Buzz: A Thriller (27 page)

“Little Rilke’s a success junkie. As long as you’re Philip’s golden boy, she’ll let you stick your hand in the candy jar, but as soon as you start to lose speed she’ll move on to someone else.”

He finished his sentence by poking HP in the chest with one of his sausage fingers.

“Ask Stoffe if you don’t believe me . . .”

Beens turned his head and grinned stupidly toward his fan club, but this time only a couple of the bravest dared to follow his example.

“She’s aiming for the top. Her wet dream is to snap up Philip and take over Anna’s place at the helm, and if you don’t get tha . . .
aaiyyee
 . . . !”

The last words slid into a groan while the color of Beens’s
face went from beery pink to stroke red. His eyes bulged like Ping-Pong balls and he gurgled something unintelligible as his hands tried desperately to loosen the cast-iron one-handed grip HP had taken of his testicles.

“Now listen very carefully, you sack of shit,” HP hissed in the other man’s ear. “If I ever hear you blabbing about the company again, or dissing the people you work with, you’ll end up eating your balls for breakfast. Got that?”

HP gave a little extra squeeze to underline his point, felt Beens sway, and for a moment was worried the man was going to faint.

He quickly let go.

“Good! Well, off you go home, take a couple of Tylenol, and put a box of Popsicles around your crown jewels, and everything will feel much better in the morning, you’ll see,” he said in as friendly a tone as he could muster.

Beens gasped for air a few times, and his face went back to something approaching its normal color. He sniffed and nodded jerkily, then stumbled straight off toward the door.

HP already regretted what he’d done. What in the name of holy shit had got into him? Okay, so Beens was a blabbermouthed idiot, but still. Since when had he become a corporate crony?

Suddenly HP felt someone pulling at his arm. He spun around in a flash.

“Easy, Tiger!” Elroy grinned, holding his hands up in front of him. “There are some people who’d like you to join them at the bar.”

“Who?”

“See for yourself, champ!”

Elroy nodded toward the bar.

When HP turned to look at the bar a few meters away, he saw Rilke and Sophie waving at him. Both women were smiling.

♦  ♦  ♦

The taxi let her out on the other side of the road, but just as she was about to cross three police cars raced past, all blue lights and sirens. She quickly retreated to the pavement again and waited until they had gone before braving the slush on the street again.

There was a restaurant in the ground floor of the building, and judging by the number of smartly dressed people both inside and outside, it looked like some sort of private party was going on in there. She quickly cruised between the hardy little groups of smokers huddled under the gas heaters, reached the door, and pressed the button for the loft apartment. After a couple of seconds the lock on the door whirred.

♦  ♦  ♦

“We saw most of it, but you’ve got to tell us exactly what happened,” Rilke panted excitedly in his ear.

“Okay . . .”

He wasn’t entirely sure what to say. He didn’t really know why he’d got so furious with Beens. Okay, so the guy had been a bit mouthy, but even so . . .

“He needed to be taught how to behave . . .” he began.

“Go on.”

Rilke’s eyes sparkled. She was comfortably drunk, that much was clear, but that didn’t explain the change in her.

The way she was looking at him. Almost . . . admiringly?

Suddenly he noticed that even Sophie the She-woman seemed to be looking at him differently as well.

“Well . . . Beens needed to learn to keep his mouth shut about company business . . .” he went on, more confidently, leaning back against the bar.

“ . . . to stick to rule number one!”

SHE REALLY SHOULDN’T
be here.

There were probably a hundred good reasons why—such as, for instance, the fact that she had a boyfriend, or that her life was quite complicated enough without any need to start dating strangers . . .

But there was something about him she couldn’t resist.

Ever since he opened the door and gave her an assured kiss on the cheek, he had been in complete control. No uncertain eyes, no anxious questions about what she thought, wanted, or liked. No decisions to make—everything was already decided.

All she had to do was lie back and enjoy it. The wonderful food must have come from the restaurant downstairs, but she assumed that the wine was from his own cellar. First a properly dry Martini, a drink she’d actually never tasted before, and that only added to the whole James Bond vibe that he radiated.

