smudge yet.
"I could do a line off your collarbone… I've been thinking about it."
His eyes didn't admire her makeup; they didn't even really admire her body. He maps it, impersonal and detached from the young lady he loomed over.
"You'll get it on my dress," Heather states, matter-of-factly.
"Lose the dress then."
"Nope. I barely got this zipper up the first time. Think the clasp broke off in my bag."
Elijah's fingers begin trailing the distance between her shoulder blades, back and forth. He already knew what conversation was coming.
Heather sighs, “Speak now… Because I can tell you for a fact that I’m going to stick out like a zit tonight.”
Elijah holds her gaze in the mirror, allowing a few seconds to pass before shrugging, nodding, “Most likely. Especially if you don’t fix your face.”
Okay. Not exactly the answer I was going for. Heather chuffed, “College budget, asshole. You wanna buy my makeup?”
“No-no, the makeup’s fine. I mean, when you screw your face up like— Yeah, just like that. Eeek.”
Heather was suddenly aware of the twist in her lips and scrunch in her brow, turning away from the arrogant genius beside her. “Unbelievable.” Despite her dismissal, she smiled to herself as she looked down.
The humor in the air dropped alongside Elijah's eyes, finding the dark smudge on the otherwise pure tabletop. He didn't say anything, but Heather could feel his disapproval. Whether that specifically be annoyance that he might have to replace something, his assumption that she's a slob, or any other of the countless ways Eli passively wanted anyone to know he was superior to them. But he disapproved. Of her. He knew she was smart enough to pick up on that.
The tension doesn't draw for long. Eli swipes his own thumb over the smudge, but other than that, it remains unaddressed, and the night moves on.
Elijah pulled out a small baggie, leaning down and into the sensitive area behind her ear. The intimate area and sensation lacked any real connection. He didn’t even keep Heather around as his regular Michigan date because he particularly liked her company. Half the time, when anyone else was around the two, they were either in silence, dragging on an endless, low-effort argument, or indulging in their vices together.
“You want ‘unbelievable’?” He slowly runs the end of his nose down the tendons lining the sides of Heather’s neck, landing with a quick, restrained bite on her bare shoulder before looking up, “I’ve got two ideas…”
Heather hums, looking into his eyes in the mirror before slyly grinning with a shrug, “Your call… Both only last about five good minutes.”
Eli immediately clamps down a bit harder on Heather’s shoulder, to which she flitters away with a laugh. “I’ll remember that.” His words don’t carry harshness, but the same bite he left on her shoulder.
Heather laughs off his threat, leaning forward to gently push the corner of her fake eyelash back into place. Soon enough, her eyes are glued to the little baggie that Kamski is gingerly trying to open.
Simply seeing the crushed-up, red powder did more to calm her nerves than the physical contact did. She tried to keep it from showing. Elijah never seemed to judge her for her drug use. In fact, it was quite the opposite.
Oftentimes, Elijah would ask Heather to take her high first. He said he liked to watch her 'slip'. He'd watch her eyes. Said he couldn't believe how dark they'd get. It was a morbid curiosity, and it took a while for Heather to actually indulge him in this fantasy. A small price to pay for top-shelf material.
Two neat little lines sit on the corner of the vanity, mental potential energy packed in every grain. Heather looks in the mirror and takes a deep breath in, then out to totally empty her lungs before committing.
Her middle finger presses one nostril closed, the other lined up over the tail. It was gone in one fluid swoop. Heather's head followed the line across the table and back up, eyes squished shut so hard her eyebrows nearly touched the top of her cheeks, "Huhf—! Fuck."
"Open your eyes, baby."
The sting traveled up her sinuses, setting the frontal part of her face on fire, "Fucking burns."
"I know, you know it'll go away... Open your eyes."
In a fit of heavy blinks, Heather managed to finally peel her eyes open. The light from the vanity was obtrusive and stabbing, but eventually, it evened out. Her mind effortlessly drifted towards euphoria for no good reason as she looked into a pair of clearer eyes.
Elijah is still mumbling something quietly to her. She hears the sound clearly, but her mind lacks the elasticity to wrap around the actual words. It felt like her body lacked any pull of gravity at all. Her most grounding force at the moment was the hand on the back of her head, cradling it before she could lean too far back in the stool.
Heather clasped Elijah's wrist, swaying from side to side, her pupils rapidly becoming blown-out. Like a lot of addicts, Heather and Elijah shared their most intimate moments often during their highs. It was the closest they could get to an even playing field.
