He smiled at me in the rearview mirror. “Sorry to hear that, miss.” He paused, his expression grandfatherly. “Man trouble?”
I nodded.
“Want to talk about it?”
I shook my head.
“Fair enough. Where to then, miss?”
I gave him my address. To my surprise, I found myself choking back tears.
“Pardon me, miss,” Dexter said, “I don’t believe I ever learned your name.”
“My name is Mud,” I said, faking a laugh that came out more as a croak.
Dexter flinched, then pulled the cab out onto the deserted street. “Miss, I know it’s none of my business, but in the past two days I’ve either driven you to or picked you up from some dangerous places. First to a seedy house in Columbia Heights first thing in the morning, and now somebody else’s apartment building in the middle of the night. Are you in some kind of trouble, miss?”
This time I laughed for real. “You have no idea.”
Dexter drove on in silence for a while. Then when we were a few blocks from my apartment building, the cab came to a stop at a red light. The grizzled old cabbie turned around to face me. “Miss, again I know it’s none of my business, but if you’re in some kind of trouble here in town, I happen to know a lot of important people. People who could probably do a lot for a nice young lady like you. You don’t drive a cab in Washington for as many years as I have without meeting at least a few folks who have their fingers on all the right buttons. If there’s anything I can do for you, you just give me a call. All right?”
I stared back at Dexter, stunned. How could this gentle old man possibly comprehend the mess I’d gotten myself into? There was no way. But I didn’t want to be rude, so I just said, “Thanks. I’ll take that under consideration.”
The light turned green, and Dexter crossed the intersection and turned the cab onto my street. He stopped the car in front of my building and shut off the meter. I dug in my purse for cash to pay the fare, but Dexter refused it.
“This one’s on me, miss,” he said. “And remember what I said. If you need anything, anything at all, all you have to do is pick up the phone and call me. All right?”
I nodded as I stepped out of the cab. “Thank you so much, Dexter. By the way, my name’s Jasmine,” I said. “Jasmine Rand.”
Dexter smiled. “That’s a helluva lot better than Mud,” he said, and drove off.
****
I collapsed into my bed as soon as I got home, but I only tossed and turned until my alarm went off at six. Rodney’s cold words and sinister expression back at his penthouse weighed too heavily on my mind to get any sleep. I got up as soon as the alarm sounded and headed straight for the shower. I turned the taps all the way over to “HOT” in hopes that the scalding water could chase away the ice-cold numbness that had crept into my limbs and groin, but to no avail.
I chose my work clothes and makeup for the day carefully. I didn’t want to risk running into Rodney Doyle (or anyone else of importance, for that matter) looking like my former frumpy self. I found a stylishly cut red blazer that I’d seldom worn because of its low neckline in the back of my closet, and paired it with a tight black pencil skirt. In a bold move, I decided to wear black silk stockings and my red fuck-me stilettos. I kept my makeup mostly muted except for some green eyeshadow, and I topped it off with a triple strand of glittering black onyx beads and matching dangly earrings. When I saw myself in the mirror, I was surprised to find that I was as well-groomed, fashionable, and attractive as any of the female anchors on CNN.
I hadn’t been grocery shopping for weeks, so I skipped breakfast and headed outside, figuring I could grab a bagel and coffee on my way in to the office. I’d have to drop by a newsstand to pick up all the morning editions, and the one closest to Senator Grayle’s office had a breakfast bar. I had a sinking feeling that there was going to be some very bad press for Senator Grayle this morning since he bailed on the rest of his senate term yesterday.
But I could deal with bad press. It was part of being a PR staffer, after all. Even if I was two-timing my soon-to-be dead-end PR job with a sleazy tabloid, I was still a seasoned professional who knew how to handle even the worst press day.
Or so I thought.
Nothing could have prepared me for what I found on the front page of every newspaper on display at the newsstand that morning. Nothing.
I stood in front of the rack of newspapers, bagel and coffee in hand, and felt the bottom drop out of my stomach.
