Good thing Larry Bigelow hadn’t demanded any more sittings after today. Jenny was running out of visual metaphors to indicate the infinitesimal size and flaccid status of his dick.

“Bigelow Tower cost more than any other hotel in history.” He slid his right hand a little further into his ridiculous waistcoat. “The people here in D.C. had never seen anything like it before.”

Instead of flicking her wrist in a jerk-off motion, as she longed to do, she concentrated on painting a tiny, drooping ecru mushroom at the edge of the forest.

“The rooms are beyond compare. Huge. Everyone says so.”

That was it. She was definitely making the fall of his breeches appear concave. Just a little smudge of gray, a hint of shadow, and…done. “Hmmm.”

“Since we finished construction, we haven’t had a single vacancy.” He tilted his chin up another centimeter. “It’s a remarkable achievement.”

Doubtful, given the lack of foot traffic she’d seen in the lobby. Unless the guests at his hotel spent all their time hiding in shame due to their choice of accommodations.

Jenny considered that an understandable decision.

Bigelow’s assistant, a woman named Kristi, checked her cell. “Thirty minutes until your interview with David Redi, sir.”

Pursing her lips, Jenny sat back to consider the painting. Should she add another mushroom? Or a sickly-looking, bent tree? One with inexplicable bulbous lesions on its bark?

In a way, she hated implying that Bigelow’s penis was small and soft and disease-ridden. There was absolutely nothing wrong with undersized and/or limp penises; she’d encountered a few in her non-professional life and found them both useful and enjoyable, especially after her partners had ingested any necessary blue pills. And God knew STDs could happen to even the most wonderful people.

“Redi’s a nasty piece of work. I have half a mind to cancel the interview.” Bigelow sniffed. “Maybe I can get him fired.”

Bigelow, however, was not one of those people. She’d seen footage of his raucous, frightening rallies and read transcripts of his speeches. Enraged by the media’s critical scrutiny, he wanted not just the dismissal of an honest, hardworking reporter, but the wholesale abridgement of the nation’s free press. His proposed policies would allow overt racism and religious bigotry to take a firmer grip on the country. They would deprive her and so many other vulnerable Americans of health insurance. They would hurt women and the disabled and anyone who wasn’t exactly like Larry Bigelow: white, male, able-bodied, wealthy, and nominally Christian.

And a man like him, a narcissist and sexist to the marrow of his bones, believed his supposed virility crucial to his supposed appeal, key to his supposed qualifications for the presidency, and integral to his supposed power. He portrayed himself as a dominant, handsome male animal with a big, stiff, flawless dick, and his ego depended on that perception. He’d hate any tiny-dick—or limp-dick, or diseased-dick—imputations.

So she was putting them everywhere. In the library painting, the bowl on his desk contained a withered baby eggplant slumped against a crooked carrot. In the forest painting, small mushrooms wilted and bent under the weight of their pockmarked caps.

If any justice existed in the world, his penis looked just like those mushrooms. She’d never know for sure, thank God.

He turned his head and arched an eyebrow. “You’re almost done, Jenna?”

“One more moment.”

A swipe of her brush, and the very tip of a golden horn peeked from underneath his absurd sweep of hair. Then another on the opposite side, too subtle to be seen by anyone not looking for clues to her state of mind.

All these touches wouldn’t make it to the final painting, the one she’d complete at her home studio with oils instead of acrylics. No, she’d dutifully recreate Jacques-Louis David’s The Emperor Napoleon in His Study at the Tuileries with the French dictator’s face replaced by that of a would-be American dictator. She’d do the same with David’s Napoleon Crossing the Alps, removing all traces of the incongruous forest and unfortunate mushrooms. Then she’d create similar paintings for all Bigelow’s cronies, who’d clamored for her contact information once he boasted about his personal portrait artist.

She could have done the same exact job if they’d e-mailed her a few selfies, as all the other clients of Artify Yourself! did. Inserting random people’s faces into famous paintings didn’t require a great deal of time or preparation. But Bigelow—and thus his friends—had wanted the cachet of a private sitting, and she’d needed the money such arrangements produced.

