He absently chewed on a pencil while listening to the reports from the field.
I wondered just what it was about Jason that appealed so much to Locke. Watching his long, lean body as his lips worried that pencil, I thought I might know.
Not that I thought there was anything sexual between them. I pretty much made a living with my Gaydar, and it was tel ing me that Jason was one hundred percent straight. I believed he had great personal integrity as wel . I couldn’t see him doing anything physical with Locke.
From his humble beginnings, Jason ascended to the role of chief of staff to a rising Republican star.
Watching him at work, it seemed to me like he knew what he was doing. But I could see why he might feel unconfident. It’s hard to overcome the insecurities of childhood.
I made some tweaks to his remarks. Inserted a few topical references, took out some of the hoariest clichés, added a joke, and changed a line that read,
“we have to work harder to protect our families,” to,
“we have to work harder to protect all families.”
I knew I was taking a risk on that last one, but I couldn’t stop myself.
I felt my iPhone buzz in my pocket. A text from Freddy. “Cal me!” I wrote back, “Busy right now, ring you later.”
Knowing Freddy, I turned the phone off. He’d cal or write one hundred times until I got back to him, and I didn’t want to be distracted from what was happening here.
By the time I was done, it was 5:15. I saved my revision to the speech and e-mailed it back to Jason. He had long been done with his conference cal .
I watched surreptitiously as he opened the document and read my changes, gratified to see him nodding and chuckling where appropriate. As he started to look up, I ducked my head back down and pretended to be absorbed by the Drudge Report on my screen, required reading, I imagined, for al young conservatives.
Jason walked behind me and clapped me on the back. “Great stuff, chief. Top notch. Jacob’s going to love this.”
Once again, I gritted my teeth at how gratified I was by Jason’s praise.
“What say,” Jason began, “I order us in some grub and we hang out til the TV folks get here? Sound good?”
“Great. I’m starving.”
“Pizza OK?”
“Pizza’s essential. ”
Jason laughed and dialed for delivery.
When he hung up the phone, he walked over to Lucil e, the only other person stil in the office. “That does it for the day,” he told her. “Why don’t you go on home?”
“But you and Kevin are stil here,” she observed with a little whine in her voice. “I don’t mind staying.”
“Now, darlin’,” Jason said, taking her coat from a stand by the front door and holding it out for her. “You have done more than your duty for the week. Y’al get outta here while the gettin’s good.”
Lucil e reluctantly stood up. “You sure you two boys are going to be al right on your own?”
Jason walked over with her coat and practical y forced her arms into it. “We’re gonna be fine, Miss Lucil e. Now, skedaddle.”
“Al right then,” Lucil e said, her smile a little tremulous. “If you insist.”
“Thank you for your service this week, Miss Lucil e,” Jason said, opening the door for her. “I don’t know how we’d get by without you.”
At this, Lucil e beamed again. “Oh, Mr. Carter,”
she gushed. “I bet you talk to al the girls like this.”
Coquettishness didn’t go very wel with her plus-sized appearance, but I gave her points for trying.
“Only the pretty ones,” Jason said with a wink.
Lucil e giggled as he led her out the door.
The moment it closed behind her, Jason turned the deadbolt, locking the door. He turned to me. “At last! I thought we’d never be alone.”
Was I wrong about Jason? I was pretty convinced he was as straight as his resume, wedding ring, and the picture of his wife and children would suggest.
Not that those were guarantees against liking to fool around with guys. The majority of my client list was married, as was Jacob Locke. I just didn’t get a sexual vibe off of Jason.
Not that I’d mind being wrong. Plus, I rationalized, if he was attracted to me, I bet he’d be more forthcoming in my investigation of Locke. I figured I’d give him an opening. So to speak.
“You certainly seemed pretty eager to get rid of her,” I said, walking over to him. I flung back my bangs and licked my lower lip. “What was that about?”
“Isn’t it obvious?” Jason said, moving closer to me.