Sean Connery, definitely not Roger Moore.
She giggled to herself.

A light white wine with the starter, followed by a considerably more robust red with the main course. Then port with
the cheese, and finally a smooth cognac to go with the pitch-black little espresso. Neither she nor Micke were that big on wine, most of the bottles they bought or had been given were standing unopened in various cupboards.

She hadn’t drunk this much since . . . when, exactly?

She couldn’t actually remember. The room swayed slightly when she got up to go to the bathroom, but for once she really didn’t care.

The bathroom was just as restrained as the rest of the loft apartment. Limestone floor, tiny inset spotlights, and Japanese rice-paper paintings on the walls. Subtle little details everywhere. Three different types of soap arranged in a pyramid next to the washbasin, none of them looked as if they’d ever been used. A stack of perfectly folded little washcloths instead of towels to dry your hands on, and beside them a discreet little basket to leave them in, obviously covered by a lid so you didn’t have to see the disorderly mess of washcloths.

It actually all reminded her of the gym they both went to. It couldn’t have been an accident that he chose that one in particular.

And he was handsome too, she found herself thinking. She’d noticed his body the first time she saw him. Fit, in that slim, sinewy way, not like gym-pumped hundred-kilo heavyweights like Dag or Ludvig, who almost couldn’t move for all their bulging muscles.

He was about the same height as her, and probably no more than ten kilos heavier. He was probably something like the same number of years older than her too, not that that mattered.

His chiseled cheekbones were accentuated by his extremely
narrow glasses, and then there was that look in his eyes that had made her almost lose her breath the first time she noticed him.

She had seen it before, plenty of times . . . Well, she hadn’t, actually, the wine was making her mind wander. But okay, maybe this man did remind her a tiny bit of Dag.

The way he’d managed to make her feel safe and cared for in just a few seconds was undeniably familiar. But John was a completely different person, considerably more intelligent and worldly.

He didn’t exude any of the uncertainty that sometimes used to slip out of Dag, which had probably been the fundamental reason why he . . . well . . .

Oh, this was ridiculous, she had to stop this wine-fueled pseudopsychology! John was a gentleman and his only offense so far was that he had had to leave her a few times to answer his shiny little cell phone.

But obviously she was prepared to overlook that tiny breach of the rules, especially as he apologized and took the opportunity to refill her glass each time.

She got up from the wall-mounted toilet, pulled up her underwear and trousers before flushing, then took the chance to adjust her hair in front of the mirror. Her cheeks were rosy, her eyes glossy with alcohol, and she couldn’t help smiling at her own reflection. She hadn’t felt as lively as this in a very long time.

There was something between them, that much was abundantly obvious. The only question was what was going to happen now.

♦  ♦  ♦

Three little pills. Yellow in color and with a little smiley face stamped in the middle of them. He didn’t actually know who had conjured them up, but suddenly Rilke had popped two of them in her mouth. Then she pulled him to her, opened her mouth, and as their tongues met she pushed one of the pills across into his mouth.

It was all quite unnecessary, he’d been popping acid since Dacke died, and he didn’t need any instruction. But he had to maintain his cover and carry on playing the role of the devout Muslim who didn’t drink or take drugs—at least not without a bit of feminine persuasion. But by this point he could probably get away with pretty much anything. The atmosphere in the bar was peculiar. Damned peculiar, in fact.

By now everyone knew what had happened in the city center, and maybe it was the funeral, combined with the sudden realization that life was fragile, that had led to them all suddenly deciding to party like it was their last day on earth. Matters weren’t helped by the fact that the DJ kept playing R.E.M.’s “It’s the End of the World as We Know It.”

If he was honest, he hated quasi-intellectual environmental muppets like R.E.M. and their soppy message of love and peace. So fucking what if some idiot blew himself to pieces on Drottninggatan?

What the hell did that have to do with him?

He felt the tingle as the acid kick spread through his body. He closed his eyes to enjoy the moment when his eyelids transformed into cascades of color.

