Rogue Affair

by Tamsen Parker

  Drew should have let it go. He should have watched Allen—no, Brynn—walk away thinking he was a prick and done nothing about it. That should have been the end of it.

  But he wasn’t comfortable with the implication he was what she thought he was. So he’d flirted with her and teased her. He wanted her to respond so he could draw out the flicker of interest in her expression when she’d first seen him and breathe it into a roaring fire. He sat eating his own pathetic excuse for a dinner and considered Tweeting that at least she had fruit, so she’d avoid scurvy.

  Not helpful, subconscious.

  But before he could, Steven came down the row of desks waving a few sheets of paper in his hand. “This is good stuff.” Steven was the only editor Drew had had since college who still edited with a red pen and not on the computer. It was actually sort of cute.

  “I know.” That afternoon, Drew had received a text from a paralegal at Cunningham Sloane who’d heard a certain White House aide had reached out asking about a lawyer. That was only part of the story though: the real part was why he was switching counsel, the turn the investigation was taking.

  Steven set the pages down on Drew’s desk. “This is worthy of the front page.”

  “It’s a rumor.”

  “It’s more than that now.”

  There were lots of whispers about the grand jury; it was hard to hear anything in this town over them. But today, someone had read part of a subpoena to Drew over the phone, and it was now, at least in part, a money laundering investigation, which was what he’d written up and Steven couldn’t stop petting.

  “Make these changes—” There were a few notes scribbled here and there on the copy. “—and we’re going to run it.”

  “Tonight?”

  “Yes, before your friend at the Chronicle can scoop us.”

  Drew started to say She’s not my friend, but he stopped himself. He wasn’t certain if what he felt when he thought about Brynn was friendly—it was too tangled, too messy. He still thought she’d benefitted from privilege, from who her mother was. He still felt envious about the fact little stories like this one fell in her lap all the time. He still wanted to best her.

  But he wanted to know how long her hair was. He’d wondered about the skin over her collar bone, about what it would feel like under his fingertips, against his mouth.

  So…friend. Sure, that was fine.

  “It’ll piss her off,” he answered Steven. That, at least, was true.

  After he made the changes to his article, he responded to her dinner Tweet: some of us didn’t even have time for different food groups.

  Some of us are still at work.

  Oh, all of us are still at work.

  Brynn could stew for a bit about what he was writing on for a change.

  4

  “There’s a man waiting for you at the front.”

  Brynn glanced at the row of clocks on the wall set for five different time zones. 7:04 a.m. on the East Coast. What the hell?

  “Who is it?” she asked the security guard on the phone.

  “Believe me, you want to come down for this one.”

  The daytimers were filtering into the office and the skeleton overnight crew was packing up to leave, but it was still quieter than it would be in an hour. As she wasn’t quite in the rhythm of her work yet it was as good a time as any for an interruption. She pulled on a cardigan, it would be cold near the door, and started down.

  Was it a source? Nah, they’d message or email first—and they’d never show up at the Chronicle. Her brother wasn’t in town, and none of her friends would bother her this early.

  Her feet went heavy as she rounded the corner into the lobby. Drew hadn’t remotely made her list. “You?”

  He gave a flash of smile, but sadly, the dimple did not appear. “Me.”

  It wasn’t that she hadn’t thought about him, especially not since his story had dropped last night and upended hers—an event about which he’d been silent on Twitter—but he was here. Now. Watching her so intently she wished she’d brushed her hair better this morning or at least put on lipstick.

  He held up two to-go cups. “I brought you caffeine.”

  “I have caffeine. Why are you here?”

  A few beats passed. “I stopped to get coffee on my way to the office, and I thought you might like some too.” His eyes were puffy and dark. He couldn’t have slept much, but these days, no one did.

  “I’m still confused.”