Every Washington daily—from the Post to the Tribune and everything in-between—featured blown-up, grainy images of Senator Grayle and Mistress Violet in the midst of yesterday’s wild sex play at the House of Flowers. There were two blurry photos featured side-by-side on every paper’s front page, underneath seamy headlines ranging from the Post’s SEX-OFFENDING SENATOR IN HOT WATER AGAIN to the Tribune’s SLEAZY SENATOR GRAYLE SEEN SUCKING UP TO YET ANOTHER SEX WORKER!
I recognized the first image immediately, because I had taken it with my cell phone. Whoever had deleted the images from my phone’s memory had made a point to download them to their own file source first. But it was the second image—and its caption—that really packed a punch.
The second photo—grainy and digital, probably taken with a cell phone as well—was of me.
My black mask was still in place, so it wasn’t obviously me as the person in the photograph. But that was the only thing I had on in the picture. Whoever had snapped the pic had caught me in the most undignified position possible, when I was spread-eagled against the wall with Mistress Violet’s Rabbit shoved up my vag. There were little black boxes placed over the most explicit parts, but even with those in place it was clear to any onlooker what I was up to.
And even though I was still in disguise in the photo, and therefore should have been unidentifiable, it was pretty clear that whoever had stolen the pics knew exactly who I was, since the caption below the second photo in every paper’s morning edition positively identified me as “Jasmine Rand, longtime publicist for Senator Grayle’s office.” My round, fleshy, size-fourteen ass was positively identified in each and every local and national newspaper for the entire Washington DC metro area to view and enjoy with their morning coffee.
Every paper.
Even the Beltway Times.
In fact, the Times had even made a point to make my photo larger and less grainy than Grayle’s.
Rodney Doyle and his sleazy tabloid had betrayed me. He’d used me.
The fucking bastard.
In shock and disgust I dropped my coffee mug, splashing my scalding morning joe all over the piles of newspapers and onto my own shins and feet. Heads turned all over the shop, but I turned and ran rather than clean up. I couldn’t risk any of those people recognizing the lower half of my face or body from the photos and putting two and two together.
“Hey! Lady!” the shop owner shouted after me as I ran away. “You’ll pay for those!”
Yes, I will, I thought as I bolted out onto the street. In more ways than one.
Rebecca found me in my cubicle an hour later, my head face-down on my desktop. I looked up and saw she carried several morning newspapers under her arm. I noticed the one on top was my hometown newspaper from North Dakota, the Bismarck Register. It apparently had picked up the story from the wires; the headline read “LOCAL WOMAN CAUGHT UP IN GRAYLE SEX SCANDAL.”
“So you’ve heard,” I groaned.
She pulled up a chair and sat down beside me. “Jasmine, it’s not the end of the world,” she said, and patted me softly on the shoulder.
“No, just the end of my life.” I started banging my head hard against the desktop. I figured I might as well try to hasten the inevitable.
“Look at the bright side,” Rebecca said. “It’s pretty obvious from the photograph that you had some great sex.”
I shrugged. “Ha. A lot of difference that makes now.”
Rebecca forced me to sit up. “Jasmine, you aren’t the first
person on earth to get caught in the act. Believe me.”
“Maybe not, but I am the first person on earth to get caught in the act on the front page of every major newspaper in the country.”
Rebecca giggled. “Actually, no, you’re the second. The first person was our boss.”
Even I had to chuckle at that. “At least he’s safe and sound in North Dakota now where nobody can bother him.”
“Not exactly,” Rebecca said. “If I know the people of Bismarck the way I think I do, he’s probably got an angry mob on his front lawn waiting to tar and feather him.”
“You’re probably right,” I sighed. “And that means I can’t exactly go back home myself, even if I wanted to. How can I face my parents now? They’ll be so embarrassed.”
“Maybe, maybe not,” Rebecca offered. “I think mostly they’ll be worried about you.”
I scoffed. “Yeah, right. You don’t know my parents. When it comes to things like this, they make Pat Robertson look liberal. They probably thought I was still a virgin.”
