by Lee Winter
“What are you thinking?”
Lauren blinked and focused on her steady gaze. “About last night.”
Catherine’s smile curved into knowing. “Mmm. Delicious. And was that all?”
“Your father.”
The smile disappeared. “I dread to think. Is this about how he tried to crawl under your skin?”
“He didn’t just try.” Lauren looked at her hands to avoid Catherine seeing her shame. “He succeeded.”
“So…want to tell me what he said?”
Lauren swallowed. “Just that I wasn’t special. That you’d be captivated by anyone who was not judgmental like your mother, and who’d be loyal and wouldn’t leave you.”
A beat passed. “That sounds like him. And what did you say?”
“I didn’t.”
Catherine glanced away, but the hurt she was trying to mask was clear. “And you believed that? Is that’s what’s been bothering you?”
“I…” Lauren hesitated. “A little.”
“I see.” A shadow crossed her face.
“I admit I’ve been driving myself a bit crazy since I met Michelle. She’s the opposite of me. Not just looks, but in everything. And Lionel suddenly made me wonder why you chose me. I’m not much of a professional match, given you’re at the peak of your career and I’m barely above worm food. And it feels weird, some days, that I even caught your eye. I worried that he has a point. I am way out of your league.”
Catherine gave her a long, inscrutable look. “Is that so?”
Lauren looked at her hands. “Sometimes I wonder if we’d met before that story brought you down what you’d have made of me—back when you had a full life and lots of friends. Regardless of who Michelle turned out to be later, I look at who she was to you. A smart, stylish, beautiful blue blood. She’s all class and prestige and old money. She’s who you picked when you weren’t at rock bottom. So, I’ve been torturing myself. I’m not sure I’m what you love about me, or even if I’m really your type. Or if it’s just I was there when you needed someone the most, and that can be a very attractive thing.”
Catherine gave a low strangled noise. She left the window and sat on the edge of the bed beside Lauren. “You think I loved you because you were just there?”
“Be honest with me: I know you love me but, Catherine, at any other time of your life, would you have looked twice at me? I’m a one-time college softball player from the Midwest. My family comprises a bunch of mechanics who think Homer Simpson’s the funniest character ever written and that tractor pulls are the meaning of life. And then there’s you.” She pointed at Catherine’s Fifth Avenue perfection. “Just look at you.”
“Is this the money again? My God—”
“No, it’s not the money. It’s where I’m from and where you’re from. It’s who you are, culturally, socioeconomically, professionally, personally—all of it. I’m not being down on myself when I say this, but I just don’t see what you, specifically, see in me. I don’t think I ever really did. And I think…especially now, I really need to know.”
“This is so typical of my father.” Catherine folded her arms and glared. “Finding a person’s insecurities and working them. Where do you think I learned it from? Not that I’m proud of it.” Her lips thinned. “And as for you…” she said, looking exasperated, “for the love of my life, you can be quite ridiculous at times. You meet my father, who whispers all these doubts in your ear, and suddenly you need me to hold all my emotions up to the light for you to peer at.”
Lauren knew Catherine was hiding her discomfort. She hated going to vulnerable places and rarely did it. But Lauren needed this; it was too important to be put off.
“Catherine, yes, I really need you to spell it out for me,” she said softly. “Why choose me when you could be with someone…” Awesome, cool, classy, like you. “…else?”
“Why on earth would I want someone else?” Catherine’s eyebrow shot up. “It’s you I care for. I love you for the way you challenged me when no one else would. For your fierceness and dedication to those you love. And I love you for who you are, not because no one else was available.” She looked deeply offended. “I am not so desperate that just anyone is allowed in my life. I am particular. I would rather be single than settle for less than what I need. You should know this. In a few months we will be married. Why don’t you know this?”
“Um…” Lauren’s voice was small. “Because you never told me.”
There was a long silence punctuated only by the harsh intake of Catherine’s breath.
“Couldn’t you tell?” she asked. “The way I touch you? Hold you? Couldn’t you see? Have I really been so cryptic?”
“Some days a girl needs to hear the words, too,” Lauren said. “I’m a writer. I live for words.” Her eyes implored her to understand. “I breathe them, swallow them, and worship them. Don’t you understand? I memorize them for when I need them most. I need this.”
“Words were memorized in my family, too.” Catherine hesitated. Her face darkened. “They were misquoted, misdirected, used, and abused. The greatest protection I had was my silence. The day I finally unleashed my words was the day my father disowned me. The day I walked away, I never held back my words again.
“For that, they call me the Caustic Queen. What would people say if they found out the truth about those acerbic lines I peel off my tongue? That there’s nothing regal at all about what happened to me? That I was little more than some tormented animal who found herself suddenly free, and lashed out to never feel oppressed in that way again.”
“Catherine, I’m so sorry.”
“It’s in the past now.” She gave Lauren a regretful look. “And I’m also sorry. It may take a long time for certain words…words that aren’t weapons—the soft, unsafe, vulnerable words—to return to me. The hardest thing is to speak about things that lay me open. I always feel too exposed. I’m sorry for that. You deserve to be told how special you are to me, and often. But Lauren, know that even though I don’t say the words, I think them. Every day.”
