Long Live the Queen

by Ellen Emerson White

  It was a long time before he came back, and when she heard the key, she turned her head towards the wall, pretending to be asleep.

  He came over, stood by the bed briefly, then walked away. Thank God. She heard the door close again and relaxed a little, waiting for the key to turn. When it didn’t, she lifted her head slightly, wondering if he could still be—

  “Knew you were faking,” he said, from somewhere near the door.

  She slumped back down.

  “Took all the fight out of you, I guess,” he said, turning the light on.

  She covered her eyes with her sleeve, the crook of her elbow at her nose so it wouldn’t hurt more than it already did.

  “Okay, fine,” he said, and she heard the chair scrape across the floor to somewhere near the bed, and he sat down. There was the sound of a cork, then liquid pouring into a glass.

  She stiffened, not sure if he had something sadistic in mind, but then, he put the bottle on the floor. From the smell, scotch. Christ, was he just going to sit there and drink? And then what would he do? Oh, Jesus.

  “Want a drink?” he asked, his voice sounding a little thick.

  She pulled in a few shaky breaths, not wanting to cry in front of him. Again.

  He laughed. “Hurts, hunh?”

  “Please go away,” she said through her teeth.

  “I don’t feel like it,” he said, and laughed again. “Sure you don’t want one?”

  She tried to turn further in the other direction, but moved her leg in doing so and had to groan. Oh, Christ, it hurt. It really, really hurt. Oh, Jesus. Jesus God, did it hurt.

  “You’d feel better if you had a drink,” he said.

  Her breath was coming out in short gasps, a small high note of hysteria somewhere behind them, and her heart had started beating much harder, too.

  “Fine,” he said, and she heard more liquid pouring. “It’s your own fucking choice.”

  He didn’t say anything else and slowly, she got herself under more control, concentrating so intently that she almost forgot he was there.

  Almost.

  The steady throbbing in her knee was echoing inside her head—along with all of the other throbbing, underscored by a constant, searing pain, worse than anything she could—the tears wouldn’t stop either, rolling down her face in what must be grooves by now, making her head hurt worse than ever.

  “It would help you sleep, you know,” he said.

  That made a certain amount of sense, and she opened her eyes, considering the idea. If she could sleep, it would be a lot better than lying here, hour after hour, crying and in pain. At this point, she could sleep away every last second of her life and not give a damn. Just so this whole thing would be over already.

  “It’s—medicinal,” he said.

  A drink wasn’t going to make things worse. She didn’t think. And it couldn’t be poisoned, not with him sitting there drinking it. So she nodded, rubbing some of the tears away with her hand.

  “O-kay,” he said, pouring some in another glass, then topping off his own.

  “What is it?” she asked, and he turned the label so she could read it. Laphroaig. Jesus. Her parents drank that, sometimes. Lagavulin. Talisker. Stuff like that. In fact, even though her mother usually went out of her way to avoid “one of the boys” activities, she had been known to attend—and even throw—single malt tasting get-togethers. Beth had always described this as being inescapably—if not indefensibly—preppy. And the Speaker of the House, who was conservative as hell, but still one of her parents’ closest friends, had once told her that when her mother first got to Washington, her occasional proclivity to organize such events was one of the only reasons any of them could stand her initially. But, at least, she never smoked cigars—although, once in a very great while, Meg would catch her father with one.

  And, thinking about her parents was a really bad idea. She swallowed a hard jolt of homesickness, wishing that she hadn’t asked. “K-kind of expensive,” she said.

  He shrugged, holding out her glass. She reached over, her hand trembling so much—from pain? Shock? Exhaustion?—that she had trouble taking it.

  “Can you undo my other hand?” she asked. “So I can hold it better?”

  He shook his head.

  Naturally. She sniffed the pale gold liquid, not sure if she had ever even tasted scotch.

  “Cheers,” he said, his voice mocking.