  He started to speak, but then he turned toward the big windows lining the lobby. Outside, K Street was yawning. A delivery truck was parked at a bodega. A woman in an expensive suit and running shoes walked into one of the big law firms. A bus rumbled past with an ad for a local news team streaked across the side.

  They were everyday things. Comforting things. Things that sometimes felt like they’d gone out of the world in this fucked-up moment.

  “I take it you knew about the grand jury and the White House’s trouble finding lawyers,” Drew finally said.

  “I possessed that information, yes.” She’d probably publish it today. Her piece would be better than his, but it would be second.

  “And you wanted to keep it to yourself?”

  “You’re here because you think I’m pissed.”

  It hadn’t been a question, but he answered it anyhow: “Yes.”

  Grace came through the revolving door chatting with one of the other editors. She eyed Drew and then shot Brynn a look. Nice.

  Brynn blew out a long breath. She hated being on display, and there was no way to handle this where they wouldn’t be. They’d already played out enough of their friendship or whatever this was in public.

  “Do you have time to talk?” she asked Drew.

  “Uh, sure.”

  He trailed her up the stairs and across the newsroom. She took one of the coffees from him and hastily rearranged the papers on her desk, shoving the stack into a couple of family pictures. There wasn’t anything he couldn’t see—she wouldn’t leave sensitive information out, obviously—but the mess suddenly seemed embarrassing.

  She started to grab a spare chair stationed by a colleague’s desk, but Drew took it from her and wheeled it over.

  “Thanks.” He sat and looked at her expectantly.

  Right. She had to say something now. “I’m not mad about your story. If the coffee is an apology, it’s not necessary. I mean I’m going to drink it anyway—” She had drip coffee in the breakroom, but she’d much prefer anything from The Coffee Bar. “—but you didn’t need to.”

  He sipped from his own cup. “If the situation was reversed, I’d be pissed.”

  “Because you think this is a game.”

  “No.” That was sharp, almost a rebuke. “But I do like beating you.”

  Brynn wanted to pounce on his words, but she’d had a weird eighteen months. Before the election and the first year of this presidency, she probably would have felt the same way. Hey, at some point, this wild ride would end, and she’d probably sink back into obscurity. Every story she published, she wondered if it was the last good scoop she’d ever get. The Chronicle and MTL were rivals, and some petty corner of her heart had enjoyed publishing articles to rile Drew.

  Not that she was going to admit it to him. She was taking the high road here. “My editor, Grace, is the same way. She wants to eat MTL for breakfast.”

  “So does my editor. Well, he’d prefer to eat the Chronicle.”

  “And I want people to know the truth.”

  Well, at the moment, she wanted any number of things: to sleep for a week; to eat a long meal at a restaurant without once checking the news; to know what Drew was thinking as he watched her. The truth seemed the most important, or perhaps the most achievable.

  “I do too,” he said with a nod. “Beating you—it’s a side benefit.”

  “Because you think I don’t deserve to have a career?” She could at least rule out contempt as what was on his mind.

  “I never said th
at. I don’t believe it.”

  “But you do think I’ve had things too easy?”

  He rearranged in the chair, as if he was getting ready to tell a long story. He craned his head back and crossed his feet at the ankles. “Let me say this, and it’s about me, not you. I started at the bottom. The very bottom. My parents left the Soviet Union in the 80s. They could tell things were about to go bad, and when stuff goes bad in Russia, it goes very bad. Somehow, they ended up in Shakopee, Minnesota, and I was this weird kid with pickled beets in his lunchbox, whose mom didn’t know what a hotdish was, and whose family wasn’t even Lutheran.”

  “Those Minnesota stereotypes can’t all be true.”

  “Oh, but they are. I humped for every job, for every story, for every promotion.”

  “And you think I—”

  “I know nothing about you, Brynn, except that you’ve been successful. And I meant what I said at the press conference yesterday: you’re great at this. But in every newsroom I’ve been in…there’s been someone, many someones at times, whose uncle is an editor, or who’s only ever worked at school papers, but they happen to be the right school papers. I know it’s not fair and you’re not them.”

