The Red Files

by Lee Winter

  “No,” Lauren murmured.

  “It’s a dark, lonely place to be,” Ayers continued, anger edging her voice. “It tastes like ash, decay, and bitterness. But it was familiar in the end, my little self-loathing prison. And then you just turned up and carelessly kicked down the door.”

  “Why was that so bad?” Lauren asked.

  “Don’t you get it? Rock bottom is the safest place in the world. No one can hurt you, or threaten to take anything from you—because it’s already gone. I became used to being there. It was comfortable, and I was bulletproof.”

  “And I took that away.”

  Ayers clenched her hands. “You are clueless, Lauren King. And obtuse. And terrifying. Because you kicked down that door and made me want more from life. You made me want again. A part of me hates you for it. I was safe. Now I’m not.”

  “Life isn’t safe, Catherine,” Lauren said. She squeezed her hand. “Life is risk. That’s what makes it so exciting.”

  “What if I don’t want any more excitement?” she asked. “It’s vastly overrated.”

  “Sure you do. You’re Catherine Fucking Ayers, and you eat it for breakfast. That’s who you are. That was who dragged me off to Nevada and got us our story. And hell if you didn’t bill Frank $3200 in expenses and get the cheap bastard to pay. Those two weeks were the most incredible time of my life, and I couldn’t have done it without you. And you are going to sweep back in, take DC by the throat, and give it a shake. Because that’s what you do. And you’re going to take other risks. Even bigger ones. And you’re going to love those, too.”

  “Maybe I’m not as brave as you.”

  “Well that’s where I come in. To remind you how to dream and dare again. And tell you it’s time to stand back up and seize life with both hands.”

  “Why do you even care what I do next?”

  “Now who’s being obtuse? You make me feel alive, too. You get me. All of me—my ambitions, my drive, and who I am. The simple truth is we’re good for each other.”

  “This is crazy,” Ayers whispered. She rubbed her temple. “I mean, look at us.”

  “I am. We’re awesome together. Not to mention cute.”

  Ayers rolled her eyes. “Blind and ambitious. We’re doomed.”

  Lauren grinned. “You said we. So we’re doing this then? You and me?”

  “So help me.” Ayers drew in a deep breath. She looked at Lauren’s lips, now so close they were sharing breaths. “I must be mad,” she whispered and closed the distance.

  They kissed, and it was like nothing Lauren had ever experienced. Tender, yet intoxicating. Ayers’s eyes were dark with desire and, without a word, Lauren allowed her to take her to bed.

  Ayers undressed her slowly, carefully, and then slipped out of her own clothes, sliding into bed beside her, stroking her skin, fingertips dusting her jaw.

  “I always knew you were trouble,” she said. “First time I met you.” She kissed her. “So much trouble.” She nuzzled her neck, and her hands played with Lauren’s hair.

  Lauren shifted her thighs, feeling a growing urgency. But the desperation they’d shared one adrenaline-filled night weeks ago had been replaced by something else.

  Ayers was making love to her. Slow, intimate, and measured, piece by piece, she was taking Lauren’s heart apart, with every trail of fingertips and softly dropped kiss.

  “I think I’m falling for you,” Lauren admitted shakily.

  The hands idly combing through her hair tightened briefly then relaxed. Ayers kissed a lazy trail down her throat and paused before she reached her aroused nipple. Ayers took her breast in her mouth, and one hand skimmed down to cup between her legs.

  Lauren cried out, tears leaking from her eyes at the intensity. Ayers leaned up and kissed the tracks of saltwater away. Then she lowered herself, rubbed against Lauren’s thigh, teasing her own core against her as she slid down, her fingers still exploring Lauren’s folds.

  Ayers’s slickness revealed just how aroused she was.

  “The things you do to me,” Ayers whispered against her quivering stomach. “It should be illegal.”

  And then, with a mouth so famous for being brutal, she kissed her lower lips tenderly and began to love her so attentively that Lauren wondered if she was losing her mind. Her moans became more intense with each carefully placed lick and thrust, and then she finally broke. Her voice cracked, dying into blissful, spent gasps.

