The Corrupt Trilogy

by Penelope L'Amoreaux

  He followed her into the bookstore. It was bright inside and the rows of multicolored spines made him painfully aware how long it had been since he’d read anything. There wasn’t that much time for reading when your career was manipulating and ruining lives.

  She went down a row. Fiction. Simon mused that if he did have time for reading, he probably wouldn’t pick fiction. Real life was exciting enough. He’d want something like military history or maybe a true crime novel. Compare notes, you know?

  A red cover caught his eye and he pulled it out a little. The creak of the spine as he opened it gave him a startling jolt of satisfaction. It was The Morte D’Arthur. Arthurian legend. Huh. Not at all what he’d pick for himself. Like, ever. But he needed to blend in, so he leafed through the pages. Gorgeous oil paintings of maids and knights. Pass. Love stories? Hell no.

  Sword fighting… okay, yeah, Simon was interested in that. There was no subtlety in Arthurian Legend. No cloak and dagger, no subterfuge. If you had a problem with a man, you just fucking fought him with a sword. That was something Simon could get behind. Despite all of his training, the idea of just facing the person you were pissed at made sense to him.

  He thought about what it would be like to face off with Walter. Simon had thought he was angry with Roger, but it didn’t compare to the rage he felt for his father. He’d been such an idiot, being thankful for the scraps Walter had flung to him, always envious of the favored sons, and then to find out he was also a son had depleted him. Left him empty, a vessel to hold the anger that began to accumulate. Who did that? What kind of man let his son live a lie in his very house---

  “Oh my God! Simon?” The peppery voice yanked him from the black swirl of emotions. Startled, Simon dropped his book.

  Chapter Two

  “I’m sorry,” Jessica laughed as she stooped to pick up the book. She glanced at the cover before handing it back to him. “This… seems oddly appropriate for you. At least for the boy that I remember. You are Simon, right? Simon Stills? Tell me I’m not crazy and making a fool of myself--”

  Her cheeks began to burn as she babbled and Simon knew he should say something. Inside his head he was too busy yelling at himself for letting his guard down. A target should never, never know you’re there and here he was, standing in front of her, mouth open like a jackass.

  “I’m sorry, I just really thought you were someone I knew--” her eyebrows pressed tightly together as she studied his face, so sure she was right.

  He shook his head, focusing. This was part of the training, too. It burned him that around her it took so little to make his mind and instinct falter. “Jessica. Yes. I’m sorry, you surprised me. Yeah,” turn on the charm, she always liked Roger’s charm, “I’m Simon.”

  Her nervous peal of laughter made him light headed. Fuck. They were in their thirties. He was well to do, knowledgeable, and could snipe a man a mile away with a rifle but she reduced him to his fifteen-year-old self with just her giggle.

  “It’s so good to see you!” She exclaimed. “I haven’t seen you since high school. I had to--” she faltered, her eyes going wide. “I ended up homeschooling. The pressure of school was just too much, you know?”

  Of course. He wasn’t supposed to know about her pregnancy. That her daughter, Amanda, was the product of Roger’s back-stabbing ways. She’d signed a water-tight non-disclosure with Walter, one that meant no one should know who the father of her daughter was. Simon’s fists twitched. He didn’t mind secrets-- it was his favorite currency, in fact-- but he didn’t want to lie to her, either.

  “Jess, I’m, um, sort of friends with Roger still.” That, of course, was a complete lie, but it felt more innocent than saying ‘I know about your teenaged love child because I was going to expose the both of you to the world in order to ruin the father.’ Or ‘Your baby’s daddy is also my half brother-- isn’t the world just too damned small?’

  Her face blanched except for pinpricks of blush. The curse of being a redhead, he supposed. Well, it was fucking adorable. She wore her emotions openly and it was refreshing after the usual lying schmucks he dealt with in politics. “So, you know, he told me. Right before his announcement. He told me about Amanda.”

  She let out a huge sigh, her shoulders relaxing. “Okay. I’m just not supposed to talk about it. But what a relief that you know! It’s easy with people who didn’t know me back then. I almost never see anyone from before, you know?”

