CHAPTER EIGHT
Cameron
The following morning, PETA activists began picketing outside my headquarters with signs that screamed LONG LIVE THE YELLOW-HORNED TOAD.
At first, they merely sneered and called me names as I arrived. But on Friday, one of them, holding a sign with a picture of Kermit the frog — forgetting or disregarding that frogs and toads were two very different animals — threw a ceramic frog at me. It sounded mild, like a nothing thing, barely worth getting upset about. However, the damned thing hit me square in the corner of my eye. I’d like to think I had a high tolerance for pain, but it shot clear to my skull, momentarily blinding me, and it took all my self-control to not scream bloody murder at the guy on the sidewalk.
No, instead, I bit my tongue as a true diplomat was trained to do, wove my way through the crowd, and threw open the door to the headquarters. It was times like this when I wished I’d conceded to my father and hired a security staff. But knowing I might one day be forever surrounded by secret service had made me put off that task as long as I could.
My campaign workers were busy in the front room. They all looked up, awaiting my standard “good morning” greeting. Instead, I stalked past them without a look, clutching my eye, and slammed the door of my office behind me.
The white of my eye was already turning bloodshot, thin red tentacle-like capillaries stretching for the iris, making me wince. I studied the injury closer, making sure there was no debris inside my eye, and cursed. My eye looked diseased, with a raw triangle of skin already starting to turn purple at my temple.
“What happened?” my father asked, not bothering to knock as he barreled in, alerted to my presence by my less than subtle entrance.
I grabbed a tissue from the desk and brought it to my eye, which had begun to tear. “What do you think?” I blinked again and again, surprised by how something so small could sting so much. “Ceramic frog. Eye. The rest is history.”
“They’re just a bunch of tree-hugging assholes,” my father said, inspecting the injury. “And the mainstream media will cover the protest, rail on you for your heartless decision, but they won’t say a word about how those bleeding hearts nearly blinded you.”
“Let’s not get carried away. It’s not a big deal.”
“The hell it isn’t.” He strode to my phone and pressed the intercom. “Simmons. Get in here with an ice pack.”
“Forget it. I’m fine,” I muttered. I wiped the wetness from my cheek and powered up my laptop. I knew I had meetings out the ass, which didn’t seem right for a Friday. Not that any of my Fridays, or Saturdays, or even Sundays these days were very clear. I checked the calendar. Sure enough, there was a meeting with the Building Association at nine, then one with the commissioner for education. And to make it even better, I had a troop of Brownie Girl Scouts coming in at noon.
“Forget nothing. You need to get that seen to. We can’t have you in front of the camera today looking like you came in second in a prizefight.”
I knew his interest was less fatherly concern and more his obsession with the image Cameron Brice displayed to the world. The worst thing a Brice could project, in my father’s eyes, was… Weak. Loser.
And that’s just what this injury did.
I looked up from my computer, then checked my watch. It was already nine. “Too late to move the meetings elsewhere. But I should have Bob cancel the Girl Scouts. It’s not safe for them.”
My father rolled his eyes. “Fuck the Girl Scouts, boy. Do you understand the importance of these meetings?”
I spoke through gritted teeth. “Of course I do.”
“Environmentalist support was a long shot anyway. Let’s shore up our alliance with these people, and then those people outside won’t matter. I need to know you’re ready—”
“Mr. Brice?” The intercom buzzed with Bob’s voice. “Your nine o’clock is here.”
I studied my father stoically, waiting for him to finish his thought. It wasn’t anything I hadn’t heard before, as he kept repeating the same directives to me over and over again, like I was his puppet on his string. My father just waved it away and let out a grumble of annoyance. I knew he didn’t think I was ready.
“Okay,” I finally said. “We’ll be right there. And Mr. Simmons?”
“Yes?”
“Can you postpone the Girl Scout troop event to the week after Memorial Day? Tell them I’m awfully sorry, but to apologize, I’ll be on hand to give them a personal tour.”
“Yes, sir.”
My father rolled his eyes and straightened his tie, and I knew what he was thinking. Fuck those Girl Scouts already! You have much bigger fish to fry. “I’ll hold the builders off. Get your shit together, and I’ll see you in there.”
He threw open the door, preparing to walk out, but stopped short, held up by an obstacle in his way. He maneuvered around the barrier without a word. I looked up to see the new clerk huddled in the doorway, clutching a pile of towels and an ice pack to her chest, and chewing nervously on her bottom lip. She stood at the threshold for a long moment, waiting to be invited in. I motioned her toward me without a word.
What was her name? I caught a glance at the front of her sweater when she placed the towels on my desk. Kittens… in… sweaters? It was so hideous, I doubted most thrift stores would take it. Her stringy hair fell in her face as she pushed her giant glasses up over the bridge of her nose and caught sight of my bruise. “Oh! Are you okay?”
