Kevin Anderson - Ill Wind

As a wave of hypocritical applause rippled through the auditorium, Spencer tried to let the tension wash off of him. These people were not looking for results, or even alternate answers. Each person was responsible for a different solution to the same energy crisis, and each person wanted to validate only one individual area of research. If Lance Nedermyer enjoyed this political game back in Washington, he could have it.

Moira Tibbett led him out the side door of the auditorium. “Dr. Lockwood, I must apologize.” Her eyes downcast, she looked beaten. “Everyone views this as a zero-sum game. There’s only a fixed amount of money to go around, and if anything new gets funded, something has to die. It’s not that they disagree with you on a scientific level—”

“I understand.” Spencer forced a smile to soften his abrupt reply. He unclipped his guest badge and handed it to her. “If you’ll escort me back to the gate, I can find my rental car.”

“Of course,” she said, taking the lead with brisk steps. “I can recommend some local restaurants, if you’d like.”

“That won’t be necessary,” he said. Though his return flight did not leave until noon the next day, Spencer had no intention of staying a minute longer.

The pile of papers from the “To Be Signed” stack fell off the conference table and scattered over the plush carpeting in the Speaker’s office. Jeffrey Mayeaux was too preoccupied with getting his hands up the young speech writer’s dress to notice.

She slid back on the polished wood grain of the table, spreading her legs and finding purchase for her feet on the heavy padded chairs. The fabric of her skirt hissed across the surface. Mayeaux’s fingers stroked her waist—she was firm and muscular, no flab. Probably worked out at The Hill health club, running around in Spandex, sweating, jiggling her bodacious gazonkas. He closed his eyes and grinned at the thought. Time for some different aerobic exercise.

She remained silent, without the usual cooing, gasping sounds he expected. Rather than letting it deter him, Mayeaux took it as a challenge. What was her name? Tina… Tanya. Great name. It made him as horny as a fallen priest just thinking of it.

He hooked his fingers around the waistband of her pantyhose and slid them over her hips, her buttocks, lingering on the warm skin with his fingertips. He felt sweat tracing a damp line up his spine, in his crotch. She arched herself, giving him room to work with his hands.

Tanya wore a slick peach-colored dress that slipped up nicely. Mayeaux pushed it out of the way and rubbed his fingers on the mound between her legs, rapidly growing impatient with the fabric of her pink cotton panties. He slipped a finger under the panties, tickled the crisp pubic hair for a moment, teasing her. The strong musk of her arousal drifted to his nostrils, bringing back a memory of that first time he’d ventured into the French Quarter. His pulse felt all watery with excitement. He slipped his middle finger inside.

“Oh!” she said. Finally . The young speech writer glanced at him, then looked away.

This was a lot different from when Mayeaux had been much younger in New Orleans, cruising down Bourbon Street alone at night, gawking at the whores and the transvestites. He remembered screwing a dozen different women in humid and musky upper-level apartments, with the drapes open and the sounds of competing jazz bands drifting in from the street. Back then, he had to do a lot of work to get laid, but now the women came to him. One of the little bonuses of being the senior member of the House. He had to be grateful to a system that could do this for him, simply because he came from a state with no term limitations. And the best part was, his own wife let him get away with it. It was part of their agreement.

Tanya arched back on the table, closing her eyes and tilting her chin in ecstasy. Stretching her arms above her head, she ran a tonguetip in a slow circle around her lips. She had fawn-colored hair, long with subtle curls held back by barrettes. Her crotch hair was full and tan.

“Hold on for a Louisiana hot link with the works,” Mayeaux said, chuckling. Tanya didn’t seem to notice, and he didn’t give a coon’s ass. He had powerful constituents; he had already set himself up for life with enough pork-barrel projects in Louisiana that he could ease into a lobbying job at the end of his term. He did not intend to get reelected; he just meant to get his well-deserved reward before he left office.

Unbuckling his belt, he pushed his pants and underwear down to his knees. He grabbed Tanya’s hips, positioned himself, and pushed inside her without further foreplay. He had a meeting in ten minutes.

Mayeaux began pumping, and Tanya raised her legs further, opening herself wider for him. They both breathed harder. Her bare skin squeaked on the polished wood surface of the table. He grinned to himself, knowing that the Joint Chiefs would sit down at the same table in another hour. If they asked, he could convince them that the damp stains on the table were doughnut frosting. He wondered if they’d be able to smell the sex.

Mayeaux kept himself in shape, and he did a good job in bed—or on the floor, or on the conference table…. But none of these sweet young things would look twice at him if he was an insurance salesman, a grocery store manager. The women in the Beltway knew how to advance their careers.

Power was such an aphrodisiac.

Out of the corner of his eye, Mayeaux noticed a brief, odd expression on Tanya’s face, a hint of boredom. She knew how to play the game—he had explained it to her in perfectly clear terms; it was part of the post-Anita Hill era. He just hoped Tanya didn’t give him some disease. At least after his vasectomy he had no worries about being slapped with a paternity suit.

His escapades were becoming legendary, like JFK’s. He kept trying to push the limit, but somehow the boundary moved one step farther away for each indiscretion he committed. The media liked him, too; they seemed amused rather than outraged.

Thrusting over and over again, Mayeaux ground his hips against Tanya’s, holding tight to her waist to keep her from sliding across the table.

The door to the Speaker’s office popped open. His chief of staff Franklin Weathersee stepped inside. Mayeaux cursed himself for forgetting to lock the door. Weathersee glanced at the spectacle on the conference table, then calmly stepped back out of the room.

Tanya gasped in shock and scrambled away, rolling off the table. Mayeaux fought back the urge to laugh. She snatched her pantyhose, pulling them up and yanked the smooth peach fabric of her dress back into place. As she brushed back her hair, Mayeaux thought he saw a look of relief on her face.

Mayeaux buckled his pants and turned to call through the door. “Dammit, Weathersee, couldn’t you knock?” But he could never be angry at Weathersee—the man had saved Mayeaux’s butt too many times in the past.

The door inched open. “Sorry, sir.” Weathersee dropped a stack of papers on the floor. “These are the briefing materials you wanted in preparation for the trip to Kirtland Air Force Base. It’s for the Tech Transfer Act.” Poking his head into the room, he glanced at the speech writer, then back at Mayeaux. “And whenever you’re finished here, sir, Vice President Wolani is on the phone for you.”

Without a word, Tanya fled past him. Mayeaux scowled, but looked admiringly at her ass as she went out. He wondered when they would be able to finish what they had started. Or, if not with her, he’d get somebody else.

For now, he’d just as soon have kept the Vice President waiting.

After spending the morning in jail, Todd didn’t mind the long drive to Alex Kramer’s house, as long as he could keep the window rolled down and the fresh air blowing in his face.