Dirty Scandal Read online

  Her cheeks were pink before—now they’re scarlet. “No.” She shoves her hand toward me. Jameson steps closer. I hold up one hand. “It’s yours.”

  Is she kidding?

  I step closer, dropping my voice. Click, click, click. So many camera shutters. “Take it. For a job well done.”

  Her defiance crackles in the air between us and I am seized—seized—by the desire to shut her mouth with a savage kiss.

  She huffs out a breath. “It wasn’t a job well done, and you and I both know it. Here.” Bellamy tries to twist the bill into my hand.

  “Jesus.” I whip my hand away from her. Shit—I shouldn’t have let my irritation show. Too fucking late now. They’ve got it on camera. I grit my teeth. “Bellamy—that is your name, isn’t it? Keep the money and go back inside.” I might have looked generous and benevolent before. Now I probably look like a grenade with the pin pulled out. “You’re causing a scene.”

  She flicks her eyes to the people around us. “You’re causing a scene. This fell out of your pocket. I’m returning it. Take it.”

  Everything—from this morning’s call from the White House to the spinning madness of last night’s party—wells up in my brain and overwhelms it. And just like before, I lean toward her, drawn close by a gravity I can’t resist. “Do you ever do as you’re told?”

  Bellamy looks me square in the eye and a charge zings through me. “Yes.”

  “Then practice that skill now. Keep the money.”

  “It wouldn’t be right.” She raises her chin. “But maybe this once...”

  I should ignore the fire in those eyes.

  I know I should.

  “Truce?”

  She extends her hand, and like a fool, like an incredible fool, I shake it.

  One touch, and it’s a tussle. Bellamy narrows her eyes and shakes hard. “Are you fucking kidding me—” Please, let my voice be too low to hear.

  “It was nice to meet you, Mr. Blackpool.” She drops her hand.

  I’m left with the money tucked into my palm.

  Click. Click. Click.

  4

  Bellamy

  “Belle.”

  “Just a minute. I’m almost done.”

  My neck hurts from bending over the thick study guide in the center of my desk. Three days to go until I sit for the D.C. bar exam, and I’ve pretty much perfected the brain state I need to be in to memorize as much case law as possible. It’s like meditation, in a way. After a couple of hours, my mind clears itself of daily bullshit and leaves nothing but the words on the page in front of me.

  In this case, Ohio v. Clark.

  It’s easy, in a place like the Main Reading Room. We come here because it’s almost holy, in a way. The reverence for knowledge. The whispered questions. I put on my court clothes to come here. It makes it real.

  I let my eyes go slightly unfocused and let the scene play out, there above the printed squiggles. A young boy. Two schoolteachers. Asking a question, giving his answer. Sixth Amendment. Statements are not testimonial.

  The Supreme Court Justice Alito reads the opinion.

  Only—damn it—I’ve slipped up again.

  Alito looks like Graham Blackpool, and instead of reading the majority opinion for the Supreme Court of the United States, he’s got that devastating sneer on his lips. The cups are opaque, are they not?

  “Belle, seriously.”

  I slap the study guide shut too hard and the sound echoes through the main reading room of the Library of Congress.

  Everest doesn’t flinch. She holds her phone in the air, right at my eye level, the auburn bun on the top of her head still shaking with her movement. It’s her Facebook feed.

  This is what she interrupted our study session for?

  “Jesus, Evie. I don’t care who tagged you in another bitchy post. I only—”

  “It’s not about me. It’s about you.”

  I turn the phone in her hand, so she can see it.

  “Oh, shit. The window must have closed—” She swipes at the screen, scrolling, and taps again. “Look.”

  I don’t know what I’m seeing at first. My eyes are bleary from studying. We’ve been here for three hours at this point, and I was up late last night. What is it? A man in a gray wool coat, a woman in a red shirt—

  My stomach drops to my toes. “What the hell is this?” I snatch the phone out of her hand and hold it closer. The outside world is thundering into the graceful Main Reading Room at the Library of Congress, which is my all-time favorite place to study in the entire world. It smashes the arches all around the circular space and punches a hole in the soaring dome, right through the portrait of Human Understanding, surrounded by cherubs.

  Me.

  Graham Blackpool.

  It is, without a doubt, the most unflattering picture ever taken of me in my life. My teeth are gritted. It looks like I’m about to spit at him. I’m shoving money at him. Did I really look that crazy?

  I stab at the link below the picture with my thumb. The headline, though—the headline is enough to make me want to crawl under the desk.

  GRAHAM BLACKPOOL’S FAVORITE CALL GIRL DOESN’T WANT THE TIP

  Jesus Christ.

  It’s so wrong.

  “Belle, what happened to you?” Everest slides into the desk next to mine and taps her fingers against her own study guide. “You didn’t say Graham Blackpool came into the shop!”

  “Why would I?” My eyes scans uselessly over the words in the article. It’s clickbait, salacious, and breathless, and all the things I hate about gossip media. Possible connections to the underground party scene. Call girl for hire. Lovers’ spat. Spurned woman. “What in the literal fuck?” I whisper the words so quietly that this place, my place, can’t be tainted by them.