Suddenly he realized that he had the wrong attitude. Totally damn wrong, in fact! He was a lover, not a hater. Now he came to think about it, he loved almost the whole world. Environmental
muppets, suicide bombers, R.E.M., even freaking lard-ass Beens.

If the guy was—against all expectation—still there on Monday, he’d buy a family-sized pizza for the cuddly little Barbapapa, to make up for it.

He leaned over the bar.

“A double Stoli, please . . . Actually, better make that a triple!”

Just as he turned around Rilke was repeating her pill trick with Sophie. For a moment he just stood there grinning as the two women kissed.

♦  ♦  ♦

The kiss was practically inevitable. The tension she felt when his lips first touched her cheek when he opened the door had carried on building throughout the meal. She could hardly remember what they had talked about.

It certainly hadn’t been work, or at any rate not hers, she was sure of that.

Travel, that was it . . .

Different places around the world that ought to be visited.

Turkey was his favorite. With the Arabian peninsula in second place. She’d come up with Australia, even though she’d never even been. Apart from places she’d had to go to for work, she hadn’t really been anywhere. But that didn’t matter, she was happy to let him do the talking. His soft, low voice only increased the tension between them.

Then he had almost imperceptibly managed to maneuver her onto the sofa, and in that position they both knew what was going to happen.

His thin lips were surprisingly soft, she could smell his aftershave, and taste the cognac on his tongue. He pulled her to him, holding her tight as if he already knew what she liked, and she let out a gasp of both surprise and pleasure.

This really was crazy! But for once she was thinking of letting herself go.

Falling free . . .

His mouth moved down to her neck and she squirmed with pleasure and began to fiddle with the buttons of his shirt.

♦  ♦  ♦

He wasn’t really sure how they’d ended up here, or where they were going, but suddenly they were wrapped around each other in the lift. Him, Rilke, and Sophie. He had one hand around Rilke’s waist, and the other on Sophie’s impressive posterior.

One of the women—he didn’t actually know which—was doing a considerably more pleasant version of his Beens grip on his crotch, his shirt was unbuttoned halfway down to his navel, and Rilke was busy licking off the tequila she’d just splashed on his chest, while Sophie chewed rather too hard on one of his earlobes.

The third floor sailed past, then the fourth. He made a silent prayer that the building had ten floors.

♦  ♦  ♦

She felt his cell vibrate against her hip and felt him tense.

“I’m really sorry,” he said curtly as he sat up. “This is the last time, I promise . . . Things aren’t quite the same as usual this evening . . .”

She just nodded and leaned back against the cushions on
the sofa. Above her head the ceiling gently spun counterclockwise, and she couldn’t help smiling.

No, things certainly weren’t the same as usual this evening . . .

He stood up from the sofa and took a couple of steps away from her as he pulled his cell from its holster on his belt. The conversation was short, no more than a couple of sentences.

“ . . . so you’re on your way. Good!” she managed to catch before he hung up.

Then he switched the phone off and put it on the coffee table.

“How about moving into the bedroom?” he said, in a way that left no room for protest.

Not that she felt like protesting . . .

♦  ♦  ♦

Fifth floor, lift door, wandering hands. The rattle of keys, the click of a lock.

And then they were inside a flat.

♦  ♦  ♦

The bed he threw her down on was enormous.
Big enough for four or five people,
she thought, and once again she couldn’t help giggling. She was definitely drunk, no doubt about it.

He practically tore off her clothes. Her blouse was already off, her trousers well on the way. She had lost all control of the situation, but she really didn’t care in the slightest.

Somewhere she thought she heard a door slamming shut.

♦  ♦  ♦

Most of their clothes came off in the hall, then the rest as they pulled him farther inside the darkened flat.

The girls took care of the whole show, they seemed to work together so well that he actually began to suspect that they’d done this before.

He’d had a vague idea that Rilke played on both sides of the pitch that time when she was chatting to the estate agent, and he should probably have been jealous about the fact that his almost girlfriend was letting herself be seduced by Sophie.