So here she was, creating a painting out of sheer spite, one that would never be seen by anyone outside this ostentatious room. And she sincerely hoped equally few people would see the final product, innocuous as it would prove.

Enough was enough. She’d playacted painting for a decent length of time.

“All done.” She laid down her brush on her palette. “The rest I can finish at home.”

Bigelow strutted to her side of the easel, and she backed a safe distance away. His ruddy face twisted in a frown.

Oh, Jesus, had he noticed all her rebellious touches? Or the inaccuracy of the forest and the bowl of veggies in the study? Or the way she’d used acrylics, instead of oil, after all of them had nearly suffocated from turpentine fumes during the first sitting?

The windows in his damn hotel didn’t open. As much money as he claimed to have poured into the place, he really should have fixed that.

He tilted his head, his eyes narrowed on the painting.

She’d bet that he knew nothing about paints or portraiture or art in general, that he wouldn’t notice anything but his own face—and that the sight of that face would be enough to please him. God knew he’d plastered it enough places around the hotel.

But maybe he understood more than she’d imagined. Maybe—

“Looks great.” His arm snaked around her shoulder, tugging her to his side with such force she stumbled. “How soon will it be ready?”

Her flesh crawled, and she jerked away from him. “I need to do preliminary sittings for your”—sycophants—“friends, and then I’ll get to work on your paintings again. Two weeks should be enough.”

She could almost see his momentary interest in her disappear. “Kristi, give her the check, and then get her stuff out of here. When I come back, I expect to see this mess gone.”

Two expressionless dudes emerged from a side room and began heaving her supplies onto a small cart, the portrait-in-progress thrown on top with casual unconcern.

Another reason to use quick-drying, inexpensive acrylics for these faux-paintings. For all the money he was spending on them, he and his people didn’t treat her canvases and supplies with any care. Then again, she preferred acrylics for her personal work too, so she wasn’t complaining.

Bigelow headed for the entrance to the suite of rooms, beefy bodyguards falling into place behind him. And then she was alone with Kristi and a few of his other underlings in the cathedral-ceilinged living room, a gold-encrusted space with hard furniture chosen to impress but not welcome.

The woman, dark bags under her eyes, handed Jenny a check for half the agreed-upon price of the portraits. The rest of the money would arrive once the final paintings did, and that was reason enough to hurry. Without the check, she could barely afford the paints she’d need to finish the damn portraits.

Why they hadn’t paid her online, she had no idea. Maybe they simply enjoyed a certain feeling of beneficence and superiority whilst bestowing checks upon peasants in exchange for their meager services.

Jenny glanced at the check, prepared to shove it into her bag, gather her supplies, and flee as quickly as possible.

Then she paused, hand halfway to her battered purse.

The amount of the check was correct, to her relief. She’d half-expected Bigelow to claim they’d agreed upon a lower fee. And Jenna Meyers was close enough to Jenny Meyers that the bank wouldn’t quibble.

But…what in the world?

When she’d called herself a peasant, she hadn’t meant it literally.

“Kristi? I think there’s been a mistake.”

Bigelow’s assistant had already begun directing the removal of the easel and the tarp underneath, and she turned toward Jenny with lips thinned in impatience. “Yes?”

“I know I didn’t dress to impress.” Jenny glanced down at her paint-splashed coveralls and ratty Chucks, the practical gear she always wore while painting. “But I’m not sure I can officially be considered a charity.”

“What?” The woman shook her head. “What are you talking about?”

“You gave me a check from the Bigelow Foundation.”

Kristi raised her brows. “So?”

“Isn’t that his charitable organization?”

“Yes, of course.” She seemed unconcerned.

“Then I don’t underst—”

“It’s fine.” The assistant bent back over her phone in response to the ding of a text. “That’s how it’s done. Don’t worry. And if you need any help removing everything from this room in the next five minutes, please let me know.”

Jenny corralled her cart and heeded the clear dismissal, despite her confusion. But once she reached her own room—not a penthouse suite, but equally gaudy and uncomfortable in its own way—and set aside her burdens, she unearthed her tablet for some research.

