Lex

I don't know what possessed me last night. Maybe the painkillers hadn't fully worn off. Maybe I needed to forget the night. Maybe it's been too long since I've touched the curve of a woman's neck with my lips.

I know it was unacceptable. Sarah is sitting at her desk and I can't help but stare at her jaw. If I look closely enough, I can see past the layers of foundation to the faint purple hue of the skin beneath. It all comes rushing back, and I can't forget the way her skin tastes; sweet with just a hint of sweat, like salted caramel.

She knows I'm looking at her. I can tell by the way her shoulders are tensing. She clears her throat, convinced something as trivial as noise could break my concentration. When I don't look away, she turns her head to me and meets my gaze.

"Mr. Luthor, would you please refrain from staring at my jaw or any other part of my personage while we are working?"

It's been like that all morning. She hasn't once called me Lex or dropped her overly professional tone. "I don't think I can accommodate you, Ms. Vanderhaul. As I'm sure you are aware, there are certain events which have transpired between the two of us which make it incredibly difficult for me to focus on my work."

"I would appreciate at least a bit more effort on your part, Mr. Luthor."

"Lex."

"Mr. Luthor."

"Alexander?"

"Mr. Alexander Luthor, if you are so insistent." I roll my eyes.

"Sarah-"

"Don't." She struggles to speak, eyes falling in desperation. "I need you to try to let me forget. Please." I let my eyes trail to my screen where a game of online solitaire waits for me. A cold wave of anxiety overcomes me, sliding its icy fingers along my esophagus. I gulp, trying to squash the feeling. Before I know what I'm doing, I'm grabbing my coat and heading to my car.

I need to drive.

I need to get so far away that I'll have to buy a stamp just to form a thought about Sarah. My lips tingle thinking of her name, not knowing whether to shape the word or pucker. I peel out at a speed far above the limit. The last time I drove this fast, I was soon careening off the side of a bridge.

Maybe it's the thought of Clark on that day that sends me down his road, finally stopping just off of the dirt road in a patch of tall, withering grass.

There's a wood chipper blaring away, making a seemingly quiet countryside tremble in its intrusion. Clark is surprised to see me. His arms are slick with sweat as he reaches to turn off the chipper. "Lex?" He's peering at me through that mop of hair, concern lining his brow.

"Don't stop on my account. Please, get on with your chorin'." He doesn't turn back to the chipper, instead he removes his thick gloves, tossing them on a nearby bench and gesturing towards the main house, as if to guide me there. Instead, I plant my heels and study the chipping paint of the groaning machine as it powers down.

"C'mon Lex, he's not home." I don't acknowledge that I understand who he's referring to, but I do dislodge my heels and begin to walk towards the house. The house is cramped, doilies lining a wooden table and jars of preserves stacked along a ledge in the kitchen. The home is small, but so lovely in its construction of coziness that I found my lacking in its completeness.

Clark's massive size makes it hard for him to maneuver around the kitchen, lumbering towards the sink so he could clean his hands and assume some semblance of presentability.

"How's the arm doing?" He throws over his shoulder, keeping his eyes on his hands and the running water.

"Great. I'll have to thank your father in some way. Any chance he'd accept a new pick up truck?" Clark perks up at the mention of the four wheeler. He's always been more receptive to my gifts than his father. But a truck is hard to hide, and Clark seems to realize this.

"You know him."

"Not through personal experience, however I'm starting to piece him together."

"He just doesn't operate like that." Clark is too kind to outwardly admit how much his father hates me.

I know why he does. I am a constant reminder of my father. To Mr. Kent, a son is a perfect copy of the father. Though the son is separate, he is also one in the same. With Clark as a son, I can see why. While Clark may have his own mind and soul, their orientation is supremely dictated by the words and ways of his father. It has only been with me that Clark seems to stray from his father's core beliefs. With me, Clark indulges his love of shiny cars and begins to embrace life in a way his father would probably deem "reckless". This only worsens Mr. Kent's hatred for me. I'm the devil who will lead his son astray.