  “Is it real?” Everest’s eyes are shining. She can’t help herself. I get it. I really, really get it. We’ve been in bar exam hell for weeks, studying every free hour, and she’s starving for juicy rumors.

  This one feels like an attack.

  I put the phone on the desk and cover my eyes with my hands. “Is what real?”

  “Belle. Focus. Is the picture real? Is the article real? That’s an insane lie of omission, by the way.” She glances around. Nobody’s close enough to overhear us. “Is he even hotter in real life?”

  “Have some decency,” I hiss at her, keeping my eyes closed.

  I study here because in the Library of Congress, there is a system. There are rules. It is quiet and slightly chilly and everything about this place screams of decorum. Of justice. Even the statues around the perimeter, looking down on us, remind me of humanity’s best instincts. The real world—filthy, ugly, scandalous—isn’t supposed to bother me here.

  Me. A call girl. A prostitute.

  Can they not see me in the picture, wearing a polo shirt for Capitol Bean?

  Oh, God. I groan.

  “What?” Everest puts a hand on my wrist. “Are you okay?”

  “I’m wearing my Capitol Bean polo in the photo.”

  “It looks cute on you.”

  “Evie, for god’s sake, that’s not what I’m worried about.”

  She covers her mouth, trying unsuccessfully to stifle a laugh. “It’s an insane rumor, though, right? You’re definitely not doing that with Graham Blackpool.”

  I stare at her.

  Her face sobers. “Okay, you’re not hooking up with Graham Blackpool.”

  “I didn’t take a side job at night, if that’s what you’re asking.”

  “Oh, Belle, I didn’t mean to imply that you—”

  “I’m not that stupid.” My face is red again, the skin tight and hot. I hate it. “Do you think I would jeopardize my entire career over a conviction for”—I lower my voice to a hoarse whisper—“prostitution? This is not some episode of the West Wing! There are consequences, and it’s nothing to joke about—”

  “Belle.” Everest pats my arm. “I’m sorry. It was a bad joke.”

  “I’m not a
prostitute.”

  “I know.” She picks up her phone from my desk. “But this picture. It’s all over the Internet. I can’t believe you didn’t tell me it happened. It looks...” Everest purses her lips and studies the screen. “...intense.”

  “Stop looking at it.”

  “No.”

  “Evie—”

  “Fine.”

  She drops the phone into the clear plastic bag with her extra notebook. “But I demand lunch. And a full recounting of exactly what happened the day you met Graham Blackpool and didn’t tell me about it—”

  My own phone, perched at the top of my desk, lights up. It’s on silent, as per the rules of the Main Reading Room.

  “Evie.”

  “—even though I have been your steadfast best friend for years, even before we decided to do this soul-crushing law school thing—”

  “Evie.”

  “What?”

  “My phone is ringing.”

  She leans over so she can see the screen for herself, and then her blue eyes go wide. “You have to answer it.”

  “I can’t. We’re in the library.”

  “You have to.”

  “I can’t.”

  “Belle, you have to pick up the phone. That’s a White House number.”

  5

  Graham

  “Fuck off.”

  I didn’t think it was possible, but the skin around Andrew’s eyes tightens and tenses. He looks like there’s an even larger stick up his ass than when I first walked into the Residence.

  “Excuse me?”

  “Fuck off, Mr. President. There, is that better?” I’m currently playing a man who doesn’t care at all about pissing off his older brother. That’s all he is, in the long run—another fully-grown product of our father’s sperm and one very lucky egg, courtesy of our mother. It doesn’t mean we have to be close.

  I don’t care, and yet my heart rattles in my rib cage like it always did when I confronted him when I was younger. That prick. All I wanted was some of what he had, and he never let a scrap slip through his fingers. Not once.

  No, Andrew has always had exactly what he wanted. Now he’s got the entire country by the balls. The Residence still smells like fresh paint. Everything in here seems new but heavy enough to be heirloom quality. Powerful without being pretentious. It’s exactly my brother’s style.

  He sighs. “This problem could be more easily solved if we could both—”

  I tilt my head back and look at the ceiling. “Spare me the teamwork lecture.”

  “It’s not a lecture, Graham. It’s the truth.”

  “Oh? Are we working as a team when you poach all my best people for your White House staff?”

  Andrew cocks his head to the side. “What are you talking about?”

  “My latest venture? You probably haven’t heard of it, because all anyone’s talked about for the last two years, is you. How about you become a team player and tell your team not to call anyone who works for me? That would make things even, I’d think.”

  “I don’t know who you’re talking about, but this is bigger than whether someone wants to work in the West Wing. You know that.”

  I hate talking to Andrew, especially behind closed doors like this. The creeping sensation that he’s better, wiser, and more beloved sank its claws into me years ago, and it’s never fully released its grip. Why would it? As the years have gone on, he’s only become more perfect. God. The President of the United States.

  He has everything, but he still can’t leave me alone.

  “I’m not willing to cooperate.” I have other things to do. Being my brother’s lackey is not high on my priority list. That was all supposed to end after the campaign, anyway. Resume your private life, they’d said. Let the new administration do its work.

  I’d done that, and look where it got me. Right back in the center of Andrew’s hard stare, feeling like a fucking kid.

