Max Main ≡ Lois Lane (bylined) wrote in musingslogs, @ 2011-06-10 23:26:00 |
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Entry tags: | iron man, lois lane, viola |
Who: Max and Anton, then Max and Preston
What: Fundraising; Talking about Shiloh
Where: Sparke Industries
When: Recent
Warnings: None
Max had just come from seeing Orin Monarch. He’d been an easy sell for a third of a million. His friendship with Thomas, combined with his relationship with Audrey meant she didn’t need to flash even a bit of thigh to get him to agree to pay for a third of the Verisimilitude price. The fact that he was, most certainly, a Mask probably didn’t hurt matters either.
Anton Sparke, however, Max wasn’t expecting to be so easy. She’d intentionally placed him second in her rich, society trio, and she’d read everything she could about him in preparation. The most interesting thing about the man wasn’t his amazing blue eyes, or his penchant for women with impressive cleavage. No, it was his Iron Man. Max might not be the best reporter on the block, but her instincts were good. The way Sparke had overreacted when he found out that Audrey and Luke were in his lab? That made her think the man had something to hide, something that wasn’t aboveboard. Something, maybe, that ran around saving men at stoplights.
She was counting on it.
Her appointment was at 2; he was ready for her at 2:15. She was dressed for the occasion - a black, pencil skirt and stilettos, and a grey sweater that dipped just enough to be tantalizing without being obscene. “Mr. Sparke,” she said, putting her press pass on his office desk. “Off the record?”
Anton was having a thing. He didn’t know what the “thing” was but he was sure he was having one. He didn’t even know what had him out of sorts, but he was pretty sure it was the “thing.” He was attempting to chalk it up to a mid-life crisis but the red ferarri had not done a damn thing to curb it. So he was on the phone with his person Porsche guy trying to be talked into some kind of boxster. Or Roadster. Or Speedster. Or whatever things they wanted him to spend money on that he could just make in his lab and probably do a better job at. Whatever. He was having a thing.
He was sitting at his desk looking at the “literature” about said porsches and he was mildly unimpressed. When Max came in he looked her over for a moment. Not lecherously, as he normally would have, but she looked fucking familiar. Again. He brushed it off. “Off the record Ms. Main...On the record I don’t care,” Preston was going to kill him! Yay! He opened the booklet, which was glossy and shiny and set it in front of her. There was a black Boxster on one side and a silver roadster on the other. “Which one says midlife crisis?”
“Silver definitely says mid-life crisis,” Max said, taking a seat across from the desk Anton was seated behind. He was an attractive man, more attractive than television gave him credit for, and she understood immediately why Preston had a thing for him. He was definitely the kind a man a girl could have a thing for, and she supposed Preston was no different. She crossed her legs at the thigh, a bit of the top of her stocking showing as she leaned forward and plucked the booklet for the black Boxster from between his fingers and held it up. “But if you’re going for fucking hot? Black is always the way to go,” she said, her grin mirroring one from a dream, and she wondered if he would remember her. Or if it would be better if he didn’t.
He shook his head, “Fucking hot I’ve got. Mid-life crisis I attempted but came up a little short with the car I bought. So that’s getting donated to charity and I guess I’ll be getting the silver, thank you.” He said closing the booklets and sitting back in his chair.
He looked her over again, she looked familiar and not just in the way most reporters looked familiar. And she wanted something. That much was obvious. He smiled at her as he leaned back comfortably, his hands folded loosely and regarded her for a moment. “Is it going to cost me, money, time, resources or something else entirely?” he asked.
“Money,” she said, not bothering to hide the fact that, yes, she had an agenda. “I’ve been working with Commissioner West,” she said, because she’d started with Kyle for a reason; his opinion held the most weight in this argument, she felt, and she was willing to wield it to get what everyone expected her to get, “about our unique problem with Creation-based crime. We have a wonderful system of justice in place, good men and women on the police force, but we have no way to house or deal with Creations offenders. We have the opportunity to purchase Verisimilitude, and its Creation-ability limiting properties, and put it in the hands of our legal system.” She leaned forward, took the brochure for the silver car from between his fingers and looked it over as she spoke. “I have Monarch on the hook for a third of the price, I’ll get Brandon for the same. Can I count on you for the missing third?” she asked, pushing the brochure back. “And do you mind if I ask about your mid-life crisis?”
He nodded. Of course it was money. He listened to her, it made sense to him. He’d need Preston to poke holes in it later. “Let me look over what you’ve got, I’ll be in touch, and I don’t mean that in the way I mean it when politicians come asking me for money. I really actually will be in touch.”
He shrugged his shoulders, he was obviously distracted, and now she wanted to talk about his mid-life crisis. “Go ahead and ask. But I think I’m just having a thing. It’ll make a great news story one day soon I’m sure.”
That response wasn’t what she was looking for. She was looking for commitment, which he didn’t give her, and she felt fairly sure she wasn’t going to like the distribution of information that came from leaving this office after providing him with information. Still, she gave him a smile that said she was certain he would come around to her way of thinking, and she pushed back her chair and stood. “I cover homicides these days, Mister Sparke. As long as you aren’t killing anyone, it won’t make one of my stories,” she told him, the corner of her mouth tipped in an entertained smile. “I’ll leave you to your crisis. How about a yay or nay by next Monday?”
He’d talk to Preston about it as soon as she was gone, he wanted to say yes on the spot, but he did not like the look he got when he did things like that. And lately he was not in the mood to get a look. He laughed at her comment though and nodded, “I don’t think my mid-life crisis is going to be that severe. We’re in the clear. And I’ll be in touch by Monday.” Which meant he needed to remember to be in touch by Monday, he made a mental note. Hopefully at some point that would turn into an actual note.
She gave him a look, something oddly worried, and then her smile returned as if the concerned look had never been there. Yeah, something was definitely up with Anton Sparke. She wondered if it had to do with Preston, and the dream Anton clearly couldn’t remember her from. “Next time, at least pretend to look when a girl flashes you some leg,” she teased, and with that she turned and made for the office door, calling over her shoulder. “The black is still sexier.”