Beautifully Damaged (Contemporary Romantic Suspense)

by Faye, Amy

  It sounded good to him. In his mind, it was as good a plan as they could possibly get. Now if only that plan were going to all work out the way that they wanted, they might really be able to turn this around.

  They'd better, or else it was all going to go bad. He couldn't afford another embarrassment like they'd suffered tonight. Not if he wanted to keep the momentum going.

  And once the momentum was lost, once they had a few bad nights, it was only going to get worse. Whatever energy they'd managed to gather over the past few weeks would be gone, and his Presidential hopes along with it.

  Chapter Thirty-Six

  The first step of anything major that Adam Quinn had done in decades was makeup. If he had his way, then they would have been able to skip that step. But they couldn't, in spite of his preferences. Because there were things that people did because of tradition, and there were things that were done because they were smart. And in the case of makeup, well… it was the smart thing.

  People can think clearly, if they try hard. But most of the time, they don't. They prefer to use their intuition, and their intuition tells them that a good-looking person won't lie to them. It's not logical, but it makes sense.

  Nobody casts an ugly hero in a film, because ugly people aren't heroic. It's a sad statement on the world, and the people in it. The better that Adam looks, the better that people will receive his ideas. There's no way around it. It's a simple reality.

  He closes his eyes as a heavy makeup brush smacks him several times in the eyes. An unfortunate, unavoidable part of the job. His job, first and foremost, is to succeed. As a businessman, he has to find ways to get people to accept his policies, get people to buy his products, and scrape the hard edges off of his personality, just enough that people aren't offended by a womanizing playboy.

  That's what some called him. More would do it, if he didn't play nice. But again, it is his job to do so. And he does his job, whether it's to wear makeup or to stand on his head.

  "Lin, do you have those teleprompter edits I asked for?"

  He opens his eyes in spite of the battering brush. Linda appears before him like an angel.

  "They're in."

  "Good."

  Linda's a little breathless. "You're on in ten."

  "Go me," he answers, with less enthusiasm than either of them would probably have wanted. There's a weight in the air. It's the weight of the very real question of what's going to happen if things don't turn around for this. If they don't get people energized.

  There are no second chances in politics. He could run again, but he won't. Most people never do, and the rare occasion that they do, it's almost never with a star that burns as brightly as the first time. People don't like a loser, and it only takes one.

  In Adam's case, all that goes double. When he announced, two months ago, he was a joke candidate. Or, at least, that was what everyone said. He was never going to be serious, and he shouldn't be taken seriously. But he'd insisted on being taken seriously in spite of all that.

  And if he kept it up, then eventually, they'd have to take him seriously. But if he failed this time around, then it wouldn't matter that he'd gone further than anyone ever thought he could. They'd take it as proof that they were right all along, and he was never going to amount to anything. People can win or lose—there are too many factors to ever be certain of anything.

  But if you lost because you were a born loser, because you were the wrong fit… Well, he would be branded a born loser. The way they'd tried for years to do already. And he'd never recover, not in politics.

  The woman working on his hair runs a last couple of brushes through, and then steps back to admire her work. Adam doesn't get a look. They're in a hurry, as the deadlines creep closer and closer. A heavy brush hits his shoulder, slapping off any dandruff that might have fallen down onto the shoulder of his jacket.

  And then they're pulling out the paper jabbed under his collar to catch any stray hair, giving him one last look, and waving. He closes his eyes another moment to put his head back where it needs to be. Deep breath and out into the crowd. It feels like being thrown to the lions.

  He opens his mouth to speak, the lights bearing down on him. His eyes hurt from the brightness, but as they adjust he can see the dozens of reporters waiting for him. It's a small group, compared to the speaking engagements he's used to, but a crowd nonetheless.

  And he already knows what's coming next.

  He can't have another big loss, and he's going to strike out if he sticks with the same old stuff.

  So this time, just once, Linda's not going to like it, but he's going to have to throw the press another curve-ball.

  Chapter Thirty-Seven

  Linda didn't regret not going onstage until the first microphone showed up in front of her face. The question was one that she didn't understand at first.

  "Is it true?"

  Her face screwed up in confusion. "Is what true? The conference, I think, spoke for itself."

  That was a lie. Or at least, it could have been a lie, because she didn't know. Maybe he'd been engaging in some kind of performance art, and none of it made a lick of sense to anyone. But that wasn't the Adam Quinn she'd known so far, and she suspected that it wasn't likely that he would suddenly start doing it now.

  Another voice spoke up this time. "When did the two of you start seeing each other?"

  And it was right around that moment that the entire world dropped into sharp clarity, as if she'd suddenly put on glasses for the first time after a lifetime of near-blindness.

  What the fuck Adam Quinn had been thinking when he'd decided to answer their inane questions, and what he'd been thinking when he decided to admit that it was in fact his campaign manager that he'd been seeing, well… it was done now.

  She tried to keep the screwed-up confusion on her face as best as possible, in spite of her new-found understanding of the question and why they were asking it.