Lauren pulled her down on the bed beside her, until they were touching forehead to forehead. “Thank you. That’s…beautiful.”
“It’s just a fact.” Catherine closed her eyes.
“No,” Lauren whispered. “It makes me feel safer inside… Safer about us, knowing this.” She felt the heat flood her cheeks from embarrassment. How needy she must sound.
Catherine stroked her from her temple down to her throat with her fingertips. “Lauren, trust me when I say this: I do love you. I’m not ‘making do’ until someone better comes along. I don’t care where you’re from, what your family does, how spectacular or otherwise your career is. These are not priorities for me. I want to be with the woman who loves me fiercely. I want the woman who thinks it’s exciting finding out multiple uses of Nutella and thinks wearing battered tractor caps is funny. And I want the woman who looks at me the way you did last night. Who made me weak just from the way you said my name. That’s who I’m in love with. Can you just…never doubt that again? Or I will have to question your intelligence.” Her look was aggrieved.
Lauren laughed. “Thanks…um, I think.”
“Better?” Catherine’s expression morphed into amusement.
“Yes. And can I just say I’m also really glad you’re not looking for a slick, elegant, elite, DC woman? I’d be in so much trouble.”
“Superficiality is in ready supply in DC. I prefer the pride of Iowa just fine.” Catherine pulled Lauren tightly into her arms and kissed her like she meant it.
The password arrived three hours later.
It made for a bit of good news after running Senator Hickory’s donors list through the mill and coming up empty. It was almost suspicious how pristine his numbers were. Like someone had cleaned them with industrial-strength bleach. On paper, the man was a freaking saint.
> The password was one long jumble of numbers and letters in a text. A call from Duppy a minute later to Lauren said only: “Use it fast; if their security is half as good as I think, they’ll know they were cracked. You only get one shot. I’m not calling in favors again.”
Lauren grabbed her cell phone, pasted the emailed password into the website box, and waited.
There was an anxious pause as the screen flickered. It suddenly refreshed, and a new web page appeared.
Welcome to The Fixers.
We are a top Washington DC consultancy team that can ensure the results you want. Our motto is political climate change.
Do you need to make contacts with top-tier Washington movers and shakers? Effect change? Boost your brand, image, or product in a daring and effective way that doesn’t even look like marketing? Diminish a competitor’s image or products in a lasting way to ensure your success? The Fixers’ expert team can advise you. We are security, discretion, and originality in a one-stop shop. We have specialists in the following areas who can brainstorm and consult with you:
Protection and security
Political connections
Business networking
Counterintelligence and espionage
Mass communication, message massaging, and trend development
Cybersecurity—improving safety and removing threats
“That’s…” Lauren couldn’t think of what to say. “Um…” She immediately took a screenshot of the page, in case they got kicked off the site. She emailed it to Catherine’s and her own accounts for safekeeping.
Lauren glanced at a link at the top of the page. “Do we want to download a PDF with ‘the most up-to-date list of the expert Fixers team’?”
Eyes practically gleaming, Catherine said, “We definitely do.”
Lauren tapped on the download button. A moment later the PDF opened.
“Oh,” Lauren whispered. “would you look at that?” She took a screenshot and sent that to their email accounts, too.
The list ran down the page:
Protection and Security
Consultants: M. Lee, D. Rowe, P. Carter, K. Richards, T. Howe, P. O’Brian. Our team features alumni from Blackwater, the US Marines, White House security, and the CIA. Overseas bodyguards also available to clients upon request.
Political and Business Networking
Consultant: M. Hastings. Six years with FBI; expertise in forging connections with all political parties and top business leaders. Full CV available upon request.
“Stop,” Catherine said sharply. She pointed to M. Hastings. “The home page said they offer to diminish a competitor’s image.” She looked at Lauren. “That had to be her assignment on me.”
Lauren re-read the words. “Yeah. It does fit with what happened to you.”
“Who did this to me? Who paid for this career hit?”
“Michelle’s field is listed as politics and business. Did you piss off some politician or businessman somewhere?”
“The list is as long as my arm. But I was never over the top. They all knew the game. I can’t think of anything I’ve done that would have merited calling in a specialist consultancy firm to hurt my reputation.”
“What about the FBI? Remember they ghosted you when you went down.”
“They have no motive. I treated the FBI fairly in all stories. Although…”
“What?”
“It’s probably nothing. Just a call I had from an irate FBI director about a column I wrote a few years back. But he went away.” She shook her head. “This second-guessing is futile. I’ll make myself paranoid.” Catherine waved at the screen. “Keep scrolling.”
Lauren returned to the page.
Counterintelligence
Consultants: R. Burns, P. Mason, D. Chin. Our experts have CIA, NSA, Homeland Security, and FBI experience. Full CVs available upon request.
Mass communication, message massaging, and trend development
Consultant: T. Brooker. Advertising, public relations, and marketing background and a former top-level media advisor to Government. Full CV available upon request.