I matched him with another step forward. We were close enough to kiss. “Maybe I need you to spel it out for me.” I looked up at him expectantly.
“Wel , duh.” Jason rol ed his eyes. “I only ordered one pizza. With Miss Lucil e around, we’d be lucky if she left us the cardboard box to eat.” He punched me in the arm. “Now, come on, slugger. Let’s proofread those remarks one more time and print
’em out.” Jason walked around me back to his desk.
Guess I had it right the first time. Damn.
Five minutes after our pizza arrived, so did Jacob Locke.
“Sir!” Jason sprang to his feet when Locke walked in. “Let me get your coat.” He started to sprint over.
Locke waved him away. “Now, don’t be getting up, boy. Eat. I can take my own fool coat off.”
Jason walked over anyway and took the coat from Locke anyway. “I’l hang it up, sir.” He looked at the door and squinted. “How did you get in, sir?”
Locke pursed his lips. “I have a key, Jason.” He reached over and took his coat back from Jason. He put his hand in one of the pockets and pul ed out a silver key on a cross-shaped ring. “See?”
“Of course, sir. I thought you had told me you lost it.”
“No.” Locke laughed. “I told you I lost the five copies you’d given me previously. This one I’ve managed to keep.”
Jason laughed, too. “I’m proud of you, sir. Fund-raising is going wel , but I don’t think we can afford to keep getting the locks changed.”
Locke put his hands on his hips in a way that looked surprisingly . . . fey. He pursed his lips and rol ed his eyes. “Brat.” He pretended to look annoyed but chuckled. He slipped his key back into his coat, which Jason hung on a rack by the door.
Locke threw his arm good-naturedly around Jason and they walked to where I was sitting. I could see they had a good rapport going. Jason was deferential and respectful to Locke, but they could joke around, too.
On television, Locke had the bland good looks of a local news anchor in a medium-sized market. In person, he was more distinctive. Probably about six foot two, fit for his age, silver hair sprayed into place like the model in an ad for men’s hairspray. Bright hazel eyes and a strong nose were the first things you noticed about his face, but the rest of it was fine, too. His skin was ruddy with a healthy glow that stopped a little too abruptly at his neck. I suspected bronzer.
He was dressed conservatively in a navy suit with a red tie and white shirt. Not a particularly original color scheme for a politician, but he wore our flag’s hues wel .
Everything about him, from the careful y styled hair to the just so cut of his suit to his just-shined shoes, was perfectly in place and polished. He looked good, but the deliberateness of it al spoke of a certain vanity. Almost a prissiness. He came over to where we were sitting and pul ed up a chair.
“And who,” he asked, his voice musical, “is this fine young specimen?”
Jason blushed a little. “This is the young man I was tel ing you about,” he answered. “The kind of bright, young thing we need around here. Kevin Johnson, this is Jacob Locke.”
I stood up and extended my hand. “It’s an honor to meet you, sir.”
Locke remained seated, his eyes pointed directly at my crotch. “Can’t say I’m sorry to make your acquaintance, either, son.” He put his hand in mine, limply, and le
t it rest there. The uniform length and perfection of his nails displayed a recent manicure.
It was kind of awkward. It reminded me of how the Queen of England gives you her hand. What are you supposed to do, again? Oh yeah, kneel and kiss it.
Locke looked up at me, a sly smile appearing on his face. I had a feeling he was thinking the same thing.
“You look like just the kind of thing we need around here,” Locke said to my dick.
Remember what I said about making a living with my Gaydar? Despite the fact that I momentarily had my doubts about Jason when he kicked Lucil e out of the office, usual y it was pretty reliable.
What was my Gaydar tel ing me about Jacob Locke? Let’s put it this way—if it was measured on a scale of one (Kris Al en) to ten (Adam Lambert), Locke was registering a fifty-five.
The fact that Locke probably liked to play with boys came as no surprise to me. After al , what brought me here was the knowledge that he’d had sex with at least one of my friends.