  He smiled and winked, enjoying the creep of the blush up her neck. It was nuts to him how easy it felt. His life in shambles, his following her compromised, and it was just as easy and flirtatious to be around her as it had been in boarding school.

  Simon almost groaned internally as his cock began to swell in his pants. Apparently the spontaneous erections Jess had elicited so long ago were coming back, too. “Your secret is safe with me.”

  He earned another laugh and his heart began to soar. She noticed the flowers cradled in his elbow. “Oh! I was just looking at some flowers just like that down the street!”

  Uh oh. He’d purchased them because she’d touched the petals so lovingly. How fucked up was he? Don’t answer that.

  “Oh, these? I was just there! We must have missed each other earlier!”

  “Weird,” she sighed, her eyes still gazing in adoration at the blooms. “I wonder how many times we could’ve run into each other and never noticed!”

  Around three hundred and forty five times in the past year. Not that he was counting. The number was higher since he’d run from Walter, no longer content to just Google Jessica or drive by her home once in a while.

  “You must have picked them up for someone special,” Jessica ventured. “Off to a date?”

  Simon could be smooth. He knew how to seduce women and bring them to their knees. Hundreds of times he’d kissed, licked, and plied secrets out of women, bending them to his will, hooking them with his confidence and good looks. Jessica made him doubt every bit of those skills. Still, being that way was all he knew, and while he hadn’t planned on a chance with her… maybe it was worth it to try.

  After all, it stopped being stalking (protecting!) if he was actually dating her.

  “I hope so,” he replied, gazing intently at her.

  “You hope? You don’t know?”

  He shrugged. “She hasn’t said yes yet.” He let his gaze drift to her neck. Not too low--women didn’t like their breasts stared at. But the neck, he found, let them know what he was thinking about without being vulgar.

  Her blush turned a startling shade of red, splotchy on her pale skin. The heat between them flared; there was some definite chemistry happening and to his relief it wasn’t one-sided.

  Simon’s throat was tight with longing and his next request came out a low growl. “Have dinner with me?” His erection was now pressed painfully against the fly of his jeans. She unnerved him, but seeing her reaction to him helped him gain back some swagger.

  “You just happen to have the flowers I like and you happen to be in this bookstore… so you could just spontaneously ask me on a date?” The doubt was in her voice, but the rapid rise and fall of her breasts suggested that, while she may not believe in the coincidence anymore, she was still interested.

  He smirked and stepped closer to her. The heat of her body and her flustered breathing were intoxicating. Daring, he reached up and tucked a stray red curl behind her ear. “Yep,” he murmured. “What are the chances?”

  She bit her lip, shifting nervously on her feet, but Jessica didn’t move away from him. A good sign. “I’d say the chances are pretty slim, Simon.” She teased, but it wasn’t lighthearted enough; his heart raced at the desire in her voice. Fuck, this was better than when they were teenagers. This wasn’t awkward, hormonal desire-- it was white-hot adult lust.

  “You’d say correctly.” He reached into his pocket and pulled out a card. “S” and a phone number were all that were on it. He liked to believe it gave him an air of mystery, but it also gave her his new phon
e number. He tucked it into her palm and pushed the flowers gently into her arms.

  “Text me your address. I’ll pick you up at eight.”

  It was painful, pulling away from her, but he knew what he was doing. He needed to leave, to still be the one in control. In a minute or two she’d text him her home address (which, of course, he already knew) and he’d pick her up at eight. Until then, it was time to change his game plan.

  ~ ~ ~ ~

  She didn’t fucking text in a minute or two. No, Jessica Farmer waited three goddamn hours to text him, leaving him all of an hour to get ready and get to her home. Of course, it was the principal of it. She’d waited until the last minute to send him an address.

  Simon was good at reading people and it pissed him off to no end that he’d read Jessica wrong. He’d been sure as he left the bookstore that she’d been just as tightly wound as him, ready to spring into bed. Hell, he’d half expected her to come running after him as he left, jumpstarting their date.

