~ Congressman Lance Boyd
Drew Stirling’s cell phone had chimed about forty minutes after she’d left the Congressman.
Incoming Text: Meet me at the Blackstone lower bar. 15 min.
Outgoing Text: Okay
Drew had gone straight to the Blackstone Hotel. She’d guessed correctly which bar he’d want to meet at and was already seated in a corner booth at Blackstone’s Fireside Lounge. The Blackstone was the obvious choice for a congressman in his home district not wanting to go home to the wife. It was upscale, discreet, and right across from the airport.
Lance Boyd walked in a few minutes later. He was no longer in his suit. He wore a casual navy blue sweater and dark-rimmed glasses. He’d changed the style of his hair just enough to not be instantly recognizable. He looked younger and more confident, if that was possible. Confidence minus the arrogance, which was sexy. He stopped briefly at the bar, talked to the bartender, and pointed towards Drew. Lance walked over and sat across from her. A server brought two drinks and left without comment.
“You enjoy Scotch, I hope?”
She smiled and sipped.
“You generally prey on young helpless women, Congressman?”
“Only the very pretty ones,” he answered.
Drew had known Lance for ten years, since she was seventeen. They first met when her father helped him finance his entrance into politics. She’d bantered and flirted with him on occasion in the past, but this was the first time they’d ever been alone. Drew had spoken politely to his wife at past events, but she was ambivalent about her and their marriage. Thinking of his wife reminded her of her own mother. She felt a mild sensation of pity mixed with a tad of revulsion. She didn’t think of her again.
Lance was an interesting man when he was out of his role of conservative politician doling out sound bites, platitudes, and false promises. She found herself amused by his stories of playing college football, late-night drinking parties, getting laid, and deciding to go into law. He had decided to go to law school once the dream of professional football had become unrealistic — something he’d admitted to knowing his sophomore year. After passing the bar, he went to work for the Bristol District Attorney’s Office. He later entered politics. His dream was running its course.
He admitted that his home life suffered. He traveled a lot. He was in D.C. more often now. He’d been reelected four times, and it became easier to get entrenched in committees. Lobbyists sought him out. He was meeting with a ghostwriter to work on getting his first book published. He was an important man.
Drew listened. One thing she’d learned over the years of being a pretty blonde is that nobody expected her to ask tough penetrating questions. She asked Boyd about himself, and he obliged. He was a very good storyteller. It was one of the reasons he made such an excellent politician. Good storytelling was engaging because it was truthful, even if not always true. Boyd was capable of weaving stories, and Drew listened like a child watching Saturday morning cartoons without adult supervision.
“So, tell me about your future,” he said. He’d just explained to her that it was every rookie’s dream in the House to become President of the United States. The dream was quickly dashed by your true friends and eventually by your foes, he explained. False friends would continue to stroke you with the dream until it became embarrassing.
“My future?” she asked.
“Yes, tell me more about you.”
Drew knew that at twenty-seven she was already way past her prime as a model. She still had name recognition and clout left because she’d had television commercials that had gone national, but even that was based upon her youthfulness. She could still pass for a teenager with the right clothes, hair, and makeup. Her agent had suggested that she read for minor acting parts that called for high school girls, but Drew had declined.
“Well, I don’t want to become an actress, and I’m getting too old for this,” she said.
“You look young enough to me. Hell, I feel almost… Shit I’m surprised they didn’t card you. That’s all I’m saying,” he said.
“You like?” she asked.
“Yes. More than I should say.” He placed his hand on her thigh.
They talked for another half hour before he casually led the conversation back around to sex. “The bar is closing soon,” he said. “They are going to kick us out. I’d still like to chat about some promotional work. Have another drink with me.”
Drew nodded.
“I have a mini bar in the room — come with me,” he said. He reached out and put his fingers lightly around the back of her arm. She followed his lead.
Lance removed his glasses and his sweater. He was tall, lean, and muscular.
Drew felt a mixture of warmth and fear as he put his arms around her. She quieted all her inner voices of warning and danger and moved on instinct. When she looked up into his eyes and tilted her head, she got the kiss she expected. The kiss was strong but still tender, and tasted of Scotch. He put his right hand in the small of her back and caressed her cheek. He stroked her ear. He sensed her rhythm and paused occasionally to kiss her ear, neck, and throat. She trembled at one of his kisses as he moved down her neck.
He led her to the bed.
Drew removed her dress as he removed the comforter and pulled back the sheets. She watched him look at her. She felt sexy and confident in her lacy black panties and bra.
Down through history, the kingdoms of the world (the great ones, the small ones, the old ones, the new ones) always had powerful men kneeling at the sight of a beautiful woman. The only thing that mattered to Boyd at the moment was the conquest of a particular woman’s flesh. Forgetting about duty, country, honor, shame, or consequences, he moved towards her.
Her skin was like the ocean on a windless day. It was dotted with islands of freckles. She moved onto the bed and undid the front clasp of her bra.