  Instinctively—too many White House dinners—she lifted her glass towards him, then to her mouth. Medicinal. Christ, as long as she didn’t choke on it—he would be sure to make fun of her. She tipped the glass up, letting the liquid moisten her lips. It tasted awful. Like really intense cough syrup or something.

  He made an amused sound, but didn’t say anything, and she took an actual sip. The taste made her shudder, but the warmth going down felt very good. Soothing. Gaining confidence, she tried a bigger sip, then looked over at him.

  “Come here often?” she asked.

  His laugh was the most genuine she’d heard it and, smiling a little herself, she drank some more, only recoiling slightly from the taste. The warmth was giving her courage, and she looked back over.

  “Hello,” she said—using the proper soft accent. “My name is Inigo Montoya. You killed my father. Prepare to die.”

  This time, he really did laugh. “Golly. Can you do Caddyshack, too?”

  As a matter of fact, she could. Extensively. She took an even bigger sip. Not bad. In fact, this stuff could grow on her. “Distinctly peaty, with a full-bodied, yet subtle, finish,” she said.

  He gave her such a sharp glance that she realized she had just hit the precise timbre and inflections of the President’s voice—and that, in this context, it must have been unsettling to hear.

  They stared at each other for a few seconds, uncomfortably, and then, she drank a full mouthful, shivering from the aftershock of—heat? Fumes? Something. When the sensation faded, it seemed very cold in the room, and she gulped another mouthful.

  “I’d take it easy,” he said.

  “You’d take it easy,” she said. “Then, how come the bottle’s half empty?”

  He didn’t answer, drinking.

  Thinking about reasons why he might feel like he had to get drunk was scary, and she focused down on her glass. “Half full, I mean,” she said quietly.

  He paused, his glass halfway to his mouth. “What?”

  “Half full,” she said. “The bottle is half full.” She nodded to punctuate that, then took a sip of her scotch. His feet were propped up on the side of the bed frame, and she looked down at the heavy leather high-tops, deciding not to think about the fact that he had used them to kick her knee to shreds. “So. You and the boys going to play some ball later?”

  He grinned, but didn’t say anything.

  “How’d the Red Sox do tonight?” she asked.

  “Couldn’t tell you,” he said.

  “Bullshit.” She drank more scotch. “You just don’t want to.”

  “You’re a chatty drunk, aren’t you,” he said.

  Oh, yeah, like she’d ever been drunk in her life. She shrugged. “How the hell would I know?”

  “Dream Teen,” he said, his voice more than a little vicious.

  Bastard. “What am I supposed to do—stumble around drunk, then have it show up all over the Internet and everything?” She shook her head. “Christ.”

  “They would’ve covered it up,” he said.

  “Are you serious? The tabloids always print stuff like that anyway .” She finished off her drink. “All I need’s for it to be true.”

  “And it’s always lies?” He leaned over, pouring more into her glass. “On account of you being perfect and all?”

  She frowned at the liquid. “Are you trying to make me drunk?”

  “Does your leg still hurt?” he asked.

  Yes. She nodded.

  “Okay, then.” He refilled his own glass, too.

  “I don’t know.” She kept frowning.
“Are you trying to be nice, or mean?”

  “Hey, I’m not pouring it down your throat,” he said.

  True. She took a careful sip, in case it was going to make her drunk soon. “Do you drink a lot? In your life, I mean?”

  “I’m not an alcoholic,” he said, “if that’s what you mean.”

  “No, I—” What did she mean? “My parents drink a lot.” That wasn’t what she meant. “Well, not a lot, I just—I mean, before, they only—well, it was just sometimes. Now, like, they almost always have a drink.”

  “They share it?” he said, his mouth in the half-smile.

  “No, I—” Was he stupid? She squinted at him. “Before dinner, I mean. You know, like a drink.”

  “So, they’re alcoholics,” he said.

