

### Submitting to Him

### Book One

Copyright 2018 Ava Leigh Holden

Published by Ava Leigh Holden at Smashwords

Smashwords Edition License Notes

This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you're reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your enjoyment only, then please return to Smashwords.com or your favorite retailer and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

### Table of Contents

Acknowledgements

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

About Ava Leigh Holden

Other books by Ava Leigh Holden

Connect with Ava Leigh Holden

### Acknowledgements

You know this is for you, and all our Saturday afternoons.
Chapter One - Adam

I don't know what George Washington had in mind for this city back in 1790 when he first signed the D.C. Residence bill into law, but it sure as hell wasn't a man like me.

But then, looking around the room... the Founding Fathers, with all their high hopes, hadn't exactly counted on just how much greed would come to infect the highest corridors of American power either.

For me it was just another Saturday night in D.C. Another black-tie fundraising gala, and by 8:30, I was bored.

Even for me, that was a new record.

But being here – right in the seething heart of the swamp - was a necessary sacrifice.

The ballroom of the Sapone Hotel was getting loud. A singer wrapped in a shimmering ruby dress and a band in fitted black tuxedos performed up on stage, playing jazzy lounge covers of classic pop hits.

Waiters and waitresses in white jackets and black bowties strode across the floor. They carried silver trays of expensive entrées out to tables and tried not to look too anxious. The singer was doing her best to work the crowd, but nobody was paying attention.

A few people, all men, were already drunk enough to embarrass themselves on the dancefloor. But most of the hundreds of guests crowded the sea of perfectly-set, gold-clothed tables, leaning in together in little packed huddles. None of them ever missed a chance to make a deal, and this was the perfect setting for it. The buzz of conversation was competing with the band for what could make the most noise.

The talking was winning.

I motioned to the bartender and he moved to mix me another Old-Fashioned. At least I could rely on the staff. It was more than I could say for the rest of the people here.

I leaned back on the bar and took them in. It was the usual crowd. Politicians, lobbyists, hangers-on.

Once you learned to see them for who they really were... it was impossible to see anything else. Behind their fake smiles, behind their glittering jewels. Behind their laughter. Their sophistication. Their picture-perfect presentation.

Greedy. Greedy and even though they had so much, always desperate to take even just a little more. Not for anyone else. Only for themselves.

It was an effort to keep the sneer off my face. These people had their uses.

Washington was a city where everyone wore a mask. To hide their past, to hide their stained souls, to hide what they truly wanted.

Myself included, of course.

But my mask was better than anyone else's.

I recognized most of the faces here. I'd been at functions or fundraisers with at least half of them before. At the Hay-Adams Hotel, at the Willard Intercontinental. Mostly men, who liked to talk about foreign trade levels and overpriced Scotch and make D.C. decisions that shaped the rest of the world.

Sure, politicians loved talking about how they were going to clean up D.C. But behind closed doors they liked Washington just the way it was. A city where nothing ever changed, nobody with any real power was ever held accountable, and there was always another fat kickback just around the corner.

My drink arrived and I nodded my thanks to the bartender. When I passed him a fifty-dollar bill, he tried to give it back.

"Sir, thank you. Again. But I keep telling you, your ticket covers the cost of your drinks for the evening."

"So put it with the others. Split it with the other staff. Or don't. It's up to you."

He sighed. But he took it.

"Thank you. I mean it. And please let me know if you need anything else."

There were three more fifties tucked in a glass behind the bar. All from me. Apparently I was the only one here who thought to tip the staff.

I'd set up two deals already tonight. Nothing to change the world, but both would lead to bigger and better things. And both would move the senators behind them further under my influence.

I took a swallow of my drink, mostly to hide my boredom.

I'd just escaped a pair of lobbyists from Ohio who were desperate to talk about subsidies for auto manufacturing. If they'd had connections at Ferrari I might have been interested. But that was the price of attending a D.C. function. For every conversation that was worth something, you had to get through twenty more desperate pleas for donations.

But I was getting closer. Every deal I struck, every night like this I forced myself to go to, was another step towards my ultimate goal. And then everything would be different.

Still, the familiar tension was rising in my muscles. A tightness in my back, a clench in my jaw. The old anger and rage, never far from the surface, was always more alive at times like this. When I was surrounded by people like these.

I needed to find release. A woman. Either here or... somewhere more private.

The club was always available. But I'd been trying to limit my time at the Masquerade recently. I controlled my vices, not the other way around.

It would also raise some eyebrows in the crowd if I left this early. But another hour here? Knowing it wouldn't be long before some wannabe, never-would-be, congressman plucked up the courage - or more likely, drank enough - to demand I fund their personal campaign for President? I didn't care who I offended.

On stage, the band finished playing their latest cover with a last jazzy burst of guitar and drums. And in the silence that followed, before they started up again, the room echoed to the anxious sound of one single, solitary person applauding.

I couldn't help but grin. Typical D.C. Everyone thought they were too important, too above it all to clap for the band. Except for someone who obviously wasn't familiar with the Washington Rules of How To Act.

Then I saw the girl clapping. And I forgot every thought of leaving.

She stood by the back wall, wearing a deep blue dress that left her soft shoulders bare. It hugged her curves as if it had been painted on, and showed just enough of her pale skin to tease me. Her long brown hair fell in thick, dark waves to the top of her back. She was voluptuous, and obviously nervous, and perfect. Not like the blonde trophy zombies with bleached-white teeth and botoxed orange skin that packed the rest of the room.

And as I watched her, she looked around, completely out of place. A frightened deer that had stumbled into a clearing full of lions. Her claps slowed, and stopped, as she worked out she was the only person in the room applauding. I didn't even realize I was leaning forward until she met my gaze and blushed red and looked away.

I turned my back to her and faced the bar.

_What the hell was_ that _, Stone?_

I never lost control. It was the first lesson I'd learned when I'd started on my new life, the life that had brought me here. And yet... when I saw her, when those eyes met mine, even for a heartbeat...

A furnace roared to life inside my chest, hot and furious. And hungry.

She could be my perfect release.

She could be my perfect distraction.

I couldn't let her see me again until I'd wrestled myself back under control. And then... then I'd make her mine.

Tonight.

***

Chapter Two - Jenna

Five minutes before

I tug at my dress for the seven hundredth time right before Toni and I walk into the reception room of the Sapone Hotel. This dress is the nicest thing I've ever owned, and it's still a potato sack compared to what the other women here are wearing. And no matter what I do, I can't make it sit right.

In fact, I'd be a million times comfier at home on my little couch. In my sweats and an old flannel shirt, watching some documentary on Netflix. Or watching something dumb and funny on Netflix. Or studying like the giant nerd I am. Instead of being here, trying to pretend I know what to do at a fundraising gala.

And trying to pretend I've ever been to one before.

Normally the sight of a couple hundred people in evening wear would have me bolting for the exit like a frightened rabbit. Or diving into the nearest potted plant and pretending to be a luxurious green fern until everyone had left.

But tonight, me and Toni have a job to do. So I have to put Scared Jenna back in her box and get my game face on. Even if I don't feel it.

Toni puts a calming hand on my shoulder and whispers in my ear. She does it through a pretend smile, like she's telling me a private joke.

"If you don't stop playing with that dress, I'm going to tell the first dude I see you're a sex addict who grew up in a nudist colony and that's why you're so awkward in clothes. So don't blame me when some hundred-year-old senator comes over to you with a big fat grin on his face and a stimulus package in his pocket that ain't about the economy."

It gives me the giggles, and I blush, because Toni's entirely capable of doing what she threatens.

She, of course, looks as if she comes to black-tie functions every night of the week. She's wearing long golden earrings that sweep down in sleek lines like tiny windchimes, and a deep purple dress that sets off her dark eyes and gorgeous caramel skin. Her dress also outlines how tall and athletic she is. All she's carrying is a little black Kate Spade clutch. Her curly hair falls down past her shoulders, and everything about her, from the top of her head to the tips of her black stiletto heels says _confidence_.

But it's a rare day Antonia Burton looks anything less than badass.

I felt pretty good when I left the house. Like I could pull this off. Like I deserved my new dress. The one I bought specially for tonight even though I can't afford it and I'm toast if I can't figure out a way to pay it off.

It cinches in at the waist, making me look thinner than I am. And that pushes the rest of me out in a way that shows off my best assets. The ones in the front, and the back. For a moment, looking at myself in the mirror, I even thought I could pass for a little bit cute.

That was before we got here.

The beautiful people are circling like beautiful sharks. The powerful people. The ones in the five-thousand-dollar black suits and ten-thousand-dollar white dresses. The ones who had someone to do their hair and makeup before they came. The ones with a whole household staff back home, looking after their 2.3 beautiful kids, little Emmett and Jessica and Carter the Third.

And I can tell that after one glance, they've dismissed us as a couple of nobodies. No one to spend even a minute talking to. Because that would be a waste of their time.

Well, maybe not Toni. But definitely me.

And they're kinda right. We _are_ nobodies. Just two grad student interns on a journalism assignment, trying to get an inside peek at how Washington really works.

But even if I don't fit in, at least I'm _here_.

You don't have to love me, beautiful people. You might even make me feel like I'm that proverbial long-tailed cat, locked inside a room full of rocking chairs.

But you won't keep me from away from this city's stories forever.

I might be a complete outsider, but at least I'm an outsider who made it to D.C. An outsider who somehow made it to a journalism scholarship at Georgetown U, even if it was by the skin of my teeth. An outsider with an internship, who is out on her first honest-to-God assignment among the rich and famous.

Well, the politically famous, anyway. I can look around the room and see the faces of dozens of men and women I've seen in weekly news footage. I even studied some of them in my undergrad political science classes.

Of course, they don't see me.

But Toni's hand at my shoulder is the perfect reassurance. If she's feeling as out of place as I am, it doesn't show for a second.

If I'd grown up with money I'd probably have a game face that good too.

I squash the thought as soon as it comes up. Toni's hardly rich, and she's done nothing to deserve my jealousy. It's just being here with all these people that has me on edge.

"You want a drink?" Toni guides me further into the ballroom and the sound of the band and all the people spills over us. "C'mon, it's free. At least being wannabe journalists is good for something."

"A glass of water?" I'm fully aware of how lame I sound. Toni rolls her eyes. "OK, make that a sparkling water. A fancy one."

Toni shakes her head in despair and disappears into the crowd.

I'm so sure she's not going to bring me back the water I asked for.

Our editor's instruction at the D.C. Queen were simple. Go along, try to meet some important people. Try to set up an interview for later. Listen to gossip, and don't do anything stupid. Unless we got a story out of it. And above all, don't embarrass the magazine.

It seemed simple enough at the time.

I find an empty space by the wall and pretend to check my phone. Toni knows how to meet people. She knows how to strike up conversations with strangers. She's good at it. She better be, with her dreams of becoming a crime reporter.

Me, I freak out if I even have to make a phone call to someone I've never met. It takes me five minutes to work up the courage to dial.

I look around, wondering if I might possibly know anyone here _._

Yeah, right Jenna. Twenty people from Nowheresville, Kentucky are hanging out behind that podium. They got lost on the way to Piggly Wiggly. Why don't you wave?

If this was home though, I _would_ know at least twenty people here. Back in small towns - especially in the South - everyone knows everyone. I'd be able to pick out someone's sister, someone's cousin, someone's cousin's best friend. But here in D.C., even though there are half a million more people, it's a lonelier place.

In fact, right now, lurking by the wall, shut out from the crowd... it kinda sums up my entire social experience of Washington.

No one here wants to talk to you unless you can do something for them. Unless you can either pull or push them further up the political ladder. Or you're willing to be a booty call.

I can't do the first, and I won't do the second. Which leaves me, right now, as less than nobody.

How is it possible that in a crowded ballroom, in one of the busiest cities on earth, without Toni by my side, I'm utterly alone?

The band finishes their song, and without thinking, I clap. Because it's exactly what I'd do back home to congratulate them on their performance.

It's a mistake. No one else even bothers to turn around to the band. But they turn around to look at the clapping idiot, the sound loud and stupid in the sudden hush. My face flushes red with the weight of all those gazes on me. I slow my hands and finally stop clapping.

And I see him.

He's leaning on the bar, a scowl on his face. And he's the most beautiful man I've ever seen in my life.

He looks... rough. And he should look out of place here. Everyone else is laughing and drinking and looking around to see who else they can see. Or who they can be _seen_ with.

Not him. He's lounging against the bar like he couldn't care less.

But he doesn't look out of place. He looks amused by watching everybody else preen like peacocks. His face is all hard angles, his dark blonde hair cut short against his scalp. A light dusting of stubble covers his cheeks, but it can't hide the sharpness of his jaw.

His body is a tailor's wet dream. The way he fills out that perfect black suit like a quarterback, or an Olympic athlete. His blocky shoulders slant down to a broad chest and the outlines of his arms, obvious through his suit. For a fleeting moment I wonder if he's a bouncer. And then I realize a security guard - even one at this fundraiser - could never afford the gold watch on his wrist.

His cold blue eyes meet mine. I turn away in a flash, hoping he'll think it's the natural movement of my gaze, and not me getting embarrassed because a hot guy looked at me.

When I dare to look back up, he's turned away. Because of course he has. He's probably waiting for his supermodel girlfriend to get here.

Toni's back with two cocktails before I know it - two frothy pink things in huge glasses like hubcaps. I eye mine suspiciously.

"What is that monstrosity?" I almost shout to be heard over the music and the noise. More people are arriving all the time. The volume of conversation has built to a dull roar, assaulting my ears.

Apparently anyone who's anyone gets in at least an hour after the official opening time. Which, to me anyway, seems like bad manners. We were only late because we had to ride the subway - the D.C. Queen wasn't going to spring for an Uber or a cab for two interns.

"I asked the bartender to surprise me." Toni raises one perfect eyebrow. "Are you surprised?"

I shake my head. "Only that he didn't ask for your number."

Toni's grin is wicked as she takes a sip of her drink. "Oh, he did. But I told him my boyfriend, the big bad beat cop, wouldn't appreciate it."

I can't help but laugh. Toni's going to be the most famous reporter anyone's ever heard of.

I take a tentative taste of the cotton candy Cosmo. As I suspected, it tastes of strawberries and vodka and too much sugar. Exactly what a horny bartender would make for the kind of silly girl Toni's so good at pretending to be.

"OK." Toni's all business now, the bartender forgotten. "I'm going to go and meet some people. I can see the Commissioner over there. I met him at Mike's graduation ball last year. He should be good for some introductions. How about you?"

I can't admit I have no idea where to start. And the thought of walking up to a complete stranger and saying hello makes my stomach do somersaults.

It's not a great quality in a journalist.

"Um..." I play for time, "I'm going to drink this first and see who I can find."

"Go get 'em, tiger. Let's meet back here in twenty. And Jenna? I know you've got trust issues like this city's got cheap hookers, but trust me when I say this. I need you to remember it. You're a goddamn babe, OK? People _want_ to talk to you."

She vanishes again, my very own human hurricane. I take a deep mouthful of the sorority girl slammer. I'm hoping it'll give me the courage to go and talk to someone. Anyone. And maybe learn a little bit more about the D.C. political scene.

Even if the liquor in this drink doesn't take the edge off, the sugar high will.

C'mon, doofus. How are you going to be a reporter if you can't talk to a single person here?

It's not like this is my first time talking to people for a story. Back in high school I was an intern for the local paper but Taylor Mill, Kentucky, isn't exactly overflowing with journalists. Which meant I had to pick up the slack and take over writing duties whenever the paper needed.