  You asshole, that’s just what you wanted to happen. Okay, true. But he really had thought she’d text right away.

  The thing that made Simon so good at what he did was control. He controlled each situation he was in. He would weigh all possible outcomes first and create a plan that allowed him to maneuver through the situation as deftly as possible. He knew how to read people, and he knew how to manipulate. And, most importantly, doing those things were what helped him keep his edge.

  Jessica, though… she made things messy. He couldn’t think quickly or straight around her, for starters. He became this lust-sick puppy and it embarrassed him. Now she was ruining the few advantages he had, like being able to predict behavior. It gnawed at him, knowing he’d been checking his phone every five minutes for most of the afternoon.

  She needed to be taught a lesson, he mused. One that started in handcuffs and ended in both of them panting in satisfaction. That was one area he was sure he wouldn’t lose confidence in.

  Checking his image in the rearview mirror, Simon got ready to leave. He’d be a little late, but not by much. Just enough to send Jessica a signal-- mess with me, I’ll mess right back. This was the part he loved, regardless. Chasing the girl. Winning her affection and an invitation to her bed. He just hadn’t been prepared to do this with her.

  His cell phone rang. Looking at the number, he scowled. It was unknown. Only three people had this number; Roger, Dallas, and now Jessica. And Simon didn’t answer when his brothers called. So who the fuck was calling him?

  He answered, curiosity beating out common sense.

  “Hello?”

  A man’s voice replied. “Good evening, Mr. Stills. Do you have a moment?”

  Something felt off about this. The hair on Simon’s neck rose. “I’m afraid this is a bad time, Mr…?” He waited, hoping for a name. Whoever it was had made a huge mistake with this call.

  Instead of a name over the phone there was knock at Simon’s SUV window. Cursing, he saw a man in a dark suit with dark sunglasses waiting. The man had a cell phone pressed to his ear.

  “Now is the perfect time, Mr. Stills.” A wallet was whipped from the man’s pocket and he pressed its open face against the window. An FBI photo ID looked Simon in the face. A freaking Fed.

  Chapter Three

  There wasn’t much he could do but hit the “unlock” on the doors and motion for the man to join him. He kept his hands on the wheel so the agent would know he wasn’t going for a weapon. Of course, Simon had several firearms stashed in the SUV, but he wasn’t a killer. Not anymore. And definitely not a Fed killer.

  The man slid into the passenger seat. He smelled like stale cigarette smoke and oranges. The smoke was what hit Simon the hardest. As his stress level blew through the roof, he found himself jonesing hard for a cigarette.

  As if reading his mind, the Fed pulled a pack from his breast pocket and tapped out two.

  “Want one?”

  God, did he ever. But Simon was good at everything he did. Including quitting smoking. Also, he was sure this was just some pathetic attempt the agent was making to lull him into a false sense of security. False camaraderie.

  “So you’re obviously in my car for a reason.” Simon sounded cooler than he felt. He’d done some bad things for Walter. Now that he knew Walter was his father and knowingly been lying the whole time he’d used Simon--well, there was a lot of resentment there. But bad things often meant illegal things and that could be the only reason the suit was in his car.

  “Straight to the point. Okay. I’m Special Agent Mike Johnson. And you’ve been a very naughty boy, Mr. Stills.”

  Oh, geez. Special Agent Mike Johnson sounded like he’d watched too many cop shows. Simon looked him over, taking his time. He didn’t give a damn if it made Johnson uncomfortable. Hell, he wanted it to. The Fed obviously wanted something from him. Otherwise he’d already be cuffed and in the back seat of an unmarked car heading toward a long time in a small cell.

  Shoulders too high and tight combined with a puffed-out chest let Simon know Mike felt pretty confident. The agent was also shorter than Simon by several inches and using his authority to try and cow Simon. Heh, yeah right. He hadn’t taken his sunglasses off, but Simon did notice the line of perspiration on Mike’s brow. It wasn’t that hot outside and Mike was pretty fit, so he wasn’t sweating due to weather or obesity. He was sweating because, Simon guessed, despite his airs he needed something.