“Fine,” I said dismissively. My eyes trailed to her hands, which were just about the only part of her body left bare. The old lady outfit couldn’t hide that she had pretty hands, young hands, hands that did not belong in the picture she’d drawn of herself. Here she was, masquerading as a librarian of fifty when she couldn’t be a day over thirty. Perhaps she was even younger. I scanned up to her lightly pinked cheeks, watching them turn a deeper shade of red. Her skin was flawless, not a pore to be seen. It intrigued me, but I had a meeting to get to, and I was already in a bad mood.
I reached for the ice pack, bringing it to my temple, and winced as an ice-cold shot of pain surged straight through my skull, making me see stars. “Ah, shit.”
I felt a hand on mine, smooth and cool, prying the ice pack out from my fingers, and was surprised when I found her next to me. She smelled faintly of a scent I hadn’t come in contact with in forever... mothballs? My grandmother used to use those, I remembered with a wave of nostalgia. What was it doing on her? Had she pulled her wardrobe from her grandmother’s closet?
She motioned to me to sit on the edge of the desk, took one of the towels, wrapped it around the pack, and lifted it to my temple. It was tolerable that way. The pain soon subsided as she tended to it, gently patting the side of my head, my awkward little nursemaid. I noticed another dichotomy — she seemed shy and awkward but had confidence with an injury, as if she’d tended to many in her lifetime. Like Cassandra, with her imitation pearls, there was something about this woman that wasn’t quite hitting the mark, and again, I felt an inexplicable urge to unravel her layers. To see what was hiding under that hideous sweater.
“Thanks,” I said, shifting on the edge of the desk in an effort to quell my cock’s sudden twitching. Her name came to me, and I fought to keep my expression benevolent rather than leering. “How are you, Miss Wilkes?”
“Okay.” She heaved in a breath as she blotted the sore, and I could see beyond the spectacles for the first time, her blue eyes. Eyes as arresting as the woman I couldn’t get out of my mind. But unlike Cassandra, my little clerk wore no makeup although her lashes were long and sensuous on their own. I wasn’t doing a good job at not leering, obviously, because she cleared her throat and pointed outside. “That’s a nasty bruise, Mr. Brice. Did you fall?”
I shook my head, smirking, and out poured the charm I usually saved for when I wanted to bed a girl. I had no idea why. “Got into a fight with a frog. Actually, turns out our friends outside are not really all that friendly.”
Her eyes widened, but other than that, no reaction. No giggle, no coy blush. Oddly, she was as oblivious to my charm as she was to fashion. “The protesters? They hit you?”
“Well, not exactly.” I took the pack from her and sat up. “People don’t like me that much. But you should know that.”
She stopped blotting the bruise and blinked. “I should?”
“The tweets you’ve been compiling.”
“Oh. Yes. If you forgive me for saying so, Mr. Brice, they hate you. What did you do to them?”
She said it so simply, it took me aback. I stared at her, indignant. “Me? Nothing.”
“Would they be out there if you’d done nothing?” It was an innocent question, but I couldn’t help the feeling of irritation it wove under my skin.
She was right. But I’d done what had to be done. I couldn’t waffle or sit in the middle. That was called ineffectual. As a leader, I needed to make my mark, to affect change, and if others suffered, at least the greater good prevailed.
I turned. She was staring at me, wanting to know the answer.
“I got into politics because I wanted to help people,” I said, inspecting my face in the mirror. The puffiness at my temple seemed to have quieted a bit. “The problem is, when you help some people, others get hurt. Even when you think you’re doing a good job, you learn that other people are suffering from your decision. It’s difficult to find a situation where everyone wins.”
“So you did hurt them,” she observed, crossing her arms over her kittens.
“Apparently.”
My father’s jovial voice echoed down the corridor. Why was I defending myself to my clerk when I had an important meeting to get to?
The answer… no one had ever asked me that so directly.
I dealt with two people these days — those who wanted something from me and those who hated me. The former did nothing but flatter me while the latter did nothing but hurl insults. No one had ever spoken to me rationally about my stance, about why I’d been compelled to make these decisions. Still another dichotomy in the Mystery of the Clerk. Normally meek, her gaze was now hard on me, probing, wanting to know. And if I had a few hours, maybe I could tell her. But right now, I had a group of people ready to flatter me in the other room.
I held up the ice pack and nodded. “Thanks for your assistance.”
Her lips turned up in what was the beginnings of a smile. “Anytime.”
After she spun around and left me alone in my office, I started to compile my file for the meeting that was waiting for me, but a knot had formed in my stomach. That was what I’d gotten into politics for, wasn’t it? It wasn’t just to follow in my father’s footsteps or finally get a Brice into the White House. I’d gone to Harvard Law School wanting, like all wide-eyed optimists, to make the world a better place. And yet, the truth was, no one agreed what “better” was. Compromise always seemed so evasive.