Why is it easier to talk to a police captain about a car crashing into a backwoods meth lab than it is to say hello to someone in a tuxedo?

I take a breath, square my shoulders, and step forward. I'm going to find someone here to talk to. And I'm going to do it without embarrassing myself again the way I just did with my one-girl cheer squad impression.

But before I can move into the crowd, someone joins me at my little spot along the wall. He's about my age, which is to say, a little over twenty-two. His pale face is blotchy red with booze. He's sweating all the way up to his receding hairline. He must have just come from the dance floor. Or he's got early-onset liver poisoning, which isn't impossible in this city.

"Hey there." His voice comes out slurred. His eyes rove over my face, linger on my chest for way too long, and track back up to my face. "I haven't seen you before. How are you?"

I give him a tight smile back. My dad raised me to always be polite, no matter what.

"Hi." I put on my Journalist Jenna Voice, chirpy and interested and above all, professional. "My name's Jenna Booker, and I'm here tonight from the D.C. Queen. I'm an intern in our political team. Do you read our online magazine?"

There. That wasn't so hard, was it?

He rolls his eyes. "Oh, great. A _political blogger_. Just what Washington needs more of."

I don't even have time to get offended before he's right next to me. His arm reaches around my shoulders and lands heavily. His breath could clean windows. I wrinkle my nose as I pull away from him.

"Well, Jenny from the Washington Queens, or whatever," he says, leaning in way too close. "My name's Cory Grissom. And I happen to be the vice-director of media for the office of Senator Roman Shaw. So why don't you and I go somewhere a little more private, and I can give you an exclusive interview?"

I've been in Washington long enough to know how things work behind the scenes. I read The Washingtonienne. Sex is currency in this city. Plenty of journalists trade sex for stories. God, plenty of journalism _students_ trade sex for grades.

But that's not me, and it never will be, and I'm icked out beyond belief.

Cory, however, is the kind of moron who takes a woman's silence as a yes. He gives me a broad wink and slips a too-warm, too-sweaty hand around my waist.

And I grab his little finger, tight, in the way we learned in self-defence class back in high school, pull it up, and _push_ it back against his wrist _._ Hard. Cory yelps louder than a rabbit in a trap and yanks his hand back, clutching it to his chest.

"Really? You thought the offer of an 'exclusive interview' with some junior staffer would get me all hot and bothered? You thought maybe I'd rip my clothes off for a chance to learn how much your office spends on Facebook advertising? _Please._ I could throw a stone in here and hit a dozen of you."

Cory's face turns ugly and he lets go of his injured finger. But not his injured pride.

"What are you, some kind of feminist? Do you know how much trouble I can cause for you? I can get you shut out of every story in town if I want to. And maybe I will even if you _don't_ give me some attention."

He grabs my shoulder and leans in. "Maybe you better persuade me otherwise."

I'm about to tell Cory Gross-om exactly where he can stick his exclusive interview and how hard when his hand is yanked back from my shoulder.

It's the guy from the bar. With one easy move he puts his hand on Cory's shoulder and pulls him back, almost stumbling, away from me. And he plants himself between Cory and me, shielding me behind a solid wall of muscle.

"Hey man, be careful!" Cory goes an even blotchier red. "What do you think you're...?"

The guy leans in. "If I were you, I'd be _very_ careful what my friend Senator Shaw hears some pissant kid is trying to get away with by trading on his name. Especially while Roman is currently making a very public bid to be admitted to the Senate Committee on Finance. Or is it your life's ambition to go viral on Twitter with a MeToo hashtag lighting you up like the Fourth of July?"

Cory snorts. And, then, reality dawning on him, he goes white.

"Here." The guy hands Cory my half-finished cotton candy drink. "This looks like it belongs to you."

Cory looks at the drink and his mouth opens to protest. The stranger doesn't say another word. He just looks at Cory, and raises one eyebrow.

"Was there something else?"

Cory, like a whipped dog, stumbles away, still holding onto my drink.

"Are you OK?"

The guy turns back to me. His eyes sweep up and down, blatantly assessing me. And it's all I can do not to drop dead on the spot.

From across the ballroom, I thought he was beautiful.

Now, from up close, I can see that he's _gorgeous_. His eyes are a flinty blue, searching mine for any sign of distress. His face could be carved from rock, all hardness and perfect angles. And his body... even under the perfectly-tailored tuxedo, I can see the thick slabs of muscle that make up his chest, his shoulders.

And he's tall, at least 6'3", maybe more. I'm tall for a girl and heavier than I want to be... but next to him, I'm practically a toy doll.

"I said, are you OK?" A tiny grin pulls at the corner of his lips. Like he knows I'm OK, but he also knows I lost a moment checking him out. Or is it my imagination?

"Uh, yeah." I look down at my phone to break his spell. "Yeah, I'm fine. Thank you, though, for what you did. Aren't drunk guys the worst? I mean, you probably don't have to put up with them very often. I mean, _I_ don't have to put up with them all that often but sometimes they don't know when to quit and then it's this whole big scene and..."

I wince, hearing my own babble. I don't know whether to thank him for saving me, or tell him that I'm fine.

Because if I'm fine, that would mean I didn't need saving in the first place. And he might leave.

He shakes his head, disgusted.

"That's what you see when you scratch the surface of D.C. Testosterone and alcohol and the smallest taste of real power. A lot of the younger guys at these things, they think they're the greatest thing that ever happened to the world. And they get liquored up, and they want everyone else to believe it too."

His voice is deep and rough. Silk over steel. My stomach drops. And suddenly I understand what people are talking about when they say 'sexual magnetism'.

He's radiating... something. Something that has goosebumps rippling over my bare skin. My body can feel his body, right there, so close to mine. And the first warm tingles of a welcome heat bloom between my thighs.

God, what is in this drink that Toni got me?

I've never, ever had a one-night stand in my life, but Jesus. If this man picked me up and threw me over his shoulder right now, I'd let him do anything he wanted to me.

After all, there's an exception to every rule, right?

"What's your name? And your accent... where exactly in the South are you from?"

He doesn't raise his voice. It cuts through the sounds around us easily. A deep blush starts from my chest and rolls up to my face. I pray the lighting by the back wall makes it too dark for him to see. Somehow, I'm sure he knows everything I'm thinking.

"I'm Jenna. I'm from Kentucky, originally."

I launch back into my prepared speech, trying to get my feet back under me. It's not like I rehearsed this a million times on the way over here. And I try to squelch my accent back down into something approaching the East Coast.

"I'm here tonight from the D.C. Queen. I'm an intern in our politi-"

"You should tell Michael Sinclair he needs to stop trying to have it both ways and take a stand for once."

The stranger motions to a waiter, who sees him and comes hurrying over through the crowd.

My jaw drops. Michael Sinclair is the owner of our magazine. And he's famous - and respected, I thought - for always trying to see both sides of a story.

"What can I get you, sir?" the waiter asks.

"Another Old-Fashioned for me. And the lady was drinking... something pink, I think? It looked awful."

"An Old-Fashioned for me too."

I say it trying my best to not make it obvious I have no clue what I'm talking about. The stranger smiles, and lays a crisp fifty-dollar bill on the waiter's tray, even though no one has to pay for anything here.

"I'll be right back, sir."

And I swear to God, the waiter almost bows.

"I happen to think Mr Sinclair takes a very reasonable approach to covering the news."

I should defend the guy whose magazine gave me my internship. And who I've admired for years. The stranger grins, like a wolf. I watch as one corner of his mouth rises, and then the next, and my mouth goes dry.

"I'm sure he's great to be around at parties. Sharing his feelings and never upsetting anyone. But tell me, what exactly has Sinclair changed in this city with his whole peace, love, and understanding thing?"

"Well, I mean, I don't really know him..."

The words sound weak even before I trail off. In fact, I've never met Michael Sinclair, and I'm sure he has no idea who I am.

"But don't you think it's important to get every side to the story? Especially when it comes to politics?"

The stranger leans in to me, so close I can smell his cologne, dark spice and sweet honey. I breathe it in. Breathe _him_ in. And an electric spark zips through my chest and right down my spine. God, if being close to him is like this, what would it be like to...

"I think that what matters is making a difference. Something you can see. Something you can..." his eyes rove over me, drinking me in. And my body responds to his closeness. The heat building inside me is only matched by the crazy cascade of nervous butterflies zooming through my stomach.

"...touch," he finishes.

The waiter saves me from melting into a puddle on the floor by returning with our drinks.

I've never had an Old Fashioned before. I just remember everyone drinks them on Mad Men. I take a sip and sharp orange sweetness and dark bourbon explode on my tongue. But my mind is a total blank. I can't think of a single thing to say to the beautiful man looming over me.

"Sinclair wants everyone to join hands and sing kumbaya, but life doesn't work that way. If you want to do work that means anything, you have to take control. That's how you do something that matters."

His words cut through the haze of hormones fogging up my mind. Memories of all the times life's unhappy surprises have smashed into me like a dump truck well up in my head. I don't want to argue with the guy who came to my rescue, but I can't agree with him either. I also don't much enjoy feeling like I'm on trial.

"But you can't control everything. You can't control _life_. Wasn't it John Lennon who said life is what happens to you when you're making other plans?"

The stranger smirks.

"I'm sure that would impress me if I were a dreamy teenage girl in the 1970s. But in the real world all you've got is what you can control."

I shake my head slowly.

"I think maybe that works if you're the type of person who comes to fancy fundraising galas. No offense, but most people don't have that kind of opportunity. They're just trying to get by."

He watches me over the rim of his glass as he takes a drink.

"Is that what you're doing, Jenna Booker? Just trying to get by? Washington's a long way from Kentucky. Are you telling me you didn't make a choice of how your life was going to be? Like I said. That's all you've got in the real world."

It would be wrong to say I refuse to be intimidated. Instead, I refuse to _show_ him I'm intimidated. So I finish the rest of my Old-Fashioned in one drink and set it back down deliberately on the table.

"I got lucky. Most people don't. And I don't think it gets much realer than where I grew up. Nobody there could _control_ what happened to them. They just did the best they could. And there were plenty of times when that wasn't enough to keep a job, or keep a family together."

Ugh, what are you doing? Nobody cares about your life story, Jenna.

His eyes bore into me. And I see, behind the intense, startling blue, a force of will that's pure savagery.

"I don't mean to disagree with your experiences. And believe me, I know what hard times look like. But maybe you've never seen what true control is.'

"Um," I begin, and then Toni's back by my arm, flushed and happy, her eyes sparkling.

_Great_ , I think, _this is all over_. And on the inside, I sag.

Not that Toni would ever be unfaithful to her boyfriend Mike, who really is a cop. But because no man with eyes in his head would bother paying attention to me when I'm standing next to Toni.

At least I won't get more opportunities to embarrass myself.

"Hi!" Toni's white teeth flash bright in her perfect smile, and I almost wish it was possible for me to hate her as I wait for the stranger to do the little double-take men always do around Toni.

"This is my friend Toni. She's an intern as well, but she's focusing on crime reporting."

There's something about Toni which has the stranger's eyes turning watchful. I wish I could pretend it wasn't her... well, her _everything._

"How are you?" Toni extends a slender hand to the stranger, which he takes and shakes once before letting go.

"Fine. But there's somewhere else I need to be."

"Wait!" The stranger turns back as I call out. "Would you be interested in giving us some thoughts or quotes on tonight? Or maybe introducing us to someone who would be?"

His mouth twists up at the edges in what's not quite a smile, not quite a sneer.

"How are you going to learn to get a good story if I do all the work for you?"

With a tight smile to me, and a nod to Toni, the stranger turns around, and disappears back into the crowd. It parts around his broad shoulders and closes again, swallowing him up. Toni scoffs, like she can't believe how rude that was.

"Man. Classic D.C. Everyone here's got an attitude, huh?"

"Yeah," I say slowly, and I let a long, long breath out. "Something like that."

It figures. I finally meet a guy in D.C. who isn't a total creep, a career politician, or both... and he can't get away from me quick enough.

Or maybe he just doesn't like reporters.

Then again... who does?

***
Chapter Three - Jenna

The night hasn't started well. But somehow it gets worse from there. As the heat of so many bodies packed together builds, I fend off more and more drunk junior staffers who think they can cop a feel from the girl who's a bit bigger than all the others. Or their drunk bosses trying to get into Toni's pants.

She knows how to flirt just, just enough to get them talking. Or to get their details and a promise of a story, but no more. I couldn't do that if I tried. And I wouldn't even know how to start trying.

The more suggestive comments and open leers I get, the more I curl into myself. I don't want to be here. I don't know how to do this happy party social thing that seems to be second nature to everybody else here.

In self-defence I let Toni talk me into having three glasses of chilled champagne. The delicate bubbles pop sweetly on my tongue, as smooth as silk. But every time I put down an empty glass some grinning guy in a suit offers to get me another. Or a shot of tequila. Some of them wear wedding bands.

The answer, always, is no. Even though I should be talking to these people, learning their stories.

Totally not worth it.

"You might meet your future husband here tonight," Toni laughs after I politely nix the latest attempt to get me on the dancefloor. "But not if you keep saying no to all the future Supreme Court Justices."

"Ugh, please. The moment I meet a guy who has more than one thing on his mind, I'll let you know."

Toni's grin could take off her ears.

"You do you, boo. But hey, sometimes that _just one thing_ ain't all that bad. Especially if you've been in dry dock a while."

_A while_ in this case means about eighteen lonely months. But that's not information I feel like spilling in the middle of a cocktail gala.

"Hey, I'm as human as the next girl. I've got needs. I've got feet for somebody to sweep me off of. But I don't particularly dream about being a notch in an ex-frat boy's bedpost. Is it too much to ask that someone who wants to take me home wants to get to know me as well? Even just a little?"

Toni glances around the room.

"It might be in this crowd."

I _do_ keep trying to find a glance of the stranger, but I can't see him anywhere in the crowd. And at 11:30, my mission to meet is people officially a failure.

Anybody who's anybody is off speaking to another somebody, their backs turned in a huddle of black suits, blocking off any way to approach. And everyone else is in the pack of bodies on the dancefloor, enjoying the music, or more likely, the free booze.

After fending off the advances of an Ohio state lobbyist with more hands than an octopus, I head for the door across the room. Toni gives me an understanding smile from a huddle of female staffers as I do. We'll touch base tomorrow.

I walk back through the darkened hotel to the main door. The music from the main room follows me as I go to the cloakroom and shrug my jacket on. And my complete bust of an evening hovers over my head all the way like a vampire bat.

My earlier excitement at being here faded hours ago. I was obviously wrong about how this night was going to go. It was stupid to think I could belong here, someday. This was my first big test and I blew it.

Even Toni can't understand. She comes from money and she's used to events where people wear actual bow ties. She knows how to dress, and how to act, and how to talk. The one thing here I'm familiar with is Kentucky bourbon. Where I come from, I belong more in the wait staff here, not trying to interview politicians.

Maybe getting a free drink or five is as exciting as the life of a journalism intern gets.

I used to think as soon as I had my D.C. internship, life would be like the movies. I'd be following reporters around, meeting sources in shady back alleys, busting union leaders for taking bribes or hiding secret mistresses. Instead, I've fetched a whole lot of paper for printers and copiers, and answered a whole lot of phones. I've written a handful of human interest stories. Nothing to get up and dance about.

I guess I can chalk tonight up as another let-down. One in a long line.

And one of the shadows in the corridors ahead of me moves. No, two shadows. I've walked into what was obviously meant to be a private conversation.