God, he's such a weirdo. A sudden pulse of distaste struck Heather after the initial buzz was starting to coast down, and Eli was hunched over the vanity at this point as well.
From her seated position, she could already see sweat stains darkening the crooks of his arms. The wisps of hair that escaped Kamski's ponytail trembled. The white light from the mirror highlighted every twitchy movement.
This superhuman mind, this once-in-a-lifetime genius, this disgustingly rich CEO was shacked up in a penthouse on a Thursday night, helping a nineteen-year-old get wasted…. Actually, it really isn't that far-fetched. Truly, the American Dream.
As the rush hits his head, Heather watches as Elijah’s solid posture wobbles and sways heavily. The breaking of the genius’s composure in such a way opened an uncomfortable cavern within Heather’s gut; it’s like watching someone you could never have pictured wearing capri pants walk up to you in those fashion monstrosities. It just totally rattles your image of him a little every time you watch this larger-than-life figure partake in your horribly immature and unhealthy habits.
Kamski eventually straightens up, beckoning her over to the door. The plastic makeup clatters together as she gathers it into her bag, and slides the makeup away.
Now, they both walk with less of their wits to fight gravity, leaning on each other in their joint effort to make it to the party being thrown. Even the journey to the door turned into a three-legged race.
“Hey.”
Heather is halted by her jaw, feeling shaky hands come up to snake across her face and turn her bleary vision towards him. He can barely hold her face steady. “Give me a kiss.”
He tilted his head back ever so slightly, swollen pupils sloppily scouring the young woman’s features. He wants her to come up to him. She comes up just a hair shorter than Eli. His breath is dry, and the air around their heads smells metallic. Or, perhaps it was the smell of her own burning nostrils.
Grinning into his demand, Heather didn’t give it two thoughts before she locked lips with the CEO. Both of them, though seasoned users, had to break their exit and catch their balance against the wall. Kamski nearly sent the two into the coat stand, shuddering as he came to grips with his state, “God damn… Fuck, baby. Good shit, huh?” His jaw hung as he panted into her ear.
Eli is leaning fully into Heather now, who is absolutely tickled at the moment over just how hard it seemed to be hitting her and Eli at the same time. The carpet of euphoria had already swept the two off, and while their buzz was still ringing, they'd make the most of the night.
Heather pulled Eli out of the room, letting him lead her by his arm. The couple carefully disguised their joint effort in looking sober. “My driver should be out front,” he murmured, his stride becoming more confident as the initial high already started to wither away. Heather remained quiet, happily so, as people began to take notice of the CEO in the hotel lobby.
Sure enough, a sleek, black limousine was waiting out front, a cleanly dressed chauffeur pleasantly poised near the door. The closer they both got, Heather noticed the lack of an LED. "Good evening, Mr. Kamski and Miss Lark," the door swung over, and Heather smiled as she ducked into the cabin.
After they got in, Heather scoffed and watched the driver walk around the limo. "Did you seriously rent a limo to meet up with your friends? What, one of them piss you off or something?" Kamski doesn't answer. He doesn't even acknowledge that she had said anything. Instead, he tilts the face of the watch on his wrist towards him.
"Also," she started, used to the dismissal from Kamski. Often, she felt like he kept her around just to fill the silence sometimes, "Why do you never use the driverless options that your company provides? Looks bad for business if you ask me."
"Yeah, I'm hurting bad."
"You don't even drive yourself anymore," she grumbled, looking out the window. Her gaze landed on a motorcycle across the dark street. It was black, but in the light of the night and the shops around it, stripes of color decorated the sides. Neat.
The bike slides out of her vision in the rainy window as they both begin their departure. The young woman turns around in the seat again, glancing over at Eli. He was occupied with a message on his phone. Heather knew better than to try to interrupt. It could be any number of things.
Though she wouldn't say that she particularly cared for the man, Heather often thought about what his life was like during the business day. What was in his daily life? What was the first thing he thought of when he woke up? What brand of toothpaste did he buy? Does he cry at the movies?
The limo turned into a cul-de-sac. It was only now that Heather realized she wasn't completely confident in where the two of them were going for dinner. Eli didn't even say they were going to dinner. The houses that lined the street were multi-million dollar estates, each glowing in the same H.O.A. approved shade of warm sunset yellow.
Heather looked out the window, her face reflected off the inner glass in flashing horror as the decorative streetlights flickered by. He was taking her to an official event. Not a friendly dinner. Something in this neighborhood was the real deal. Wherever they were going had names. Big names. Multi-million-dollar names.
