by Alice Ward
“Forget nothing. You need to get that seen to. We can’t have you in front of the camera today looking like you came in second in a prizefight.”
I knew his interest was less fatherly concern and more his obsession with the image Cameron Brice displayed to the world. The worst thing a Brice could project, in my father’s eyes, was… Weak. Loser.
And that’s just what this injury did.
I looked up from my computer, then checked my watch. It was already nine. “Too late to move the meetings elsewhere. But I should have Bob cancel the Girl Scouts. It’s not safe for them.”
My father rolled his eyes. “Fuck the Girl Scouts, boy. Do you understand the importance of these meetings?”
I spoke through gritted teeth. “Of course I do.”
“Environmentalist support was a long shot anyway. Let’s shore up our alliance with these people, and then those people outside won’t matter. I need to know you’re ready—”
“Mr. Brice?” The intercom buzzed with Bob’s voice. “Your nine o’clock is here.”
I studied my father stoically, waiting for him to finish his thought. It wasn’t anything I hadn’t heard before, as he kept repeating the same directives to me over and over again, like I was his puppet on his string. My father just waved it away and let out a grumble of annoyance. I knew he didn’t think I was ready.
“Okay,” I finally said. “We’ll be right there. And Mr. Simmons?”
“Yes?”
“Can you postpone the Girl Scout troop event to the week after Memorial Day? Tell them I’m awfully sorry, but to apologize, I’ll be on hand to give them a personal tour.”
“Yes, sir.”
My father rolled his eyes and straightened his tie, and I knew what he was thinking. Fuck those Girl Scouts already! You have much bigger fish to fry. “I’ll hold the builders off. Get your shit together, and I’ll see you in there.”
He threw open the door, preparing to walk out, but stopped short, held up by an obstacle in his way. He maneuvered around the barrier without a word. I looked up to see the new clerk huddled in the doorway, clutching a pile of towels and an ice pack to her chest, and chewing nervously on her bottom lip. She stood at the threshold for a long moment, waiting to be invited in. I motioned her toward me without a word.
What was her name? I caught a glance at the front of her sweater when she placed the towels on my desk. Kittens… in… sweaters? It was so hideous, I doubted most thrift stores would take it. Her stringy hair fell in her face as she pushed her giant glasses up over the bridge of her nose and caught sight of my bruise. “Oh! Are you okay?”
“Fine,” I said dismissively. My eyes trailed to her hands, which were just about the only part of her body left bare. The old lady outfit couldn’t hide that she had pretty hands, young hands, hands that did not belong in the picture she’d drawn of herself. Here she was, masquerading as a librarian of fifty when she couldn’t be a day over thirty. Perhaps she was even younger. I scanned up to her lightly pinked cheeks, watching them turn a deeper shade of red. Her skin was flawless, not a pore to be seen. It intrigued me, but I had a meeting to get to, and I was already in a bad mood.
I reached for the ice pack, bringing it to my temple, and winced as an ice-cold shot of pain surged straight through my skull, making me see stars. “Ah, shit.”
I felt a hand on mine, smooth and cool, prying the ice pack out from my fingers, and was surprised when I found her next to me. She smelled faintly of a scent I hadn’t come in contact with in forever... mothballs? My grandmother used to use those, I remembered with a wave of nostalgia. What was it doing on her? Had she pulled her wardrobe from her grandmother’s closet?
She motioned to me to sit on the edge of the desk, took one of the towels, wrapped it around the pack, and lifted it to my temple. It was tolerable that way. The pain soon subsided as she tended to it, gently patting the side of my head, my awkward little nursemaid. I noticed another dichotomy — she seemed shy and awkward but had confidence with an injury, as if she’d tended to many in her lifetime. Like Cassandra, with her imitation pearls, there was something about this woman that wasn’t quite hitting the mark, and again, I felt an inexplicable urge to unravel her layers. To see what was hiding under that hideous sweater.
