Loe raamatut: «Breaking Through»

Chapter One

It’s not that the blowjob he’d gotten the evening before was that memorable, but as Simon Reeve settled down across from Michael Roe it was those lips wrapped around his erection that came to the forefront of his mind.

He recalled a conversation he’d once had while strolling down Bishop Street in Montréal almost twenty years ago. He’d been drunk, as had been his friends Jacques, Ryan and Nathan, and as they walked, Nathan had remarked philosophically that he wished there was a way he could press PAUSE on the best blowjobs.

‘For real, my friend, think about it,’ Ryan had slurred in French while Simon laughed and hoped his bladder held until they made it to the dorm room Ryan and Nathan shared. ‘Think about it: you’ve got a mouth like a Hoover wrapped around your dick, and you’re thinking to yourself, “This girl sucks like if she stops, God will kill a bunny rabbit or some shit.” No, no, listen. Listen. Stop laughing. Imagine if you could just press PAUSE right there and save the blowjob for when you really need it, like the middle of an exam when you need a mini-vacation to clear your head.’

That’s how Simon felt now as Roe ignored him while finishing his telephone conversation.

He was about to get his ass chewed, or at least gnawed. Once he left this office and got on the elevator and called Roe a dirty fucker in his head, he could use the kind of oral attention he’d received the day before.

Vanessa was back in Ottawa, otherwise he’d go for seconds in that waterfront hotel room she’d tried to coax him to the night before. So now all he was left with was his hand and the memory of flooding the communications staffer’s mouth.

Another woman sprang to the forefront of Simon’s thoughts, and he disguised his laugh as a cough into his hand.

The pixie with the foul mouth.

When he’d first caught her watching, he’d entertained the momentary notion that he was about to have a Penthouse moment with two women in the ladies’ room. He’d found their brief exchange afterwards far more entertaining than he should have. In fact, razzing her on the elevator later had been almost as satisfying as the blowjob.

He hoped he ran into her again, even if it was just to give her another pinch and watch her try to stop the corners of her mouth betraying her desire to either laugh or give him hell. These days he needed all the entertainment he could get.

Roe disconnected, and Simon quickly wiped the amusement from his face.

‘Simon,’ Roe said.

His tone was light and airy, but anyone who spent any amount of time with Roe knew better. When Simon had first taken the job, Roe’s speechwriter had warned him that the Member of Parliament for Halifax was like a Komodo dragon. He’d snap and retreat, snap and retreat, waiting for his poison to take effect before he went for the guts.

Simon settled back in his seat and tried to appear free and easy. He wasn’t about to let Roe think otherwise for a single second.

He offered Roe a wide smile that was about as genuine as a dollar-store diamond ring. ‘Nice view, Michael.’

Roe glanced back at the white wall of fog that obscured the harbour view. ‘I draw the goddamn curtains when the sun is shining. I can’t stand looking out at all the kitsch running up and down the waterfront. Goddamn tour buses.’

‘I take it you don’t have your heart set on Minister of State or Heritage.’

‘I won’t need an appointment if you do your job. I’ll be making the appointments.’ Roe folded his hands across his barrel chest.

Michael Roe was a trim man with dark hair that formed a widow’s peak above bold black brows, with a confident face that was made for campaign material. Simon imagined that Roe sometimes stood in front of the mirror and practised it, even in the rear-view at stoplights. He had to; in the time Simon had been acquainted with Roe, he’d become convinced that the man wasn’t capable of smiling naturally.

‘I have to say, you’re not living up to the reputation that preceded you … or maybe you are.’

He watched Simon carefully in the aftermath of his statement.

Snap and retreat.

Simon’s smile widened, even as the toxins began to sting in his veins.

‘I’m on the phone all day.’

‘I could say the same about my teenage daughter. Are you honestly going to sit here and tell me you have nothing on Matthew Murray?’

‘That’s exactly what I’m saying,’

Murray, Roe’s rival for the party leadership, might as well have been incubated in a lab and released upon the political world as the baby-faced candidate who was quickly winning hearts across the country. When Murray turned on that dimpled smile, he could change a voter’s colours from blue to red.