“Why the fuck did you let me do a bump before we left?!”
“Relax, they do just as much.”
“Oh, my God, Elijah-”
“Stop freaking out.”
“No.”
“I’m going to leave you in the car.”
“Great!”
“You're so scared of rich people. It’s a turn-off. ”
“This amount of money is a bigger one… And I’m not ‘scared’, I’m disturbed. Differences.”
“Never can pin what exactly you’re thinking, huh?”
“I will happily tell you.”
“I’m sure–”
“Grotesque.”
“Get it all out.”
“Obscene.”
“Of course.”
“It’s an affront to my eyes. My very senses are insulted.”
“Oh, you poor, poor thing!”
“Alright, now you’re just calling me poor. Not slick.”
Heather leans over as Eli fondly grins at her dig, beckoning her in for another kiss, to which she obliges.
As callous as he could be, and as questionable their relationship seemed from an outer perspective, there never seemed to be a solid power divide between them. Both were very intentional about keeping emotions separate, so there was never anything for anyone to hold over the other’s head. There was hardly ever any romance. Just company for a night.
"Done yet?"
"Don't start."
Heather and Kamski exit the limousine in the driveway, linking arms together before approaching the small group of people that was already gathered by the door. Almost as soon as Kamski was visible outside of the deeply tinted vehicle, people were lining up to shake hands and schmooze. She had been to events with him before, but never with this magnitude of personalities.
The sight of Carl’s mansion was enough to take her breath away, and yet, these people couldn’t talk enough. Hands extend from every which way, each voice trying to raise just slightly over the last. She could make out almost nothing clearly.
Kamski, however, expertly ricochets between topics and faces. One might think, just by looking at him, that Eli would be timid or shy. A typical I.T. man, probably with an online girlfriend that lives 600 miles away. It was quite the opposite. If anything, Elijah looked bored talking to most people.
There is a small break when the robotic doorman approaches to validate their attendance. His cadence is poised, and his posture is impeccable. Watching how smoothly his limbs move through the air compared to her more ‘robust’ joints made Heather queasy.
There is a subtle ‘whirrr’ noise that emanates from him before he spoke, “Elijah Kamski, and his plus one, Heather Lark. I will let Carl know that you have arrived. He’ll be quite happy to see you again.”
Elijah doesn't answer, and you nod quietly. That had to have been one of the newer models. One that doesn't get bought or brought out on the streets of Detroit much. His blonde hair and blue eyes aren't features Heather typically saw on domestic models in the city. Must've been expensive.
Androids always did freak Heather out a little. She never quite knew just how to interact with them. There was always this… Detachment. She could never explain it with words, but her distaste was almost always on her face eventually.
“So,” Heather grips his arm nervously, her hand flexing gently open and shut, “Only a matter of time before you get whisked away, huh?”
Elijah nods, “Business as usual. Half the time, Carl and I don’t get to enjoy these parties. These are… Mostly for the people who just want Carl and me in the room.”
“Yeah… I kind of gathered that.” As they walk, space parts for her, and it is obvious that people are conscious of her presence, but only as an extension of the man who was guiding her. He was like her bubble. Bubbles tend to pop.
Eventually, the uneasiness won over her, and while she was sitting on a sofa under Kamski’s arm, she nestled in closer to discreetly slip her hand into his suit jacket. “I’m going to powder my nose.”
Kamski’s only response is a peck stuck quickly to her temple before helping her stand up off the couch, "Atta girl."
With the small baggie tucked into her palm, Heather strode away. It took a few moments for her to find an unoccupied bathroom, but she managed to do so without direction. Bingo.
The initial annoyance that Elijah would allow her to attend such a prestigious event had long since drifted, along with the high itself. Suddenly, she was missing it. Funny how that works out.
Regardless of her physical cravings, it had become increasingly clear to her that absolutely no one in this entire house gave a shit about what she was doing. There was not one collective shit given for whatever the girl with Elijah Kamski was up to. She could show up topless; all anyone would ask is if Kamski was collaborating with a new modern fashion designer. She was in the clear.
Heather lays out a thin line on the corner of the bathroom sink, the red dust like a bloody cut on the pale marble. As quickly as it came, poof.
The same, burning, stripping feeling coated her face again, and she clenched her jaw. A guttural cough followed, but Heather was able to choke back any other unflattering noises.
Ow, ow, ow, I do not want to be here. I want my bed. This bathroom smells nice.
I'm so fucking cool, I'm hanging out with famous people and getting high.