One shadow becomes a small man, shorter than me, maybe in his fifties. He scowls when he sees me looking at him and quickly pushes his way past me and back towards the ballroom.

His eyes meet mine as we pass each other, and I take an involuntary step wider away from him.

His eyes are cold and black, and surrounded by deep wrinkles. His pupils are alive with anger – I can't imagine why a man I've never met before has so much hate towards me. Or maybe he feels this way towards every human being he sees and I'm nothing special.

His eyes narrow as he sweeps past me, and I half expect him to shoulder me aside. Not because the corridor's narrow – it isn't – but just because.

Then the second shadow becomes the stranger, walking beside me. He falls into step alongside me, as if we've walked the whole way from the ballroom together.

And cool relief washes through me at the chance to talk to him again.

"Jenna from the D.C. Queen." The bass rumble of his voice wraps itself around the base of my spine. "How was your night?"

"Kind of a fail." I fight the urge to look at him sideways as we walk together. "Scratch that. A complete fail. I was supposed to get all the hot gossip, and I didn't get a bit of it. Unless your angry friend back there can tell me something special about what's happening in D.C. this week?"

He ignores my question about the man with the raging eyes.

"Is that why you want to be a journalist? For the... gossip?"

The answer, of course, is no. But from the way he's asking, that's the only acceptable answer anyway.

"No. For the politics."

"I didn't realize people had so much passion for political journalism anymore. Not when election campaigns have become more like bad reality TV shows."

I give him a side-eye.

"Cynical much?"

"I prefer to think of it as being realistic."

I shake my head.

_Please don't let him be as jaded as everyone_ _else I meet in this city. Please don't let him be like the rest of the guys in there when he seemed like he might be so much more._

"That's exactly why I want to get into political journalism. Did you ever hear the saying that all it takes for corruption to thrive is for good people to do nothing?"

He slows and looks at me.

"I've heard it said. I've also heard that power corrupts."

I slow my pace to match his.

"Well take it from me, they're both true."

His look is curious now.

"You sound like you have some personal experience."

I sigh, but his silence is a prompt to keep talking.

"Yeah. I do. When I was a teenager I watched drugs move into my hometown, and businesses move out. And the people who had the power to change things? All they did was vote to give themselves higher pay and more days off. And nobody stopped them, because nobody cared anymore."

"I'm sorry to hear that," he says softly. "That it happened, and that you went through it."

I remember his words from before.

"I saw the people who had _control_ take more and more from the people who didn't. And I didn't like it. Not one little bit. But you know what they say, if you're not part of the solution, you're part of the problem. I didn't want to be part of the problem. And I thought the best thing I could do was get into journalism, and tell the real stories."

I groan internally when I realize I've once again given my Girl Guide speech.

"That must sound pretty naïve to you, huh?"

His eyes are on me. I don't know why, but I feel a powerful urge to fill the silence he's leaving.

"I want to do something that matters," I say simply.

One moment he's beside me. And then he's in front of me, so fast I bump into him. And his arms come down around me, around the small of my back, and pull me in.

His mouth is on mine, warm and strong. For a moment I freeze.

This cannot be happening.

I don't even know if I want this to happen. I mean, I do. God, I do. Any woman with a heartbeat in her chest would, with this guy. But kissing people I've barely had a conversation with is hardly the sort of thing I do regularly.

Or ever.

Maybe it's the cocktails and the champagne. Maybe it's because he's the first guy all night, or in over a year, who's shown any interest in what I think, instead of looking at me like a piece of meat. Maybe it's because I'm so tired of trying to find a real connection with a man and coming up short.

Or maybe it's because for the first time in my life, I've met somebody who has my mouth going dry with desire when I look at him.

But then I'm kissing him back. My whole body buzzes under his touch. My blood pulses hot, right beneath my skin. He almost crushes me, his grip is so strong and tight. But I love it. His hands run down my body, cupping my ass, feeling me there.

When he breaks away from the kiss I gasp for breath. My knees are weak but his hands are strong, holding me steady.

"OK, wow." My breath hitches in my chest. "That was..."

"Yeah. Yeah, it was."

He's breathing heavily too. For a heartbeat, he looks almost unsteady. Unsure of himself.

Then his lips are on mine again, and his arms come back around me.

_Is this even me? Is this what I want? Kissing a complete stranger – a complete_ hot _stranger – right in the corridor of a hotel?_

His kiss grows more savage, more insistent, and I let all my doubts and worries float away on the tide of raw, animal need flowing through me. He can do anything he wants with me. And he knows it.

There's a sound from further down the corridor – people, a group of them, loud and drunk. And very obviously heading in our direction.

He breaks from our kiss and takes me by the hand. I swallow a nervous giggle at the idea of getting busted like a couple of high school students making out.

"Come with me."

I'm helpless to say no. He leads me to an elevator and hits the call button.

"Are you sure we should be doing this?"

I struggle to catch my breath. I don't want him to say no. But my experience of making out with hot strangers in hotels, until now, is zero, so I don't know how this is supposed to go.

"I mean, isn't the hotel all booked out tonight?"

He grins, though I've haven't said anything funny.

"It is. And I've got the penthouse suite all to myself."

We get into the elevator. As soon as the doors close, he pushes me up against the wall. I gasp as his cock, huge and hard, presses against me. And I'm instantly soaked and ready to take him in.

Jesus, is this real? I've had sex with exactly three men - three boys, if I'm being honest - my whole life. And the only one who was anything regular was my high school boyfriend.

But every thought of Scott disappears when the elevator stops and the stranger takes hold of my hand - grabs me - and guides me through the doors and into the penthouse.

The room is half-dark. Hundreds of streetlights, outside the windows and down on the street below, give it just enough light to see by. Like all the stars have fallen to earth but still glow. The view takes in the whole city, from the river all the way up to the overcast blackness of the night sky.

I want to ask his name. I've never even kissed anyone before without at least knowing their name. If we're going to do this, I should know at least that. Anything else would be kinda... slutty.

But before I can say anything, he takes hold of my wrists in one of his big hands, holding me, and draws my arms above my head. I can't believe how easily he's overcoming all my defenses. Every which way he moves my body seems right, seems perfect.

I never do this, I think again. I shouldn't be doing this right now.

This isn't who I am.

And then I lose all capacity for thought as his mouth closes on mine again.

His lips are warm and open and I surrender myself to him. His tongue probes my mouth, his free hand running up my body and quickly, easily slipping the straps of my dress down over my shoulders. His body is rock-solid against mine and a surge of molten arousal radiates from my core. He presses his lips to the hollow of my throat and all my inner muscles clench.

"I wanted you the moment I saw you from the bar. And I knew I was going to have you the first moment you spoke to me."

"Oh my God." My breath comes heavy as he undoes my bra in one easy, sweet motion. My tits pop out and then his mouth is on them, sucking at one of my nipples. It's as hard as a diamond.

I writhe against the wall and push myself back into him. His huge, hard cock presses against my body. And I'm desperate to take him inside me. Waiting for him is perfect, exquisite torture.

"Are you sure you want this?" he growls in my ear.

The sound of his voice, rough and deep, has me halfway to coming right then and there. His warm breath brushes the tender skin along my neck and I groan and arch my back. His hand presses against my ass, pulling me tighter against him. His cock is perfectly placed against me. It pushes at me and I don't understand how I'm still standing upright.

"Fuck yes."

I'm practically begging him. I try to free my hands so I can reach down, touch him, show him how much I want him. How wet with need I am. But he pushes my arms back against the wall.

"Tell me." And then his mouth is at my neck, and I can barely think, let alone talk.

"Please. Please. I want it. I want your dick in me. I want you to fuck me, oh God, please."

I can feel him grinning, feel that triumphant wolf smile spreading over his face. I don't care. Just as long as he doesn't make me wait another moment.

And he's as good as his word. His hand goes between my legs and pulls down my panties. I hear his zipper going down. Now he lets my hands free, lets me grab onto his cock, thick and hard and pulsing with blood. I can't wrap my hand all the way around it.

I hear the quick rustle as he opens a condom wrapper and sheathes himself. Somehow that makes it even more real.

For a moment I'm scared that I won't even be able to take him. I've never seen a cock this big before. Not even in porn. But before I have time to scare myself I guide him to me.

With one quick, searing thrust he spears all the way inside and my heart's exploding in my chest.

"Oh, fuck," I yell. It's only once the sound's out I realize someone might hear. But all it does is turn him on, and then he's fucking me, fucking me hard and fast. I wrap my arms around his broad shoulders and back and he slips in deep, deeper than I've ever imagined I could feel.

His dick is so big it hurts - but at the same time it doesn't, and I want more. I've never felt anything so intense before. My pussy's burning hot and wet with how much I want him.

I moan with lust as he speeds up, start going even harder. He slams my ass against the wall behind us with the roughness of his thrusts, and I love it. Every inch of my skin is on fire with him, him inside me, him against me.

I'm shocked to realize how close I am to coming. He feels it too. He wraps one hand in my hair and pulls, just enough for it to hurt.

"Come for me," he rasps. It's all I need.

That tingle of pain in my scalp trips into ecstasy as my orgasm explodes right out from the core of me. It's the first time I've ever come with a guy, and not on my own. Some distant part of me, miles away, watches in amazement. She can't believe this is happening. Neither can I. Not any of it.

My groan echoes through the room as the sheer pleasure surges through me. My nerves scream with release, a shattering tidal wave forcing its way through every last part of me.

His cock hardens and lifts inside me. With a powerful shove and a deep grunt he's coming too. The sound of him in my ear, so close, so full of need, turns me on like nothing I've ever felt before. His cock spasms inside me as he spurts his load. My legs are shaking and I'm gasping for breath.

He collapses against me, his head buried in my shoulder. His heart hammers against me. It's racing almost as fast as mine. Blood surges in my heart and my throat, and my breath comes in short gasps.

He comes back to himself and strokes an errant lock of hair from my face. His lips brush mine, as soft as a whisper.

"Jenna Booker. From the D.C. Queen. Who didn't get the stories she was looking for."

As if I could care about a story right now.

***

### Chapter Four - Jenna

The moment doesn't last, of course. How could I expect it to? Nothing truly perfect ever does.

His phone starts ringing a second after he says my name. He looks at the screen and frustration flashes across his face.

"I need to take this. Give me a moment."

He leans down and kisses me. It's hard and savage, the same as how he fucked me. It sends an echo of my orgasm through me, a rippling tingle that spreads from the core of me, standing right there in the dark empty room.

He walks away into another room, completely naked, giving me a gorgeous view of his hard back and magnificent ass.

And that's when I freak out.

Because I can't stay here. I can't stay standing here with my clothes spread around me on the floor in a complete stranger's hotel room.

_Jesus, what did I just do? I can't_ believe _I just did that. While I'm on my very first fucking assignment. One whisper of this and I can kiss my scholarship goodbye. What is_ wrong _with me?_

I can hear his voice, low and faint, from the other room. As quickly and quietly as I can, I pull my clothes back on. Shame and excitement and pleasure are still rolling around inside me, forcing me to go, begging me to stay. I can't. I can't let whatever strange electricity crackled between us pull me into its grip again.

Fuck. What _was_ that? Aside from the biggest, sexiest mistake of my life?

You don't even know his name, Jenna!

My hands shake as I zip my dress up. I curse under my breath as the zipper snags, but I force myself to relax. The last thing I want to do is tear this dress. It cost way too much.

And then, before I can have a complete meltdown, I slip away, silently, out the front door, and back into the lift.

God, I spent the night judging everyone in there for wanting something fast and sleazy. And then I went back to a stranger's hotel room before I'd even left the building. If the gala guys were bad, then I'm so much worse.

At least I gave him a kiss goodbye.

Every step of the way I expect to hear him behind me. Half of me _wants_ to hear him behind me. But he doesn't come.

When the lift opens onto the lower floor, I step out and immediately step back in. Because two security guards are marching down the hall, their movements urgent, their voices hushed but hard. Obviously, something's happened. Maybe a fight or something.

Or he called security on you, genius.

Oh God, are they for me? My heart skips a beat and I step further back into the elevator, pressing my back against the wall. Like it would do any good.

But they keep going, not even looking my way, and ten minutes later I'm on the cold streets of D.C., walking to the subway station. I stop myself from touching my lips. The memory of his kiss still lingers.

My steps are unsteady. From a few blocks away a wailing siren lifts and sinks and fades away. My breath makes little white clouds. I shiver as I shove my hands deep into my thick Carhartt jacket, trying to keep warm.

The jacket was a present from my dad when I came to D.C. for my post-grad. I must look like an idiot wearing it with this formal outfit, but right now I could care less. My dress swishes around my legs and I huddle a little tighter into the jacket. The thin night air has a sharp bite to it this time of year. Icy white frost is already coating the dark, empty windows of the buildings I walk by.

For the thousandth time since moving to D.C., I thank God I'm not homeless. The city is packed with people who've fallen on hard times. Even in the deep hollows of D.C.'s winter, there simply aren't enough shelters for everyone.

Even this late, the subway's still packed with people coming home. Tipsy and happy or tipsy and angry or tipsy and falling asleep. But that's D.C. It's almost mandatory that everyone has to spend their Friday and Saturday in a bar, and their Sunday afternoon at brunch.

It's even worse when Congress is in session \- that's when the politicians and their teams descend on the city and the whole place ratchets up another ten gears.

Lost in the crowd, my panic fading to a memory, a secret smile spreads on my lips. I know what no one else knows. That this girl in the blue dress was getting her brains fucked out by the most beautiful man in the world not half an hour ago.

Oh God, Jenna. Get a grip! Are you going to start singing like a Disney princess next?

At least now I can cross having a one night stand off my bucket list. Even if it's about the trampiest thing I've ever done in my life.

Am I ashamed or am I happy? I wish I knew.

With a last rattle of shakes and bumps, the train finally arrives at my stop, and I get off and hustle home.

I live in a semi-skeezy part of town in North West D.C. At this time of night, I should catch an Uber, to be safe. Well, in my area, any time after dark is dangerous. But I'm too broke to be throwing away cash when I can get the subway.

At least I get up to my tiny little apartment without any trouble. Unless you count what's going through my mind.

Now that I'm home, the reality is sinking in. I had an honest-to-God, totally casual, no strings attached hookup. I've never even considered such a thing before. I've always said no to the possibility. I mean, I'm no prude, I just... it's just not me.

The door to my apartment sticks. It always does. I lean on it to get it to shove open. We've been complaining to our landlord for months, but I'm pretty sure the building could burn down without him coming to help.

My nose wrinkles as I get into my apartment. There's a smell in here that wasn't here when I left for Toni's this afternoon. And sure enough, the kitchen counter is still cluttered with empty Chinese take-out boxes. It looks like there's been some fresh additions to the newest Great Wall of Crap, as Toni calls it.

My roommate Eliza's light is on underneath her door. All the smelly garbage on the counter is hers. She's been promising to clean it up for at least a week now. It's at the point where I'm going to have to do it myself, even though I'm not her mom. And she's older than me - at 26 she should know better. Every time I clean up her pile of mess, maybe a week goes by before a new one starts building up.

But not tonight. I'm not going to let Eliza and her bullshit ruin the rest of my evening.

I go to my room and get into bed. For once I ignore the light coming in through the threadbare yellow curtains and the water stains on the cheap plaster ceiling. All I can think about is him. His icy eyes, and the way his rough hands felt on my soft skin. I lie on my back and stare up into the dark, wondering what he's doing now. Wondering what it would be like to have him on top of me, moving slow and deep.

It's the last thing I can remember before I drift off into a deep, dreamless sleep.