  That wicked mouth finally retreated, kissed back up her still-trembling thighs, and slipped over Lauren’s stomach, leaving wet trails. Her eyes danced as she studied her, a fingertip sliding up and down Lauren’s toned arm.

  Her expression became serious.

  “It’s not just you,” she admitted, resting her chin between Lauren’s breasts. “I feel it, too.”

  Lauren lifted her eyebrows in hope, her hands curling through the rich auburn hair splayed out on her chest.

  “This thing between us,” Ayers clarified. “I’ve felt it for a long time. Even when we hated each other, when I fought you dragging me out of my safe little hell, it was always there.”

  Lauren smiled.

  “So let’s go to DC,” Ayers said thoughtfully. “Take the suits on together. Like they could withstand us both.”

  “They’d have no chance,” Lauren joked, her heart leaping. She paused. “Although, remember that we’d be rivals. There would be no together.”

  “Please,” Ayers said. She gave her a fond smirk. “Like that’s ever stopped us before.”

  Lauren grinned.

  Hell yeah.

  EPILOGUE

  One year later

  Washington DC

  Lauren pulled The Beast into the shared media parking lot a few blocks from the National Press Building. Thanks to some sage advice she’d scored the highly prized spot during her negotiations with the Washington Post.

  Her new boss had given an impressed snort, accused her of being a ringer, and reluctantly agreed.

  She turned the steering wheel into her named space, then slammed on the brakes. She cursed. A car was parked right on the line. It wasn’t over far enough to block most cars. But then The Beast was no ordinary vehicle. She glared at the sign posted above the offending silver vehicle.

  C. AYERS, B-Chief, Daily Sentinel.

  Lauren hit reverse. With a grim smile, she changed gears, edged forward, and boxed in the annoying Saab. She slammed her car door and headed toward the fourteen-story building that housed eighty percent of Washington DC’s media organizations, twirling her keys around her finger.

  “Hey lady!” a man shouted behind her. “If you park there, that silver car won’t be able to get out.”

  “That’s the general idea,” she called back, feeling deliciously evil.

  It had been a year, Lauren mused as the elevator rose. A year of getting used to a new city and a faster way of life. Everyone lived and breathed politics here. It wasn’t some postscript to who’d been spotted at a film launch. She could smell the adrenalin; taste the power and the ambition. It was where she’d always wanted to be. And for so many reasons she was having the time of her life.

  The elevator rose past her office’s floor and stopped two higher. It was a path she was very used to beating now.

  Catherine Ayers, esteemed bureau chief for the Daily Sentinel, was on the phone, her chair swivelled to face the window and its stunning view below. Lauren could see the top of auburn hair, a long-sleeved, cream silk-clad arm waving expansively. “I know you said that, Senator, and I will be happy to put that in my story when it happens to be the truth, not when you claim it is.”

  She pivoted around slightly, saw Lauren, and smiled.

  “How do I know it’s not?” she asked her caller, her voice still stern, even as her sultry look stroked Lauren’s body and glazed slightly. “Because your mistress told me about it over sushi three nights ago. Mm. Yes, excellent. I’ll see you at that meeting on Tuesday. Look forward to going through your files. Goodbye, Senator.”
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br />   She swivelled her chair around and hung up. Lauren stood in front of her, hands rammed in her black pants, eyes glinting.

  “Ahh, I see you got my message.” Ayers gave her a positively wicked smile.

  “Really?” Lauren asked, voice lifting to a squeak. “You couldn’t just call me like a regular person when you want to see me?”

  “Now where would be the fun in that?”

  Lauren rolled her eyes. “Okay, I’m here now. What do you want?”

  “To coordinate tonight. Can you pick up my dress? I had Lee’s take up the hem.”

  “What did your last slave die of?”

  “Who can say without an autopsy? Here’s the ticket.”

  She passed over a yellow stub for Lee’s Tailoring and Dress Alterations, two blocks from their office.

  “Aren’t you leaving it a bit late?” Lauren asked, plucking it from the desk. “You’ve only known about the White House Correspondents’ Dinner for a whole year.”