  "Seeing each other?"

  A third voice. "Are you denying that the two of you are romantically involved, Miss Owens?"

  "I can't say," she snapped. "I need to consult with Mr. Quinn and the rest of my team before I answer any questions."

  "But you're not denying it, then?"

  The way that they looked at her was like a pack of dogs looks at a piece of steak being dangled in front of them, after days of hunger. No, in their case, days was wrong. It hadn't been days for them. It had been weeks of starving. Almost three weeks now.

  They'd wanted it so bad they could taste it, and now here she was.

  She didn't answer the question, so another voice called out. The crowd was slowly gathering around her as she walked, microphones and digital recorders and cell phones being pushed close to her face, so they could get as much of whatever she was going to say as possible, as soon as possible.

  "Did you get the job because you slept with him?"

  A fire lit up inside her, one that she should have snuffed and responded to professionally. She didn't.

  "No, I did not, and quite frankly, I resent the accusation, you—" She managed to cut herself off. She could almost imagine the grin on Tom's face if she'd gotten the whole thing out before her brain managed to hit the emergency shutoff. She'd have had to resign but Lord, would it have felt good when she said it.

  She took a step, and it was like trying to walk through a brick wall. Nobody moved. A hand reached through to grab her wrist, clothed in a dark suit and attached to a thick arm. She let him take her and pull her through as the crowd of reporters continued their feeding frenzy.

  "Are you alright?"

  Her hand moved automatically at the sound of his voice. His arm twisted and the slap stopped prematurely in midair.

  "You put him up to this, didn't you?"

  Tom pulled her through the halls quickly enough that she was having trouble keeping up. She forced her legs to keep moving in spite of it. There was no other choice, after all. She'd either follow, or she would be dragged, but he gave no in
dication that there was any choice in between.

  He didn't answer right away, and she didn't repeat the question. A woman in a red skirt-suit saw her and the glint of recognition in her eyes hit her in the gut as she slapped the belly of the man beside her, who hefted a camera onto his shoulder and started moving before his face showed any understanding.

  They went through a door and Tom closed it up behind. His voice growled low. "Are you okay? Did you say anything?"

  "I know better than that, Delaney."

  He looked genuinely concerned for a moment, and the way his eyes bored into her made her knees want to buckle under her. The thumping in her chest wasn't entirely from the adrenaline pumping through her after trying to escape. Even now, down the hall, she could hear the woman's cursing at the lost opportunity.

  "You do know better, don't you?"

  She pressed her back against the wall and took a deep breath, trying to still the beating of her heart just a little bit. Then he leaned in close to her, and instead of slowing down, it just sped up. Skipped a beat. And as he leaned in closer still, her knees shook, and she didn't stop him.

  Not until her phone beeped in her pocket.

  Chapter Thirty-Eight

  Linda watched Adam's face as he read, and she was surprised to see the lack of response there. He should have been thinking… something. Anything.

  But he wasn't. No emotions at all, as his eyes scanned the page. Then he started back at the top and went slower. His eyes moved less, focused more on the words.

  And then he got to the bottom of the page and looked up, tossing the paper onto the table where it was promptly forgotten about, as if she had never given it to him.

  "What's this?"

  "You read it, you tell me."

  "It's a joke, is what I read," he says, and pushes his chair back. "You know I'm not going to accept that."

  Linda's eyes closed. "You're going to have to accept it, Mr. Quinn."

  "Not if I have anything to say about it, I don't."

  Linda's posture should have been more stand-offish. It would make her look more serious about this. But the truth was, she was tired, and she just didn't know what she could do any more.

  So she'd done what needed to be done in the light of the new revelations about her possible dating status: she'd handed in her resignation.

  "If I don't come in tomorrow, then you don't have much of a say in anything."

  "No," he agreed reluctantly. "I suppose that I don't."

  "Then we're in agreement."

  "Not so far," he answered. Unhappily, she noted. Well, his happiness wasn't her business. She had to do what was smart for her, rather than what he wanted her to do. "Is this some sort of martyr thing? You think you have to resign, for the media image or something?"

  She took a deep breath. "No, but if it was, are you saying I'd be wrong?"

  "I'm saying that right or wrong doesn't matter. It's not about doing what the people want you to do. It's about deciding what needs doing, and then convincing people they want it."

  Her eyes drift shut for a moment. What the hell was he talking about? Did he even know himself? Because she sure as hell didn't understand him. If the public reaction didn't matter, why was she even needed?

  "I don't believe that, sir."

  He frowned. "You don't have to believe it, if you don't want to. I can prove it if needed. No belief required."

  "Why hire me, if you don't need to control the reaction?" Linda's voice cracked a little bit. A momentary lapse of self-control. She got it back a moment later and tightened her arms in front of her.

  He looked at her impassively. "I didn't say I didn't need to control it. I said that their initial impression didn't matter, and they'd react the way that we made them react. I need to control them just as much as anyone."

  "Then at least why don't you consult me? I've been left out of several major decisions lately—"

  "Is this about the speech yesterday?"