Celebrities are just fancy losers who do more expensive drugs.
Holy shit, pick which kind of high it's going to be!
Fuck it, I need some air.
She stays in there and lets the initial buzz ride out within her head, taking advantage of the small, locked bathroom to reset herself before a somewhat ungraceful exit. She's almost run over by someone with pinpoint pupils heading into the bathroom she just left, jaw tensed and shaky. Seems like you two had similar ideas.
As Heather approaches the large door, the robotic doorman steps forward to allow her out. She doesn't acknowledge it. Actually, she turns slightly away from it. Can androids snitch? Is that a thing? Can they testify against their owner? Is he going to tell on me? …Grow up, Heather.
She rounds a corner, nearly colliding with a figure that’s stumbling even more than her.
“Jesus, can’t fuckin-” The voice was gruff, crackling in a small bout of coughs before continuing, “Gardens closed. N’sposed to be out here ‘nyway. Tryin’ to get a better look at my studio? Nosey fuckin’..”
As he gets closer, Heather steps back, her anxiety spiking when confronted by a very drunk, very agitated, very famous Carl Manfred.
We're at Carl Manfred's house?
I'm going to kill him.
Heather never got the impression that he was a drunk, although this was the closest the young lady had come to the famous artist without the barrier of an equally famous man on her arm. And it was clear that Heather's face wasn’t as memorable to Carl as his was to her.
“N’Hoo the fuck are you?”
Whether she liked it or not, Heather had thrown herself into the hot seat. Time to ride it out. “I’m sorry, sir. I came with Kamski, I just got–”
“Yeah, your hair. I recognize it now.” Okay… Okay. So he knows who you are? Kind of. Is that better or worse?
“I shouldn’t be back here, I’m sorr–” Just like anyone else there, Carl doesn't seem interested in anything Heather actually has to say. He cuts her off, swaying drunkenly off of the stone path. She nearly reached out to catch him from falling over. He righted himself before then, barely a break in his voice, “Made it this far. What're you tryin’ to see?”
“Oh, I really- I mean, I really did just… Want some air.”
Oh, please stop. Please stop trying to figure out if I know your shit, because I don't.
“Well? Got one you can think’f..? Studio’s still open.”
There is a long, uncomfortable pause between the two, Carl swaying back and forth with a bottle dangling at the end of his tattooed arm, and Heather’s nervously trembling hands held behind her back. She was sweating. She couldn’t think of a single thing he had made.
For a good ten, twenty seconds or so, neither said anything. Finally, Carl started laughing.
“You don’t fuckin’ even know one. Ha! The hell you doin' in my house?”
Even though his words were harsh and his laugh crass, there was still drunken joy and amusement in his body language. His mood had seemed to have flipped from the previous, standoffish approach to the young woman wandering his garden, evidently too close for comfort to his studio.
"I don't- Uh, know. I don't know."
I think I'm going to throw up. I wish Michigan had sinkholes.
With the combination of the awkward encounter, feeling star-struck by this large figure of society, and the anxiety of her high, Heather experienced that all too common prickle up and down her spine. It felt as though someone was rolling a studded belt up and down her back from inside her ribcage. Up and down, a nervous drumroll.
"Mmm…" He walks off, and Heather pauses, contemplating turning and walking away from him before he speaks again. She couldn't realistically see how she could socially fumble worse, so the prospect of eloping from this painfully awkward energy became more and more promising by the second. "Nice to get reminded I'm a cheap knockoff sometimes. You run out of room for smoke up the ass eventually."
There is a long drag of silence. "I… Don't think you're cheap, sir."
"Humans have always been that. Cut corners, do things faster… Your boyfriend's the biggest fraud. Probably why we're such great friends, huh? Poor attempts at a copy…"
If Heather felt lost before, she decided that letting go of any control over this conversation was the best course of action. Carl was drunk and airing his thoughts to whoever would listen, and by her luck, Heather happened to be there.
"Do you… Mean androids?"
"No, I mean people tryin' to be creators. Of 'nything. And that… N'titlement that comes with't. Why bother… Why bother tryin' to make something beautiful or real if we sit back with our hands out for the credit? Don't see our maker doin' it… Well, that depends on belief, I guess. Hmm. Just makes it more of 'us', didn't 'create' shit…"
"…Are you asking me to leave, or— ?"
"Leave, stay." Carl swung his hand to the side, the liquid in the bottle he had sprinkled onto the ground out the top, "Lock up after you're done."
After all of that, it seemed like nothing about her not knowing his work well or her intentions of being outside had missed the artist, who was clearly dismissing her.