Rebecca smiled. “They weren’t too far off. You said yourself that until Rodney Doyle came along, you hadn’t had a date in over two years. That qualified you for born-again virgin status as far as I’m concerned.”
As far as I was concerned, too, I thought. “Yeah, and that’s how I got into this mess in the first place. I never would have gotten mixed up with that rat bastard Randy Doyle if I hadn’t been so desperate to get laid.”
“Do you think Rodney Doyle is behind this, then?”
“Of course he is!” I cried. “He’s the one who sent me to that stupid sex club to spy on Senator Grayle in the first place. And the photos are on the cover of his paper. He used me. I trusted him, and he used me.”
Rebecca’s face fell. “So you were going behind Senator Grayle’s back this whole time. I thought you were trying to help him. And us.”
I felt my cheeks go hot with shame. “Yes, I was. I admit it. I went behind Senator Grayle’s back because Rodney Doyle promised me a job to replace this one if I did some undercover work for him. And I figured I’d be out of a job soon, so I had to do something. And then of course there was the sex part, which I enjoyed. I know that what I was doing was wrong, but frankly, I didn’t see that I had any choice at the time.”
That didn’t seem to impress Rebecca very much. “You did have a choice. You could have chosen not to do it.”
“I know, I know. I’m sorry, Rebecca. I really, really am.” I stood up and gathered my things. “I should probably go now. I’m sure that after all that’s happened, I don’t have a job here anymore.”
Rebecca hesitated, then gave me a hug. “Jasmine, I’d be lying if I said that what you did didn’t upset me. But we’ve known each other a long time. I still consider you a friend. And as your friend, I’d like to say that I’m glad you had a good time with Rodney Doyle while it lasted. You were way past due for a good time if you ask me.”
I sighed. “Thanks, for saying so, but it doesn’t make me feel any less used.”
“Are you absolutely sure Rodney was behind all this?” Rebecca asked.
I threw up my hands. “Of course he was! Who else could possibly have done it?”
Rebecca frowned. “So you’re just making an assumption, then.”
“Well, I’d say it’s a pretty valid assumption. He owns the Beltway Times, after all. And the Times printed those pictures just like all the other papers did. I’m sure the whole reason he met up with me in the first place was with some kind of angle like this in mind. Then he made sure to get hold of those pictures from the sex club, and then sold the pictures to all the other papers, too. If he wasn’t directly in on the whole deal, he would have put a stop to it.”
Rebecca’s eyebrows raised. “Are you sure? One of his lower-level staff could have been responsible. I highly doubt Rodney personally edits and approves each and every issue of the Times. It could have slipped past him without his knowledge.”
I scoffed. “I highly doubt it.”
“Well, you’ll never know for sure unless you ask him yourself.”
I took my coat off the rack and laughed. “Yeah, right. I’d rather eat glass.”
Rebecca’s expression softened. I could see the pity in her eyes, and it made me uneasy. “I know it doesn’t sound like fun,” she said. “But after all you two have done together in the past two days, I think you should at least give the man a chance to explain himself. If he turns out to be a sleazy, slimy bastard who used you—fine. At least then you’ll know. But if you don’t confront him and find out the truth first-hand, I think you’ll regret it for the rest of your life.”
“More like I’ll regret meeting Rodney Doyle for the rest of my life,” I retorted. But I didn’t really believe it. Deep down, I knew Rebecca was right. I had to confront Rodney directly at some point, or I’d never forgive myself.
But I didn’t want to think about that right now. All I wanted to do was crawl under the biggest rock I could find and stay there forever.
****
I packed all my office supplies into a box and carried them home with me on the subway, along with the personal photos and a potted philodendron I’d kept on my desk for two years. I knew I could never show my face in Senator Grayle’s office again. I wasn’t going to wait around for him to fire me; I departed with what little dignity I had left.
I arrived at my building and trudged up to my apartment. It was hardly in the condition necessary to sustain me through the extended hibernation I felt I needed. My cupboards were bare—I hadn’t set foot in a grocery store in months. There were piles of dirty laundry everywhere and there was a huge stack of suits and blouses that I’d never found time to take to the dry cleaners in my closet. The bathroom was grimy and dirty, the carpets covered in dust and lint.