***

And I wake to the sound of my phone, ringing so loud it's like a firehouse bell in my ear. I groggily reach for it. It's not even 9am yet.

"Hello?" My eyes stay closed. This better be an emergency.

"Well it's about damn time!" Toni shoots back. "I've been calling you for a half hour!"

I sit up and rub at my eyes. "Why? Did you go home with a Senator last night?" My eyes fly wide open. "Oh God, you didn't, did you?"

"Yeah ha ha, dipshit," Toni's voice is equal parts love and sarcasm. "Didn't you get the email? Queen Dean wants us all in at 9:00 this morning, not 12."

Adrenalin hits me harder than a kick from a mule. Michael Sinclair might be the owner of our online magazine, but the person who makes it run is the chief editor, Kacey Dean. And while Mr Sinclair might have a reputation as the nicest guy in D.C., Kacey Dean's is exactly the opposite. And for very good reason.

"I'll meet you there." I throw back the covers hard enough that they fly off the bed and land on the floor in a crumpled heap. "Give me thirty minutes."

"Make it twenty. Or your ass will be interning at Hooters."

With a click, she hangs up, and I bolt for the bathroom.

***

A panicked twenty-two minutes later I'm scrambling up the gray concrete steps to the D.C. Queen, wishing I'd had time to stop and grab a coffee. Toni's waiting. Even with how late I'm running, she wouldn't bail on me and go in on her own.

Of course she's looking uber-professional. Her hair is straightened and pulled back tight, and she's wearing a black pencil skirt, a fitted white shirt, and a red wool jacket that looks designer. She doesn't even look tired.

Meanwhile I'm a tangled pale nightmare in the first pair of jeans I could grab from the closet and an old college hoodie I bought in a fit of pride at making it all the way to Washington D.C.

"Here, school mascot." Toni hands me a steaming cup of Starbuck's. "I figured you'd need a coffee. Now we gotta haul ass before Dean chews us both out. I don't know what's going on, but everyone's freaking out this morning."

We hustle inside the building and into the elevator. I gulp gratefully at my coffee, too fast, scalding my tongue.

The D.C. Queen is the Huffington Post and Breitbart and Buzzfeed, all mashed up and rolled into one. And all focused entirely on what's going on in D.C.

The difference is it's all about women. Run by women, for women - that was Mr. Sinclair's mission when he set it up. And I've gotta admit, even if I don't much like Kacey Dean (no one does, I don't think), she does a kickass job of running it. Sometimes, sandwiched in between the hot yoga tips and the Beyonce reviews, the Queen publishes some of the biggest stories in Washington.

And a lot of the time, the Queen gets them first. That's why I worked so hard to get one of the two internships they offer here. And why I can't screw this up.

Yeah, solid work on that front, Booker.

The elevator comes to a graceful halt and Toni and I exchange wordless glances as we step into the lobby. Neither one of us has any clue why everyone's at battle stations this morning. But we're about to find out.

Toni's maybe the smartest person I know. I didn't spend much time with her in any of our grad classes. But we've been working together a lot more since she got the other internship with the Queen. She's also maybe the one friend I've made since I've been living in D.C.

I've never been able to connect with other people easily. I'm super awkward at parties or get-togethers or nights on the town. But somehow Toni's got enough friendliness and social skills that she can make up for what I'm missing.

I'm about to ask her how the rest of last night went when we walk down the little steps from the lobby into the main office space, or the Pit, as it's called around here.

Kacey's called all the staff in. Not the weekenders, but the weekday staff as well. And Toni and me. But we don't work set hours - we're expected to be available whenever anyone needs us. Which is basically any time someone wants a Danish and a cup of coffee.

The Queen offices always holds a comforting smell of mocha. That and printer ink. Every newsroom I've ever been in is the same. The smell of coffee in the air, and stacks of files on every desk. Whiteboards full of schedules and notes, reference books everywhere. People charging in and out, or eating lunch at their desk because there's no time for anything else.

Some people find it hectic. To me, it's home.

Today though, everyone's sitting in little clusters. The hum of conversation echoes through the big room. The office is open plan, which is supposed to make it easier for us to collaborate. Right at the head of the Pit is Kacey's desk, all glass and chrome and gleaming surfaces. She says she likes sitting with everyone because it keeps her finger on the pulse of the magazine. I think it's because she likes feeling like she's a teacher and we're all her students.

Or she's a warden and we're all her inmates.

It's mostly women here, of course, but there are a few guys as well, dotted around the place. The Queen has a real mix of staff, some old, some young, but all of them very, very good at what they do. Another flush of guilt hits me. Working at the Queen is a dream come true. Learning from the people here is everything I ever wanted. And I put it all in jeopardy because I can't control my hormones.

"Now that our fearless interns are finally here, we can get on with things."

Kacey Dean's voice is a knife that slices through the chatter. Everyone immediately shuts up and focuses on her as she walks in. I try to make myself as small as possible.

She's not a big woman, but she somehow manages to loom over everyone she meets. She always makes me think of a hawk or an eagle, some kind of bird of prey. Her face is sharp and her eyes are almost too big for her face. And I can tell when she's annoyed because she stops blinking - it's unnerving, having those predatory eyes locked on you like she's preparing a swoop attack. She wears her black hair cut short and she runs every day. She always wears black - black shoes, black pants, black shirts, black jackets. Some of the writers like to joke it's to hide the bloodstains.

They make that joke pretty quietly, though.

Today she's in her standard battle armor – a Givenchy suit and Dolce and Gabbana glasses. I only know what they are because Toni told me. Along with a recommendation to comment on them if I ever got the chance.

"As you may have heard or not," she begins, with no introduction at all, no hello or how are you, "Metro police found a young woman's body last night. Sadly not uncommon for Washington D.C., but this young woman was found in a suite at the Sapone Hotel. Where the fundraiser was held last night."

And just like that, every eye in the room turns to Toni and me. Kacey's included. They all know we were there.

I really wish my mouth hadn't fallen open.

Last night was supposed to be about writing a fluff piece, something to keep us out of everyone's hair and maybe, maybe turn up something good. But now my stomach is dropping right through the soles of my feet.

"I don't need to tell you," she says to the room at large, "that this may be nothing. All of us have been involved in stories where it seemed a scandal was ready to break, only to watch it dissolve in front of our eyes. Nevertheless. One of my contacts at the city morgue has told me the girl was found in a state of undress."

Around the room, people shift and move a little bit. It's like the whole room has let out a tiny breath, all at once. Everyone's thinking the same thing. What if it was an overdose from drugs, shared with someone famous? Wild sex gone wrong? It wouldn't be the first time for Washington.

What if it was murder? And what if the killer was someone important? Someone in power?

That wouldn't be a first either.

Kacey nods to herself, satisfied. She knows she's got everyone's attention. She moves with small, brisk movements.

"So. I want you out there. I want you shaking down your sources. If you can find a way to work on this and not miss your other deadlines, I want you doing that. You two, come here. Booker and Burton. Jesus, the pair of you sound like a low-rent easy listening duo from the 80s."

Everyone else turns straight back to the desks. The sound of fingers hitting keyboards fills the office. They all know better than to dawdle when Kacey's given them an order.

"You, Burton. Your boyfriend's a police officer, right?"

Toni nods, and starts to talk.

"Yes, Ms. Dean. He's a patrol officer wit-"

"I don't care where he is." Kacey speaks right over the top of her. "Cops talk to cops. I want you to find out whatever you can, however you can. You wanted to get into crime reporting. This is your chance to impress me. Tell Patricia she's looking after you from now on."

Toni nods furiously, but I can see the way her eyes widen. With a sentence, Kacey's moved her to help on the desk of one of the most renowned crime reporters in D.C. This is huge for her.

"I want you to write up your notes from last night and get them to her by noon." Toni gulps a little bit at hearing that deadline, but she doesn't utter a peep of protest.

"Booker," Kacey snaps, and I almost drop my coffee.

"I need the political writers to start talking to their contacts about last night. And I need Burton working with Patricia. Which means someone needs to pick up the slack. Which means you need to work on the lifestyle nonsense. Who was there, who was wearing what designer dress, what their hopes and dreams are. The kind of bullshit that pays the bills."

What she means is, she needs the real reporters to do the real jobs, and the intern has to do the busy work.

"Unless you were fortunate enough to be an eye witness to a murder?"

I shake my head and she rolls her eyes.

"Figures. I'd never be so lucky."

"Here." She points to a board full of photos of people from last night as they enter or exit the hotel. She must have had a freelance photographer there taking pictures. "Did you talk to any of them? What can you get me in the way of a profile piece?"

Oh, shit. I barely talked to anyone, the whole night. Anyone but...

And there he is. The photo hardly does him justice. Those eyes. That face. But it's enough to set my heart racing, and send a warm tingle through my body, remembering what we did last night.

Remembering what he did to me.

"I spoke to him a little."

I pray my face isn't giving me away. I carefully suppress any reaction I might have, or any hint of the heat that grips my heart when I see his picture.

Kacey looks to where I'm pointing. And for a moment, for the very first time I've ever seen, complete surprise washes over her face. But she's back under control when she turns to me, and her voice is flat.

"Adam Stone." There's utter disbelief in her words. "You spoke with Adam Stone."

I can hear it in her voice. She isn't doubting me because I'm not a reporter yet. She's doubting me because she can't believe a guy like that would ever waste his time with a girl like me.

"Yes." I can't swallow, and I don't meet her eyes. "He was... nice."

"I could get an interview with the President before I could get an interview with Adam Stone. He's never been willing to speak with any publication, anywhere. No one can get anything on him, except for the fact he's made some huge donations to both political campaigns and public works."

"We... didn't talk about any of that." My face flushes red.

"I'm sure he didn't bring up his mob ties, either." Kacey's tone is bone-dry. She turns back to the board, and so she doesn't see the look of shock on my face.

Wait, did she just say mob ties?

What the hell?

She pauses but I don't speak. I've learned by now if there's one thing she hates, it's being interrupted.

"I suppose it's too much to hope that you got his contact details?"

I blush even redder, but not for the reason she thinks. No, I didn't. In fact, I didn't even learn the name of the guy who fucked me until you told me. Because I let a total stranger have me and I bolted for the door the second his back was turned,

God, what was I thinking last night?

"If you didn't manage to have a meaningful conversation with anyone else, you'll have to contact his office and ask if you can do a profile. You're useless to me unless you can get me that copy written. Which I doubt the golems on reception at Stone Incorporate will be very helpful with."

I hesitate. Surely there's some problem with trying to get an interview with a guy I had sex with? I mean, maybe not legally, but morally?

But I can't tell Kacey that. If she finds out I had sex while I was on an assignment... She won't just kick me out of my internship. She'll also get me kicked out of my post-grad.

"Is there a problem?" Kacey's voice takes on an edge sharper than razorblade. "You're here because you're supposed to be the best and brightest new talent your school can turn out. Is getting an interview too much for you?"

As usual, Kacey can make me feel two foot tall with zero effort on her part. But the thing is, she's right.

Toni and I are expected to show as much initiative as any other reporter here. More, even, because we've got more to prove. And if we don't... well, Kacey's the person with final sign-off on whether my internship is successful.

And therefore, whether I get my masters degree.

Or I don't get it.

"Nope." I shake my head. "I'll see what I can do."

"Don't see what you can do." She mimics my tone. "You might have impressed your English teacher in whatever tiny town you came from by seeing what you can do, but you're nothing special here. Get the goddamn story. If there's one lesson you should learn while I have to keep you here, it's that. Get the goddamn story. Always."

She turns her back. I'm dismissed. But, as an afterthought, as if it's nothing, she adds one more thing.

"I'd keep my phone on if I were you. The police will want to talk to you and Burton about last night. You're both secondary witnesses to a crime scene now."

***

### Chapter Five - Jenna

I look for Toni before heading to my tiny little desk, tucked out of sight in the old back offices. She's deep in conversation with our head crime reporter Patricia. This is _huge_ for her. Like, King Kong, Godzilla, Cloverfield huge. She wouldn't thank me for dragging her away from it.

So I'm left all alone with my thoughts and the beige plaster walls of my cubbyhole as I start searching for Adam Stone in our contact database. At least his company isn't hard to find.

Stone Incorporated is one of the biggest companies in the state. Maybe even the country. They've got investments in almost anything you could name. Construction, technology, even international shipping.

But try as I might, there's no contact details for Adam Stone himself. Which is surprising, given what I know about our files.

CEOs and executives always try to keep themselves locked away behind a barrier of personal assistants and secretaries. That's the whole point of being a CEO.

But the Queen has a contact for everybody. I mean, everybody. Every politician, every lobbyist, every actor and actress you could think of, the D.C. Queen has at least three ways to get in touch with them.

Except Adam Stone.

I can't find anything on LinkedIn, either, and I start trawling the online contact directories the D.C. Queen pays for a subscription to.

And I'm walled out at every step. I start to get the feeling that Adam Stone, whoever he is, really doesn't want a public profile.

I heave a huge sigh and rub at my sore eyes after a fruitless hour of searching. My neck is tight and aching from how close I've been sitting to my screen. If I can't find a way to get in touch with him, Kacey's going to wring me out in front of the whole office. I already know she'll make an example out of me. The dumb intern who thought she could succeed where everyone failed.

But if I _can_ pull this off... if I can get the interview no one else could get, it would force even Kacey to admit I've actually got what it takes.

A tiny little voice speaks up inside me.

That's not the only reason you're doing this, though, is it? Because if you can find a way to get in touch with him... you might get a chance to see him again.

I swallow, hard. I haven't even thought about what to say to him if I do get the chance. Not that it's very likely.

Because isn't that life's twisted sense of humor? Offering you something utterly perfect with one hand, and holding up a giant red stop sign in the other? Right before it smacks you in the face with it?

I've totally forgotten the coffee that Toni got me. It's still sitting on my tiny laminate desk. It's cold by now, but it's better than nothing. I stare at the screen as I drink, so if anyone walking past sees me, at least it will look like I'm working hard. Instead of sitting here begging my brain to give me some idea of what to do next.

It's a long shot, but I open up our image library and enter Adam Stone. Maybe there's something in here from an event in D.C.

And there is. But not what I expected.

The photo is a press clipping that's been scanned in – it wasn't a Queen story. I'm not even sure what publication it's from. Whoever scanned it in to our files didn't fill out the labels properly, which is pretty typical. Nobody's got the time for proper filing around here.

It's from the opening of a new clinic downtown. I don't recognize the building. But that's not what has me gasping and leaning forward to stare at the caption.

The image is obviously Adam Stone, but maybe ten years younger. And by his side...

_Pictured,_ says the caption, _benefactor Adam Stone and his wife, Alessandra._

***

She's beautiful and slender, and her eyes laugh as she smiles for the camera. She wears a simple strapless white dress which sets off her dusky skin. She looks European, maybe Italian or Greek.

Adam, of course, is beautiful in a dark suit and open-necked white shirt. But he hasn't yet filled out into the powerful specimen I saw last night. In this photo he's just becoming a man. Even his face doesn't look as hard.

I rack my brains. _Was he wearing a wedding ring last night? Would I even remember if he did?_

I don't know why jealousy is surging up through me in a thick tide. I didn't think I was ever going to see him again until Kacey showed me his photo. But looking at him, a stunning woman, one whose obviously in love with him, hanging on his arm... my throat tightens and that old feeling, of being stupid and big, but small and just plain not enough at the same time, wells up in my stomach. It's a sick, poisonous emotion, and it's an old, old friend.

