William Bernhardt - Capitol Threat

He turned to Loving. “That right?”

“Yeah,” Loving said, steely-eyed. “ She’s with me.”

Loving lowered himself into the chair.

“Wait a minute,” the Boy in Black’s bimbo said. “You gotta pay to play.”

“I paid a bundle just to get in here.”

“And you’ll pay a bundle more if you want to rumble with my baby.”

Muttering under his breath, Loving pulled out a wad of real money—not scrip Trudy had collected earlier. “That do?”

The Boy in Black swept it away. “That’ll do.” He put his elbow on the table and opened his fingers. “Ready to play?”

Loving was.

He could see almost immediately that they were evenly matched, at least in terms of strength. The Boy in Black could see it—and was surprised and irritated by it—as well. They both grunted and strained, but neither made any headway. At first, Loving had a slight edge: he could feel his opponent’s fist tilting ever so slightly to the side. But the Boy in Black soon corrected the situation. This could potentially go on forever, but Loving knew he couldn’t afford a protracted match. It had been too long since he’d been to the gym, and unless he missed his guess, his obnoxious opponent was a daily visitor. If it turned into a stamina match, he would lose. He needed a different approach. The Drag.

Every bar rat in western Oklahoma knew the Drag, but he was betting that this East Coast pseudo-redneck wouldn’t. At a moment of equilibrium, Loving hooked his wrist around the Boy in Black’s till his palm faced him. Then, pulling with all his strength, he tried to drag his opponent’s wrist, not to the side in the traditional manner, but toward him.

The Boy in Black was not prepared for the Drag. He tried to compensate, but Loving could see it was a struggle. Loving pulled hard, bringing all the strength in his enormous chest, back, and shoulders to bear. In this position, the Boy in Black had to fight back with his biceps, putting him at a distinct disadvantage.

Pull! Loving told himself, trying to force all his might into the maneuver. He could feel sweat dripping down his brow. His arm began to tremble slightly, the first and surest sign that his strength was ebbing. He might have the power position, but maintaining it was tough. The longer this went, the harder it would be. The Boy in Black’s arm descended lower, then lower still…

The kid made a loud grunting noise, heaved himself back, and restored his arm to the upright position. Square one. Loving had taken his best shot—and failed.

He looked up and saw the Boy in Black grinning, those sickening teeth glistening. Damn, he wanted to beat this twerp! But the kid had the edge, and Loving knew it.

“Hang in there, sugar,” he heard a voice whisper in his ear. “We can take this steroid stiff.”

We? Where was the “we”? Loving gritted his teeth and tried to hold on. His opponent had him on the defensive, forcing him to use his biceps to keep himself in play. He couldn’t hold this position for long. He had one more trick in his bag, but he couldn’t implement it while his fist was on the way downward. If he was going to have any chance, he had to get his fist back upright.

Slowly, surely, he righted his fist to the twelve o’clock position. The Boy in Black was sweating a little, which gave Loving no end of pleasure. He had a hunch it had been a good while since this overblown clod had done any real perspiring.

Loving took a deep breath. Time to implement the Roll. This move was designed to take advantage of the weakest part of the opponent’s body—at least, the weakest part in play in an arm-wrestling match: his fingers. Instead of pushing against the other guy’s palm, Loving abruptly switched to pushing the meaty part of his thumb against his opponent’s fingers.

He saw the Boy in Black wince. Good. The Roll was having its desired effect. Ever so slightly, his hand was starting to bend.

Loving twisted his wrist around to roll the primary pressure point of his assault onto the tops of the kid’s fingers. His limp wrist buckled. Loving pushed hard. The Boy’s hand went downward.

Downward, but not down. Loving knew he was close, but not close enough. This arm-wrestling machine had recovered before. He couldn’t allow it to happen again. But what could he do about it?

Once again he heard whispering in his ear. “I’ll take it from here.”

What the hell did that mean? Loving didn’t know, and he certainly couldn’t turn around to ask, but a moment later, he became aware that Trudy was not only standing behind him but…moving. Sashaying, perhaps. Swinging her— his —hips from side to side, no doubt in the most provocative manner possible. Loving could only imagine the facial expressions that accompanied the movement. Correct that: he did not want to imagine the facial expressions that accompanied the movement. He was pleased that he could not see what Trudy was doing.

But the Boy in Black could. He resisted at first, but as the match progressed and the pressure on his fingers became more intense, he glanced away more frequently, distracted by the show taking place behind Loving’s back. It had to be good: several of the other men in the room were watching as well.

The primary tenet of arm wrestling, the single most important factor, is concentration. If your mind isn’t on the game, you’re going to lose. And sure enough, not thirty seconds after Trudy went into action, Loving managed to push the Boy’s hand onto the plush red pillow.

He’d won the match.

The Boy in Black was furious. He leaped out of his chair, then turned on his attending bimbo. “How come you never make moves like that?”

Her face flattened. “I’ve never even… seen moves like that.”

He whirled around to face Loving. “This wasn’t a fair fight.”

“I didn’t break any rules.”

“Yeah, but it still wasn’t…wasn’t…” This guy’s vocabulary didn’t have words for it. Loving wasn’t particularly surprised. He knew the Boy in Black had lost more than a match; he’d probably lost his job as well.

“All right, damn it. You can go in. Both of you.” He sneered as he opened the door. “After all, it was a team effort.”

“Let’s go then, partner.” Trudy offered him an arm.

“I am not taking your arm,” Loving hissed quietly.

“Show some gratitude.”

“I didn’t see you sweatin’ in that chair!”

“I did my part. You know I did.”

“Yeah, well…”

“It’ll look better if we go in together.”

Loving rolled his eyes, feeling as if he might explode at any moment. But the sad truth was—Trudy was right.

His linked his arm around hers. His. Whatever. And they stepped into the inner parlor.

41

Here he was again. Sitting at home. Alone. Because he had stopped taking calls days ago. It was too dangerous to make any. And his lover of seven years wouldn’t speak to him.

At least the police had finally removed the crime-scene tape. That was a relief. He could pretend that his home was, once again, his home. Also home to a hostile roommate. But home.

Roush had never expected to be here. Never expected the nomination to advance this far. Maybe, truth be told, that was the real reason he had come out of the closet during his acceptance speech in the Rose Garden. Risky, ballsy, controversial—but if he derailed his own nomination, then it could never proceed far enough to uncover his real secret. The one for which he still bore the guilt. His failure would be attributed to homophobia, not any problem on his part, and the secret would remain secret.

Except that no matter how he might privately want this nomination to die, it didn’t. Hammond was working too hard. Sexton was too influential. Even Kincaid was helpful, in a goofy sort of way. They kept pulling his fat out of the fire. And only he knew how disastrous that could be in the long run.