Setting the file down, I took out my phone and opened up the photo I’d snapped late last night of my latest work. Painting was more of a hobby to me than anything else. I hadn’t always been into art, but I found in college that it helped me to think, release tension. The work I’d done last night was clearly my best yet. The woman on the canvas was stretched out upon the sofa, back arched so that her nipples pointed to the sky, her limbs spread wide, her sunshine-blonde hair falling loosely on her shoulders.
I had to hand it to me, I’d captured the rise of her breasts perfectly, so perfectly, even the painting was intensely arousing. God, she was exquisite. I licked my lips as I studied the way the orange light had cast a perfect, warm aura on her skin. The more I thought of her, lying on that bed, bared to me, the more I realized that no painting could ever do justice to the luminescence of her hair, the sensuous curve of her hips. The way the field of little platinum hairs beneath her navel had contrasted with the pink, seashell tones of her skin. A deep yearning began to bloom inside me.
I needed to see her.
I needed to go back to The Black Room and see if she was there. Maybe, somewhere out there, she was sharing this yearning and planned on returning despite her affirmation that she would not.
I wasn’t sure how I managed to cope with the rest of the day, but I slogged through meeting after meeting, checking the clock only about a thousand times. I worked late, through dinner, to nearly midnight, only powering down my laptop after I knew the rest of the headquarters would be empty and I wouldn’t have to see anyone else. I called for George, then washed up, noting the red abrasion was barely visible. Changing my shirt and jacket, I reached into my briefcase to ensure the mask was still there. It was, just where I’d left it. It was a risk, certainly, going to the same club twice, but I had to take it. It was late night, when only the freaks came out, and I planned to be one of them.
I was surprised when I stepped out of my office and noticed a light illuminating Violet’s desk. I approached her quiet form. She was sitting behind her desk, huddled over her own phone. She jumped even before I could say her name.
“Oh!” She turned to me, her magnified eyes even larger behind the thick glasses.
“You’re dedicated,” I observed, arranging the collar of my suit jacket.
“Um. Yes.” I tried to spy what she was working on, but she closed out of the window on her phone before I could. Was she hiding something? “Did you get the report I sent you?”
I nodded. I had. It had been a red-letter day for me on Twitter. “I especially liked that one from that women’s group that wants to cut off my dick for my pro-life views. That’s certainly kind.”
Her eyes widened. I immediately felt bad for being so vulgar. I decided to change the subject.
“You don’t have a… husband to go home to? Kids?” Okay, yes, I was fishing. But I was intrigued.
“Oh, no,” she said with a titter, the way a younger girl would, as if it were the most ridiculous idea imaginable. She looked like she might say more but then bit her tongue. “Er, no.”
“But it’s Friday. No fun plans for the weekend?”
She shook her head, the blush returning to her cheeks. Her voice was low and stiff. “I don’t like to have fun.”
I snorted. “How is that possible? What do you do on the weekends?”
She looked away. “Read. And…” She strained a little, as if she was afraid I might laugh at her answer. “Needlepoint.”
I nodded, suppressing a smile. “Those are good hobbies. I like to read myself. What do you like to read?”
She blinked. God, this was like pulling teeth. “Women’s fiction,” she mumbled.
Shut down again. I couldn’t say I read much of that. It was clear this woman did not want to talk with me. I started to venture another question when she cut me off.
“I’m mostly concerned with doing my job well and earning your approval,” she said. “I don’t have time for fun.”
Or conversation, obviously.
“Well, maybe you find work fun. There are many ways to have fun…” I started, stopping mid-sentence as the strangest feeling of déjà vu settled over me. I realized it was because I’d had a similar conversation with Cassandra not four days ago, before I’d shown her what my brand of fun really was.
Cassandra.
My cock twitched.
The mousy girl sat there, not contributing more, eyes still wide, likely from my “dick” comment. She was obviously the uptight kind of woman who didn’t know how to have fun and wanted to remain in the shadows for some mysterious reason. I could’ve stayed and tried to worm my way into her head, and though I had the inclination, there was a better mystery waiting for me in Jersey, in The Black Room. It might be for nothing because Cassandra had said she’d never return, but it was a step closer to her, and the only chance I had to quell the burning inside me.
“Good night, Miss Wilkes,” I said, giving her a curt nod.
When I stepped outside into the dark night, the protesters had long since dispersed, but there were cars parked up and down the street, patrons of the bar next-door. I broke into a run when I saw George drive past, looking for a place to pull to the curb. I finally caught up with him a block away.
Interestingly enough, when we drove past the headquarters a minute later, the windows were completely dark. Violet was already gone.