I close the photo and re-run the search. That photo is the only one of Adam we've got.

So what have I got? And how the hell am I going to do this?

I've got the world's meanest editor, just looking for an excuse to strip me raw from head to toe. I've got a man who _might_ be married and no way to get in touch with him.

And I might have a chance for a story that will help carry me all the way through the rest of my internship and into a real, actual, journalism job. The thing I've wanted my entire adult life. The dream that brought me to the city that runs the world.

It's probably acceptable to tell Kacey our archives don't have anything, so I can't write the story. That wouldn't be my fault, after all. She might curse me up and down the corridors but no one can blame me if the magazine simply doesn't have the history on Adam Stone. I won't have to write the story. I won't have to go and interview the man I had sex with last night.

But that would be admitting I can't get the job done. And even if it's for acceptable reasons, giving up is still giving up.

So it's time for a prayer to Edward R. Murrow and a play for a journalist's Hail Mary.

***

It isn't a long walk from the Queen's offices to the Sapone Hotel, but I take my time.

Partly because I need to check my personal email to see if any new jobs have come in – as well as interning at the Queen, I work two other jobs.

I work at our campus bookstore during my free hours in the day, and I do freelance writing and editing jobs online. My scholarship might pay for my college tuition... but that's about it. And I really like not starving to death.

No new freelance work has come in, which is a blessing and a curse. It's good because I won't need to stay up til midnight trying to balance what Kacey wants from me with working on what a freelance client wants. And it's bad because I've got bills to pay and they're coming due faster and faster all the time.

An angry horn honks at me when I wait too long to cross and I give the driver a wave as I trot across the street. A couple of shoppers holding bright yellow bags split around me, walking fast to wherever the next sale is.

The other reason I dawdle on the way to the Sapone Hotel is because I'm trying to think of what on earth to say when I get there.

The way I see it, guys like Adam Stone never do _anything_ themselves. It's only us mere mortals who do our own work. They've always got a secretary or an executive assistant or someone who does all the grunt work of booking flights or hiring cars or making restaurant reservations.

Or paying for hotel rooms.

Which means someone at the Sapone Hotel will have the contact details for his personal assistant. So all I have to do is convince that someone to hand those details over. To me. A girl they've never met in jeans and a Georgetown U hoodie.

The problem is I have no idea how to do that.

In your first year of a journalism degree you hear some legendary stories of the lengths people go to in order to get a story. One fairly solid rumor said one of our professors used to get the best stories by deliberately putting her shirts through the dryer three times and cutting the top buttons off before sitting down to do an interview.

I heard once about a reporter from the Post who got the House Leader's private contact details. He calling the hospital the House Leader was having surgery at and pretended to be a specialist from Norway who was helping out in the operation.

The thing is though... I'm not a liar. Half because I don't want to be, and half because the moment I try to say anything that isn't true, my face turns into a tomato and I get the jitters like an electric shock victim.

But I have to say _something._

Because this is probably the only shot I've got.

I enjoy relative peace for the rest of my walk. The city is more still than usual today and even though I've lived in D.C. for almost four years now, I still love the sights and sounds. Real District residents make it a point of pride not to get impressed by limousines with convoys of security cars or rallies at the memorials.

But I still love it. I love seeing the blue sky above me and feeling the world turn beneath me and knowing this is one of the places the world spins around. Maybe that feeling will wear off some day. Maybe it's inevitable.

I hope it isn't. Being an outsider has its drawbacks, but I never want to blend in so much I can't see why this city is so special.

There are some D.C. Metro blue-and-whites parked across the road from the Sapone Hotel when I get there, but there isn't any crime scene tape or anything like that. Washington keeps its secrets locked behind closed doors. I don't know who owns the Sapone, but I'm sure they, and their guests, made it very clear they didn't want the world finding out what happened here last night.

It would be too bad for business.

A doorman stands behind a podium at the front, wearing a blue uniform with scarlet piping. His young face is drawn and pale. But he straightens when I walk up. And suddenly I'm convinced this is the worst and dumbest idea I've ever had.

Shame it's too late now.

"I'm sorry ma'am, we aren't taking any new bookings today. I'd be happy to give your details to our administrative team if you'd like a follow-up contact."

I give him my best smile.

"Actually, I was at the function last night for New Horizons."

His face falls.

"If you have a witness statement to make, I can direct you to one of the officers. Other than that, I can't help. I'm just trying to do my job, miss."

His accent sounds like Tennessee. And behind the fatigue on his face he looks friendly. So maybe... maybe I can be honest.

Although not completely honest. Maybe leave out the part with all the sex?

"I'm not here about that girl, though I'm sorry to hear what happened to her. I'm here because I'm trying to get in touch with someone I met last night. Are you able to give me the contact details of the person who rented out the penthouse?"

He shakes his head.

"I'm sorry ma'am, I can't give out the details of hotel guests. Privacy, you understand."

"I get it. I really do. But it isn't personal, it's for work."

He looks me up and down.

"In that case, I _really_ can't give you details. I mean, I'm not one to judge. But if you didn't get your money at the time, maybe you should ask your agency to follow up."

I scrape my jaw off the floor.

"Dude! I'm not an escort!"

He wipes at his eyes.

"I'm sorry, I just... I'm tired, ma'am. It's been a long night."

I wave his apology away. I don't know how well I'd be holding up if I had to steer things after a dead body was found where I work, but almost certainly not as well as this guy is.

"It's OK. I get it. Where are you from?"

"Murfreesboro, ma'am."

I nod. Maybe I can be... 90% honest.

"My mom had people from Tullahoma. I spent a couple of summers down that way. I'll level with you. I'm studying journalism, and I met this guy last night while I was trying to network, but I freaked out and forgot to get his details. Now it turns out he's this huge deal and my boss wants me to interview him and I'm totally out of ideas."

He looks at me for a long, long moment. And he sighs. And now he _does_ look tired.

"Best I can do is I can ask my buddy at the reception desk to shoot your details over. And if it turns out you _are_ for hire and you're trying to shake some guy down, well... people in this town play rough. Don't blame me if the next call you get is from a lawyer."

***

I write down a message for the receptionist to send. It's nothing much. A simple little email saying my name and where I'm from and that I'd love to write a short piece on Adam Stone after meeting him at the fundraising gala. 100% innocent. But even still, my stomach tightens as I hand it over.

I really hope I'm not about to get me and the doorman both fired.

I grab an early lunch at a tiny deli on the way back to the Queen. It's nothing much, just a turkey sandwich on rye and a cold Diet Coke. But I take my time with it, and I dawdle on my walk back, and stretch the whole thing out to a half hour trip. Because that should at least be enough time for my message to maybe go through.

And as soon as I'm back in the office, I march past the Pit and through to my desk and I check my email.

Nothing.

It was worth a try. Even if my note is bound straight for the receptionist's trash folder. Because at the moment I'm all out of other ideas.

Oh stop being an idiot, Jenna, I curse myself, and stab at the refresh button far harder than I need to.

And... still nothing.

Well at least that's done, I think. I should give it half a day on Monday before I tell Kacey I couldn't pull it off. At least that might give me time to try to find someone else to interview, and soften the blow a little.

I always knew I wanted to be a reporter. I was too young for Bob Woodward and Walter Cronkite, but whenever he had time between shifts at work to watch TV with me, my dad made sure I got plenty of Dan Rather and Katie Couric, and then Anderson Cooper.

Being educated, and being informed, he said, were two of the most important things in life. Being able to work out what's happening in the world and why. Because there are too many people in the world who'll take advantage if you can't.

I smile as I remember sitting with him on Sunday mornings, reading through the newspaper. I think he liked being able to connect with me that way, just me and him.

Not that it helps me much now, I think. Some reporter who can't even find someone's number.

And the phone on my desk starts ringing.

I stare at it like it's a poisonous snake hissing at me. I've been at the Queen three months now. My desk phone hasn't rung once. I don't even know why we still have landlines here. A holdover from the old days, I guess. And who's going to be calling me on Sunday afternoon?

Who would even have my number?

I pick up the receiver.

"Um... hello?"

The voice that comes back is cool, almost cold. It's a woman's voice, with a hint of an English accent.

"Is this Jenna Booker? From the D.C. Queen?"

"Um... yes?"

"Good morning Ms. Booker. I've received your email, requesting an interview with Mr. Adam Stone."

This has to be a joke. Any second now Toni's going to jump out from behind the corner, laughing at me for falling for her dumb prank and posh accent.

But what if it's not?

"Oh, that's um, great?" I can hear my own voice. Scared teenagers sound like this when they're buying beer before they're 21. I wrestle myself back under control. "I mean, I'm very glad. Who am I speaking with, by the way?"

"My name is Clarissa Crowe," the voice comes back. "I'm Mr. Stone's executive assistant. Mr. Stone personally approved your request and hopes you're able to join him at 3pm this afternoon. I thought perhaps an hour would be sufficient? Mr. Stone is a busy man."

There's something in her voice, a coldness. But also, a curiosity. And that's when I twig - she doesn't know what's going on any more than I do.

"Oh, let me see now." I pretend to shuffle papers on my desk. "I'm not sure if I can make... no, wait, I can move some things around. 3pm should be fine."

"Please be punctual." Clarissa Crowe's voice is even icier than before. "I shall meet you in the foyer at 3pm sharp."

Without a goodbye, she rings off. And I'm left, staring at the phone, wondering how long it will take me to get home and change.

***

The sky is turning gray and ugly as I leave the Queen. I was in such a rush this morning I forgot to bring an umbrella.

That's one good thing about Kacey. If you say you're doing something for the sake of a story, you can do pretty much anything you want.

So she doesn't care at all that I do thirty minutes more research in the filing room – proper research, not trying to find a contact number - and bolt home to change. As long as I'm working on a story for her, I could leave and work on the Moon for all she cares.

So I race back home to get out of my casual Sunday gear and find the nicest clothes I can manage.

***

Somehow it takes me most of the afternoon to find something to wear. Everything I choose is... blah. Nothing captures the effect I wanted it to. Nothing is as sexy as that blue dress.

Get a hold of yourself, I swear for the thousandth time. It's an interview. Not a damn date.

But that still doesn't stop me from changing my top. Again.

I settle on a pair of figure-hugging black pants and a tight little cream top with a daringly low neck. Nothing slutty, everything professional. I pull my hair back into a ponytail and carefully apply some concealer under my eyes. Finally satisfied, I walk out into the lounge room.

And straight into my roommate Eliza, and her skeezy boyfriend Alexis. Ugh.

They're lying curled up together, on my couch. Watching my TV. Like always. Both of them look wrecked - it's a safe bet they've been smoking pot most of the day. T

he first time I met Alexis I asked him what he did. He snickered like a teenager and told me he was in 'herbal pharmaceuticals'. What he actually was is a 35-year-old pot dealer who still lived with his mom. Which was why he was here so much of the time.

"Whoa." Alexis sits up, dislodging Eliza. "You're looking fancy. Hot date?"

Eliza turns her head to look at me. Her eyes widen and she slaps Alexis's hand.

"Hey, stop checking out my roommate." She sounds kinda like she's joking, but also, kinda like she's not. "You look nice, Jen. Are you heading out?"

"Uh, yeah. I've got a big interview to do."

"With a dude?" Alexis asks. "Because if it's with a dude, or a gay chick, they're going to tell you anything you want. Ow!"

That last part is because Eliza's slapped him again. "Dude! What did I just say?"

She leans over and grabs a bowl of Doritos sitting on the coffee table. "You want some Doritos, hon? They're so good."

If there was any doubt in my mind that she was high, it's gone now. Her eyes are bloodshot red and her movements are clumsy.

"No, that's OK. I think my Uber is here."

"More for me." She shrugs, but she knocks the bowl as she's putting it back down, sending bright orange and yellow corn chips all over the floor.

"Oops," she giggles, guiltily. "Don't worry, I'll have that cleaned up by the time you get back."

Yeah, sure. I've heard that before.

I'm already sure I'll be cleaning up after her. But I don't have time to teach Eliza why it's important not to leave corn chips spilling into the carpet.

"Enjoy your date!" is the last I hear from Alexis as the door shuts behind me. "I'm sure he will! Ow, fuck, knock it off, Ellie!"

Ugh.

I pull up my admittedly-slim research findings on the drive over to Stone Incorporated. Adam Stone. He got his start in construction, but somehow managed to balance doing an MBA with running his own construction company. From there he got into the world of high finance. And I mean, high.

Not high like Alexis and Eliza, but more like six, seven figure donations multiple times a year to political causes. And hospitals. And veteran's programs. And more.

But I can only trace that because privacy laws mean they're legally obliged to announce where they get their funding from. It seems he never wants his name on any of his donations if he can help it.

In fact, he might as well be a ghost. A photo here, a photo there. Always at some black-tie event. And usually, I notice, with a tightness in my throat, with a beautiful girl or three flocking around him. None of whom are his wife.

Well, that's to be expected. In D.C. the merest hint of money has all the beautiful girls swarming like bees to honey.

Or ants to dropped corn chips, I think wryly.

God, what am I even supposed to ask him? Why don't you want people knowing how rich you are? With all the money you pour into politics, have you ever thought of running for President?

Why doesn't anyone know a thing about you?

Are you still married? Does she know what you get up to in your spare time?

Why didn't you at least tell me your name after you fucked me last night?

I'm so lost in thought it's a while before I realize we've stopped and my driver is trying to get through to me.

"Miss? Excuse me, miss? We're here. Your trip is done."

I blink and look up from my tablet screen. The driver's staring at me like I grew another head.

"Oh, OK, thanks," I manage to get out. "Sorry. I was miles away."

I grab my stuff and walk up to the lobby of Stone Incorporated. It's a seriously impressive building, a tall, slate-gray spire that punches into the sky. It's tall enough, in fact, that it must have been built before the Height of Buildings Act in 1910, which stops the building of anything higher than the Capitol dome (another fun fact I learned when I moved here).

I'm a bit surprised. I would have expected a man like Adam Stone to choose something ultramodern for his business headquarters. But this building looks old, like something from New York's exclusive districts. And it's beautiful. It climbs up in graceful lines, and curved balconies wrap around every floor.

Oh God, do I want to do this? My life isn't perfect, but it's where I want it to be right now. Shouldn't I be focusing on my work, and keeping my scholarship, and not literally inviting this kind of distraction into my life? Isn't there another story I can find? One that doesn't involve interviewing a guy I just had the most incredible sex of my life with?

Last chance to turn back, I think. My step slows as I get closer to the glass doors. Last chance not to make a fool of yourself.

Last chance to see him again, that little voice says. Last chance to get the story. I stride forward. Trying to outrun the urge to turn and flee before it can convince me.

***

### Chapter Six - Jenna

The thick copper and glass doors open and I step into the huge reception area. On a Sunday afternoon, Stone Incorporated is quiet. The inside doesn't match the outside at all - inside it's all modern. Everything is white marble and huge, high ceilings tower above me.

I look around, wondering where I'm supposed to go from here. It doesn't help that nervous excitement is bubbling up all through me at the thought of seeing Adam again.

I step onto a deep blue rug that covers the glossy entryway floor. It sinks softly beneath my weight. Clear glass windows set into the foyer walls let the cold winter light in.

"Ms. Booker?" I recognize that voice as Clarissa Crowe's and turn. She's a lot how I pictured \- no, she's exactly how I pictured.

She's beautiful, her platinum blonde hair swept back from her heart-shaped face. She's wearing a tailored black business suit that does nothing to disguise her Sports Illustrated figure. She extends a hand and shakes mine firmly.