“Thanks,” I said, shifting on the edge of the desk in an effort to quell my cock’s sudden twitching. Her name came to me, and I fought to keep my expression benevolent rather than leering. “How are you, Miss Wilkes?”
“Okay.” She heaved in a breath as she blotted the sore, and I could see beyond the spectacles for the first time, her blue eyes. Eyes as arresting as the woman I couldn’t get out of my mind. But unlike Cassandra, my little clerk wore no makeup although her lashes were long and sensuous on their own. I wasn’t doing a good job at not leering, obviously, because she cleared her throat and pointed outside. “That’s a nasty bruise, Mr. Brice. Did you fall?”
I shook my head, smirking, and out poured the charm I usually saved for when I wanted to bed a girl. I had no idea why. “Got into a fight with a frog. Actually, turns out our friends outside are not really all that friendly.”
Her eyes widened, but other than that, no reaction. No giggle, no coy blush. Oddly, she was as oblivious to my charm as she was to fashion. “The protesters? They hit you?”
“Well, not exactly.” I took the pack from her and sat up. “People don’t like me that much. But you should know that.”
She stopped blotting the bruise and blinked. “I should?”
“The tweets you’ve been compiling.”
“Oh. Yes. If you forgive me for saying so, Mr. Brice, they hate you. What did you do to them?”
She said it so simply, it took me aback. I stared at her, indignant. “Me? Nothing.”
“Would they be out there if you’d done nothing?” It was an innocent question, but I couldn’t help the feeling of irritation it wove under my skin.
She was right. But I’d done what had to be done. I couldn’t waffle or sit in the middle. That was called ineffectual. As a leader, I needed to make my mark, to affect change, and if others suffered, at least the greater good prevailed.
I turned. She was staring at me, wanting to know the answer.
“I got into politics because I wanted to help people,” I said, inspecting my face in the mirror. The puffiness at my temple seemed to have quieted a bit. “The problem is, when you help some people, others get hurt. Even when you think you’re doing a good job, you learn that other people are suffering from your decision. It’s difficult to find a situation where everyone wins.”
“So you did hurt them,” she observed, crossing her arms over her kittens.
“Apparently.”
My father’s jovial voice echoed down the corridor. Why was I defending myself to my clerk when I had an important meeting to get to?
The answer… no one had ever asked me that so directly.
I dealt with two people these days — those who wanted something from me and those who hated me. The former did nothing but flatter me while the latter did nothing but hurl insults. No one had ever spoken to me rationally about my stance, about why I’d been compelled to make these decisions. Still another dichotomy in the Mystery of the Clerk. Normally meek, her gaze was now hard on me, probing, wanting to know. And if I had a few hours, maybe I could tell her. But right now, I had a group of people ready to flatter me in the other room.
I held up the ice pack and nodded. “Thanks for your assistance.”
Her lips turned up in what was the beginnings of a smile. “Anytime.”
After she spun around and left me alone in my office, I started to compile my file for the meeting that was waiting for me, but a knot had formed in my stomach. That was what I’d gotten into politics for, wasn’t it? It wasn’t just to follow in my father’s footsteps or finally get a Brice into the White House. I’d gone to Harvard Law School wanting, like all wide-eyed optimists, to make the world a better place. And yet, the truth was, no one agree
d what “better” was. Compromise always seemed so evasive.
Setting the file down, I took out my phone and opened up the photo I’d snapped late last night of my latest work. Painting was more of a hobby to me than anything else. I hadn’t always been into art, but I found in college that it helped me to think, release tension. The work I’d done last night was clearly my best yet. The woman on the canvas was stretched out upon the sofa, back arched so that her nipples pointed to the sky, her limbs spread wide, her sunshine-blonde hair falling loosely on her shoulders.
I had to hand it to me, I’d captured the rise of her breasts perfectly, so perfectly, even the painting was intensely arousing. God, she was exquisite. I licked my lips as I studied the way the orange light had cast a perfect, warm aura on her skin. The more I thought of her, lying on that bed, bared to me, the more I realized that no painting could ever do justice to the luminescence of her hair, the sensuous curve of her hips. The way the field of little platinum hairs beneath her navel had contrasted with the pink, seashell tones of her skin. A deep yearning began to bloom inside me.