Cybersecurity
Consultant: D. Lesser. Security software expert; IT consultant experience with the FBI. Full CV available upon request.
D. Lesser. “Oh.” Lauren wanted to slap her head. “That’s where I know the pentalobe thingy from. Douglas Lesser’s office. That Evil Twin app guy? The logo was on some paperwork on his desk.”
Frowning, Catherine said, “So they work together—Lesser and Michelle. That’s how she knew our two stories were connected. We don’t know how yet, but it’s the first link.”
Shaking her head, Lauren said, “Who runs this creepy Fixers show, anyway?” She hit the Make Contact page. It began to load slowly. An address appeared first—some office in DC. Then the word Director loaded, followed by what appeared to be the top of a photo.
Unauthorized access detected.
The website vanished.
“Oh, crap,” Lauren said. “That’s… Hell.” She scrabbled for a pen and wrote the address down she’d glimpsed. She nudged what she’d written over to Catherine. “Is that what you remember?”
“I think so. We can’t ask Duppy to get us back in?”
“He said not to ask. Besides, they’ll be looking for another unauthorized attempt now. We’ve got everything we’re going to get.”
“Which is what? The name of Michelle’s company. The fact Lesser does a bit of IT consultancy work for them. The same company that once recruited and later fired Baldoni.”
“We also have the fact it’s a super-secret organization that goes around upsetting everyone’s apple carts for the right price,” Lauren said. “Be they politics, business, or security. Advising them on dirty tricks, espionage, media, whatever it takes?”
“Seems like it.”
“So how does Michelle fit in? Why is she talking to us?”
“I’m not sure.” Catherine drummed her fingers on her thigh. “MediCache, Hickory, the missing food robot. What do all these things have in common?”
“Well, the first two have Ansom in common. Ansom makes MediCache and it uses Hickory to promote it. No clue where the robot comes in.”
“That is odd.” Catherine pursed her lips. “Ansom doesn’t make that robot, does it?”
“No. Antonio said he imported his pair from a company in Estonia. They’re not affiliated with any other company.” She bit her lip as she thought. “So where does this leave us?”
Glancing at her watch, Catherine said, “It leaves us running late to interview wedding celebrants.”
Huffing, Lauren said, “I bet Woodward and Bernstein didn’t have to drop everything to work out which stranger will best encapsulate their love on their wedding day.”
Catherine gave a small smirk. “I suspect not.”
Chapter 17 –
Reign of Terror
The reign of terror, as Lauren dubbed it, started exactly twenty-four hours after Lionel Ayers had vowed to screw over Lauren.
Well, he had promised it would only take a day.
One moment they’d been debating celebrants; the next, Lauren’s phone began to light up with email after email. First came reminders of unpaid bills that she knew she’d paid. Next, an email came from her bank about her “stolen” credit card, informing her it had been canceled. Then things stepped up another notch.
“I thought you said your father wouldn’t bother getting me back,” Lauren complained as she worked her phone furiously, flinging off emails to correct the avalanche of mischief. “But he’s sure as hell having his fun.”
“We don’t know it’s him.”
“Really? Have you seen my Facebook page lately? This stuff’s really personal.”
Catherine glanced at her screen, stopped, and bent closer. “Wait, you had
three college-age DUIs, in between selling bongs and being a high-class escort to pay your college fees?” She shot her an incredulous look. “What is all this?”
Lauren shook her head numbly at the page that had been hacked about forty minutes ago. “I’m also interested in casual sex with strangers. I know this because it says so in that pinned post. With my head stuck on that naked model. It even has my cell number.” She scowled. “No one could ever accuse your father of being subtle.”
Her phone rang, and she glanced at it. Unknown number. The thirty-second call she’d gotten since that salacious ad had gone up. “Meanwhile, two of Dad’s friends and one of Meemaw’s have posted comments, apparently shocked that I’d ‘do such a terrible thing,’” Lauren added, her fury rising. “God, that really gets me. Do they even have brains? As if any of this sounds like me! Oh, and don’t start me on all these creeps filling my timeline with pictures of their junk.”
“Can’t you just delete that post?” Catherine pointed. Her gaze went down the screen. “And that one…well, all of them?”
“I’ve been locked out. I’ve complained to Facebook, but I’m still waiting for a reply.”
Her phone rang again.
“Don’t answer tha—” Lauren’s objection died on her lips.
Catherine had already picked it up and answered. Her face quickly turned several different shades. “Oh really?” she snapped. “Well, listen to me, you perverted, festering pustule, I am a senior journalist with contacts at the FBI. I dare you to call again and see how well that works out for you.” She ended the call and threw the phone on the bed beside Lauren.
In the second hour, twenty pizzas turned up at the house, all charged to Lauren’s credit card, the same one she’d been told had been canceled. All the pizzas had only anchovies, double garlic, and pineapple on them. It would have been funny if it hadn’t cost her four hundred bucks. The asshole who’d ordered them had asked for jumbo-sized. The King brothers shrugged, loaded up their plates, making short work of half the stack, while Catherine blasted the store owner for not checking such a suspicious order.