  He could work with that. “Just call me Simon. And cut the bullshit. What do you want?”

  Agent Mike deflated; he’d hoped Simon would play his cops-and-robbers witty banter game. “You want it straight? Fine, here it is: you’re going to prison and for a long time, buddy.”

  Simon had known that was why there was a fed in his car. But hearing it out loud still felt like a punch to the gut. If he had the wind knocked out of him, he managed not to show it. Poker faces were the first lesson in his nefarious training. Perhaps the most difficult one, but one he’d mastered.

  “If that were the case, I’d be in cuffs by now.”

  The Fed waited. They were in a standoff, each waiting for the other to crack. Walter would have joked and said “may the biggest set of balls win.” Well, buddy, after that brush in with Jessica, mine are laying large and heavy.

  Special Agent Mike cracked first. No big surprise. Still, Simon didn’t gloat. He’d have to win this with calm and patience. “Okay, fine. So we are pretty sure the murders of two members of the U.S. Senate and one CIA agent are your doing, but you’re right-- we don’t have the proof. Yet. What we do have is a paper trail that leads from Roger Taylor’s office back to you. We’re working on a way to get to those offshore accounts you’re so fond of.”

  Shit. He needed that money. Walter had been his main source of income before, having been the liaison between Simon and his clients as well as being Simon’s primary client. The offshore accounts were his only backup money. Sure, he stole it. From his brother, it turns out. But that cash was what made Simon feel safe. It also was enough to get him slammed with several federal charges.

  “I’m still wondering why you haven’t arrested me,” Simon replied cooly.

  Special Agent Mike’s knuckles turned white as he gripped his knees. Good. Simon was getting to him. “Because, Mr. Stills, I think you’re a small fish and I want bigger fishes to fry.”

  “And you think I can help you with that.”

  “We know you can. I’ve been keeping an eye on you and the former Governor Taylor, senior, for years. How is it that when both of you are busy little bees, Big Oil always seems to get their way? I’ve watched their opponents be ticked off, time and time again.”

  “If a Senator whips his dick out, it can hardly be my fault, now can it?” Simon was getting testy. He had a bad feeling about where this was going. His phone buzzed. He glanced at it: a text. Where are you? Fuck. Jessica. He was later than late now.

  “No, certainly not. It’s just so convenient these things becoming public at just t
he right time. I think that convenience is more than coincidental, Mr. Stills. I think you like to sabotage people, and I think you’re well paid for it.”

  “Okay, so you think I might be a murderer and you think I sabotage people. Any other accusations you want to throw out?”

  Special Agent Mike punched the dash. Oh, great. Now he’d made the short Fed angry, and he was acting all macho. How cute. Simon wanted him out of the fucking car.

  “You’re going to help us catch Walter Taylor and the men he works with. If you work for us and help us gather the evidence we need to lock them away, we might be able to look the other way on your other less than savory activities.”

  “What, you’ll turn a blind eye to the murders you think I did? Why should I believe that?”

  “Those can always be added to someone else’s laundry list of crimes. Probably Walter Taylor’s.”

  It was getting hot in the car. Simon’s eyes kept jerking to the clock on the dashboard. Things had gone from under control to chaos and he felt an urge, deep and primal, to rush to Jessica and make sure she was safe. He was in the fire and all he wanted to do was hold her.

  You’re going to get her burned, motherfucker.

  “I’d want assurance that what you’re saying is true.” Simon’s words felt muffled to him. Could he really do this? Could he really throw the father he just discovered he had under the bus to save himself? All he could picture was flaming red curls slipping through his fingers. What choice did he have? If he didn’t, he’d lose her.

  Special Agent Mike felt it-- the small shift in power. Simon knew he’d grab at it. “There’s no assurances. You help us or you go to jail.”

  Simon countered, “Or I help you and I go to jail.”

  Agent Johnston shrugged. “There’s always that chance.”