  “No.” Actually, her mother almost never had a drink without also having a couple of shots of espresso, too—presumably to balance it out. “I just meant—” Could she really be getting drunk already? Nothing was making sense. “The White House made things different, that’s all. They worry more.”

  “Bet they’re drinking up a storm right now,” he said.

  “Coffee, maybe.” During crises, they always drank coffee. Most people probably did. She glanced over. “Um, are you getting drunk for a reason?”

  “I’m not drunk,” he said, his voice belligerent enough to be a contradiction.

  He was up to something. He had to be. “Are you—” She stopped, not wanting to give him any ideas.

  “What?” he asked.

  She shook her head.

  “What?” he asked, less patiently.

  She took a swallow of scotch. “I just—are you going to do anything—bad—to me?”

  His face relaxed. “What do you mean, ‘bad’?”

  “Well, I mean—you know,” she said. “Bad.”

  “Oh.” He grinned. “You mean, just for example, yanking teeth out of your head wasn’t—‘bad’?”

  She shook her head, kicking herself for having brought it up.

  His grin widened. “And mangling your leg wasn’t—”

  “Look. I just want to know, okay? I mean, if you’re going to—” She couldn’t actually say it. “I mean—”

  “Oh,” he said. “That.”

  She nodded, suddenly exhausted, her knee hurting worse than ever.

  He smiled, leaning closer. “Do you want me to?”

  “I just want to be out of here,” she said, “okay?”

  “I’ll bet you do.” He got up and sat on the bed—which was definitely not a positive sign. “The thought does keep crossing my mind.”

  She didn’t say anything, her good leg pulled up, trying to protect her chest with her right arm.

  “Feelings might be a problem,” he said.

  Yeah, right. “You’re worried about my feelings?” she asked.

  “Hardly,” he said.

  “Oh.” She moved her jaw, which hurt. What didn’t hurt? “You mean, raping me would hurt your feelings.”

  “Some sort of feelings would be inevitable,” he said, patting her hip in a distracted sort of way.

  She frowned. “I don’t get it.”

  “Let’s say, for instance, I start hating you.” His hand trailed down her thigh, squeezing lightly, then moved back up to her hip. “If I do, I lose perspective. And if I do that, I stop thinking about my job, and—” He shrugged, raising his drink with his free hand. “Well, it’s not a good idea.”

  She didn’t respond, edging away so that he wouldn’t be able to touch her as easily.

  “Then again, worst scenario, I start liking you,” he said. “And liking you makes it a hell of a lot harder to do the things I have to do to you.”

  “Have to do to me,” she said, almost under her breath. Then, she thought about that. “Wait a minute. You don’t like me at all?”

  He shook his head.

  “Even with me being such a—you know, under the circumstances—good sport?” she asked.

  He laughed. “Afraid not.”

  If she hadn’t been handcuffed, she would have put her hands on her hips. Or, at the very least, folded her arms. “Well, for Christ’s sakes,” she said.

  He laughed again, moving back to his chair.

  She scowled at him. “Yeah, well—fuck you.”

  “Such conviction,” he said.

  “Fuck you,” she said.

  He nodded. “Keep trying. You’ll get it right.”

  Damn him. She looked down at her hand, wrapped around the glass. “Would it make a difference?” she asked, ashamed by the question.

  He cocked his head. “What?”

  She kept her eyes down, feeling herself blushing. “Me making you like me.”

  A slow grin spread across his face. “In exchange for not killing you?”

  She nodded, incredibly ashamed.

  “Probably not,” he said, then paused. “Would you do it?”

  “Probably not,” she said.

  “Just curious?” he asked.

  She nodded, her face hot with embarrassment.

  He looked her over, in a calculating sort of way. “It’s not the worst idea I ever heard.”

  “Yeah, it is,” she said stiffly.

  “Oh, I don’t know.” He rested his hand on her stomach. “You might enjoy it.”

  She shook her head, moving away from the hand.

  “You might be”—he shifted his hips slightly—“surprised.”