I instantly feel ten pounds heavier just looking at this woman.

And underdressed.

"Hi, I'm so sorry if you had to come in on a Sunday but I wasn't expec-"

"I work every Sunday." She smoothly cuts me off. "This way, please. I'll take you to the express elevator."

The clicking of Clarissa's heels on the marble floor is the only sound, and it echoes through the vast, empty hallway. I hustle to keep up with her but then she stops short and I almost bump into her.

"Can I order you something to drink? A coffee, or perhaps a mineral water?"

"No, thank you. I'm fine."

We wait in an awkward silence for the elevator to arrive. Or at least, I'm awkward. Clarissa never loses her composure for a second. I don't think this woman has ever lost her composure in her life.

The elevator arrives with a ding that almost makes me jump, it's so loud in the silence. Clarissa follows me in, then swipes a keycard. She pushes the only button in the elevator and with a smooth lift, we're traveling up to the penthouse office.

Oh my God, what am I going to say? I should call this off. I haven't even met him yet, I can still think of some reason why I have to go.

I can't believe I'm trying to talk myself out of the biggest opportunity that's ever come my way. If I can pull this off, I might be able to turn it into an actual job at the D.C. Queen. This is the kind of chance I've been dreaming of ever since I started my journalism degree. Ever since I realized writing news was what I wanted to do with my life.

The elevator walls are polished to a high silver sheen and I catch myself checking my hair.

Please let Clarissa not have noticed that.

The elevator comes to a smooth stop and Clarissa smiles, but it never touches her eyes.

"Here you are, Ms. Booker. Mr. Stone is waiting for you in his office. Turn left and you'll soon find it. I'll be waiting for you downstairs when you're finished."

"Thank yo-" I start to say as I walk out, but the doors close in my face. Wait, did she do that on purpose? Oh my God, what is her deal, anyway? Is she always such a bitch, or did I get lucky today?

OK, well, at least she told me where to go.

I go to my left, trying not to gawk at the obvious money that's gone into this place. There are pieces of art hanging on the wall, vistas of D.C. as it used to be, maybe a hundred years ago. I never learned the first thing about art, but these pieces are beautiful. And huge. Something tells me they aren't reproductions or prints. But it's all... cold. The walls are a stark white, almost like a hospital.

A glass display case stands in an alcove a little way down the hall. A sculpture sits inside, interlocking metal plates and dark wood forming a strange pattern like a staircase. It looks expensive, but that's about all I can tell.

I follow the corridor around to a pair of huge wooden doors, polished to a slick, red-black sheen. They slide back as I near. And there he is.

Jesus.

He's leaning on his desk, that sarcastic smile on his face. He's wearing a navy-blue three-piece suit and a pristine white shirt. It clings to the lines of his body; that rock-solid chest and those wide, wide shoulders. His shirt is open at the throat, giving me a quick preview of dense muscle. And then he's moving, walking towards me like a jungle predator. A lion about to take its prey.

Something soft is playing on a stereo. Something classical, and beautiful. But I can't focus for the life of me.

"Um, hi," I extend my hand. "Adam Stone, I presume?"

His big hand envelops mine, firm and warm. And strong. Then he's leaning in, and for a heart-stopping moment I think he's going to kiss me. And I know if he did, I'd let him.

But his lips brush my cheek, perfectly soft, and I smell his cologne. It's the same as the other night, spicy and sharp. A soft memory of sparks falling brushes the back of my neck.

_Oh, wow. So_ that _feeling wasn't a one-off type of thing, I guess._

"Jenna Booker." That deep voice of his, so instantly familiar, catches at my stomach. "What a pleasure to meet you. I was surprised to hear about your email. Most journalists in this town have given up by now."

Wait, what? Does he really not recognize me? Did he really forget my name so easily? Or was it just another night for him? Was I just another girl?

Fine. If that's how he wants to be.

He escorts me to a chair in front of his desk. It's a huge block of cherry wood that looks like it cost more than my yearly rent. But all the expense can't hide that his office is the same as rest of the floor.

Huge, and outrageously expensive, and cold.

I go into journalist mode automatically, because I can't think of what else to do.

"Well, thank you for your time, Mr. Stone. Is it a problem if I record this interview?"

His eyes are on mine, two chips of blue winter ice. And alight with a hard intelligence.

"It seems to be a day for firsts." That smile touches the corner of his lips again. "That's fine."

I switch on my little digital tape recorder, but I can't help but fumble at it before it starts. At least it gives me something to distract myself from how awkward and self-conscious I'm feeling right now. When I finally get it going I set it on the desk and look up. His eyes haven't left me. The blood rises in my cheeks.

The piano music in the background makes me think of a waterfall for some reason, sparkling and splashing in the setting sunlight.

"This music is lovely. What is it?"

"It's a composer named Liszt. This is one of his Nocturnes. Those are pieces that are meant to remind the listener of the night, and of darkness."

My cheeks flame hotter. Is there something mocking underneath his tone?

"I don't know much about classical music, I'm afraid."

"I find it relaxes me when I'm working. Of course, Liszt was a rich man who made a habit of sleeping with his female students and with married countesses, but he also supported the homeless and after the death of two of his three children he fell into a deep depression. The only way he could express his pain was through his music."

As Adam speaks the music builds louder, more furious, like a raging river, almost as if trying to prove him right, before falling back down to a murmur.

"But I don't think you're here to discuss 19th century composers, Ms. Booker. So why don't we get started?"

"So." I start reading off the list of questions I put together this afternoon. "Why have you avoided interviews until now?"

"I think our city has enough blowhards dying to see themselves in the headlines. Don't you?"

I shrug, weakly.

"I guess as a journalist it's my job to tell stories. So the more people who want to talk, the better for me."

He looks at me, like he can tell everything about me with one glance.

"But you're not a journalist, are you? Yet. Your email stated quite clearly that you're still completing your Master's qualification."

I ignore that as best I can over the blood rising in my cheeks, and move onto my next question.

"What makes you donate such large sums of money to so many causes?" Two can play at this game. I've done my homework too. As much as I was able with our limited knowledge of just who Adam Stone is. "Veteran's affair's programs. Poverty centers. Hospitals. But also, political candidates? It seems there isn't much you haven't contributed to."

He leans back in his chair and studies me for a second before he answers. It's all I can do to keep from dropping my gaze, but I meet his eyes steadily.

"Everything I do is to make life better for the people who need it most. For the people who don't have the tools - yet - to stand up on their own two feet. And you can't do change a thing in this world without making enemies. There are too many people in this city with their own agendas. So to protect myself, and protect what matters to me, I need to make sure the people who agree with my ideas have a fighting chance of making things happen."

"Modest much?" I say it before I can help myself. "That sounds like you're a _very_ good person. Haven't you heard there are no saints in Washington D.C.?"

He laughs, but there's no humor in it.

"Everyone in this city is committing _some_ sin or another. The fun is in finding out just which one it is. If there's one thing I can promise you, it's that I'm not a good person."

"What would your wife say about that?"

He doesn't move a muscle, but the temperature in the room drops a thousand degrees.

"I don't have a wife, Miss Booker. And you will not ask any further questions on the subject, or this interview will be over."

Oh God. That must have been one hell of a messy divorce. I wonder if she took the dog?

I don't know what to say next. Somehow, I've forgotten everything on my carefully-chosen list of questions. So I blurt out the first thing that comes to mind.

"Did you hear somebody died last night? At the fundraising gala?"

_I might as well come right out and said it_ , I think as dismay washes through me. _Let's talk about last night, Mr. Stone. Why didn't you tell me your name last night? Why didn't you want even the tiniest little detail about me? Why are you pretending it never happened?_

In the blink of an eye, his face goes hard.

"I did. And I hope they catch whoever did it and string the bastard up for it."

I blink.

"Well, I don't think they've confirmed the cause of death yet," I start, and he reaches over and takes my tape recorder. With one smooth motion, he clicks the stop button and put it back down on the desk.

"Why don't you ask me," he says, his voice low, "what you want to ask me. Because there are questions I want to ask you. A question for a question, does that sound fair?"

Suddenly, I'm very aware that I'm alone in a room with a man I know nothing about. A man who likes rough sex. A man who's used to taking control.

A man who makes me wet by looking at him.

And a man who's trying to take control of my interview.

"OK." I meet his gaze. "Me first."

He spreads his hands and leans back in his chair. "You can ask me anything, Jenna."

"How do you know that the girl from last night was killed? Nobody's said anything about murder yet, as far as I know."

Kacey would be proud of my journalistic instincts. I didn't ask anything about me and him. I went straight for the story. And Adam doesn't lose his self-possession for even a second. Even for a heartbeat.

"My lawyer told me. As soon as he found out. It was important to him that he know my every whereabouts last night."

This time I can't help stop the blush from reaching my cheeks. Is it my imagination, or did Adam lean on his last words, and give them extra meaning?

"My turn. How many men have you had sex with in your life?"

"I don't know if that's the kind of question I feel comfortable answering." My grip on my folder of questions has gone tight. Because as soon as he mentioned sex, a wave of heat rolled through me, and every tiny detail of last night came flooding back.

_Why does he want to know?_ I wonder. _Was it that obvious I'm not... experienced?_

"Then I guess our interview is finished. Shame. I was beginning to enjoy it."

I can't help but smile. He waits, patiently, his cold blue eyes locked on mine.

OK, Mr. Stone. Let's play it your way. You'll find I'm not the easy prey you think I am.

I think.

"Three. I've had sex with three men in my life. Not that it's any of your business."

"Thank you."

I'm not entirely sure what he's thanking me for. But it's my turn now, and I know what I want to ask him. Because I want to crack his perfect veneer. He has no humility whatsoever. He's treating me like a toy, and I need to fight back.

"How did I get this interview?"

As soon as the words are out of my mouth, I know - I can _feel_ \- that this is what I want him to tell me. What makes me so special, out of all the other people who have tried over the years to learn more about Adam Stone? To learn what he does, what makes him tick, who he _is_?

He stands up and walks around the desk and then leans back against it. My heart pounds faster with every inch he gets closer to me. His body language is casual arrogance, and his body is close to mine. Close enough I could reach out and touch him.

He leans forward and I can't help but leaning forward too. Just a little. Ready to meet his body with mine. And he comes close, slowly, so close that it's sweet torture to feel him there, less than an inch from me. And he whispers into my ear.

"Because after I fucked you last night I had to see you again. And I intruded on your private life because I'm very curious about what kind of person you are. Whether you run from every experience or if it was just from me."

Despite every ounce of my self-control, an electric shiver rolls through me, from head to toe.

I've never felt anything before like this primal need I have for him. I've never met a man, never even dreamed of a man, who could do this to me with a few words. He leans in closer, so close I can feel the tickle of his warm breath on my neck.

_Ask me again if I want this_ , I plead silently, despite myself. _I'll say yes._

"Your turn to ask." He whispers the words, and I want to scream in disappointment.

He leans back. I watch the way he moves, like a coiled spring. He's expectant now, watching my face, waiting to see what I say.

"Did..." I lick my lips. They've gone dry. "Did you like it? Last night? With me, I mean?"

He reaches out to brush my face with the back of his fingers. I want to kiss his hands, they're so soft and gentle. He strokes my face, and I'm amazed that a man so hard could show such softness.

"I did." And when I look at his face, I want to gasp. For the first time his guard is down, and I can see... something, I didn't expect. A yearning, a sadness, that I've never seen before. For a split second. Then the armor is back on and he's back to himself. Back to the man I've met so far.

"Can you promise me you won't publish anything I don't want you to publish?" His face is hard. This is the man who built a multi-billion-dollar company from nothing. This is the man rumors fly and circle around.

"Maybe. What else will we be talking about?"

He grins, that wolf grin that sends a shiver down my spine. He leans close again.

"We might talk about... secrets. Mine. Or yours."

I can't think straight with him this close. He _does_ something to me, something that makes all my brain cells shut down.

"I don't think I have any secrets. Not like other people in D.C."

He laughs. That same humorless laugh, more mocking than amused.

"Please. You can't be that naïve. _Everybody_ has secrets. And I want to know yours."

He's close enough for me to touch, if I could bring myself to move.

"All you need to say is that you'll obey my instructions."

His hand comes to my face again. But this time it curls around the back of my neck, and he tangles his fingers in my hair. He pulls gently, like he did last night. I gasp at the mixture of pleasure and pain, a thousand tiny pinpricks radiating through my scalp.

"My... every instruction." He whispers the words with his lips at my neck, his body close to mine. I bite my lip to keep from moaning, and I grip the armrests of the chair to keep my body from pressing up against his.

"Yes." My voice is a whisper. "Yes, I'll keep your secrets."

"And you'll do as I say?" His other hand is on my leg, gently pressing against my thigh, moving up towards...

"Yes." I moan, ready to do anything, ready to agree to anything he says, as long as he keeps going. As long as he doesn't stop.

"Good." And, abruptly, he's gone, and a tiny groan of disappointment slips from between my lips. He's leaning back against the desk. Back in command once more. "Then, Ms. Booker, I think you can ask me any question you want to ask."

Wait, was that all this was about? Is this another shitty Washington trade? A girl's body in exchange, for what? Secrets? Information? Gossip?

My heart sinks in my chest. I thought... well, I guess I thought he was better than that. Which is crazy, because I hardly know anything about the guy. But I thought he was better than... well, than someone like Cory Grissom, all sleazy lines and gross assumptions.

As much as I want him, and oh God, do I want him, there's no way I'm going down that route. Not with him. Not with anybody. I've already made more than enough mistakes with this man.

I grab my bag to hide how hard my hands are shaking and I stand up. His eyes are on me, gauging, calculating.

I bite my lip. _Last second to decide, Jenna._

"I'm sorry, Mr. Stone." I say the words as formally as I can manage with an earthquake rampaging through my chest and emotional whiplash still rattling my brain. "I'm afraid I don't do those kinds of favors for stories. No matter what you might have to tell me. Thank you for your time."

I turn on my heel and leave him, standing there, all alone in his cold office. My heart pulses in my throat, full of sick disappointment. I walk back through the cold, empty, silent hallways to the elevator, hoping he'll call me back. Hoping I got everything wrong.

But he doesn't. And when the elevator arrives, I have to accept I'll never see him again.

***

### Chapter Seven - Jenna

Well, what did I expect? A fairytale romance where the rich prince sweeps the humble girl from the country off her feet, puts her in his castle, and kisses all her hurts better? And they live happily ever after?

I should have known better.

Adam Stone is the kind of man who dates models and heiresses and movie stars. He's the kind of guy who has a couple dozen beautiful women waiting by the phone, praying he'll call.

I bet he's got a yacht.

Movies and TV shows are nothing but a lie. People from our worlds don't mix. Cinderella doesn't marry the handsome prince. Midnight comes and everything turns back to pumpkins and mice, and the next day she has to go back to work for minimum wage.

And the sickly-red cherry on top of this disaster sundae? I've tanked the story, too. Kacey's going to shove her hand right into my chest and rip my heart out.

The elevator opens and I step in. And an old, familiar rhythm, one I haven't heard for years, starts playing in the back of my head. It's bouncy, almost cheerful. It's a little song my mind sings to me.

Stupid, useless, fat girl. Stupid, useless, fat girl.

I suck in a breath as I realize what's happening. I haven't had a panic attack since I came to D.C. But all the signs are there. My pulse is speeding up and my throat is getting tight and the elevator is getting smaller and smaller and smaller with every passing second. Fear is the most powerful of all emotions. And it's the most vicious.

God _damn_ Adam Stone. I will _not_ let him be the thing that breaks me again.