What shocked me, though, was what a big old queen he was.
I remember something an older friend of mine who had attended a year of seminary told me. Most of the clergy-in-training were gay. Although many of them chose to abstain from sex, dormitory life was like bunking with the touring company of A Chorus Line.
The young men and their instructors camped it up wildly, lip-syncing to Judy Garland records and trading dialogue from All About Eve.
When it was time to take the pulpit, though, they reeled it in. You’d never know they’d spent the previous evening conjecturing which cast member of The Real World had the biggest cock.
Final y, Locke gave my palm a soft and sustained squeeze, and let it slide slowly through his fingers.
Talk about a hand job.
I stood there uncomfortably for a moment when Jason cut in. “How about a piece?” he asked.
That was direct, I thought. Then I realized he was talking about the pizza, the box of which he extended to Locke.
“No, thank you, son,” Locke said, stil facing my crotch. “I’m not in the mood to eat . . . pizza.”
I could see why he needed someone to write his speeches for him. I sat down before he decided to take a bite out of me.
“We have your remarks ready, sir,” Jason said, handing the printed copy to Locke. “Perhaps you’d like to review them?”
“You’re too good,” Locke said to Jason, looking at me.
“Actual y, Kevin here was helpful in putting them together,” Jason said. “He’s a real y bright kid.”
Locke took the papers from Jason. “Then he should come in while I look at them.” Now he turned to Jason. “Has he seen the inner sanctum yet?” he asked in a teasing whisper.
Jason shook his head. “No, sir.”
“Then you must al ow me to give him the tour.” He stood and gestured for me to fol ow. “Come into my web . . .” he crooned, arching his eyebrows.
It was so obviously suggestive that Jason flinched.
I fol owed.
35
Who’s Afraid of the Big Bad Wolf?
Locke ushered me through the closed door beside Jason’s desk, which led to his private office.
While the rest of the campaign space was haphazardly organized and messy, Locke’s office was grand and expensively decorated. Plush new carpeting, wood-paneled wal s, cherry furniture, and original oil paintings. At one end of the office was Locke’s desk, an imposing piece of furniture, with a black leather pad and marble and gold letter trays and penholders. A plush executive chair with gold studs sat behind it. Two nice but simpler chairs faced the other side of the desk.
In the middle of the room was a smal conference table with seating for six and a speakerphone placed in its center.
On the far side of the room was a formal-looking black leather sofa, faced by two matching chairs with a coffee table between them. A forty-inch LCD hung from the wal over the sofa. Wires led to a cable box and a DVD player instal ed on a shelf to the left. A wooden credenza in the corner of the room held two file drawers.
As we walked in, Locke threw an arm around my shoulder. “Come along, I’l give you the nickel tour.”
He left the door open, for which I was thankful.
Locke guided me around the periphery of the room, where pictures of himself with famous people hung anywhere there was space. We looked at him with each of the past five presidents, a bevy of politicians from both parties, two popes, and celebrities of every kind.
Every few pictures, Locke would tel an amusing or educational story about whom he was with and what they were doing. He’d throw in personal details wherever he could, like, “I might not have agreed with Bil on everything he did, but I’d have to say he was the most charismatic president I’ve ever met. That man could charm a snake right out of his skin.” Or,
“Standing on that stage with Bono, I could feel the goodness of his soul shining on me like the sun. The only other person I ever felt that way around was Mother Teresa, God rest her soul.”
Although he kept his arm around me for the entire fifteen-minute travelogue, he was a very different man from the one I’d met outside. His voice was deeper, the timbre more somber, and he displayed no trace of his earlier campiness. He was articulate, authoritative, and smooth, revealing just enough details to make me feel like an insider while, at the same time, establishing just how connected, caring, and successful he was.
It was a calculated presentation. I imagined he’d given this tour to many others, from contributors to reporters to other dignitaries. It was the Jacob Locke Show, careful y orchestrated to entertain and impress. He was on script now, and he delivered his lines wel .