Her movements were a well-choreographed dance. The seduction of a man provided its own chemistry. It was a drug in and of itself. If the man was any good, it promised a thrill like no other. She looked at Lance’s eyes and smiled. “You seem overdressed now, Congressman.”
He took the cue and undressed while never moving his eyes away from her.
He guided her onto her back, placed her head on a pillow, and set his head onto her chest. He moved his index finger down her thigh and back again. Up and down, he teased. He began to stroke her like he was petting a newborn kitten.
“God, this is amazing,” she managed to whisper.
“You are beautiful,” he said twenty minutes later as he began to kiss her neck again.
“Goddamn, Congressman,” she said. “Are you trying to give yourself a heart attack?”
“There are worse ways to die.”
CHAPTER THREE
But sometimes paranoids have enemies, and conspiracies are only laughable when they fail to materialize.
~ John Meacham
Your average voter doesn’t have the slightest clue what it takes to stop an Armageddon type event. Success on this level is never rewarded, but plenty of careers are ruined when something goes wrong.
~ Jacob Matthews
Lance Boyd looked up from his daily briefing to ask Nancy Cline, his Chief of Staff, to get him the papers from Boston, Dallas, Denver, Seattle, and Los Angeles. He’d seen both the Times and the Post already, and he wanted to get a feel for how the story was playing across the nation.
“And, Nancy,” he said as she was walking away, “get me one of those briefings from that online clown. What’s his name? The one with the conspiracy blog? You know?”
“Yes, I know. Just about this story, boss?”
“Yeah, this is front burner for awhile.”
Congressman Boyd put his face into his hands and thought silently for a few minutes. He checked his personal email, a good barometer of how a story or issue was working its way through the hearts and minds of people. When friends and family started bring
ing up a story, he knew it had passed a tipping point. He needed to start damage control. It wasn’t just his career. The Genaplat issues could land him in prison. He could end up with problems not just in America — he could spark an international incident.
Fuck.
His personal email contained a few references to the Genaplat story. Not good. The most troubling one was from Peter Stirling. Boyd gave Peter a buy tip years ago at a dinner party. Peter was now one of the larger investors in the lab. The tip was completely off the record but still troubling now that the press was starting to get involved.
When Nancy brought the newspapers to Boyd he spread them out on his desk and scanned for stories. He could have had a clipping service do this for him, but he liked finding the stories himself. He liked seeing how they landed on the page. He imagined that it might not be long before these papers were ancient relics of the past replaced by the ease and portability of the web. But they weren’t dead yet, and it was older people that were both more likely to read them and more likely to vote. There were several small stories in the papers mentioning Genaplat and nothing on the front pages. He checked the editorials next. A few things but nothing concrete. At this point there were just questions. But questions, he knew, led to investigations. Investigations could lead back to him. That had to be stopped.
His office phone buzzed.
“Sir, I have Senator Lloyd on line two.”
He picked up the phone on his desk while asking Nancy to leave and shut the door.
“Sam, how are you?” Boyd asked.
“I was afraid of this breaking at some point,” he said.
“Yes, I understand your concerns.”
“How exposed do you think you are?”
“Not very.”
“You positive about this?”
“Yes, I’m on top of it. You have no connection here at all.”
“I’d better not even have this touch my shadow.”
“Yes, sir,” Boyd said. He heard the phone disconnect.
Double fuck.
Boyd got out his untraceable cell phone, a burner from Walmart. Cheap and disposable. He called the director of Genaplat Technology Labs. Jacob Matthews answered on the second ring. They spoke for a few minutes. “Shut down the project, just for now.”
“Save all the existing research, sir?”
“As much as possible, as long as it can be secured.”
“What about samples, sir? May I deep freeze them? And secure the freezer? There’s a lot of time and money wasted if I get rid of what we’ve accomplished so far. Sir?”
Boyd told him to save the samples and keep the research team ready to go again. He instructed him to hide what needed to be hidden, but to keep working on any research that could fall into the “barely legal” category. Boyd told him to concentrate on research that would mimic the end goal as much as possible. The end goal was the development of weaponized biologicals, something that American forces and allies could be immunized against while their enemies were devastated. The Congressman was convinced this research was going to protect America. He didn’t need to sell this point to the director. Matthews had been a believer and a supporter of the project from the beginning.
Protect America. Keep secrets. Hide anything that could shut us down. Don’t talk to reporters. Get a lid on your people. Find out if anyone has talked. Have your head IT guy go through emails, memos, phone records. No more fuck ups.
“No more fuck ups, sir,” the director promised.
Good. There better not be.
“I’m going to send someone down,” Boyd said. “A guy named Brandon Hull. He works for me off the books. I want you to cooperate with him. Give him access to whatever he needs, answer his questions. He’s got full authority to act on my behalf. We could all get royally screwed if we have someone leaking information to reporters. Better to find out if anyone is leaking shit as soon as possible if it’s happening. Keep this all under the radar.”