  She looked right back at him. “You know what they say about people who carry guns around.”

  He grinned, taking the gun out, holding it between his first two fingers. “What, this little thing?”

  He was so god-damn arrogant that she found herself grinning back. “Yeah, right.”

  “Well,” he said, and put the gun back.

  What a—she couldn’t even think of a word—but, it was somewhere between jerk and psychopath.

  “What?” he asked.

  “I don’t know.” She shook her head. “You must listen to a lot of Screamin’ Jay Hawkins.”

  He nodded. “My man, Screamin’ Jay.”

  “You really do?” she asked, surprised.

  “Well—not recently,” he said.

  The fact that he even knew what she was talking about was—weird. Too weird. She slugged down some of her scotch. “You’re not anything like a terrorist.”

  “Ah,” he said. “You know a lot of terrorists, do you?”

  “No, I—” Something new occurred to her, and she stopped drinking. “Was it like, an inside job? I mean, do you work for the government?”

  He made a face. “Oh, right. Definitely.”

  “Well, I still don’t get how you pulled it off,” she said.

  He shrugged.

  Her mind felt so damn sluggish that it was frustrating, and if there were a table or anything nearby, she would have put her drink down, once and for all. “They should have been able to stop it. I mean, I don’t care about Dennis, or how smart you are—”

  “They could have,” he said. “A little quicker with the flash-bangs and the rest of the NLWs, and they would have.”

  Which didn’t make much sense. Christ, was she drunk? “Flash—” She shook her head. “I don’t—”

  He grinned wryly. “You have a lot more back-up than you think you do.”

  “You mean—” Jesus. “You paid off all of them?” she said.

  He snorted.

  “Then—” She must be drunk—“I don’t—”

  “Took a gamble,” he said. “Figured it out as much as I could, and then it depended on how far they were willing to go.”

  Why couldn’t she follow any of this? “I don’t understand,” she said.

  “It’s simple,” he said impatiently. “Either they were going to blow away everything in sight, or they would decide your life wasn’t expendable and try to arrest the situation at a different point.”

  She frowned, her brain still feeling fuzzy. “You thought they would kill me?”

&nbs
p; He shrugged. “Tough call. Me pulling it off makes the government look pretty stupid.”

  “Yeah, but—they wouldn’t’ve killed me,” she said. Would they? Jesus.

  “It would’ve stopped it,” he said.

  Well—yeah. It probably would have, at that. But—Jesus. “So—” There had been so much shooting. “They didn’t fire back?” she asked.

  He shook his head. “Not where you were. Didn’t even seem like they had the nerve to try a thermobaric, or any of their other little toys.”

  She had no idea what he was talking about—and wasn’t sure she wanted to know. “If they’d killed me, you definitely would have been killed.”

  He nodded.

  Jesus. What kind of person was he? Not normal, that was for sure. “That’s kind of a chance to take,” she said.

  His shrug was entirely disinterested as he poured more scotch into his glass.

  How did someone make a comprehensive, ambitious plan, knowing that it might well result in his being killed? It couldn’t have just been because of the money—no matter how much it was. Had he, at some level, been trying to commit suicide-by-cop, or—

  “What,” he said, as she kept looking at him.

  “I can’t tell if you’re crazy or not,” she said.

  “Oh, really?” He filled his glass one more time, and put the bottle down.

  “Well—you just seem regular. I mean, like you went to a good school, and could be doing all sorts of things. So, I can’t see why—” She paused. “Are you a veteran, maybe? And washed out or got stop-lossed, or something, so you’re all bitter towards the government and stuff?”

  He rolled his eyes.

  Okay, but it had to be something along those lines. “Maybe,” she said, “you’re like, a mercenary? Going around to the Middle East and Africa and all?”

  He didn’t answer, but made it clear that he thought she was tiresome—and also, not very bright.

  “I don’t know,” she said defensively. “I just—I can’t figure you out.”