I needed to see her.
I needed to go back to The Black Room and see if she was there. Maybe, somewhere out there, she was sharing this yearning and planned on returning despite her affirmation that she would not.
I wasn’t sure how I managed to cope with the rest of the day, but I slogged through meeting after meeting, checking the clock only about a thousand times. I worked late, through dinner, to nearly midnight, only powering down my laptop after I knew the rest of the headquarters would be empty and I wouldn’t have to see anyone else. I called for George, then washed up, noting the red abrasion was barely visible. Changing my shirt and jacket, I reached into my briefcase to ensure the mask was still there. It was, just where I’d left it. It was a risk, certainly, going to the same club twice, but I had to take it. It was late night, when only the freaks came out, and I planned to be one of them.
I was surprised when I stepped out of my office and noticed a light illuminating Violet’s desk. I approached her quiet form. She was sitting behind her desk, huddled over her own phone. She jumped even before I could say her name.
“Oh!” She turned to me, her magnified eyes even larger behind the thick glasses.
“You’re dedicated,” I observed, arranging the collar of my suit jacket.
“Um. Yes.” I tried to spy what she was working on, but she closed out of the window on her phone before I could. Was she hiding something? “Did you get the report I sent you?”
I nodded. I had. It had been a red-letter day for me on Twitter. “I especially liked that one from that women’s group that wants to cut off my dick for my pro-life views. That’s certainly kind.”
Her eyes widened. I immediately felt bad for being so vulgar. I decided to change the subject.
“You don’t have a… husband to go home to? Kids?” Okay, yes, I was fishing. But I was intrigued.
“Oh, no,” she said with a titter, the way a younger girl would, as if it were the most ridiculous idea imaginable. She looked like she might say more but then bit her tongue. “Er, no.”
“But it’s Friday. No fun plans for the weekend?”
She shook her head, the blush returning to her cheeks. Her voice was low and stiff. “I don’t like to have fun.”
I snorted. “How is that possible? What do you do on the weekends?”
She looked away. “Read. And…” She strained a little, as if she was afraid I might laugh at her answer. “Needlepoint.”
I nodded, suppressing a smile. “Those are good hobbies. I like to read myself. What do you like to read?”
She blinked. God, this was like pulling teeth. “Women’s fiction,” she mumbled.
Shut down again. I couldn’t say I read much of that. It was clear this woman did not want to talk with me. I started to venture another question when she cut me off.
“I’m mostly concerned with doing my job well and earning your approval,” she said. “I don’t have time for fun.”
Or conversation, obviously.
“Well, maybe you find work fun. There are many ways to have fun…” I started, stopping mid-sentence as the strangest feeling of déjà vu settled over me. I realized it was because I’d had a similar conversation with Cassandra not four days ago, before I’d shown her what my brand of fun really was.
Cassandra.
My cock twitched.
The mousy girl sat there, not contributing more, eyes still wide, likely from my “dick” comment. She was obviously the uptight kind of woman who didn’t know how to have fun and wanted to remain in the shadows for some mysterious reason. I could’ve stayed and tried to worm my way into her head, and though I had the inclination, there was a better mystery waiting for me in Jersey, in The Black Room. It might be for nothing because Cassandra had said she’d never return, but it was a step closer to her, and the only chance I had to quell the burning inside me.
“Good night, Miss Wilkes,” I said, giving her a curt nod.
When I stepped outside into the dark night, the protesters had long since dispersed, but there were cars parked up and down the street, patrons of the bar next-door. I broke into a run when I saw George drive past, looking for a place to pull to the curb. I finally caught up with him a block away.
Interestingly enough, when we drove past the headquarters a minute later, the windows were completely dark. Violet was already gone.
CHAPTER NINE
Brooke
Don’t get excited. He’s not going where you think he’s going, I told myself, my hands gripping the steering wheel tighter as I followed the limo, three cars back.