Carl started his way back inside, mumbling to himself. Heather watched him walk away, and sure enough, as soon as he stepped into the light of the front porch, hands were extended over and over in greeting.
She really got a good look at just how desperate the others looked, and just a few moments ago, he was just someone else outside that she would have asked for a light. It made her almost queasy.
Heather turned and looked further into the garden area that stretched around the side of the mansion. It was beautifully lit, decorated with various sculptures and pieces no doubt from other artist friends of his. They were likely one-of-ones for the homeowner. The garden gnomes in this place had a higher net worth than she did.
Her gaze followed the direction Carl emerged from, finding a slightly open sliding door at the end of the path. Well, never too late to start doing your research.
Heather slides her way inside Carl's studio, and the breath slides from her lungs.
The explosions of colors and abstract shapes were so vibrant and present that Heather felt as if there wasn't any more room left for her to stand in the studio. If you lived in the Lansing or Detroit area, you were aware of Carl Manfred, and certainly had seen some of his work around the city. It was totally different. It was concentrated and condensed to just this room. It truthfully felt a little too intimate for Heather- this uncensored abundance of masterpieces. Like she walked in on Carl's mind.
The majesty of the room was intimidating enough, but the whiplash of the previous moments was sending Heather nearly into a spiral. The drugs made the colors pop and swirl, and her head whipped around like she was trying to catch the pictures moving.
Whether it was the room, the drugs, or something else in itself, Heather felt the room come alive and witness her back. Every corner of the room carried its own emotion, and different ones when relative to the sister pieces around them.
"Hello,-"
"AHFf—!"
"Are you authorized to be here?"
Heather turned, exclaiming loudly at the pale face of Carl's android that had snuck up on her in the studio. It was an LM100 model, pleasantly poised. Impossibly clean.
"Jesus. Uh, no."
There was a pause between the two, and the android seemed to idle there after Heather's blunt answer. Typically, intruders didn't admit guilt that easily.
"I will… Have to ask you to leave, then."
"Yeah, right, sorry. He, uh, asked you to lock up, I think."
The two still stood in awkward silence for a little longer before the android extended his arm outwards in a gesture to the door behind them. Heather complies.
After experiencing a far more eventful bathroom break than she had initially intended, Heather caught herself actually longing for Kamski. At least when he was with her, no one was really looking at her. She felt a little too singled out.
People had found their clusters for the night, boisterous laughs peppering the large living area she stepped into. Her deep blue eyes scanned the many strange faces, noting an assortment of interesting collectables around the large house's central room.
Elijah was reclined on a sofa just beyond the grand piano. She just barely saw his ponytail sticking out from behind the piano's open cover. Heather slipped around one group, then another, before settling down into the crook of Elijah's arm. She earned his attention shortly after his previous conversation ended, noting her time away.
"Where did you run off to? You just missed Carl."
"Oh, no. I ran into him."
"… Oh?"
"Mhm…"
She twists her closed lips, but doesn't immediately answer.
"Rich people are bizarre. You're all freaks."
"What happened?"
"…Fuck you again for not telling me we were coming here, by the way. Totally embarrassed myself.
I couldn't name any of his work when he asked."
"I think that's on you for being uneducated."
Heather didn't know what she expected, but her annoyance is clear when she scoffs and turns away from Elijah again. It wasn't her normal dismissal. There was a twinge of genuine frustration. The kind of frustration that makes someone want to cry because they feel trapped. Like your sibling pinning something on you that you didn't do, but your parents won't hear it. Nothing about tonight was going well.
"Would you like to leave?"
"You know the answer."
There was something different in Elijah's eyes when Heather looked back at him, a new tiredness. Like he was conceding to something. Like he was actually asking her if she wanted to leave. Slowly, he nods. His voice is barely audible, tenderly tucking a strand of white back behind her ear into the sea of pitch-black hair. He's bringing in their space to just the two of them, "Okay. Let me tell Carl I'm heading out. We'll go."
She doesn't move immediately, but she certainly doesn't argue. This was weird. Super weird. Very unlike him. "Oh, okay," she stands, pushing the fabric of her dress back down her pale thighs. Elijah straightens up after her, his elbow slightly extended towards her.
Elijah takes her around the room once more, saying his pleasant, impersonal goodbyes to the other people of note there, sprinkling false promises of later connection as they detached from the party. Heather silently accompanied him, half expecting him to go back on his word and strike up another conversation she could watch.