  “I hadn’t planned on working sixty hours this week.”

  “Ooh yeah, the illegal drone story. Can’t wait to read it.” Lauren sat on the edge of her desk.

  “Shush,” Ayers scolded; her gaze flicked to the closed door and back.

  “Please, who do you think will hear anyway? You practically have the floor to yourself since the other two regionals and that motoring quarterly folded.”

  “Good. Scoops only stay that way if no one gets wind of them. Now then, more importantly, can you tell me where you disappeared to at five this morning? I woke up alone. A state I found highly unacceptable—not to mention cold.”

  Lauren laughed and toyed with the Topaz Lake snow dome adorning Ayers’s desk. An amusing gift from Jon Sands. Lauren had one just like it on her desk. Plastic fish swam up and down as she wiggled it.

  “Got a tip off. Two White House officials have been dealing drugs to politicians and their staff. A senator was behind the ring. Cops let them do the walk of shame just after five this morning to try and beat the media crush.”

  “Ah, and did you catch them?”

  “Ronald Douglas Jr. was crying like a baby.”

  “Wait, the family values senator? The man who bleated on television about ‘our poor, poor drug-afflicted children’?”

  “One and only. Hey can I read your drone story?” She leaned over and tilted the screen toward her.

  “No,” Ayers said, slapping her hand away. “It’s not finished. And can you make yourself useful?” She pointed at the tailoring stub. “Please?”

  “Is this for the green dress? I love that one. You wore it to the SmartPay launch.”

  “It would be social suicide to wear a dress more than once to one of these things,” Ayers observed. “So, no, not that one. Although I recall I was quite the hit with your craigslist crowd that night.”

  Lauren laughed.

  “And you, too,” Ayers added mischievously. “You couldn’t keep your eyes off me.”

  “Uh huh,” Lauren said. “Quite the active imagination you have there, Ayers.” She waved the stub. “I’ll drop your dress off at home tonight. Meet you at the dinner later. A group of us from the Post is going together.”

  “Okay.” Ayers paused. “And what will you be wearing?”

  “Denim cut-off shorts, army boots, and tractor cap. I’ll be a sensation.”

  “I don’t doubt it.” Her expression dropped. “Lauren, I’m sorry we can’t arrive together. Or be honest with our colleagues.”

  “I know. I get it. We’re flying under the radar. Getting established without any innuendo or crap,” she said, trying to push aside the disappointment this discussion always invoked. “Maybe next year?”

  Ayers smiled. “I’d like that.” Her appreciative gaze ran over Lauren’s outfit again. “Get out of here,” she whispered. “Your perfectly tailored rear is making me forget how to spell exclusive.”

  Lauren grinned and dropped the snow dome back on the desk, then headed for her own office.

  * * *

  Catherine Ayers seriously knew how to make an entrance, Lauren decided, listening to the murmurs around her, the subtle intakes of air as she swept up the front hotel stairs in a gorgeous silver dress. Paul Harrington Sr. was her date for the evening. Lauren watched them enviously as they chatted comfortably, body language showing the ease of long-time friends. The old man also looked quite dashing out of his golf gear.

  “Holy shit, the Caustic Queen scrubs up nice, doesn’t she?” One of the Post’s staff photographers, Hugo, distracted her with a low wolf whistle.

  “Yeah,” Lauren agreed wistfully. Her other colleagues were making equally flattering comments around her.

  “She dating that old publisher dude now?” Hugo persisted as he spotted Harrington Sr. by her side. “Is she into sugar daddies? Father figures? Crap, I’m officially thirty years too young and about ten million too poor.”

  “That’s not her boyfriend,” Lauren said through gritted teeth. “He’s just her boss.”

  “Really?”

  He looked way too hopeful, and Lauren groaned inwardly. “She’s also off the market,” she added.

  “Don’t see a ring on it.” Hugo adjusted his bowtie and sucked his stomach in. “So, fair game. Wish me luck.”

  He strolled over toward Ayers with his best game face on.

  “Well, well, if it isn’t Real America,” a voice drawled near her ear. “And a nominee in tonight’s awards to boot.”