My apartment looked how I felt—soiled, used, and tired. But I couldn’t summon the energy to clean it up. I spent three hours on the sofa, staring at the carpet and feeling sorry for myself. I couldn’t even relax in front of the television, because no matter what channel I tuned it to, the regularly scheduled programming kept getting interrupted with the latest news on the “North Dakota Nooky” scandal, as it was being called now.When I flipped the TV to CNN, I was shocked to see a videotaped photo retrospective of my girlhood in North Dakota and my years in Washington. As the retrospective progressed, the news announcer wondered aloud how I’d somehow gone from being a wholesome, virginal, All-American girl to a two-bit whore with her naked butt exposed on national television.
God only knew how the news network had gotten hold of grainy pictures of me as everything from a cute toddler to gawky sixth-grade Girl Scout and skinny teenager with frizzy hair and braces to a tipsy sorority girl back at Georgetown. Most of the photos were ones I had never seen before, which made me wonder which one of my old grammar-school or college classmates had dug up those old photos out of their scrapbooks just so they could capitalize on the scandal and sell them for ready cash. I figured it probably had been Sadie Marshall, my old rival for the valedictorian slot of my high school class back in Bismarck, and also possibly Daphne Donaldson, my snobby sorority sister at Georgetown’s chapter of Alpha Chi Omega, who’d always been bitter about losing the election for chapter president to me our senior year. What a way for both of them to get revenge for petty squabbles that had happened decades ago!
Fed up with television, I skulked off to the shower. I needed to wash off what seemed to be layers and layers of scandal-laden filth off my body. I no longer felt like the exotic, sensual sexpot I had yesterday. Today, I just felt cheap.
I finished showering and wrapped myself in my favorite terrycloth robe. I gazed at myself in the steam-fogged mirror and despaired at what I saw. Huge black bags under my eyes. Mottled, blotchy skin. Lips pulled downward in what looked to be a permanent frown.
I guessed this was what miles of nonstop negative press attention could do to a person. No wonder Monica Lewinsky had put on so much weight after the Clinton
impeachment scandal hit.
Suddenly, the shoe was on the other foot. I’d spent my entire PR career working to elevate the politicians I worked for in the media solely by tearing down and mudslinging their opponents. And now, I was the one being torn down. I was the one having mud slung at her naked ass on television. I was the one being humiliated.
And I was sure that in some ways, I probably deserved it.
As I brushed out my damp hair I came to a realization. I could either sit home, stewing in my own juices and feeling sorry for myself and my pathetic situation, or I could do something about it. The only question was, what?
For the first time in my entire PR career, I was at a complete loss on what to do about a media disaster. I racked my brain for inspiration; after all, I’d rescued plenty of other Washington insiders whose careers went on the skids when scandal hit. I’d built an entire career around my skills as a damage-control expert, for Christ’s sake. How could I apply those skills to my own situation?
I honestly had no idea.
I headed for the kitchen to search for something to drink. If memory served, I still had a half-bottle of vodka in my otherwise empty freezer. I poured myself a glass and drank it straight because I had nothing in the house to mix it with. Within five minutes of guzzling the strong liquor, I finally got an idea. A rather crazy idea. An idea that I thought might not have an iceberg’s chance in Hades of working.
But it was the only hope I had at this point.
In order to get started, I needed to leave town and have a nice, long rest far away from Washington. But not too far. I had to be no farther than a short plane trip away, so I could get back quickly just in case my crazy plan worked.
I found my purse and dug through it until I found the dog-eared business card Dexter the cab driver had given me the day before. I’d need Dexter’s help in bringing my plan to fruition.
Chapter 14
Dexter came to pick me up for the airport only fifteen minutes after receiving my call. “I had a feeling you’d be calling me soon, Jasmine,” he said. “Tough break on the newspaper pictures. That’s some nasty luck, hon.”
Knights and Kink Romance Boxed Set Page 14