Mr. Kent can't fathom the idea of independent identity. When he sees me, he sees my father's smile; lips placed carefully to hide our sharp jaws from the unsuspecting consumerist lambs. He sees a private school education and survival instinct which would put any inhabitant of the natural world to shame. When he looks at me, Mr. Kent sees my world of gray and can separate the hue into the black and white of its makeup. I tell him and myself that he is wrong, that I have somehow surpassed the grooming and genetic configuration of my sense of self, that I am, indeed, quite altered from the generations before me. But part of me knows this to be wrong. There is a snarl which lives in the back of my throat and a taste for lying which coats my tongue in a familiar flavor.

"How is Sarah doing?" My fingers flex at the sound of her name but I refuse to give away what I'm feeling.

"She's good. She went home pretty soon after you guys did. Poor girl. She's dealing with much more than her pay." Clark chuckles at this.

"It must be hard, moving to the middle of nowhere, only to have to deal with our weirdness." His shoulders slump in sympathy.

"Yeah. She might have been better off staying wherever the fuck she came from."

"I mean, if that were true, I bet she'd be there instead. She doesn't seem like the type to make herself miserable for no reason." Now it's my turn to laugh.

Because it's so incredibly wrong. Because if that were true, she would have not shown up to work this morning.

"Clark, I'm glad we're friends." I mean it, too. I look at him and I know I can be good. It is while I'm pondering the goodness of my friend that I hear a soft knock at the door.

Lana's outside, her hair shining in the golden light of a fading afternoon. She smiles sweetly at Clark, who's fumbling for words until he finally sputters out a pathetic "hey". She returns his greetings, her eyes squinting to accommodate her lifting cheeks. Clark's own cheeks have become shaded a fire-truck red, the color sweeping from his nose to the tips of his ears. He looks down at her and I am sure that if he had a tail, no vase would be safe from its wagging. He tumbles over a stiff invitation into the foyer, which is met with a giggling "thank you". They are so enamored with each other that it isn't until I smack Clark on the back that they notice me.

"Lex! Right. Lana, Lex, what can I do for you both?"

"Oh, well, I don't mean to intrude, I can always come back later." Lana tries to head for the door but I steer her towards the couch, one broken in by massive weights such as Mr. Kent, Clark, and their picture perfect golden retriever.

"Nonsense, I'm sure you would actually be quite a help."

"What with?"

"Well, I think I may have accidentally seduced my PA." Clark finally snaps his head away from looking at Lana to fix a glare on me. I didn't know his eyes could do that.

"Sarah?"

"Well, seeing as she's the only PA I have, I'd assume it's her."

"Have you slept with her?" Lana sits, looking at me expectantly, her hands folded in her lap.

"No. I haven't even kissed her." A technical truth.

"Then what's the problem? As long as you don't do anything, it should work out." I suck in a breath through my teeth.

"Well, now, I didn't say I haven't done anything." Lana's nose crinkles in disgust as she looks at the living room table, eyes tracing the scalloped edges.

"I don't know if I want to hear this, Lex."

"It's nothing drastic, Lana. Weren't you a cheerleader? I should think you've heard far worse than a little hickey story." Her eyes widen and she turns to me, flipping her hair over her shoulder.

"You're disgusting, Lex. Sarah's a good person, she deserves someone nice." She's seething and awe-inspiring in this light, her eyes sharp.

At moments like these Lana makes me glad I'm not Clark. Clark could never incite this type of anger from her. If I were gentle like him, I'd never get to see her like this, disdain turning her soft features sharp and terrifying. It's one of the most gorgeous things I've ever seen.

But then her words sink in and I'm left low, sinking into the floor until I have to fight to keep my head above the worn down rug. Because it's not only Mr. Kent who sees the beast inside, it's Lana too.

Before I know what I'm doing, I'm crashing out of the front door, slamming the screen door on my way out. I barely notice Clark yelling after me, anger and shame boiling inside of me. I drive home, to the cold expanse of my office.

Sarah's gone.

I walk over to her computer to find a white envelope on the keyboard with my name on it.