Nope. Eli kept it short and sweet, and kept his arm firmly around hers. Soon enough, they were on their silent drive back to their hotel.
By the time the pair got back to the hotel room, the energy had officially shifted. Neither of them addresses the shift, nor the lines of red ice laid out on the vanity. Addicts knew each other well enough to know when the highs wore off, or when the night called for a re-up.
Elijah and Heather plop back onto the large king in the center of the bedroom, looking up to the ceiling after they polish off their respective doses. They sit in the pleasant silence for a while, the high dwindling faster now that Heather has taken so many bumps throughout the night. She savors what she can, shutting her eyes and sinking into the plush mattress. If only the dorms were this nice. It's probably better they aren't; she'd likely miss her classes.
Heather glanced over at Eli, checking to see his lids were parted ever so slightly. He was still awake at least. "Carl didn't even seem to want to be throwing that party," she mentioned.
"Oh, he despises them…"
"Well, I am but a humble criminal justice major, but there's an easy fix I can think of."
"Surprised you didn't like him… Seems like you two would get along."
Heather shifts and leans over to get a look at Kamski's face, chuckling softly, "Well, I'm not exactly… You, y'know? There's only one 'Man of the Century', right?"
She notices that Elijah is still far off in his own world. He's contemplating.
When a genius like himself is sitting in front of a woman like Heather, it's like watching a rocket launch; You're not exactly sure what's happening because the launchpad is illegible to you, far beyond your knowledge. But the result is big, a spectacle. "You okay?"
"Mhm."
Heather decided it was a bit too intimate to sit and watch him think. Clearly, he was deep in thought and didn't want to share. She takes a short breath in, sliding off of the bed and into a pair of her sandals she left by the door, "I'll be on the patio, get some air…"
He doesn't move like he's heard her. He hasn't even acted like there's been someone else in the room the entire time they've been back. Something was off. Heather brushed it off as him having a weird high. Maybe he was just… Trying not to get sick? It didn't seem like him, but Heather refused to pry.
She stepped out into the chilly night air. Sounds and smells wafted up from the city around her.
It had rained during the drive home, amplifying the scent and sight of the night. Like the light reflecting off of the motorcycle before, the L.E.D.s from shops up and down the street lit up the asphalt, shimmering off the small bodies of water that collected near drains.
Images and flashes of the feelings from Carl's studio returned to Heather's mind, less punctuated, but still present. If she had stayed in the studio, Heather was sure she could have wept. Maybe it was because of the drugs, but it truly was so beautiful. How could a room of paper and pigment become so alive?
The room of art made her feel more alive than the hundreds of people sleeping in the city below her. She could've spent hours in there. Still wouldn't be able to identify one by name. It didn't mean she couldn't see the majesty in it all.
After a while, Elijah comes out from the hotel room to break her train of thought on the balcony, more relaxed and reset than before. She feels it in the heavy hand that glides across the back of her hip and around to her side.
"Hey, baby…" He pulls her hair off of her shoulder and onto her back, running his hand down her trap, his other hand planted firmly on her hip. Heather is receptive, but her mind seems preoccupied. She turns to his lips that snaked down the back of her neck. Her skin responded in goosebumps, her shoulders shuddering.
"Still mad I didn't tell you about tonight..?"
Heather puffed, looking back out across the city, "Hm, haven't decided." Elijah's question was superficial; he wasn't truly concerned about her annoyance regarding him. "Would you let me help you feel better?"
Turning over her shoulder again, Eli leans forward and meets her, the pressure on her hips remaining constant. The dress shirt he had was now unbuttoned down to his waistband, still barely tucked.
She wanted to ask him if he felt embarrassed by her. She was desperate to find out what about her made her so hard to 'pin' for this Man of the Century. She was debating what Carl had told her before, how he bashed his own attempts at creation, but also, the fluidity and beauty of the room that seemed to completely contradict his grievances. Carl was a fine creator. Of art. What did that make Kamski? What did that make the androids?
A shaky breath is taken in when Elijah's heavy hand on Heather's right hip moves around her lower body. His hand is flat, pressing lightly into her abdomen just below her belly button and creating a shallow pressure deep within her core. It's not outwardly arousing, but the unique feeling paired with a heavy hand that wasn't hers made her knees weak.
In his left hand, Kamski curled his fingers up, balling the cloth of Heather's little black dress in his palm. She felt the cold creep up her thigh, and the heat of his hips against her backside. There were plenty of things that Heather could list about Elijah that were… Less than savory. But he could be sweet. He could be very attentive. It was usually when he knew he had upset her in some way.
