Page 29 of The Senator

“Hello, I’m Spencer Brady. I believe the Senator is expecting me.”

She nodded and opened the large door, sweeping her hand to invite me inside. The house was quite formal, which was expected. I was surprised to see some fall decorations on display, along with a grand pumpkin on the octagonal marble table in the entrance.

“May I take your coat, Senator?”

Glancing down, I saw the leather bomber and the jeans I’d pulled on when I was rushing to get to Nash. I was so fucked up over what happened when Nash was getting out of the SUV that I doubted I should have gone to see Turner, but I needed answers, and something in the back of my mind told me he was the key.

The beginning of an idea formed in my mind about what I wanted my future to look like as I attempted to rebuild my life. Of course, I couldn’t begin to pursue any of it until I knew who was responsible for exposing my folly. Turner likely knew who, which was why I was there.

I took off my jacket and handed it to the woman who smiled pleasantly. “The Senator is waiting in his study. Right this way.” She gently laid my jacket on a bench and led me down a hallway. She knocked on the door, and we both heard the familiar bark, “In!”

The woman rolled her eyes, and I chuckled in solidarity that the man was an insufferable bag of wind. The woman slid the pocket doors open, and I walked inside, hearing them slide closed behind me. I had no idea how long she’d worked for the Turners, but I wished her the best of fucking luck.

I glanced around the room as I waited for the Senator to turn the large leather chair to face me. He was sorting through a leather folio as best I could tell, so I stood like a good boy and waited to be invited to sit.

The leather book slammed shut, and Turner spun in his chair to face me, tossing the volume on his desk, which made a booming echo in the room. “Sit, Brady, Sit, sit, sit.” Turner wasn’t known for his patience.

I took a seat in the honey-colored, leather chair across from the desk, staring into the bulldog-like face of Frank Turner. His wire-framed glasses were low on his bulbous nose, and his perma-scowl was solidly in place. “Good to see you up and around. My chief-of-staff said you wanted to see me.”

I crossed a loafer-clad foot over my knee. He made me nervous, but I’d learned a long time ago never to show it. The old bastard thrived on fear.

“Yes, Brady, uhhh?” Turner opened the folio again and flopped three pictures across the desk to me. I picked them up, seeing my white ass as it had been on the front of numerous newspapers and online rags, though this time, it wasn’t blurred. I had to admit, it wasn’t a bad ass, as middle-aged asses went. The running and weight training helped a lot.

“Yes, Senator, I’m familiar with these photos. Are you going to confess you were the one to send someone to Antigua to photograph me with someone who wasn’t my wife? Oh, congratulations. I heard it’s a girl.” I bit out the words, adding as much sarcasm to my voice as he’d used the day he tried to dress me down for voting against him. Two could play that fucking game.

“Yes, uh-hum. We all have our skeletons, don’t we? Anyway, how do you know, uhhhh, oh, here it is. Gregor Jablonowski? Do you know this person?” Turner’s thick eyebrows were raised as he questioned me.

I thought for a minute, but nothing pinged in my grey matter. “No, I don’t. Who is he?” Never heard the name before in my life.

“A freelance photographer who was dispatched to Antigua to follow you. He told my man he was tipped off by someone in your office who wanted proof of your infidelity to show your wife in hopes it would end your career.

“It wasn’t me, but I’ve never been above using information that came my way to cast doubt on an adversary. In this particular situation, I wasn’t involved in this blatant act of potential blackmail. My question for you is, who in your office would give information to someone regarding your schedule such that a photographer would know exactly where you’d be staying in Antigua and who you’d be with during your stay?” Turner questioned me in that condescending way that he always addressed junior senators.

The fact he’d put such a fine point on things was unsettling. I wouldn’t allow my mind to wander in Mario’s direction again. How many times could I accuse the poor bastard of something that even I couldn’t believe he’d do? It had to be someone else.

“And how do you know this?” I needed any breadcrumbs he might have to track down that Jablow-whoever person. I didn’t know a private investigator, but I remembered Nash saying he could check things out for me.

Maybe he had connections? That biker guy looked like he knew his way around the underbelly of society. It was worth a call. Honestly, it was a reason to call.

I got home to find a note from Vani that she went to bed early because of a headache, so I went into the family room and sat in my recliner to think things through.

Unsure of exactly what Nash meant when he said we had some decisions to make, I tried to see things from his perspective. I concluded that if I stayed on the sidelines, the handsome young man would decide I was too much trouble and run away. I really needed to consider why I’d become so attached to a guy I had met a week before.

In my mind, I should have been worried about that attachment, but those weren’t the thoughts that went through my mind when thoughts of Nash Lincoln danced through my head. Those images were more of a lascivious nature.

I went to the kitchen to make a drink and grabbed a pad of paper and a pen from the junk drawer before sitting by the island to consider my options. Dating back to high school, I’d always been a better learner with visual aids. In law school, the small apartment Vani and I shared was filled with dry-erase boards so I could parse through case law to learn the way our justice system worked, and when I took the bar exam, I knew the law inside and out.

Part of me urged to let shit go regarding the defeat I’d suffered due to the involuntary outing and those fucking pictures. What would I gain by tracking down the people or persons who ruined my life?

The likelihood there would be any form of justice won was next to nothing. Hadn’t enough damage been done already?

The other part of me shouted that someone had to pay for the pain and suffering of my family. My son walked around camps wearing a baseball hat and sunglasses, so nobody recognized him. My wife had been told not to come to work until her personal life was sorted, which meant until she’d filed for divorce. It was a fucking mess and someone should be held accountable, right?

My phone buzzed on the table—the burner phone I’d started using since I’d turned in my government phone. I picked it up to see it was an unexpected text from Nash.

I hope I didn’t upset you earlier, but I want to do the right thing here. You and Vani are amazing people, and you’ve both been through so much already. I don’t want to contribute to the chaos surrounding your lives. NL

I thought about how to respond because I didn’t want him to blame himself for anything. I’d already acted like a jealous asshole when he introduced us to his friend, the biker. I was learning that when it came to Nash, I had a hard time acting rationally.

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