After a couple of minutes spent Googling, she knew only one thing for certain: Just as she’d thought—and just as Kristi had confirmed—the Bigelow Foundation was indeed a charitable organization, and it claimed to give money to the sick and needy worldwide.

For all Jenny’s problems, she didn’t qualify as either. So why had he paid her with a check from his foundation?

The whole situation was very odd, and very much outside her areas of expertise.

Was it illegal for Bigelow to use his foundation’s funds, money donated by others in the belief it would go to the world’s most vulnerable citizens, to pay for two portraits of himself? Or just unethical? How many other times had something like this happened?

The edges of the check bent as she fiddled with them.

If she were smart, she’d forget the whole issue and hightail it to the nearest bank. Her pitiful checking account needed an influx of cash, stat. And with a decent payday finally in her near future, she should keep her head down and paint Napoleon portraits until her fingers cramped around her brushes and the turpentine fumes made her hallucinate diminutive, tiny-cocked French dictators.

She couldn’t even say for sure whether Bigelow had broken the law. God knew, she didn’t understand the financial regulations governing charities.

A pragmatic woman would cash the check and ignore her qualms.

Jenny bit her lip and studied that tempting, damning check for another moment. Then, with an effort, she pushed it across the coffee table.

Screw it. A pragmatic woman wouldn’t have gone to fucking art school. And pragmatic or not, she needed her damn health insurance, as well as a government not controlled by the most venal, self-obsessed, hateful politician she’d ever seen. Which was saying something.

If Bigelow was breaking the law, the public should know before the election in November. Especially since, to her horror, he appeared to be within striking distance of the presidency.

She needed to alert the press. Somehow.

The candidate had weathered a staggering amount of scandal already, true. But…maybe this story. Maybe this incident. Maybe the way he was snatching sustenance from the mouths of the needy to feed his own ego would sway public opinion once and for all.

She didn’t want to advertise her current paintings or her current job to a national audience. But surely she wouldn’t have to reveal her identity to tell her tale. Reporters used anonymous sources all the time, right? And someone should really look into the Bigelow Foundation, using her check as an entrance into the subject. Someone should pull that lone, loose thread and see what else unraveled.

That unraveling would prove a bigger story than one down-on-her-luck portrait artist. She was sure of it.

But who would listen to her? Who would tug on that thread until the entire skein of Bigelow’s lies frayed and fell to pieces?

Redi’s a nasty piece of work, he’d said.

David Redi. She recognized the name. He’d been covering the Bigelow campaign for months now on behalf of the Washington Chronicle, addressing every scandal with dogged tenacity, keen intelligence, and calm good sense no matter how much abuse Bigelow and his acolytes offered him.

She also remembered his face. For a print journalist, Redi knew how to rock a cheap suit and dark-framed glasses. If she’d been painting that visage, that subject, she wouldn’t have rushed her initial sketches. She wouldn’t have bothered with withered mushrooms. She’d have laid him on a couch and explored all the bright colors that comprised such a glorious man.

That rich brown skin tinged with gold in the sunlight. The way fluorescent light danced among the short black twists of his hair, tinting them blue. The pink tones she’d add to his generous mouth, with its characteristic wry smile.

Her fingers twitched, hungry to paint him.

Yes, he was the journalist to contact for so many reasons, some more laudable than others. But doing so while lodged in Bigelow’s figurative gullet didn’t feel right.

She walked down the endless hall to the elevator, her cell and key card in her coveralls pocket. The glass enclosure whooshed downward in a nauseating rush, and its doors opened to the lobby. The entrance to the hotel lay across an endless expanse of gold-veined marble, the slabs punctuated by inlaid initials. LVB.

Then crisp fall air washed over her at last, and she strode away from the revolving door and the valet guys and the polite doormen. She navigated to Twitter on her phone and found David Redi’s account. He’d pinned instructions for contacting him at the Chronicle.

The message only took a minute to type.

There. She’d done her part. The rest was up to him.

And if she was just a bit too excited to do her civic duty, no one but her had to know.