Regaining her 'favor' was never, ever about morality or respect. Elijah loved to play with the length of the leash he felt he had on Heather. With any woman, really. He just wanted to be privy to every angle that worked on her.
Heather was smart enough to know Elijah didn't seriously care about her. She'd tell herself that Eli did at least want to respect her in a way, though.
Eli didn't pursue younger women for no reason.
Heather turned coyly away from Elijah, angling her heels away from one another as she granted him quiet permission. He leans in, pulling her hips back harder against him as he growls, "Mmm, on the balcony? Dirty."
His hand pulls her up onto the balls of her feet, earning a laugh-whine from her when the pressure between her thighs increases. Heather is pressed forward, bent slightly over the edge of the glass that separated her from a deathly drop onto the glistening asphalt below them.
Stiff against her, Elijah's hips pin Heather against the railing. The fabric of her dress slid over the wide point of her hips and wrinkled up on her waist, leaving her in nothing below the belt besides a pair of blue, lacy panties and her thin sandals.
Elijah's eyes don't take her in before his hands are reaching around and groping her. He'd seen her countless times before, knew her body with his hands. He'd skip the pleasantries.
With his right hand, Elijah hooks the front of her thong around the back of his middle and ring finger with a fluid curl. The barrier of fabric is now out of his way, and Elijah's hands start massaging Heather down, working her closer to release in every slow, heavy circle around her wet clit.
Heather's knees buckle in response to the sudden jump in direct contact with her arousal point, held up more so by the rail and Elijah's hands. Heather moves one of her hands off of the rail and back onto Elijah's hip, her palm hooking on his thick leather belt. Feeling her physical reciprocation, Eli huffed in her ear and yanked her back even harder.
Greedy and stupid with desire, Heather shifted her hand and began to yank at the piece of metal that barred both herself and him from concluding their average, occasional night together. Her usual distaste for him seemed to slip away the longer the night went on, the longer his hands pressed into her, the longer she had to wait for him to slip anything inside of her.
"Come on," she murmured, tilting her head back onto Eli's shoulder and spreading her legs open more, "Please baby, come on…"
The belt buckle clinks undone, but Elijah snags her hand away from his fly before she can undress him any further. His fingers link with hers, pressing it down onto the railing again as he leaned forward and spoke, "Are you still upset with me?"
"…You're not serious."
"Are you?"
Heather looked over her shoulder, her expression dark. It's hard to make anything out in the dim light that barely illuminates the area before the large glass door to the balcony. "Wh-," she starts, her face flushed while the cavern in her stomach remains, "Are you?"
Eli shakes his head, slowly petting her back. "I'm not upset."
"Then I'm confused."
Heather took it back; She didn't want to know what Elijah thought of her anymore. This was weird. This was different.
"Eli," she states, straightening when she doesn't get a response. He sports a simple… Smile? Grin? Smirk? Weird, placid, semi-emotion?
"Hey," Heather adopts a new softness to her voice that she wasn't sure Elijah had heard before. This was a weird side of Eli that Heather wasn't sure she had seen either. Her free hand comes up and touches the side of his face. "What's going on…?"
Nothing. "You're starting to weird me out, Eli. Could I get a hint…?"
Without a response, she figures the mood is broken for the night. At least, their typical mood. Heather shuffles her dress back down over her thighs, the heat from before being replaced quickly with the cold Michigan air.
Nothing. He's still quiet. If she wasn't before, she was starting to get upset now. Her eyebrow raised, impatiently awaiting an explanation as to what his deal tonight was.
Elijah's tongue is tucked into his cheek, his gaze barely anchored on anything before he finally meets Heather's eyes again, quiet resolve in his expression, "I think I'm going to resign."
Her posture becomes rigid. She waits for a break in his face. She waits for the punchline. Every line of thought is visible on her face. The sudden, outrageous confession didn't give her the opportunity to mask her feelings.
You're kidding.
…
Oh my God, you're serious?
"Oh-," she leans in, "my gosh, uhm… Wow. You're going to resign?" He looks away, swallowing. Sensing the delicacy of this opportunity, Heather fixes her face. Immediately, Heather begins to rein herself in, "Let's go inside." She takes his hand. Maybe he wasn't feeling well.
No, he seems pretty serious.
After they settle on the couch inside, Heather turns her full focus towards Eli. His expression has remained constant; it's simple, calm, definitive.