  "Not entirely," Linda answers. There's a tone in his voice that puts her immediately on the defensive. What right does he have to challenge her, in the first place?

  "But that's part of it, right?"

  "So what?"

  "So nothing. I just want to know what the score is."

  "Yes, that's part of it."

  "I can fix it," he says. He says it like he means it, but does he even know what the problem is? Does he really know?

  "I don't think you can, Adam. I don't think you're capable of it."

  "Let me prove you wrong."

  She lets out a long breath. "No. I'm moving on, Adam, before I'm the Capitol Hill slut, who just wants to sleep her way to the top."

  He frowns. It stings to see him looking even the slightest bit upset, but there's no room for sympathy, when it's her career on the line. His eyes bore into her, and in spite of all the time that she's spent with him, she still feels it deep down, and a shiver shoots down her spine.

  "I don't want you to go," he says. His voice is flat and there's no hint of begging, but even still, she feels a tug to give him what he wants. Her jaw tightens again.

  "I'm sorry, Adam. I've made my decision."

  The door on the way out is heavier than usual, but she forces it open, and the air rushing in as she does hits her hard and runs down her nose, down her throat, and right into a pit that's opened up in her stomach. She's got to figure out what to do next, because the damage is already done.

  Now she's just got to figure out how to undo it. Somehow.

  Chapter Thirty-Nine

  The part of him that felt numb was the worst part of all. Somewhere inside him, some part wanted to be floored by Linda's departure. But he simply wasn't. He kept going, the same as he always did.

  It didn't sting the way that he'd wanted. The way that it had before. Maybe it was the time. Maybe a few months wasn't enough for her to dig her claws into his heart and when she pulled them loose, inevitably, there wasn't enough meat there to be pulled out.

  But there wasn't enough to hurt the way he wanted to hurt. He just felt… empty. Tired. Something in his chest asked whether it was time to pack it in. Maybe he was just desperate at this point, forcing himself to keep going towards a finish line that wasn't particularly close.

  People had been telling him since he first suggested the idea, years and years ago, that there was no chance. There was no making the switch from the business world to the political world, and if you wanted to do it, you had to do it the right way. Work your way up the ladder, pay your dues, and ease your way into it.

  Adam Quinn never had any special interest in becoming a Senator. He never wanted to be Mayor or Governor, and the truth was, he didn't want to become President, either. If someone else had come along, someone who would do the job justice, then he'd have stayed out. Happily stayed out.

  But they hadn't come along. Things had just gotten worse, and they'd been getting worse since he'd shown up one day as a weird tech-kid in California. Never getting better.

  Everyone on the street knew it. Nobody needed to tell them, even as the news was saying how everything was turning around, and this would finally be the time that things would get better instead of worse. Might as well have had the news anchors personally kick everyone in the shins, because it had done equally good for them.

  Adam closed his eyes. There was no alternative to just running, and trying like hell to make sure that he won in the end.

  Sure, he'd like to quit. Sure, he'd like to just go home. And there was nothing, fundamentally, wrong with that. Plenty of other people, good people, had walked away when there was a brick wall in front of them that they couldn't climb over. But something in his gut told him he wouldn't, and sure enough, he didn't.

  There would be other opportunities. He just had to work harder, think smarter, and somehow, he'd be able to replace the work Linda had been doing.

  That burned, as well. She was good at what she did, and he didn't want to take that away from her. She'd do as good a job as
he could possibly do, she'd do it in half the time, and he'd be able to work on other things. He'd much rather have her than not.

  But as much as he'd like to be able to say that he couldn't work without her, he wasn't about to lie. He could do it without her. He could do it without Tom. He couldn't do it without both of them, not likely. But he could do without one or the other without killing himself working.

  She deserved to be a lynch-pin. Something he couldn't do without. If that person existed, Adam Quinn hadn't found them yet. He could do any of the work he needed done. The problem wasn't flexibility. It was time.

  Even with twenty working hours in the day, he couldn't be everyone, all the time. He could only be so many people.

  He settled into the couch. Tom lounged on another nearby. Both of them had large pads of paper set on their laps, though Adam had a laptop open beside him, and he had one eye and his left hand making sure that it was being used regularly. There was too much work to be done to avoid multitasking, especially before he'd found a decent replacement for Linda. If one could even be found.

  The press wasn't totally negative, for once. They tried to attack him, of course. There was no way around that. But they looked weak. Ineffectual. He was winning again. Their attacks wouldn't stick, and that was all he needed. He didn't need to get away with murder. Just be able to avoid negative coverage as much as possible.

  Linda's picture flashed on-screen. The part of his brain that registered problems started working on fixing it immediately, and another pang of guilt hit him square in the chest. He'd already moved on to solving the problem of how he'd deal with public breakup.

  When it was just him, there was no problem. Now that he was Adam Quinn, Presidential Hopeful, he had to deal with other problems. But, with some disappointment, he couldn't help thinking that he would manage it without too much difficulty.