by Amy Faye
They'd make it look good, privately giving out information. And then they'd identify a small group by the details that they gave out. A half-dozen get to hear, under the strictest confidence, that he'd been around the block with a model. The other half, one of his campaign staff.
Of course… if he had to name names, he knew who he'd pick. She was a damn attractive woman, that much was clear. Not that he needed Linda Owens, or anyone else on his staff, to decide that he was giving some kind of favorable treatment to women who put out.
But she'd okayed the deal. Okayed it right to his face. So she knew what sort of rumors would start, and she must have known that it was alright. They'd be able to debunk it easily. His whereabouts had been known from the minute he got up to the minute he went to sleep for weeks.
But someone… someone would bite. And then they'd be able to see where the shortest path between two points happened to lie.
That was when the fun would begin.
Adam settled down into a seat and started writing. He'd been composing the emails in his head for a while. A firm, strong denial. A denial of something nobody had accused him of. There was absolutely no evidence that he'd been caught sleeping around with anyone.
Certainly not his campaign manager, and certainly not Miss America. It was completely absurd muckraking, and there was no reason to believe any of it. And if you were to be caught discussing such smut, then you would be fired.
He checked the recipients. Checked the text of the emails for consistency. Then he sent them off and laid his head back. How many reports would come through, exactly? He hoped that his people were honest. That they wouldn't be caught up in something like this.
He'd hired them personally, after all. He'd tried to vet every one. If his staff had as many holes as cheesecloth, then he had some very real soul-searching to do. Serious questions about his own judgment.
But if he had questionable judgment, and if he was unable to find good people, honest people, people who didn't spread rumors, then he'd have found out decades ago. He couldn't have built his empire on the backs of a bunch of desperate liars.
Now he just had to hope that he was good at hiring the right people… only, not good enough. No leaks meant no rumors. They'd have to take the dangerous risk of actually leaking things themselves. And that would be the worst of all available worlds.
Because then, the story wouldn't be 'the untouchable Adam Quinn,' but rather 'Adam Quinn, the man who spreads stories about himself.'
That wasn't the image he needed for himself. He'd built his media persona, his entire media empire, out of muscle and blood and with strong intention. How much of a fool, specifically, would he have to be in order to let himself destroy it?
He stood up. Two more things on the list, and then he could find a way to amuse himself. Twenty minutes, tops. It was a relief to imagine that he would be 'off work' for the night. A relief that he hadn't given himself for quite some time now.
Everyone deserves a night off once in a while. He settles into a dining-room chair to iron out the agenda for the next three days. Two down, one to go.
Chapter Eight
There are almost a thousand politicians living in the District of Columbia. It's one of the most expensive places in the country. Each of those politicians has several dozen direct employees.
That's not even counting government employees. Just politicians and staffers who work for politicians. Each and every one of them is as corrupt as can be, or they're going to be within four years.
The politicians will get multi-million dollar speaking fees, or cushy jobs at an investment banking firm, responsible for the surprisingly difficult task of doing God damn near anything at all. You'd almost feel sorry for them, if you listen to the way they talk about it.
These people have a microscope on their entire lives. If there's any part of it that is legitimately unpleasant, that's it. Adam Quinn's had a microscope on every part of his life since he was twenty years old. It's been that way for as long as he can remember. More than half his life.
First a celebrity, and then a politician, rather than the other way around. It turns the entire system on its head.
Now, with a night off, it was time to call in favors. Something to help him relax, and in a way that didn't rely on trusting people not to talk.
How do you fit fifty thousand people with too much money and not enough sense into a city, put a microscope on all of them, and somehow miss the fact that they are fucking like rabbits?
It's easy. The answer's obvious. They do it in secret, and they do it in ways that don't let a woman interested in making a name for herself turn the story over.
He felt the steering wheel in his grip. When you've had more money than God for decades, you end up having people who owe you favors. Lots of them, if he was being honest.
So if you want to get laid on a Friday night, and you want to know all the tricks of the trade, well… when your black book is as thick as Adam Quinn's was, you just ask for a favor and you get an invitation.
A masquerade. It was absurd. The idea that people could make it work, in a city this size? And nobody recognizes anybody? Permanent deniability. Jesus. This was a story to end all stories, and somehow they'd kept it quiet. It was amazing. Beautiful.
It was only a matter of time until it ended. Three can keep a secret if two are dead, after all. He shook his head. Amazing indeed. He'd take the edge off, and then he'd move on. Because however long this has been going on for, it can't go on forever, and whoever's involved when the game ends is going to regret the hell out of not getting out sooner.
The house is large, and separated from the others by quite a large yard on all sides. Nothing like his place back home, of course. But then again, the big house isn't quite as gaudy, either. More like a frat house than anything.
Quinn parks the car and steps out. A big man stands at the door, a pressed suit and firm military posture. Secret service maybe? It's a surprise. But then again, not so much of a surprise. He blocks the door just enough that nobody would hope to get in without getting past this mountain of meat.
