Nothing to Lose (10 page)

“Before we move on,” Sherise interjected, “I have to disclose something.”

“Again?” LaKeisha asked, sounding annoyed.

So LaKeisha is going to be a problem now,
Sherise realized. The woman who had sought her out and urged her to join the campaign seemed determined now to be a thorn in her side. Sherise understood that LaKeisha was concerned. How Sherise turned out was a reflection on her, so she had reason. But Sherise was not about to be belittled in front of the future president of the United States. If LaKeisha didn't straighten up, she would have a bigger problem than she thought.

Sherise ignored her, keeping her focus on Northman. “As you collect tabs on Nolan's staff, you'll find a young woman, Erica Kent, has joined it. Erica used to work for Nolan at the Pentagon.”

“Is there some inappropriate relationship there?” Northman asked.

“No,” Sherise said assuredly. “She's relevant to this conversation because she's a very, very close friend of mine.”

There was a short moment of silence in the room as Sherise watched Northman process this.

“What does she do for him?” LaKeisha asked.

“Nothing yet,” Sherise answered, “but she has no political experience. She's an admin, so I imagine it will be very low-level legislative stuff. Governor, there's nothing to worry about. I'm a professional and she's—”

“It's a small world,” Northman said. He made a flippant gesture with his hand. “In D.C., friends work on opposites sides all the time. This isn't news. You know what you can and can't discuss, don't you?”

“Of course.” Sherise's voice held no doubt at all.

She had a great poker voice as well.

A
s Billie walked from the Metro, down the street toward her building, she thought of possibly running an errand or two before going home. It was nice outside, warm and breezy. She thought of picking up dinner and then remembered the chicken she'd left out late yesterday. She'd spent enough time on a budget that she'd stopped wasting money on carryout as much as she used to.

She was lucky now. While getting her financial house in order, she still could afford to splurge on takeout once or twice a week. She was thinking of all the things she needed to get back on track, now that she was collecting a steady, healthy paycheck again. All the things she'd neglected during those lean months. She was saving up to buy a home and . . .

She had been so lost in her thoughts that she hadn't noticed the figure sitting on the steps to her apartment building, looking at his phone. When she reached the gate to the stairs, he looked up and their eyes met.

“What in the fuck are you doing here?” she asked.

It had been a while now since she'd last seen Porter, but he never changed. He was perfect as usual. He was always sharply dressed, and his hair was always trimmed tightly to his head. He was six feet tall, but his deep voice gave him a presence that made him seem taller. He had milk chocolate skin and a finely shaven goatee surrounding his full lips. He had dark, mesmerizing eyes that bore into you when he looked at you.

Things were much better between them when she'd thought of how much he invaded her life and her peace before, using her strong sexual attraction to him to keep her coming to his bed even after he'd cheated on her and moved his mistress into his home. Or they were worse, considering he'd exacted the worst punishment of all on her by sending his daughter to Michigan to live with his mother and forbidding Billie to see her.

“What are you up to?” he asked, standing up. He wore his usual accusatory expression.

She slammed the gate shut behind her. “I told you that you weren't welcome at my home anymore.”

“I'm not in your home,” he said as she passed him.

She reached the door to the building and turned to face him. She longed for the day when she would look at him and not wish things had been different. It was getting better, but she still wasn't there. She hated him and, at the same time, missed what he could have been to her.

“I know what you want,” she said, “and I have nothing to tell you. It wasn't my choice to hire your firm.”

“Bullshit!” he spat. “You kept it a secret that you were working there, and you—”

“I never kept anything a secret,” she said. “I just started, and the reason you didn't know is because it's none of your damn business.”

“The partner who got this account was never given your name as being on the account. If he had, he would have told me.”

“Remember,” she said, “my name isn't Haas anymore.”

“He knows who the fuck you are, Billie.”

“You don't have to work on the case,” she said. “Your practice has plenty of lawyers who—”

“You know I do FTC cases!”

She had to smile at his arrogance. “Porter, I don't keep up with your career or anything you do.”

His expression said he was clearly unable to believe that she wasn't still obsessed with every aspect of his life, as he was with hers. “I don't want to hear any more of your lies. Just tell me what you're up to.”