  Andrew’s jaw works. “That’s very adult of you. Especially after it was my people who shut down coverage on the party you went to last night.”

  “That was very altruistic of you. I’m sure it had nothing to do with how your piece of shit little brother might reflect poorly on your reputation.”

  “He is acting like a piece of shit.”

  Aha. So I’m not the only one.

  I put my hands in my pockets and stand up straight. “Now that we have that cleared up, I’ll see myself out.”

  Lunch. Lunch is in order, someplace with mood lighting and a waitress who will make sure my glass is never empty. I wish more of my friends from New York lived in D.C., but I can make do. There’s always Ry O’Connors. He never turns down an invitation.

  “Jesus, Graham. Hear me out.”

  “I heard you.” I toss the words over my shoulder. “I’m not interested. I have a lot of work to attend to, and—”

  “Stop walking.”

  “It was lovely to see you, Andrew. Call me again sometime.” I wave over my shoulder, and then there’s an almighty crash. Andrew wraps his fist around my lapel and turns me to face him.

  “Can you fucking hear me? I said stop walking.” Andrew’s blue eyes are roiling like the sea. Cold anger, yes, but something else too...

  I look down at his hand on my clothes, like it’s an insect. “That’s very adult of you.”

  He lets go, and I step back, brushing at my coat like he’s injured it. Two points of color highlight his cheeks, and my inner teenager cackles with delight. Finally, finally, I’m having an impact. “Hear what I have to say, Graham.”

  I take a deep breath and straighten my tie. “What else could there be? I’ve already expressed my opinion on your half-assed plan to save the nation from my picture on the tabloids.”

  He lets out a burst of laughter that’s as sharp as a diamond. “You think I give a shit about your picture being in the tabloids? No, Graham, it’s bigger than that. The allegations of hiring a prostitute—”

  “I didn’t hire a prostitute.”

  “—the allegations will be enough to have people pointing the finger at me. The first bachelor president anybody can remember. If Congress gets obsessed with it, then—”

  “That’s fucking absurd and you know it. What I do has no bearing on your personal life.” I have no idea what Andrew’s personal life is like, if he even has one. For as long as I can remember, he’s been the poster boy for working hard and following the path laid out for him by our parents.

  “It’s not my personal life I’m concerned about.” Andrew’s face is impassive now, his tone flat and even. “It’s my political agenda. I can’t have it derailed by scandal. By a brother who’s out soliciting prostitutes and then fighting with them in public.”

  I can’t imagine him sitting down with a guy like Ry O’Connors and letting himself enjoy even one thing. A beer, maybe. God knows. He’d probably ruin it for the entire bar.

  “That’s a totally inaccurate description of—”

  The stony expression on his face falls away. “Damn it, Graham, shut your fucking mouth for five seconds. Even the rumor could take focus away from my administration’s agenda. People will assume that we’re similar because we’re brothers.” He says it in such a strained tone that I feel a dull thud of pain somewhere in the region of my heart.

  “Everybody knows you don’t hire whores.”

  “They don’t. And if they so much as suspect—”

  “Honestly, Andrew, this sounds like a problem made for you alone. So, if you don’t mind—”

  “I need this from you.”

  It’s a simple admission. No pretense. No bluster. Nothing. It has the ring of truth.

  “What?”

  “I need you to do this for the country. For the stability of the country.”

  “I think the country will be fine, whether I pretend to date some law student or not.”

  Andrew sighs and rubs at his forehead with thumb and forefinger. Deep underneath my resentment, a seedling of empathy sprouts. He looks
tired, I realize for the first time. Those bags under his eyes—they’ve only gotten deeper since the campaign. “Fine,” he admits. “It’s also personal.”

  Now this is interesting.

  “You barely have a personal life. What the hell could this possibly be about?”

  He looks me square in the eye. “I can’t...tell you right now. But trust me when I say that if I could risk this on the next few news cycles, I would.”

  “Why don’t you tell me anyway, so I can make an informed decision? Or at least tell me that you’ll have your people stop calling my offices.”

  “Please, Graham.” Andrew folds his arms across his chest and glances down at the carpet, and all the trappings of the office fall away—the confidence, the bravado, the honor. He’s just my older brother, asking me for a favor. “I’ll do my best. Will you?”

  I’m going to regret this.

  6

  Bellamy

  Never in a thousand years. A million. All of human history.

  Never did I think I’d be sitting in a room with Graham Blackpool and his PR consultant.

  I need to pull it together.

  On the outside, I’m perfectly matched to this opulent room in my best court outfit. It’s a skirt suit I splurged on the summer after 2L; a heather gray that makes my eyes look amazing. I stopped at my favorite salon an hour before the meeting and had them put my hair into the perfect chignon. Not that I can’t do it myself, but when the stakes are this high, you need professionals.

  Not that I know what the stakes are, exactly. Only that the empty room hums with a strange energy, as though someone walked out the very moment before I walked in.

  I’ve been waiting ten minutes.

  A call from the White House. A PR consultant. A meeting to discuss mutually interesting matters.

  Photos, probably. Of me and Graham Blackpool.