"Uhm," Heather forces herself to recline more naturally in the corner of the sofa, scratching her temple with a long, burgundy nail, "Okay. You're resigning." A long pause follows. She doesn't need to ask her next question out loud. She does anyway when Elijah doesn't offer her an explanation, "Why…? Did something happen?"
He shrugs, his tone simple, "Why not?"
"Let's see," she tilts her head with a scoff, "I think your net worth dwarfed your social security number by the time you were 17. You have anything you could ever want. I mean, that's just one of the many, many things— Do you need me to go on?"
"I thought you said that amount of money disgusts you."
"Okay, but that's not why you're doing this."
"Says who?"
Heather tenses her face, taking a beat to search his face in the dark orange glow of the room.
"That's not funny. I'm serious, I'm going to call someone to check you in somewhere."
"I've just… Done what I feel I needed to do."
"Okay… So, shut down Cyberlife..?"
"Of course not. It just won't be mine anymore."
"But why, though?"
"Why not?"
"Because you'd be a fucking idiot?"
"Harsh."
"Well."
"You said it yourself, Heather. I have it all. I have more money than my family will ever know what to do with. Hobbies become boring. People are… Well. You know."
He looks down at his hands for a moment, huffing, "I can't keep doing the shitty things I know I can get away with because I have everything. I'm untouchable. I mean, if I shot someone dead on the street right now, I have business associates that will swear up and down they watched their own son murder that man in place of me, just to save the stocks they have in my company from plummeting."
This level of intimacy was shiny and new, completely captivating Heather's attention. It wasn't like there was anything else particularly interesting in the room to look at. But she doubted there was anything that could walk through that door interesting enough to get her eyes off of the 30-year-old.
"I couldn't even tell you why we went to that party." His laugh was dry, sobering despite the hard drugs in his system. "It's becoming a money thing," he murmured, shaking his head, "And it was never supposed to be that."
Did you want to play God?
She thinks better than asking, fearing the answer. It's a lot. It's all so much. Heather was having trouble judging where Eli was currently on the 'Mid-Life Crisis' scale.
"Was that your… Going away party?"
"No, I decided just now."
No answers there. Her expression was still… Dumbfounded. His didn't budge. Slowly, he raised an eyebrow. "Why?"
"I mean, you can't blame me," she insisted, her shoulders drooping. He hummed, shaking his head. "No… I can't."
The conversation didn't reach an organic end, nor a comfortable one at that. She figured he wasn't going to give her the answers he knew well and good she wanted. He was just going to find pleasure in her prying endlessly.
"Do you want to leave?"
"A little."
"I can have my driver take you back on campus right now."
"Mmm. I'm kinda interested to see if you'll have this same take after you sleep on it."
There's something unspoken. A quiet resolve that begins to settle; This was the last time Heather was going to sit with Elijah on a random Thursday night in the middle of September. Their year-long… 'Whatever' was coming to an end.
She couldn't distinguish exactly what she was feeling through the sudden shock of the information, the aftermath of the drugs, and her plain-old tiredness. It was getting to be close to 2 a.m. by now. It wasn't sad. It wasn't relief either.
Just a solid, definitive fork in their paths.
Eli's arm slowly reaches out across the back of the couch, resting gently against Heather's cheek. His eyes are tender. They're understanding. For a moment, Heather feels his isolation. He was right; by gaining everything, he had lost so much. No one else had what he had. No one could keep up. Honestly, that's where her relief came from; She felt relieved of her duty, in a way.
It had to feel like living your life through a one-way mirror. He sees it all. The rest see only the parts that they can understand.
So, when Elijah speaks, she's shocked by his vulnerability.
"Stay."
He pets her cheek.
"If I don't already have enough, I'd like tonight to be… Like normal."
There's a certain level of humility that is hoisted upon someone like Heather when a man like Elijah is asking something of her in such a way. Like it carries a heavy weight, but deep down, it leans one way. But both sides are heavy, so Heather doesn't notice. The choice feels like her own.
"Okay," she leans into his hand with a breathy whisper, nodding, "Yeah, I'll stay."
On her end, Heather found a new level of genuine connection to Eli. A different man behind the pale, mysterious eyes. A softer, more vulnerable man. Not small, but no longer larger than life.
The motions play out between the two. They're slower. More tender. One could've called it loving, even. Instead of drug-induced lust, Elijah took his time over every curve in Heather's body. He kissed the dimples in her back. He held her hand through every intense unravel he caused. He fell asleep with her on his chest after two passionate hours.
She was kissed goodbye in the morning, then promptly taken back to her dorm.
Elijah never reached out to Heather again after that night.