Venerability
00. Prologue
It is vastly acknowledged across this lovely nation, always accompanied with the denial of the benefit of the doubt, that the wealthy and successful are venerable... but malicious and supercilious. As the primary tycoon of New York City's most successful company, as reported by Fortune, I can only confirm that the former is true. After all, I pride myself on my moral soundness. I've never even been requested for my license and registration from a police officer!
But then why am I shoved up against the smooth glass of my company's building, handcuffs slicing into my wrists, and my heart pounding rapidly against the prison bars of my own ribcage? you might ask. The officer, with his deep blue uniform and shiny badge, makes some rather appalling accusations.
But then I spot her. Ariel is pushing through the crowd that has formed around the Vox Corps edifice. She is calling out for me and I am suddenly belting out her name, almost desperately, as if she could stop this deaf man from urging, dragging, and shoving me into the confined backseat of his car. Red and blue flashes blind me as Ariel calls out my name once more. And just before I am brutally forced into the car, I catch a glimpse of her. Her ocean eyes are wide and alight with fear and another emotion I can't quite pinpoint; her lips have formed a shocked 'o'. But that is not what finally launched the realization in my face. That is not what causes it all to dawn upon me. It is what she's wearing. A button-up blouse, tucked into a plaid skirt. Knee-high white socks, plain boots. And a bookbag, spilling with school supplies, slung haphazardly over her delicate shoulder.
The same shoulder that I had pressed my lips to and chuckled softly against about how much I adored the young woman. The same shoulder that I had brushed my nose against as I moved to press my face into the delicate curve of her throat. And that throat, I had brushed her wild chocolate hair from, to plant kisses on her flesh. My arms had wound about her bare abdomen. And my door was locked, all of the windows shut, blinds concealing our intimate affair. My white bedsheets were strewn about our sweaty, warm, but very satisfied bodies.
And the response came from her lips in a breathy whisper, as if she was reluctant to truly speak it, as if it was painful, as if it needed to be forced out. "I love you too." I could hear the sincerity in her voice, the way it trembled gently with her wracking nerves.
I'd slipped my hands around hers and held them tight and murmured against her ear: "Why are you shaking, love?" And I had paused as a knot suddenly twisted in my stomach. "Did I hurt you?"
She'd giggled, that tinkling, joyful laugh of hers, and shifted in my arms to peck my lips. Her forehead leaned against mine as she whispered back, "No, no, you didn't hurt me. I just..." But she never finished her sentence. She kissed me instead. She kissed me fervently and eagerly until I couldn't help myself. I tried to be respectful with her in bed and deny all of my animalistic and, quite plainly, quintessential manly urges. But I couldn't help myself. And, despite having just deflowered her eight hours or so prior, I eased her into another bout of love-making. Only, this time, it was thoughtless, blissful and, most of all, lacking protection.
What I'd failed to realize was that the entire event was a ploy. A ploy to shut me up, stop the questioning before it was too late.
But God dammit, how was I supposed to know I was having sex with a teenager when she'd sworn that she was twenty-one! Nine years doesn't make much of a difference when both parties are legal adults. Now, thirteen years? Thirteen years lands you a spot in jail with charges of statutory rape and child molestation weighing on your shoulders.
A judge doesn't care if you weren't aware of her age, especially when you're Pluto Craeus. Because a story like that would be sure to end up on the front page of every newspaper. That judge would be praised like God. The saint that sent the sinner into exile.
And Pluto Craeus? Well, he'd just rot in a jail cell with a murderer as a roommate, scrawling out a recap of his relationship in a dirty old notebook for when he appealed his case.
But then why am I shoved up against the smooth glass of my company's building, handcuffs slicing into my wrists, and my heart pounding rapidly against the prison bars of my own ribcage? you might ask. The officer, with his deep blue uniform and shiny badge, makes some rather appalling accusations.
But then I spot her. Ariel is pushing through the crowd that has formed around the Vox Corps edifice. She is calling out for me and I am suddenly belting out her name, almost desperately, as if she could stop this deaf man from urging, dragging, and shoving me into the confined backseat of his car. Red and blue flashes blind me as Ariel calls out my name once more. And just before I am brutally forced into the car, I catch a glimpse of her. Her ocean eyes are wide and alight with fear and another emotion I can't quite pinpoint; her lips have formed a shocked 'o'. But that is not what finally launched the realization in my face. That is not what causes it all to dawn upon me. It is what she's wearing. A button-up blouse, tucked into a plaid skirt. Knee-high white socks, plain boots. And a bookbag, spilling with school supplies, slung haphazardly over her delicate shoulder.
The same shoulder that I had pressed my lips to and chuckled softly against about how much I adored the young woman. The same shoulder that I had brushed my nose against as I moved to press my face into the delicate curve of her throat. And that throat, I had brushed her wild chocolate hair from, to plant kisses on her flesh. My arms had wound about her bare abdomen. And my door was locked, all of the windows shut, blinds concealing our intimate affair. My white bedsheets were strewn about our sweaty, warm, but very satisfied bodies.
And the response came from her lips in a breathy whisper, as if she was reluctant to truly speak it, as if it was painful, as if it needed to be forced out. "I love you too." I could hear the sincerity in her voice, the way it trembled gently with her wracking nerves.
I'd slipped my hands around hers and held them tight and murmured against her ear: "Why are you shaking, love?" And I had paused as a knot suddenly twisted in my stomach. "Did I hurt you?"
She'd giggled, that tinkling, joyful laugh of hers, and shifted in my arms to peck my lips. Her forehead leaned against mine as she whispered back, "No, no, you didn't hurt me. I just..." But she never finished her sentence. She kissed me instead. She kissed me fervently and eagerly until I couldn't help myself. I tried to be respectful with her in bed and deny all of my animalistic and, quite plainly, quintessential manly urges. But I couldn't help myself. And, despite having just deflowered her eight hours or so prior, I eased her into another bout of love-making. Only, this time, it was thoughtless, blissful and, most of all, lacking protection.
What I'd failed to realize was that the entire event was a ploy. A ploy to shut me up, stop the questioning before it was too late.
But God dammit, how was I supposed to know I was having sex with a teenager when she'd sworn that she was twenty-one! Nine years doesn't make much of a difference when both parties are legal adults. Now, thirteen years? Thirteen years lands you a spot in jail with charges of statutory rape and child molestation weighing on your shoulders.
A judge doesn't care if you weren't aware of her age, especially when you're Pluto Craeus. Because a story like that would be sure to end up on the front page of every newspaper. That judge would be praised like God. The saint that sent the sinner into exile.
And Pluto Craeus? Well, he'd just rot in a jail cell with a murderer as a roommate, scrawling out a recap of his relationship in a dirty old notebook for when he appealed his case.