“If you think everything I'm saying is a lie, Porter, then why would you believe me when I tell you what, in your words, I'm ‘up to'?”

His eyes squinted as he seethed in anger at her. “You've gotten too big for your britches.”

“Excuse me?” she asked, her blood beginning to boil.

“You know—”

“Wait!” She held her hand up to stop him. Her voice got very loud. “Scratch that! I don't want clarification of what you mean by that insulting comment. You're an asshole, Porter, and I want you to leave.”

“You've had a few victories,” he continued, ignoring her. “I let my guard down with you, and you fucked with me.”

“Oh, poor baby,” she said. “The only time I ever went at you was because you went at me first and endlessly.”

“You better not mess with me,” Porter warned, pointing his finger at her. “Whatever you thought you were going to do by hiring my firm, get it out of your mind. Fuck with me, Billie, and you'll regret it.”

With that, he turned and walked away, leaving Billie at the door. She could feel herself breathing fast and hard as she realized he'd just threatened her . . . again. How many times had he done that since she'd filed for divorce?

There was nothing about him that resembled the man she had fallen in love with. So, why did he still have the power to upset her so much? Billie could still feel her heart racing as she reached her floor. Once again, he would jump in and out of her life and leave her to recover. She wanted to be angry at him, but she could only be angry at herself for letting him get to her after all of this time.

Her mood was only lightened somewhat at the sight of flowers at her doorstep. She reached down to pick them up and grabbed the attached postcard. She read the words out loud: “ ‘Looking forward to Wednesday night. Michael.' ”

She smiled a little bit more, thinking about Michael and hoping that things would go well on their upcoming date. It almost allowed her to forget about Porter and all of the trouble he was likely going to cause her.

 

For once, in all of their clandestine meetings, Erica had gotten there first. When Jonah showed up in the corner booth at the small Mexican restaurant in Alexandria, Virginia, she felt a certain sense of satisfaction in that. For the first time, she had called this meeting. It made her feel like she was somewhat in control, which was extremely hard to do in the presence of a man like Jonah Nolan.

Still, as he sat across from her and greeted her firmly, but kindly, she was already feeling like a little girl. He was just so intimidating.

“This place is . . .” Jonah looked around and sighed. “Actually, I wanted to say something nice, but it's a shithole. Do you actually eat here?”

“The food is authentic and cheap,” Erica said. “The people here are nice. Your sort doesn't come here.”

“Can we dispense with the class warfare?” he asked. “I've offered to set you up in a better lifestyle. You've declined every time.”

“So stop offering,” she said.

“I'll stop offering to give you money if you stop throwing in my face the fact that I have a lot of it.”

“Deal,” she said. “I just picked the place because you weren't likely to run into anyone you knew here. I know how important your secrecy is to you.”

“Well, the security detail standing a few feet away from me at all times kind of defeats the point.”

He pointed to the two men against the wall, whom everyone in the tiny restaurant was staring at.

“No more secret meetings,” he said. “I won't have that option, but I'm sincerely hoping that the reason you called me here will mean we won't have to meet in secret anymore.”

“Rule number one,” she said, trying her best to look stone-faced. She didn't frown or smile, just stared right into his intense eyes. “You don't get involved in my personal life.”

He looked annoyed. “Anytime I've gotten involved in your personal life, it was for your own good. I warned you about Terr—”

“Don't ever say his name to me,” she ordered. “Never again. If you do, this is done.”

“Don't threaten me,” he ordered. “And I'm not to blame for his actions.”

“You are to blame for yours,” she said. “And they kind of go together, wouldn't you say?”

“No, I wouldn't.” He paused. “Any more rules?”

“If you're not willing to treat me like your daughter in public, don't ever expect me to treat you like my father in private. It won't happen.”

His expression made it clear he wasn't happy with that statement, but he seemed to brush it off quickly. “That seems fair. I know this situation isn't easy on you, and I don't deserve any better than what you're willing to give me. But I do care for you, Erica.”

Erica stuck to her resolve. This was when he usually got to her. He was good at this, making her believe he was getting emotional, that there was a softer side to him. Trusting this always backfired; she had to remind herself of that. She could never really believe anything he said.