  Lauren wondered which god she’d pissed off this week. Cynthia Redwell. She turned, reluctantly, tearing her gaze from Hugo’s stealthy approach of Ayers.

  “Aren’t you and Cat just burning through DC since you got here,” Redwell observed. “Quite the pair. Scoops are piling up. Making a lot of fans. Impressing the big boys.”

  “We worked hard,” Lauren said. “Every accolade has been earned.”

  “Oh I don’t doubt it. Besides, Cat always had a terrific nose for news.”

  Both women looked over to Ayers who was now engaged in conversation with Hugo. Her girlfriend looked about as unimpressed as Lauren felt. She ground her teeth.

  “Poor boy. He doesn’t have a clue, does he?” Redwell asked with a hearty laugh, shaking her shimmering blonde hair. Her eyes dropped back to Lauren’s. “Oh don’t look so shocked. I knew about you and Cat the moment she unloaded on me with both barrels for teasing you. Anyone else, she’d probably have doubled down herself.”

  “What’s the deal with you two?” Lauren asked. “Are you mortal enemies or something?”

  Redwell’s crimson lips parted into a ferocious smile. “Actually Cat’s one of my oldest friends. We just fell out once over someone she refused to date.”

  Lauren shot her a knowing look.

  “Well, don’t worry, dear, I know when to run up the white flag. I actually came to say good luck with your award nomination tonight. Although I’m sure you know you have no chance. Up against the Wall St Journal’s sensational insider trading piece? Well. I wouldn’t bother memorizing the speech if I were either of you.”

  Lauren gaped at her. “And you call yourself her friend.”

  “What? That wasn’t friendly advice?”

  “No.” She folded her arms.

  Redwell laughed. “I see why she likes you. You’re so…not like us.”

  Lauren sighed. “I get that a lot.”

  “I’ll just bet.” She smoothed her fingers down her classic, midnight-blue Dior gown. “By the way, your adored co-nominee appears to be about to go thermonuclear on the Post’s photographer. I suspect he won’t be getting his money back on the rental tux.”

  Lauren whipped her head around. Oh hell.

  * * *

  Lauren took a breather from the swirl of conversations and stepped out onto one of the hotel’s many balconies. This was the third one she’d tried. The other two she’d interrupted smokers furtively sneaking in some puffs and looking at her guiltily from the shadows.

  Finally alone, she rested her elbows o
n the railing, taking in the view of DC. It was dark this high up, but the lights below lit the grids of the roads.

  “Not so close,” a male voice said. “That’s how accidents happen.”

  Lauren started and spun around. A man stepped out of the shadows wearing a fine Italian suit. A jagged scar bisected his left cheek, running up to his eye.

  Gabbana.

  She swallowed fearfully and looked at his pocket. No bulge. Still, he might have a weapon under his armpit. They did that, right?

  “Now, now, Ms. King, if we’d wanted you dead, you’d be dead,” he said as he stepped beside her on the balcony and leaned forward to study the view himself. “You’ve done well. Solid buzz. Hot job. Hotter girlfriend. Up for a fancy award.”

  Lauren glared. “What do you want?”

  “Me? I just happened to be here. You happened to be here, too. I’m no longer with my former employer. There was something of a restructure across several organizations when you bankrupted SmartPay with your cutting little exposé. Certain people were moved elsewhere.”

  “They bankrupted themselves with their spy viruses.”

  He shrugged. “I don’t care. It was a job. But they’re watching you, you know. You and her. Waiting. Vultures hovering around a nearly dead corpse.”

  “I don’t know where you get your information, but there’s plenty of life in us yet.”

  “You misunderstand. We’re all nearly dead,” he said and turned to look her coldly in the eye. “You become actually dead in DC the moment we say so, whether it’s metaphoric, as happened to Ms. Ayers last time, or in the more literal sense. Quite a few of my colleagues wanted a more literal ending for you both. Aren’t you lucky national security is not a democracy?”

  Lauren sucked in a breath. “You’re trying to scare me? Payback for that interesting scar?”