  “But?”

  “But…there it is.”

  She took the lid off the coffee—she always hated drinking through plastic—and swirled it in her hand. He had been creeping her Instagram, or maybe she needed to stop putting so much information out there in public: he’d gotten her order perfect.

  “You don’t have to apologize to me for feeling that way. I mean, it’s dumb and you’re wrong about me, but I get it. I sometimes feel like I don’t deserve this job.”

  “You do, and you should stop that.”

  “You first.” She sipped her coffee.

  Drew’s attention on her was nova-hot. She wanted to demand he tell her what it meant, but she didn’t want to find out it wasn’t desire. She wanted him to want her, and she’d rather not know he didn’t.

  So they drank coffee together in contented silence for three minutes, while the sunlight in the newsroom grew brighter and more of her colleagues came in and all the things she needed to do clamored more insistently for her attention. She pushed them aside for more of this.

  “I can’t remember the last time I did this, had coffee with someone,” he said at last.

  “I used to sleep in every Saturday, have brunch with my friends, gossip and relax, but that seems like ages ago. Back when I used to go on dates and not just…feud on Twitter.”

  The words felt dangerous, or too obvious, but she’d already said them.

  “There’s no other time for it.”

  Time for what? What are we doing? “It was pretty public.”

  “I don’t have your number. But we’ll do those things, those normal, private, quiet things, again.” His eyes shifted to her. “I’d like to do those things with you. What I mean is, I’d like to have dinner with you.”

  She should want to say yes, but she still didn’t trust him. “I wish I could.”

  “Why are you saying no? Is it because I was an ass?”

  “I don’t have time.”

  “Not a half-hour? What’s the worst that could happen?”

  There wasn’t one bad outcome; there were thirty-four. She leaned forward with her elbows on her thighs. “Why do you want to have dinner with me?” Is it a pity thing? Are you still after a source? But she wasn’t brave enough to put it baldly.

  He didn’t hesitate. “I’m intrigued by you.” Direct. Seemingly honest. And so, so seductive.

  Why couldn’t she say yes? He was good looking, smart, as committed to his job as she was to hers. He was arrogant, but that was true of every man she’d ever met in DC. She could find an hour to eat with him. Then she’d either know enough to know she was wrong, or she could leave and never see him again.

  It had been a deeply strange year. Maybe the natural order had been knocked topsy-turvy, and this wasn’t a disaster in the making. Maybe.

  “Okay.”

  There was the dimple to make her feel like she’d done the right thing. If he was faking, he was the best actor she’d ever met. “Give me your number. When are you free?”

  “Never. Whenever.” She pulled one of her businesses cards from a desk drawer and jotted her cell number on the back. “Between crises.”

  “I’ll text you.” He took the card and then his hand slipped forward to hold her wrist. For the space of two seconds, she thought he might pull her in for a hug.

  Or even a kiss.

  Not in front of everyone. Not when I don’t have time to enjoy it. Please let me enjoy this, if only for a minute.

  But then he looked away, blinked hard, and squeezed her wrist. When he released her, her entire forearm chilled.

  “I’ll walk you out.” They got to their feet, and she was overwhelmed for an instant by how tall he was, but then he waved her forward and she led him out.

  It wasn’t even eight yet, and this morning wasn’t going at all according to plan.

  Brynn knows Hadley Darlington.

  Drew walked to MTL with the echo in his head. A cluster of framed pictures stood on Brynn’s desk, one showing an extended family. Brynn was there, an awkward teen with braces, and her mother, and a host of other people, including the Assistant AG.

  Sure, he didn’t know if Darlington was one of Brynn’s sources. Maybe they weren’t in touch anymore and they hadn’t seen each other in years. But his gut buzzed. This might not be just a source for Brynn—it might be the source.