“I hope I can make you at least proud of what I can—”

“So, when do I start?” she asked, interrupting him.

He nodded as if he understood her meaning. “You remember Alex? He'll contact you soon and get you started. There is a bit of administrative and background stuff to get through, so be patient. You'll be up and running in no time. We're having a party next—”

“Let's talk about Sherise,” Erica said.

A frown immediately darkened his face. “We've already discussed that. There isn't any more to say. As long as Sherise keeps her mouth shut, she doesn't have anything to worry about.”

“Is she in danger?” Erica asked.

He frowned, looking confused. “Why would you ask me that?”

“You seem certain this won't come out,” Erica said. “I just don't see how you can be so certain, unless you plan on making certain it—”

“That's nothing for you to be worried about,” Jonah said. “That's not a part of my campaign you'll be—”

“Anything involving my best friend is something for me to be worried about!”

“Keep your voice down,” he ordered calmly, leaning in. “Is there something about Sherise you need to tell me?”

“I wouldn't tell you anything about her,” Erica said.

“That's fine,” he said. “I don't need you to.”

His tone was definitive; Erica knew exactly what he meant. All of this time, she had been worried about how he was protecting himself and Sherise from anyone finding out. She hadn't thought about how he might decide to protect himself from Sherise. Jonah found out anything he wanted to know, did anything he wanted. This could be good for Sherise, meaning she was safe from anyone finding out about the two of them because Jonah would see that no one would. Or, this could be bad for Sherise, meaning if she was the only real threat to anyone finding out about them, Jonah would make sure she wasn't a threat anymore. That was what Erica was afraid of most.

 

Billie was somewhat grateful that her first date with Michael was a weeknight. She didn't have to fuss over herself because she didn't have the time to go home and get dressed up. She wore a sharp ruby-red Jones New York suit, coupled with a sleeveless silk button-down black blouse. The skirt was a little shorter than her usual skirts. Being petite, she needed all of the help she could get to appear to have longer legs than she did. Her Lanvin bow-toe patent leather pumps helped in that area too.

The smile on Michael's face as she reached the table, situated in the center of the room at Palena on Connecticut Avenue, probably matched the smile on hers as she watched him stand for her. Here was a man who would offer her his seat on the train, send her flowers in anticipation of a first date, and now this. When was the last time that happened?

“Aren't you a gentleman,” she said as she approached. She beamed the most gracious smile at him.

“It's how my mama raised me.” He waited for her to sit down before taking his seat again. “You look great.”

“In this?” she asked, laughing. “Just work wear.”

“I feel silly,” he said. “I actually tried to get all gussied up and I don't look anywhere near as good as you with no effort.”

No effort.
She had to laugh at that. Also, he was wrong about not looking good. He looked great in a sharp black pin-striped suit, paired with a sky blue shirt and silky black tie.

“You're right on time too,” he said. “I love that in a woman.”

“It isn't polite to make a man wait,” she said, tilting her head to the side in a flirtatious manner. “Well, at least not too long.”

He smiled approvingly, only looking away from her as the waiter approached their table. The server placed a basket of warm bread and a small tin of butter at the center. After asking her what her tastes were, Michael ordered the wine for them.

“Before you came to D.C., you lived in the South, didn't you?” she asked.

“How could you tell?”

“You have the perfect manners of a Southern gentleman,” she said, “but you also have an accent. One that I haven't detected since that day on the train.”

“So you caught that?” he asked.

“Why don't you speak it all the time?” she asked. “Or am I being too personal?”

Michael waited for the waiter to bring their drinks and asked him for a few more minutes to decide. He nodded and left.

“No,” he finally answered. “I was brought up in southern Georgia. Went to Morehouse. I'm a Southern boy at heart.”

“Nothing wrong with that,” she said. “Nothing at all.”

He shrugged. “Well, when I moved to D.C., I noticed my Southern accent got a few side eyes. They're pretty elitist up here, you know.”

“Tell me about it.”

“So,” he said, pausing to take a sip of wine, “I decided it was best to . . . reserve the accent for more personal situations, let's say.”

“Don't I count for personal?” she asked. “This is a private dinner, right? We aren't working.”