"Sir?"
"Hummingbird," Quinn says softly. The man nods and steps aside, his hand trailing behind to open the door for Adam.
The sound of voices from inside immediately hit his ear. "Have a good evening, sir."
Quinn nods. How well could this mask cover his face? What were the odds that he could be recognized? He stepped through the door anyways. If this was a trap, it was an amazingly big one.
The building opened into a hallway, perhaps twelve feet long, before opening into a large foyer. The men were mostly in black-tie. They sat on sofas, talking to each other or to ladies who sat beside them.
More than one had women sitting somewhere other than beside them. Kneeling between their spread legs, heads down. Quinn immediately got an answer to how good the masquerade was when he recognized the voice of the man he'd called to get the password for the place.
If he spoke, then he'd be recognized. Without a doubt. As would everyone else here. He took a moment to go through the voices he recognized.
Eric Lang, congressman from Oregon. He'd needed money to keep the campaign going. A blonde who couldn't have been older than nineteen knelt between his legs, licking his hardness like a lollipop while the congressman laughed at a lawyer joke.
Quinn felt his teeth on edge. Terry Webb, Texan Senator. Somewhere he couldn't identify, he heard the voice of the Democratic Senator from Maine.
There was nobody who wouldn't go down if this place were revealed. And they were speaking calmly, confidently, as if they weren't the least bit worried about it.
A woman steps up to him. The men wear tuxedos here, and he was no exception. The girl, her black hair cut short and her pleasantly plump breasts pressing themselves into his arm, wore nothing but the black mask that covered her eyes.
"Hey, cutie," she purred. He looked at her flatly. She was an attractive woman. And yet, somehow, something inside him did
n't make a move. It wasn't time.
"Not right now," he said softly. She started to walk away and he decided that the free-for-all would let him one little indulgence; his hand moved quickly to swat at her delightfully round ass.
He started moving again. Before he made any mistakes he'd regret, the first thing he was going to make damned sure of was that he got a chance to look around.
There was a balcony above that wrapped all around the foyer. A bannister that you can watch the action below from. Rooms splintered off the main one, both upstairs and down, separated from the main floor by curtains. Some closed the curtain, others didn't.
He leaned back against the bannister and watched a pair of men amusing themselves with a woman who seemed overwhelmed by the sensations that she was experiencing.
Yes, Quinn thought. I could fit into a place like this.
Chapter Nine
Linda Owens' hands naturally want to move to cover her body. She shouldn't be here. This was a mistake, without a single doubt. She'd been expecting something else. That was the only word she could think of to describe it. Something that wasn't this.
Not a big room full of people, with the only real assurances being a little face mask and the knowledge that if one person goes down, they're all going down together. There must have been forty people here. More. Forty men.
She swallows hard and puts forth the mental effort that it takes to keep her hands at her sides, leaning up against a wall. She's got a good angle on a pair of lovers against a wall. Her leg is draped over his arm.
Linda can't see anything too graphic, but the way that he thrusts into her is suggestive enough that Linda can't look away. As the thrusts get harder, rougher, more ragged, her hands stop gravitating towards covering herself up.
Nobody else looks especially uncomfortable with the setup. Why should she?
She hears voices that she recognizes. Most of them from the television, but a few people who she knows professionally. And that concerns her. It concerns her maybe more than it should.
If there are massive sex parties like this, then anyone who is in Washington probably knows about them, and probably the ones who would need someone to run interference, like she does, would be the ones to show up to one.
A man steps between her and the couple she's watching. He's got a nice body, she's surprised to see. So many politicians don't. So many of the politicians here. He's got a tux jacket on, but his shirt is unbuttoned to reveal tight, separated muscles.
He puts a hand against the wall beside her and leans in. Linda's got too much experience with being intimidated to let it affect her, at least on the outside.
"Feeling lonely?"
She wouldn't have minded him, to look at him. If she'd met him at a bar she'd be walking towards the door right now. Something about the environment, though—
"I'm not—I'm just here to—"
"First time?" He leans back and straightens. "You'll do fine. Come on."
"I'd rather just stay here, if that's alright."
"You sure?"
"Yeah," Linda replies. He nods, and turns, and an instant later a Latina woman with the figure of an hourglass walks by. His hand reaches out to slap her ass, and she smiles at him. He follows her into a room.
She leaves the curtain open as she drops to her knees between the man's legs, and again Linda can't turn away. What on earth is going on here? What sort of people are these? This is absolute craziness.
How do people just… so casually? Sometimes without a word. Just a mutual understanding that everyone is there to do, you know. What they're there to do.
"God, your pussy must taste good," a voice purrs. She looks over. The man's got a square jaw and a voice that she recognizes.
"Mr…—-No." She realizes all of a sudden that names are almost certainly not appreciated here.
"Come on, why not?"