So I close my eyes. I brace my hands against the side of the elevator and I focus on my breath. In, and out. In, and out.

Your breath, Jenna. Not Adam. Not your feelings. Not your fear. Not your memories of goddamn Mom and all her insults and the tape that wants to replay the same loop over and over again until you're nothing but a smoking smear on the ground.

In, and out. In, and out.

Slowly, blessedly, the moment passes. I'm OK.

Clarissa Crowe is waiting for me at the elevator door as I come down. She is so the last person in the world I want to see right now. If she gives me any more of her attitude, she's going to find out what my tape recorder tastes like.

"Ms. Booker. I'm glad to hear everything went so well."

I'm so ready to give her a mouthful that I stumble in surprise. "Um... what?" I blurt out. If she's taken aback, she doesn't show it.

"Mr. Stone spoke to me while you were on the way down. I must confess, I'm surprised. It's very rare for him to even return a journalist's enquiry, much less grant an interview."

I stare at her. Is this a practical joke? Is she twisting the knife of my failure? But I can't imagine this woman having any kind of sense of humor. And there's no way she could know I'd turned down Adam Stone's advances.

The only explanation is that he's lied to her. But why?

Well, if he's going to play games...

"Yes." I put my most polished, professional smile in place. "It's such a shame I have to run off. But here's my number - please tell Mr. Stone he can call me any time he needs to set up another interview."

If he thinks he can bully me into running off scared to ever talk to him again, he's got another thing coming. I leave Clarissa Crowe standing in the doorway to Stone Incorporated, and I walk off down the block.

***

I make it two more strides before my phone starts ringing. It's a number I don't recognize – and my heart, the shameful traitor that it is, leaps up despite itself at the thought it might be Adam. Calling me to tell me I'd made some mistake. That he wants me to come back.

"Hello?"

"Good morning, am I speaking with Jenna Booker?"

I swallow hard. It isn't Adam, it's another man. And there's a certain sound to this voice. A sound that tells me this voice isn't anything good.

"Um... yes?"

"I'm Detective Paul Marquez, I'm with D.C. Metro. Homicide, actually. Miss, are you available today to come to our offices and answer a few questions for us? It's regarding a fund-raiser I understand you and a Ms. Antonia Burton attended last night?"

I can't help it. The words slip out though I know I'm being stupid.

"Oh my God, is this about that poor murdered girl?"

There's a long pause. And I can _feel_ the gears in the detective's head shifting.

"Who said murder, Ms. Booker?"

_Adam did._

I suck in a breath, and the panic monster sinks its jagged claws into my gut and my throat again. I think faster than I've ever had to. Adam's words flash back into my head. _Make your world what you want it to be._

Adam might be an ass, but whatever he's doing, it's working for him.

"Well, I knew a girl died, and here you are, calling from Homicide, and asking about the fundraiser, so..."

I don't think I've convinced him of anything, but at least my story holds up. I think. There's still something in his voice. An undercurrent in a dark river. Like he's filed me away under "people to watch."

It's called suspicion, Jenna.

"It appears you're quick on the uptake, Ms. Booker. And yes, that is the reason I'm calling. We're hoping to get a sense of where everyone was, and when. And trying to find out if anyone saw something that could help us in our investigation. And please, if you could keep it to yourself that you're coming in until you've had the chance to give us a statement?"

My day couldn't be getting any worse. If lightning strikes me, it will be a relief.

"Sure," I say wearily. "I can come in. Tell me the address and I'll be on my way."

***

There's no way I can charge an Uber trip to a police interview to the D.C. Queen. Even if I _was_ at the New Horizons gala on official reporting business. So I catch the Metro halfway across town to and then head to the Homicide HQ.

It hits me as I'm getting off at the closest stop, six city blocks away, that I should have called Toni and asked for advice. She could at least have taught me how not to make myself look like a suspect.

How could I have been so stupid? If they push me on how I spent last night... If that story gets out, I'm done.

My stomach clenches tight at the thought of Kacey's face. If she ever, _ever_ knew... I can _feel_ my breath getting faster and shallower. My heart feels heavy and thick in my chest. I can't let myself have another panic attack right now. Not if I'm going to get through this interview without ruining my life.

My only chance is that Adam cares so little about his one-night stand he never mentions it to anyone. Because in this town, word travels fast.

_How many girls has he been with?_ I wonder. It's not a happy thought, because I'm sure it's not a small number. If last night is any sign of how he operates, there isn't a girl from D.C. who'd be safe from his appetites. He could have any of them, and I'm sure he has.

It makes me feel sick to think of it, but I force myself not to shy away from the idea.

This is what I need. This is how I'll get him out of my system, by making myself accept the poisonous truth of who he is. By making myself accept I was wrong if I thought I saw anything more.

My steps slow as I walk up to the Homicide steps. It's a squat, ugly building. It's a darker gray than the cloudy sky up above. It looks like it could have been an old fortress, built to hold off the British. Even if everyone inside died trying.

It's not high, but it's wide, and it looks carved straight from the city bedrock. And it looks... grim. Old, rusting iron bars the upper windows. Maybe it's a protected heritage building type of thing.

If a building could be dead, this one would be. It figures, given what they investigate in here.

I walk in through the big glass doors, my heart thumping in my chest. I've done nothing wrong but my nerves still shoot into high gear the moment I step over the doorway.

A woman sits behind the reception counter. She's got short-cut blonde hair and she's so skinny her face looks like a skull. Even makeup can't hide the deep purple bags, almost bruises, under her eyes.

"Yes?" She doesn't look up from her screen.

"I'm here to see Detective Marquez?"

"We have two Detective Marquezes." She focuses on her work and not me. "Are you here to see a man or a woman?"

"Um, a man. His first name is Paul?"

She heaves a sigh like by asking her to do her job, I've ruined her whole day.

"Wait over there, please. I'll tell him you're here."

I sit down on an uncomfortable wooden bench that looks as if it's been here since the 1920s. It feels like it too. It's cracked and hard and I shift awkwardly trying to find a spot to wait in that doesn't make me feel like I'm sitting up like a naughty student in detention.

A map of DC is pinned up to my left and a flag hangs to my right. A few doors buzz as they open and close somewhere deep in the station. I try not to jump at every sharp snap as they lock.

The woman with short hair finally sniffs in my direction.

"He'll be right down."

By reflex I'm ready to open my mouth to say thank you, but then I catch myself. If she wants to be rude, well, so can I. I nod and lean back into the hard wall of the building. Adam would be proud of me.

Not that I care.

A few moments later Detective Marquez comes down the stairs and over to me. He's short and hefty, with a buzz-cut and a goatee. He's wearing chinos and a long-sleeve check shirt with the sleeves rolled up to his elbows. He looks more like a math teacher than a Homicide detective. He's carrying a fat paper folder of files under one arm and when he sees me he brightens.

"Jenna Booker?" He holds out his hand. His grip is warm and firm and I instantly relax. There's something comforting in his manner. _Maybe I'll make it through this without getting myself charged with Murder One._

"Hi." I stand up but after shaking his hand I don't know what to do with mine, so I clasp them in front of myself.

"Let's go through to one of the interview rooms. Don't worry, this is just a formality. The more information we have, the more chance we have of finding out what happened that night. A few hundred people on-site at the Sapone Hotel last night gives us plenty of homework to do."

He beckons me to follow him, and I catch sight of the pistol holster on his hip.

I've never spent much time around guns, even though I grew up in Kentucky. My old neighbor bragged for a month when he got his 24th long gun – the deadly double dozen, he called it. I usually found an excuse not to go to his barbecues.

The pistol Detective Marquez carries looks... hard. It's black and dangerous. It doesn't belong with him, it's so out of sorts with the rest of him. I swallow, hard. Maybe I should forget the idea of him being a friendly math teacher who has some after-school questions.

Detective Marquez takes me through to a drab little room and we sit at a steel table, facing each other. There's an empty chair next to both of us and I realize this must be where the detectives talk to criminals and murder suspects. Two detectives on one side, a killer and his lawyer on the other. I've seen the exact scene on a million TV shows.

I've been in police stations before... but never a room like this. The nerves come back, fluttering into my stomach like hungry moths. I breathe in too deeply. The air in here smells sterile and my stomach feels uneasy.

It must show on my face because Detective Marquez smiles reassuringly at me.

"Hey, I don't bite." He pulls out a tiny little digital tape recorder. It's a lot more modern – and expensive – than my little hunk of junk. "Can I get you something before we start? Water, coffee, Coke?"

I shake my head. "I'm fine, thank you. This isn't normal for me – I've never been questioned by a detective before. Or, you know. By any police officer."

"Well, I'm glad to hear that." His smile gets bigger. "Let's get this over and done with, and you can get on with your Sunday, OK?"

"Sure, but... do I need a lawyer?"

"I don't know." His face is serious. "Do you?"

I can't help but laugh. His grim expression cracks and he grins with me.

"Not for this. This is just an interview, it's not a formal inquiry. All we need to do is ask some questions about anything you might have seen that can help our investigation. It always helps us to rule people out."

"OK, go ahead." He clicks the tape recorder on.

_And Toni wants to spend her life in rooms like this? I'll stick to grabby senators, thank you very much._

"OK, for the record – this is Detective Paul Marquez, speaking with Ms. Jenna Booker. D.C. resident, 22 years old, who attended the New Horizons fund-raising gala at the Sapone Hotel. The time is 11:30 am and the case number is H342 dash F."

He sets the recorder down on the table. The little red light looks menacing, like a tiny eye staring me down.

"Ms. Booker, can you please state for the record why you were at the New Horizons fund-raising gala?"

I have to wet my lips before I can talk. I lean forward and speak too loudly without realizing I'm doing it until I've already talked.

"I was there on assignment for the D.C. Queen. That's an online magazine here in D.C. I have an internship with them and they sent me to meet people and write a story on the gala. New Horizons... it's a charity a lot of people here in D.C. support. It's all about providing support to rural schools. Everyone can get behind that. Especially in a voting year."

Detective Marquez is busy taking notes and nodding along.

"Uh huh, uh huh." He writes furiously. "And is that usual, interns going along to something like that?"

"It is." I shrug. "It's not real reporting, so they give it to us."

"I get it." He smiles again. "You've got to prove yourself on the grunt work." The knot of tension in my tummy loosens a bit more.

"What time did you arrive, and what time did you leave?" I blink, trying to remember.

"Um, me and my friend Toni got there around 9 pm, I think? It started at 8 but Toni kept telling me nobody would get there much before 10 and we were running late. And I didn't stay long. I'm not really a party person. Maybe two hours? Three hours, max."

"Yeah, I'm not one for crowds either," Detective Marquez says. "Me, I prefer Netflix, a cold beer, and a good steak."

He opens his folder and pulls out a photo. He looks at it, then sighs sadly and pushes it across the table.

"While you were there, did you see or speak with this girl? Her name was Leanne Carey."

I look at the photo and see a beautiful girl, smiling at the camera in a green and gold dress. Curly brown hair falls to her tanned, slender shoulders, and her green eyes sparkle over perfect dimples. She can't be much older than I am, but that's the only similarity between us. She's got a perfect face and a perfect figure – something out of a Miss World pageant. The ultimate All-American girl next door. I shake my head.

"I'm sorry. I don't remember seeing her there. But there were a lot of people. Hundreds, like you said."

"Well, maybe this will help." Detective Marquez reaches into his folder again. "That photo was from a year ago. What about... this one?"

He drops a photo on the table in front of me and I jerk back in shock. The photo shows Leanne Carey again. This time her pretty face is cold, white, and dead. She lies sprawled across a table, and there's no sparkle in her eyes anymore. Someone's torn her dress and pulled it up around her waist.

I gulp back tears. This girl is a complete stranger to me but nobody should see her this way. Somehow seeing she's half-naked makes it so much worse. Like she doesn't have even a last shred of dignity.

Like someone just threw her away.

"No." I take in a long, slow breath to steady myself. "No, I didn't see her that night."

I look away from the photo and Detective Marquez nods slowly.

"I'm sorry." His voice is soft. "I know it's difficult to look at. But every tiny little piece of information helps us."

I nod and force myself to look back. At both photos, which makes it worse. Seeing her go from so happy, so bright and smiling, to so cold and lifeless... it's awful. But I'm sure I didn't see her that night. I'd remember, I'm sure.

Something in the second photo catches my eye. There's a black square on the inside of Leanne's hip. I can see it where her dress is ripped. It doesn't look real. Someone's edited the photo.

"Um, what's that right there?" I point to it. Detective Marquez follows my finger.

"We hide some details," he explains. "In this case, Leanne had an unusual tattoo. We don't want to release that to the public yet."

I nod. That makes sense. Whoever knows Leanne had that tattoo...

He slides the photos away, but I get the sense the interview is still very much underway.

"Are you OK to keep going? Or do you want to take a break?' His voice is kind.

I wipe the last tears from my eyes and shake my head, smiling weakly back at him.

"I'm OK. Can you tell me... can you tell me how she died?"

He shakes his head regretfully. "I'm afraid I can't release those details. But... it was fast. So thank God for small mercies."

There's a silence in the room for a moment, which Detective Marquez breaks.

"So who _did_ you speak with while you there? Even if it was for five minutes? Can you provide me with any names or identities? Every person we rule out brings us closer to someone who may know something. Even if they don't know they know something, if that makes sense."

"Um..." I strain to remember. "There was a guy from a Senator's office? It wasn't the Senator, it was some guy in media. He was a real jerk. His name was Cory Grissom. And I remember the Senator he works for. It was Roman Shaw."

Thank God for all those hours Kacey made us spend memorizing the names and faces of every politician in D.C. No matter how little they actually did, if they hold political office, she made sure we learned who they were and where they were from.

"OK, good." Detective Marquez writes the name down. "Anybody else?"

"Well, I spoke with a man named Adam Stone."

Detective Marquez's head comes up, a little too fast.

"Oh? And who is he?" But his eyes are sharp, and his voice is that little too casual. And suddenly... suddenly it all clicks.

The math teacher act, the smiles, the easy banter. Detective Paul Marquez isn't my friend at all – behind that warm smile he's as sharp as they come. And if I tell him I slept with Adam... well, I think he'll have a lot more questions about where we were and why.

Maybe I'm wrong to think this way, but that's nobody's business but mine and Adam's. It's not like it could have anything to do with Leanne's murder. I don't know what time the murder happened, but Adam and I spent more time away from the gala than we spent at it.

There's no way it could have anything to do with us.

"He's a businessman." I say it as casually as I can. "He actually agreed to give me an interview, which is great for me. That kind of thing doesn't happen for interns every day."

"Uh huh." Disappointment crosses Detective Marquez's face so quickly it might as well never have been there.

"So... do you have any leads? Do you have any suspects who might have done it?"

Detective Marquez shakes his head. "I'm not allowed to tell you much of anything, I'm afraid. We're narrowing down on some possibilities. What I _can_ say is the people we want to talk to... they're not nice people. And they don't like us much, or anyone who asks too many questions. So I'm glad we won't need to speak to you again. You seem like a nice girl. I don't want you getting caught up in this."

He clicks his recorder off and stands.

"That's it for today. Here's my card, and you can get in touch with me anytime, day or night, if you remember anything further. I might have more questions, so is it OK to call you?"

He doesn't say it, but I can hear the unspoken words. He might have more questions... _about Adam Stone._

"Sure." I smile at him. "I want to help."

He nods at that. For a moment he looks like if he's deciding what to say.