But we were headed away from his apartment, toward the river. The rush hour was long over, and now, I could see the lights of that dying city across the river, sparkling in the distance, making Camden look, dare I say, magical, like a place of refuge. My heart skipped several beats when the driver pulled up the ramp for the Ben Franklin Bridge. I tore off the spectacles, as if they’d been deceiving my eyes.
He is. He’s going to Camden. Sitting straight up in my seat, I ripped the wig off my head, tousling my hair from its bun, gazing at myself in the rearview mirror so intently that I nearly rear-ended the car in front of me.
My hair was a mess, yes, but that was the least of my problems. I was wearing Violet’s fashion-victim attire since I hadn’t planned to make a stop at a club tonight. Not that I was planning to go inside. No. I could simply photograph him outside. That was the half-formed plan swimming in my head, and yet, before I’d finished crossing the bridge, I knew I wouldn’t stop at that.
Which was why, as I drove, I wiggled out of the old kitten cardigan. I was only wearing a black camisole, but I had no other choice. I rolled out of the giant brown corduroy skirt while stopped at a traffic light, and found a bandeau in my gym bag that I’d been using as a headband during my sparring workouts. Stretched out enough, it could pass for a skimpy skirt. Riffling around in the back seat, I found a pair of ballet flats to replace the Easy Spirits. The resulting outfit was all black, skintight, and bared much more skin than I was used to, but it was the best that I could do in a pinch.
I was just painting my lips red when his limo slowed down at the Save-All. As the door opened, I quickly sped around the block, finding a spot on the street, closer to the club. Grabbing my bag and camera, I hurried toward the cement courtyard, stopping in a narrow alley behind a dumpster. Doing my best to ignore the rancid smell of garbage, I lifted the camera to my eye, focusing as I aimed it toward the place Cameron had emerged from last time. Just in time, I saw him sweeping down the narrow alley, and making sure no one was watching, pulling the Guy Fawkes mask from the inside of his jacket. He fixed it on, but I was already busy snapping. I snapped and snapped until he disappeared into the doors beneath The Black Room sign.
I looked down at myself. It was a chilly night, and I had goosebumps all over my bare legs and arms. My nipples were poking out, stiff beneath the thin fabric
of my top, making me feel exposed. What I needed to do, of course, was get into my car and go home. I’d gotten what I’d come for, after all.
But deep down inside, something whispered, That wasn’t what you came for, was it?
Of course it was, I told myself angrily. These pictures might not be the end of his career, but at least they’d give the media something to talk about. And they’d give Owen more than enough ammunition to win me a shot at the FBI. I tried to convince myself that the thrill coursing through my bloodstream was just the excitement of victory.
But I’d expected victory would come with satisfaction. Completion. Instead, I’d never felt a deeper need.
I opened my bag and started to slide the camera inside when I saw something half buried by my makeup bag and a pack of spearmint gum.
The mask.
I pulled it out, studying it. Then, shivering with the excitement of having his eyes, warm and desirous, on me again, I slipped it over my head.
I waited for something to pull me back to reason, to bring me away from the edge. But no, the longer I stood there, breathing in the chilly night air, the more right this felt.
I was just crossing the courtyard to the entrance when a wind picked up, blowing my hair, and I instinctively reached up to hold my wig still. Wait, was I still wearing my wig? I cringed, remembering our awkward conversation. I hadn’t wanted to volunteer anything about myself, for fear I’d let something slip, so I’d given deliberately terse answers.
Needlepoint? I don’t like to have fun?
He’d been on to me, of course. Cameron Brice was brilliant. He was too smart to be fooled by me for long. Doubt filled me, along with a momentary desire to flee, to avoid being found out.
No, you want this too much. Checking myself, I took another step toward the club. Masked faces turned to me, and I knew there was desire in them. I saw the men eagerly running their eyes over my bare curves, and instead of feeling exposed, I suddenly felt something I never had before. I felt powerful.