The last picture he led me to showed him standing in a sandy locale, a sea of young black children surrounding him, cheering.
“This was in South Africa,” he recal ed, “on one of my missions to an orphanage I founded to help children whose parents died of AIDS.” He let out a heavy sigh. “Sadly, many of the young people themselves are infected by that terrible, terrible plague. This is the work I feel the Lord cal ing me to, making the lives of young people like these al over the world safer and healthier. Giving them a shot to survive, to thrive, because doesn’t the Good Book teach us that every life is precious? Even the unborn ones. It’s why I’m out there every day, fighting the good fight, enduring the attacks from the liberal media and the lies of the unsaved. Those who want to bring not just me down, but our American way of life, the Judeo-Christian principles that make our country not just strong, but uniquely blessed and held above al others. That’s why I need your help.”
How we got from children with AIDS in Africa to a pro-life pitch and an attack on the liberal elite was beyond me, but I admired the way Locke pul ed in these and other conservative/religious hot buttons to close his tour on a moving cal to action. Al he needed was a string choir playing “America the Beautiful” in the background and it was enough to inspire a contributor to write a check or bring a congregation to its knees.
Which is where I thought, for a moment, he was trying to bring me, as the pressure on my shoulders suddenly increased as he started to push down.
But, no, he wasn’t forcing me into Blow Job Position #1.
“Make yourself comfortable,” he said, directing me to one of the chairs facing his desk. He sat on the other side and picked up the remarks Jason printed out for him.
“Let’s take a look at what you’re trying to”—
dramatic pause—“put into my mouth.” He winked, I nodded blankly as if I didn’t get the joke. He began reading.
“Why that boy doesn’t print these out bigger, I’l never know,” Locke said. He opened a drawer and pul ed out a pair of glasses. “Bothersome astigmatism. Another of the blessings of aging. Now, I need reading glasses like some old coot. Can’t say I like that much. The doc has me on a training program that’s supposed to be helping, but I haven’t seen any improvement. Guess I’l just have to pray on it some more. But would you m
ake sure Jason gives me the large-type version for the taping?”
“Yes, sir,” I answered.
Locke looked down at the paper, then at me, then at the paper, then at me again. “Al right, Bright Young Thing, you better get on out of here or I’m not going to get a lick of work done.” He put the emphasis on the word “lick” in that last sentence.
“Yes, sir,” I said, getting up. The whole reason I had come here was to scope out Locke; now I couldn’t wait to get away.
“Later,” Locke said, “I want to hear al about you. I have a couple of ideas how a boy like you can be a real asset to this campaign. To me. I can see you’re ambitious. Stick with me, and you could go far.
Jason tel s me you have a lot of potential. You know how it is in politics, though. One hand washes the other. You have to do what it takes to get ahead. You wil ing to do what it takes, boy?” He dropped a hand in his lap.
Apparently, it wasn’t just his political speeches that were a mess of clichés. This guy was about as subtle as a colonoscopy, only less pleasant.
“It would be an honor to talk with you again,” I said, continuing in my role as the naive young innocent.
Locke grinned like the Big Bad Wolf, only hungrier. I turned and beat a hasty retreat. I felt his eyes on my ass as I left.
As I exited Locke’s office, Jason looked at me expectantly. “Y’al do OK in there, chief?”
“Right as rain,” I said, wondering what the hel that expression meant, anyway.
“Good on ya,” Jason said. “He like his speech?”
“He’s stil reading it. Oh yeah, he wants you to print him another copy in a bigger font.”
Jason rol ed his eyes upward. “Lord, Jesus.” He sighed. “If I gave him the large-print version first, he’d be complaining that I treat him like an old man.”
“Ah,” I said. “Vanity.”
“No man is perfect,” Jason agreed. “He’s doing these exercises the doctor said would improve his vision, but I think Doc’s just shining him on. At least he’s doesn’t dye his hair.”
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