  Back at the office, he checked Darlington’s schedule for the day: she was testifying before a Senate appropriations subcommittee at 11 a.m. He spent the morning writing a follow-up to the grand jury piece and shrugging off compliments from his coworkers. This story still didn’t feel like it was his, but if he wanted to impress Steven, he needed to get the next one. The big one.

  He went over to Dirksen and parked himself by the committee room door. There weren’t many people in attendance, so after Darlington’s testimony and questions, he had no competition when he followed her into the hallway.

  “I’m Drew Orlov from MTL. Do you have time for a few questions?”

  “Oh sure.” Darlington wasn’t really paying attention to him. She was typing on her phone.

  Threading the needle with a new source, asking what you wanted to know, but not too directly, not pushing: he hated this part. He hated it even more when it wasn’t a story he wanted. But Steven did, and that was what mattered.

  “I had an exchange with the Majority Leader yesterday about the special prosecutor’s budget. What’s the mood about the proposed cuts?”

  “This sounds like more a Legislative Affairs question. I don’t handle the Justice Department’s relationship with the Hill.”

  “But you deal with the president.”

  Darlington was the most prominent holdover from the previous administration. While all the others had left or been fired, she hadn’t. Probably because she was stunning—rumor said the president liked a pretty face—but also because she kept her head down. Except Drew would bet anything she hadn’t kept her mouth shut.

  “Does the president want to zero out funding for the special prosecutor?” Drew asked. “Did he put the Liberty Caucus up to it?”

  Darlington finally slid her phone in her purse and gave Drew the once over. She didn’t appear to be impressed. “I give him legal advice. I can’t do it effectively if he’s worried I’m talking to you.”

  “You went to law school with two of the investigators and you worked as a US Attorney with another. Do you want to see them lose their funding? Their ability to pursue corruption?”

  “My obligation is to the Constitution. My wants are immaterial.”

  Bullshit. “I’m writing a follow-up to my piece from yesterday about the White House staff and their lawyer problems. I’m trying to understand if there’s a gap between how aides and their boss see the investigation.”

  “I read
your story. Kind of a new direction for you guys.” Meaning she’d expected to see it elsewhere.

  “We couldn’t let the Chronicle have all the fun.”

  An endless pause followed that. Not a silence, of course. Too much was happening around them, with members and staffers leaving the hearing and the regular bustle in the hallway, but the most interesting part was Darlington’s eyes. She’d gone marble-still. Every line of her was now doubly highlighted, and her attention laser focused. He had no idea whether she was going to go for it, but he’d struck a chord. Whatever she decided, he was confident she’d given Brynn something.

  “I don’t have anything for you,” she finally said. Then she added softly, “Not now.” Her eyes shifted slightly to the assistant waiting for her down the hallway. Lot of witnesses, that was what she seemed to be saying.

  He pulled a card from his pocket. “If you think of anything, let me know. My encrypted app user name is there too.” It was stunning how many sources preferred the old, non-secure methods of communication, but he’d guess Darlington was more cautious.

  She stowed his contact info in her purse and left, and all he could do now was wait. He returned to the office, did his usual check-ins with sources, and wrote up part of a process story. He even found time to offer some tips and contacts to the folks who covered city hall—now there was a beat that impacted real people’s lives—but all the while he kept hoping the notification on his app would sound and Darlington would give him something, anything, but she didn’t.

  Which brought him to his second problem. Brynn.

  He hadn’t lied to her: she intrigued him more than any woman in recent memory had. Even when they’d met at The Coffee Bar, there’d been a pull between them that had nothing to do with her sources. After the Twitter flirting, he knew she felt it too.

  While he knew what he was doing with Darlington, however, Brynn made him feel like a tightrope walker in a windstorm.

  Better to ignore it or wait—she’d still be there in a few weeks. But the buzz in his gut was as insistent as the one about Darlington. He wanted to spend more time with Brynn. It was that simple.