"I have a daughter who'd be around your age," he says finally. "She's a good girl. Even if she gives me a heart attack every other night. And she's a smart girl. Like you. And if Bianca was working at a magazine, and if she was interviewing a guy like Adam Stone, I'd tell her what I'll tell you now. Don't believe a single word he says. He's not what he pretends to be."

"What do you mean?" I'm amazed at how steady my voice is. Because my heart is suddenly slamming against my rib cage like a trapped bird. But Detective Marquez shakes his head.

"Just... take care of yourself, Ms. Booker. And remember, you can call me whenever you need."

I pray I won't have to.

***
**Chapter Eight - Jenna**

Detective Marquez is walking me back to the front desk when another cop calls out to him from an office.

"Can you find your way back to reception?" He gives me another one of his friendly-math-teacher smiles. One of the fake ones. "No rest for the wicked, am I right?"

"Sure. I remember the way."

The other cop is a hard-looking black lady with a deep frown on her face. She gives me a side-eye and then dismisses me as she turns her attention to Detective Marquez.

I try to put her out of my mind. Now that I'm not talking with Detective Marquez, I can pay a little more attention to the station.

It's not like the tiny, functional police stations back home, but it isn't like anything I've seen in movies either. Instead of bars on the windows and cold, scuffed floors of unhappy green linoleum, it's all open and modern, with pale hardwood and glass partitions. The hum of fingers on keyboards and quiet conversation fills the air, pulsing from offices set off the main hall. It's more like a social media company than a police station.

The light isn't great though – the walls are so old and thick that no sun can get in from outside. At night this place must be worse than a haunted house.

My sense of direction is not legendary. I must have only been a door or two away from reception when Detective Marquez left me. But I'm so caught up in my thoughts that I take a wrong turn and find myself in a new and unfamiliar part of the building.

I click my tongue, exasperated with myself. _Great work, Dora the Explorer. The last thing you need is a bunch of suspicious cops asking what you're doing wandering around their fortress._

I'm turning back to retrace my steps when a loud voice sounds from behind me.

"Excuse me please!"

My law-abiding instincts kick in and I flatten myself against the corridor wall. The speaker is a young man in a patrolman's uniform, leading a small group of people. There's a woman in uniform, and an older guy in casuals who must be a detective, and in the middle of them...

Oh, shit.

In the middle of the little knot of law enforcement is the same guy I saw Adam talking to when I was leaving the gala. The one who looked like a walking rage monster.

He still looks hateful. Even more so, if it's possible. His face is creased in a snarl. His eyes are even darker now and they scan the corridor, like a trapped animal's. From side to side, top to bottom, missing nothing.

Including me. His eyes widen just a fraction in surprise. And then that sullen, never-ending anger is back in his expression. That look that says _Fuck you, world. Fuck you just because._

There's something different about him now though. This time his hands are enclosed in a set of shiny steel handcuffs.

_Jesus, Adam. What could you possibly have been talking to this man for? Who_ is _he?_

Adam, who are you?

There's a tension swirling in the corridor, and it's all focused on the guy. It's a whirlpool in the air, with him at the dead center. I see it in the way the cops walk, in the way the patrolwoman keeps her hand by her gun, in the way the detective's head swings around, surveying everything.

The little posse passes by me and the short man slows. His head turns to me, and he grins. It's not a nice grin. It makes me think of a rabid dog.

"Can't trust anybody these days, huh?"

I have no idea what to say back to that. I have no idea what that even means.

"C'mon." The detective picking up the rear shoves the man roughly and he snarls out a curse, but he picks up his step.

"My lawyer's gonna have your balls strung on a wire for this." The short man speaks to the cops with gloating confidence, but it doesn't faze them for a second. The detective replies.

"Keep talking, big shot. And I'll personally make sure you spend the rest of your life in solitary."

They turn a corner and disappear from my sight. But the memory of that evil grin stays right there with me all the way back to the front desk.

***

I walk out of the station and around the corner before I lean back against a wall and let out a long, long breath. The wind picks up, making my jacket flap. The street air smells like snow.

Technically, I didn't lie. I didn't lie to the police. That's what I have to keep telling myself.

Jesus, I've got to calm myself down. My imagination is going crazy the same way it always does. The smallest little thing and I'm sure the sky will fall.

I said I spoke to Adam, and I did. I said he was giving me an interview, and it's true. I just... didn't tell the _whole_ truth.

_Yeah, Jenna,_ that little internal voice says sarcastically. _That'll make a huge difference when you're on the witness stand. Wouldn't Dad be proud if he could see you now? What a journalist._

And what the hell was all that Detective Marquez said about Adam and not trusting him? As if I needed _more_ reason to think I can't put my faith in him?

And don't even try to pretend that Five Foot Furious in there isn't connected to some shady, shady shit. And that means Adam probably is too...

I pull out my phone and call Toni.

Knowing her she probably called _them_ as soon as she found out there was a hint of suspicion Leanne's death could have been murder.

Nobody works as hard for what she wants as Toni does. It's her dream to be D.C.'s top crime reporter, and if anyone can make that happen, she can. I don't understand why she wants it so bad, though. Looking at photos like the one I saw all day? God, it would give me nightmares.

But if anyone can help me make sense of this mess, it's Toni.

Toni doesn't give me a hello or a how are you – she always gets super businesslike whenever she's working on an assignment.

"Jesus, my head is _spinning._ Have you heard the news? It's officially a murder investigation. We were at an event where someone was _killed_. Patricia's got me going through every crime report for the last hundred years to see if she can work out who the killer was before anyone else can."

I can hear the undercurrent of energy in her voice despite her words. This is what Toni lives for. Dragging the truth into the light. Bringing monsters to justice.

Doing good.

"Cry me a river, Bones. I just saw the police and give a statement on last night. Have you spoken to them yet?"

"Not yet. I've scheduled a time to go down with Mike later today. If I can dig my way out from under this mountain of paperwork."

The wind plucks at my coat. I push it back into place, and my bag slips off my shoulder as I do.

Get your shit together, Jenna.

"Well, I don't think they need anything much from us. There were so many people there last night going in and out that everything's confused, but you'd think someone would have seen _something_."

Toni snorts.

"This is D.C., babe. People are _good_ at hiding. Especially in plain sight."

But I know at least one person who isn't so good at it any more.

"Hey, I saw a guy getting hauled in as I was leaving. An older guy, short and bald, and just... _angry_. Like, the angriest man I've ever seen. I saw him at the gala as well, just for a second. As I was leaving."

Toni heaves a sigh.

"Is this your idea of a joke? Because Patricia's already raked me over the coals about this. For a half hour. I don't even remember half of what she said because it was just an avalanche of pissed-offedness. Something something in my day we paid attention something something."

I shake my head, confused.

"What do you mean?"

"God, I forget sometimes, you really _don't_ care about anything outside politics, do you? Jenna, that had to be Carmine Mantoni. As in, the Mantoni crime family? He's a third-generation mob boss with shipping connections from New York all the way down to Miami. And they're not shipping oranges and Levis."

"Drugs?"

"For starters. I thought Patricia was going to pop a valve when she found out he'd been at the gala last night and I didn't recognize him until we got a copy of the guest list. She couldn't believe I was there and didn't see him."

Probably because Mr Shady Mob Boss was hiding in dark corners talking to Adam Stone.

"Well he's not shipping much of anything right now. When I saw him three cops had him in tow and he was in cuffs. And it looked like they were bringing him in through the back of the police station."

Toni's voice is thoughtful.

"Well of course they'd bring him in once they found out he was there last night but they couldn't cuff him just to question him. There's no cause. Not unless... God, they must have something on him. Something big, and that's why they brought him in so quietly. They must not want the press finding out."

"Something big like murder?"

And what the hell was he talking to Adam about?

"I don't know. But I have to tell Patricia that Mantoni's been arrested. It might actually make up for missing him at the gala last night. Jenna, I owe you one."

"You don't owe me anything."

Toni sighs again. This time it's a lot deeper.

"Don't even."

"Don't even what?"

"Don't do your whole Jenna-Booker-against-the-world thing is what."

I blink.

"Um, I wasn't..."

"Yes, you were." Toni's voice is full of love, but also exasperation. "You just did me a huge favor. You don't have to play it off like it's nothing. You don't have to put the Booker emotional high alert up when someone is trying to thank you. You're my _friend_ , Jenna. Do you get that? I trust you the same way I trust Mike. And I know it's hard for you to trust anyone, but it isn't just hard advice friends give each other. It's the truth about how much they mean, too."

There's a lump in my throat.

"C'mon. I'm not..."

"Yeah, you are. And I'm not doing it this time. I see your walls going up and I'll be damned if I'll stand for it. Jenna, we're in this together, OK?"

I breathe out. How am I so lucky to have Toni? She's everything people in D.C. aren't supposed to be.

"OK. Point taken. You're welcome. And... thank you."

Toni's laugh is back.

"Anytime. Just tell me if you see any more hoods getting dragged in by the Metro in cuffs, yeah?"

"You know I will."

"Oh hey! How did your interview with the bad-tempered badass from last night go?" Toni's voice drops as it takes on a teasing note. "Did you seduce him into telling you all his D.C. secrets with your Kentucky chaaaarms? Did you make him say mercy me? Or did he give you the vahpahs?"

I roll my eyes.

"I _wish_ I could do half the things you think I can do. And for the last time, you sound like Foghorn Leghorn when you try to do a Southern accent. The interview was a bust. We got a few questions in, then he went alpha douchebag on me."

"Damn. I'm sorry babe, I thought we'd both had our days made. Shit, I think I hear Patricia coming back. I'll call you back in a second if I can."

Toni hangs up and I walk back out to the street.

I should tell Toni about Adam. She'll understand what's going on. She won't judge me. She could help me work out what the hell is going on.

I should tell her before I get in over my head.

My phone rings and I answer it without looking.

"Hey Toni. I've got so much I have to tell you."

"Then tell me," an amused voice comes down the phone. "I'd hate to think you were keeping any secrets from me."

My stomach drops right out the bottom of my feet. It's not Toni, it's Adam. And that deep voice of his, so full of self-assurance, send sparks tingling down my spine.

"Oh. It's you."

Pretty lame, I know. But when he talks... it's as if the smart part of my brain shuts down. All that's left is raw emotion, and hurt, and a sharp need that ripples through my whole body.

He fucked me and then pretended not to know me and then asked me to be a prostitute. And still, all I can think of is how his kiss tastes and what I might have done wrong.

Was I born under powerlines or something?

"Who else? You ran out so fast I didn't have a chance to give you my number. That's twice now. Are you planning on making a habit of it?"

"I thought Clarissa made all your calls for you?" There's more than a hint of sarcasm in my voice. If he thinks I'm going to cut him any slack for calling in person, he's dead wrong.

"Clarissa has some other duties to attend to right now. And I have the time to see you. I thought we should continue our interview, after our time before was... cut off, so suddenly. No strings attached, I promise."

If my voice was sarcastic before, now it could cut glass.

"I'm so glad. I would have thought you'd be too busy keeping your company running and going to galas to have the spare time for a second interview with an intern."

Oh my God, what am I doing? I shouldn't be saying _anything_ like this to an interview subject. Much less one like Adam. If he sends Kacey a single email about this afternoon, or oh God, about last night, I won't even get the chance to clear my desk at the D.C. Queen before Kacey's replaced me.

There's a long moment of silence down the phone. My throat clenches. And finally, Adam speaks.

"I made the time to see you."

And somehow, that's all it takes. My anger melts. I remember his touch at the back of my neck. I remember his lips on mine. I remember how it felt to have this body against mine. There isn't any known word in the English language strong enough to describe the hunger I have for him.

What the hell is wrong with me? I literally just left a homicide detective who warned me away from this guy.

_But he doesn't know what I know. What_ only _I know. That Adam couldn't have hurt Leanne._

Because he was with me.

"I'm sorry." And I really mean it. Not because of what Kacey could do. But because despite everything, I want to see him again. "I have an appointment."

"Cancel it."

"I can't."

"Oh, please. Of course you can."

"No, I can't. Other people are counting on me."

I heave a sigh. The sky overhead is still dark gray. The clouds are getting thicker and the wind is cold

"I don't expect you to understand. But I have a volunteer shift at a homeless shelter, and they're always short-staffed as it is. I can't just drop out with five minutes notice."

"What shelter?" There's a note in his voice that I don't understand. Is it anger? Is it concern? It's... something, that I can't make out.

"It's called the Sulez Center. It's on-"

"I'm familiar with the Sulez Center. In fact, I funded it a few years back."

Of course he did. And of course it wasn't on the list of charities I saw he'd donated to. The Sulez, or the Sue, as it's usually called, is too small-time to show up on the list of donations I turned up.

"Do you need an extra pair of hands?"

I shake my head. This is the second time I've run from him, and the second time he's returned in the way I least expect it.

"As a previous donor, I'm pretty sure I could just turn up. But I won't if I'm going to scare you away again. I give you my word I'll be on my very best behavior."

For a moment I don't know what to say. Maybe that's a sign of personal growth, that I don't jump instantly into bad decisions.

Five seconds doesn't count as instant, right?

_If I see him again, I can find out more. Who he is._ What _he is. More about Leanne, about Carmine Mantoni and whatever their connection is. I can find out what the secrets are he's so obviously keeping. I can unravel the mystery of Adam Stone._

If I see him again, I can...

"OK." I can't believe the words coming from my mouth. But they are. "My shift starts at eight. Meet me there."

"I'll send a car. Where are you?"

I don't want to owe him any favors.

"No, meet me there."

His voice is unknowable.

"8 it is."

"I'll see you soon."

And I don't know if I manage to hide the yearning I'm feeling or not.

***

Chapter Nine - Adam

She'd looked so fucking perfect when she first walked into my office. Standing there in her pretty clothes. Unsure and vulnerable. Trying so hard to be brave, but unable to meet my eyes.

I'd never met anyone so innocent before. The thought of taking her again made my dick hard.

Then she'd run out. For the second time. Making her the second woman ever in my life who'd turned me down.

And now I couldn't get her out of my head. The thought of her curves under my hands again, the memory of her voice, pleading for more, the anticipation of bending her to my every whim. Of taking complete control of everything she was.

And the more I thought of who she was, what I was learning about her...

Jesus, a homeless shelter? Who _was_ she?

_You're kidding yourself_ , the thought came. _You're kidding yourself if you think you could ever deserve someone truly innocent. If you think you could ever give her what she needs._

It's obvious she wants you. What will it be this time? Two nights? Three? Maybe even a week before you throw her aside? Before you...

She doesn't belong with you. Doesn't someone so innocent deserve the truth about this? About you?

But I couldn't help myself. A single bright spark in a world of grays and blacks. The world I'd built for myself with no regrets.

Even with the cops circling, even with Leanne, even with everything I was setting into motion... I could still reach out and catch that spark. Make it mine and draw it close to me.

And fan it into a blaze.

I pressed the call button on my desk.

"Clarissa? Bring my car around. I have an appointment tonight."

I was going to have what I wanted.

Like always.

***
About Ava Leigh Holden

Ava Leigh Holden thinks that Justified is the best TV show ever made, and the Notebook is the best movie. She lives and teaches English in Iowa, after realizing very early she wasn't cut out for a career in crime journalism.

She loves discovering new books to read, watching high school football with her husband, and raising two beautiful, messy sons.

Submitting to Him is her first published fiction.

Other books by Ava Leigh Holden

Submitting to Him is currently the only series by Ava Leigh Holden. The series is completely planned and there will be thirteen novella-length books in all, collected in thirteen separate books, three volumes, and one collection.
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