Page 63 of The Muse
I get the pictures out of my bag and throw them on the table, no care about him taking them. I have more. As does the inbox of my father, along with all the information Ricky’s just sent me. “Do we have to argue about this, or are you willing to concede that you’ve been a wanker? It would be a shame if this sort of scandal hit headlines just as your rise to power was coming to a head.”
He picks one of them up, smiling about something, as he scans the picture. “How long?”
“What?”
“How long am I supposed to tolerate your father and all the other irritants in the company for this to go away?”
“Two years for my father, as originally stipulated. The others just the year the contract stated. After that, you do what you want. I couldn’t care less.”
He drops the picture and stands up, crossing to the side of the room for a decanter. A large drink gets poured—just one—and he downs it before turning back to look at me. “I could just tie you up in the courts instead. I’m quite good at that.”
“I’m sure you could. The trouble with that theory is the scandal will be all over the fucking world before you even get a chance to bury it. And we haven’t even got to the parts that link you to Jackson Reed himself yet.”
I don’t have anything that does that. Not yet. But I’ll find it if I have to. And given he’s being reasonably amenable to this discussion, I can only assume there’s something out there for me to find. “Like I said, Landon, it’s your choice. Tell me to fuck off if you like. I’ll enjoy the task it presents me with.”
“Aren't you a little cunt.”
“Believe me, the feeling’s mutual.”
We’re locked in our own face-off, nothing but both sets of eyes staring at each other. His are quite obscure really. Nothing like Seffi’s. Lighter in their blue tone. Almost grey under these dull lights. But for the first time, I can see familiarity between them. Same curve in his mouth under that half-smile as she has. Same pitch to his jaw, other than the masculinity that changes its harder angle.
He turns and pours another drink. “How do I know you’ll honour this?” he asks.
“You don’t. And that should be enough for you to do as I’m asking.” Ice cubes clink the glass, soda water following until he's back to looking at me.
“That’s not much of a beneficial agreement.”
“It’s all you’ve got. And while we’re at it, you’ll leave your sister to make her own decisions about her future, too.” Everything that was half smiling at me for some reason, disappears. “As long as you concede on those two things, this information stays buried.”
“No. She doesn’t get to make decisions about her future, certainly not if they involve you. She’s barely able to manage herself.” He walks closer and picks up a different photo, studying it and holding it up to the light. “Don’t push too hard, Foxton. You’re winning here. Keep going and I’ll have no other choice but to rethink my concessions. Persephone isn’t part of the deal. She’s nothing to do with you.”
For someone who beat the crap out of me the other day, who showed anger and belligerence, passion even, I can’t understand the calm consideration to his tone at the moment. It’s almost as if he’s in one of his courtrooms rather than dealing with actual personal threats. “Don’t make me play dirtier than I normally do," he continues. "I only need a few phone calls, and a battered face will be the least of your problems. But as you said, I’d rather some element of legitimacy was running alongside my position, now I’m back.”
“You're threatening me again?"
His eyes come to mine. “Yes. It isn’t empty either, Scott. Be careful. I have favours to pull in should I need them. I will if this isn't as agreed and honoured.”
He eventually sits and sighs, the photos gathered together and slipped into his desk drawer. For the first time since I’ve been in here, I feel on the back foot. His mood, his seemingly dispassionate reaction to everything, and now what sounds a lot like a threat that involves my life make the air too thin to breathe.
“As long as this goes away, or gets buried, or burned, I’ll let your father stay as long as he wants. Assuming he follows my lead, anyway. Let him know that. The others can fall off as they do. I’ll email the amended clauses to the lawyers later.” The drink swirls in his hand before he takes a sip. “You go tomorrow, though. I have my own art critic.”
“Don't worry, I'm not staying anywhere near you. I'm leaving.”
“Good. We're agreed then.”
“No. We're not. Seffi is–” He stands and slams his hand on the table so hard it shakes the surface. It sends me straight up with him, not willing to give up on this part of the negotiations. “I'm not backing down on this, Landon. She gets her say, or there is no deal.”
He's around the table and heading for me before I can get out the way of my chair, his hand shoving my chest. “Persephone ismyfucking sister. She’s also a child who doesn’t know her own mind.Iwill make decisions about what she does and does not do. And certainly, who she does or does not see. This isn’t a fucking discussion.”
“Piss off. You agree to it all or-”
“Scott. Stop.”
My head flies around, mouth still open from the tirade that was about to come out of it. She’s there, her body hovering at the edge of the room, perfectly poised.
“Would you like to run that past me again, Landon?” she asks. “Because it sounded like you think you own me. You don’t. If I want to go to Paris with Scott, I will.”
I hadn’t got to that yet.