"Because you are who you are, and I am who I am." Eric Lang was at the very bottom of her list. He had good looks, but getting to know him was enough to remind any woman why not to go for him. Unless the only thing you cared for was money, of course, and there were plenty that went for that.
"Oh, that's a shame," he says softly. He smiles softly. "Here, I was hoping to finally taste you."
"Well, it's not going to happen."
"Just a little kiss?"
"Not even a little one," she answers. Maybe she's being a bitch, but that doesn't matter.
"Oh, come on," he says. His voice says he's teasing, but if she agreed, then the teasing would go out the window.
She braces to tell him more forcefully that she's not interested, when all of a sudden, he backs off. She has to look over to see exactly why. A hand on his shoulder.
He's not being pulled roughly. Perhaps not at all. But he reacts as if the force were irresistible. A man's hand.
"I don't think she's interested." The voice makes Linda's blood run chilled.
"No, I suppose not," Lang says softly. He looks into the other man's eyes. For a moment Linda almost wonders what is going on inside Eric's head. She wishes she could see his balls draw back up inside his body, as funny as that would be.
"You should move on." Tom Delaney's body language is strong. He looks like some kind of movie star. It was amazing that she hadn't seen him when she walked in, if he was there at all. He and her new boss both had the sort of presence that attracted attention whenever they were in a room.
The idea that she had to spend all of her time with both of them—
"I didn't mean nothin' by it," Eric says, before moving on. Tom's body stays the way it was before, completely relaxed. As if he never worried for a moment that he'd be contradicted.
He steps up to her, and there's that icy gaze. It sends a shiver down her spine. Linda's glad that she's leaning against the wall, or she might have buckled.
"What are you doing in a place like this?"
"Women have needs, same as men."
"Do you want me to call Eric back, then?" The way that his name rolls off the tongue, so easily disregarding any sort of propriety, is almost shocking.
"Him? No. Not a chance."
"Good." Tom turns away, back towards the room.
"You weren't—" The assumption she'd had was that Delaney was being territorial over her. Maybe she was right.
He stops in his tracks and turns back. His eyes stray away from hers this time. He looks up and down her body with a cold, analytical eye. There's a faint smile there.
"Oh, you thought I was—with you? I won't deny I thought of it. But not in a place like this."
She shivers at the sound of his rough voice. Which is why she's distracted enough not to notice someone else walk by. A hand snakes around her waist, feeling oddly familiar, and wheels her around.
Her feet move automatically to avoid falling, but her eyes move up.
What was Adam doing here?
Chapter Ten
Linda's heard leapt into her throat. There was no way—was there? Adam wasn't the kind of man to ask. Not like Eric. If she fought him or told him no, then he'd stop. But he wouldn't ask. He wasn't that kind.
Did she want him to stop? Or did she want him to pull him into one of these rooms and have his way with her?
Her mind answered the question before she had spent an instant thinking about it. Yes. Of course she did.
And then he was pulling her into the front hall. His hand fell heavy on the door by the exit. The coat room, where she'd left her clothes and her privacy behind.
A man with military bearing and close-cropped hair opens the door from the inside.
"The young lady will be leaving," Quinn says. His voice is hard and holds something that she hadn't expected. Something that might have been anger.
The man nods and steps over to a rack, where several dozen dresses hang. He grabs Linda's without much thought and hands it to her.
Linda slips it on and Adam works the zipper without being asked.
"Go home," he says, with a voice that says
that it's not a question, and there won't be further discussion. He steps through the door beside her, and for a few short paces their directions happen to coincide.
She might have asked what he was doing there. She might have asked why he was acting like this. She might have asked why he thought he could tell her to leave. She might have asked any number of questions. She doesn't ask any of those things. He doesn't look like he's interested in questions.
She slips into the rental car and finally, her anger is allowed to flare up.
What the fuck did he think he was doing? What the fuck was his problem? What gave him the right to tell her what to do, even a little bit? Not a god damn thing was what.
Not a god damned thing.
He couldn't stop her if she wanted to go back inside. And part of her wants to. Part of her wants to drop right to her god damned knees and let Eric Lang do whatever he wanted to as long as it ruined her mouth and she couldn't walk right for a month.
That would show him. Honestly, fuck Adam Quinn. He had no right at all.
She slipped the keys into the ignition instead. Turned the key, even as her mind screamed at her to get back in there. To go, and go now, to prove to herself and to Adam that he wasn't in charge of her life.
She closed her eyes, and her fingers turned the key without her permission. Her hands moved automatically to put the car into reverse, and then drive, and she pulled out onto the road and started the long drive home.
The entire thing seemed strange. By the time she was back into downtown, the entire thing seemed remarkably like a dream.
What were they all doing there? On the same night, the same time? They couldn't have gotten more of the Quinn campaign in a room together if they'd had a group sex party specifically for the purpose, it felt like.
By the time she pulled into the parking lot outside her apartment, it seemed unlikely that it had happened at all. It was a dream, maybe. Or she'd imagined it, in an anxiety-induced haze.