Boyd hung up. He called Hull.
“You back in town?” Boyd asked.
“Yes, sir. I’m free if you need me.”
“I’m going to send you down to Genaplat. Follow up on that problem.”
“You want me to play journalist and snoop around? Or go as a government official and represent you?”
“No. Safer to play the journalist bit. See if anyone bites.”
“You got it. Any blowback that you know about? It’s been a couple weeks.”
“None. Seems quiet. But the story is brewing out there and we need to contain it.”
“Understood.”
“Don’t expose yourself too much on this. Just see if you can dig up anything. Talk to the IT guy down there. Sniff around. I’m shutting our project down for awhile, so don’t get anybody riled up. I don’t want you to be the catalyst for another round of questions.”
“On it,” Hull said.
CHAPTER FOUR
One man's pornography is another man's theology.
~ Clive Barker
There is porn and there is art. The difference? Beats the fuck out of me.
~ Marc Chase
Drew Stirling finished her last lap swimming the breaststroke and climbed out of the pool. She headed to the steam room for five minutes and then sat in the spa to stretch out her muscles. It was only Wednesday, and she felt as if she was waiting for a long train to pass before the weekend would show up.
Why can’t I get him off my mind?
She decided to skip leg day and instead drove to Starbucks. She drank coffee and surfed the internet. She checked her email, Facebook, and Instagram and then did a Google search on Congressman Boyd. Yes, still married. Still a father to a couple of kids. Apparently, a minor scandal was brewing about some questionable research. Politicians and scandals went hand-in-hand.
She imagined herself as a politician’s wife — acting for the cameras, working on a pet project like hunger, illiteracy, or violent video games. No, she couldn’t do it. She’d want to be more like Hillary, a force on her own. She imagined her father’s reaction to his only daughter being married to a liberal politician. She’d get less grief if she was a Playmate of the Year and dating Hugh Hefner.
Get a hold of yourself. It was just a fuck. He’s not going to call again.
She left Starbucks and drove to the studio where she had a short assignment scheduled with Marc Chase, a good studio and portrait photographer and a decent enough guy. She always felt happy and more like herself when she worked with Marc. He was kind, understood her, and listened to her.
“No, he’s not gay,” she said out loud. She laughed to herself.
“Hi, Marc. What’s the set up?” she asked when she entered his studio.
Marc smiled at her and greeted her with the customary “Hello. Good morning. How are you?” They were going to do a last minute job for a friend who needed medical-related pictures for a brochure.
“It’s a favor, actually. Thank you for coming in. Please, put this on and do something with your hair. Make it look professional, blue collar.”
Drew complied and walked out of the dressing room as a nurse. Marc handed her a set of X-rays and instructed her to look puzzled as she gazed at them. They were finished in an hour, and she was back into her street clothes.
He asked her to lunch.
“Yes, of course,” she answered when he asked if she was in the mood for Mexican food. They made small talk and chatted while they rode together. Drew knew she’d accept if he asked her out on a real date.
Marc lead her to a secluded booth in the restaurant. He ordered a round of margaritas.
“I have nothing left on the agenda today. You?”
“No,” she said. She didn’t, and a margarita sounded nice.
Marc talked about his work and Drew’s work as well — what she liked best and what her future plans were. He was a good conversationalist. He balanced talking with listening.
“I’m not sure. I
don’t want to keep modeling,” she confided.
“What then?” he asked.
“I’m thinking of going to college. I have money saved. I will be happier if I did something that required my mind instead of my body.”
“True. What would you study?”
“Can’t say for sure. I know that sounds indecisive. Something in nano- or bio- technologies. My real loves are in the hard sciences, engineering. Maybe something in bioengineering. Sounds crazy, doesn’t it?”
“No,” he answered. “I know you won the lottery when it comes to looks and brains. It’s not too late to go back to school. I think you should do what inspires you.”
“Thank you, but enough about my plans. Tell me more about your project, what you are actually doing and not just talking about. You seem so excited about it.”
Marc moved across the table to sit next to Drew and opened his MacBook. He clicked on folders and started a slideshow portfolio of nudes: clean-shaven young models with tattoos, piercings, and body mods. He explained that this was the direction most pornographic stills had been moving towards for years. First, it was new and spicy just to be clean-shaven, but once everyone did it, the novelty wore off. It wasn’t edgy anymore. So what became new and edgy? Tats. Piercings. Crazy hair. Costumes, props, and scenery.
“I think inventive background scenery is the new direction for porn. Costumes, cosplay, alternate worlds. Well-designed sets with everything from pirates, princesses, and fairies to futuristic scenes with robots and technology. People want new and exciting.”
“Wow. These are amazing. So, I guess you’re not gay?”
She regretted asking this, but he laughed it off.
Undressed To The Nines: A Thriller Novel (Drew Stirling Book 1) Page 2