Roe looked dubious, and so Simon elaborated.

‘As far as I’ve been able to uncover, he’s been a model citizen his entire life. He was a good student all through school and university. He was consistently active in everything from food drives to young parliament. He’s a champion of the Buy Local movement in his home province, and he gets his hands dirty for more than just photo ops – he spent four days in the muck rounding up livestock that got loose during that big forest fire last summer.’

‘I don’t want to hear about his résumé in community activism,’ Roe snapped, and leaned forward in his seat. His dark eyes glittered and his lip curled. ‘If you haven’t gotten personal already, might I suggest you do so.’

‘This isn’t the Eighties, Michael. It’s not as easy to out someone any more.’

Simon typically found that the best tactic when it came to impatient clients was to let them vent, but he knew Roe was going to come around to Murray’s sexuality and it annoyed him.

In his career as a professional dirt-digger, he’d come across a roster of sexual deviants and general fuckwads, but Matthew Murray was not one of them. Liking dick was barely a scandal when Simon started, let alone these days.

Roe bared his teeth. ‘Don’t give me that shit, and don’t expect me to believe you’ve developed some morals since you were sprung from rehab.’

Snap and retreat.

‘So, he’s got a boyfriend. So what?’ Roe went on. ‘I’ll tell you what: even though it’s been a decade since same-sex marriage became legal in this country, the tolerance for most only extends to ignorance. No one wants to think about what happens behind closed doors. What was that famous statement back in the Trudeau era? Something about government staying out of the nation’s bedrooms?’

‘Actually, it’s “There’s no place for the state in the bedrooms of the nation,”’ Simon interjected, only because it was an opportunity to show that he knew something that Roe didn’t, ‘and yes, I know that there’s still a certain “ick” factor amongst voters even when they say sexual orientation doesn’t matter.’

‘So what’s the problem?’

‘The problem is that unless you want me to drive to Sussex and suck his dick, there’s no way to get any dirt on his sexual practices. What do you expect to do with it anyway? Send out a press release saying that Matthew Murray prefers anal beads over a plug?’

‘Don’t be crass,’ Roe grumbled, and grabbed a pen from the desktop. He tapped it against the surface obnoxiously, and Simon couldn’t tell whether it was to annoy him or just Roe looking for something to do with his hands. ‘I’m talking about the sort of thing that would put people off. If he’s so community minded, doesn’t it stand to reason that he’s active in other communities?’

Simon had to resist the urge to laugh. ‘Like what? BDSM communities? Partner swapping? In covered bridge country?’

‘You’re right, it’s almost as incredible as anonymous sex parties for the wealthy in Tatamagouche.’

Snap and retreat.

Out of Roe’s sight, Simon drummed his fingers on his knee, trying to beat out his annoyance over Roe’s reference to parts of Simon’s own life that had come to light recently. ‘Actually, it was closer to Shediac, in New Brunswick. Tatamagouche is in on the Nova Scotia side of the border.’

‘My point, and I’m disappointed that I have to make it to someone with your supposed calibre, is that the filthy details matter. You can sit there with that stupid smile on your face and pretend that you’re not some massive fuck-up with no skills beyond those I’m paying you to use, but the fact remains that I am paying you to destroy Murray’s chances of becoming the next leader of the party.’

If only you were half the candidate, half the man Matthew Murray is …

Simon didn’t lose his poise. He’d never been a hothead in his youth, but he’d rarely censored his sharp tongue until he started this less than illustrious career. In moments like this, when he came across a rotten prick like Michael Roe, he thought it might be easier to bite off his own tongue and swallow it.

‘Murray may have no reason to hide in the closet, but that doesn’t mean it’s empty,’ Roe went on. ‘Open it. Find something I can use against him, even if you do have to suck his cock to get it.’

Simon simmered inside, but he was calm. ‘That’ll cost you extra.’

‘Give me something that will knock the cocky look off of Murray’s face, we’ll talk Christmas bonuses.’

His tone said ‘get out’ but Simon didn’t move. Roe was his boss, but Simon wasn’t one to be dismissed. He waited a moment longer, unnecessarily adjusting the buttons on his cuffs. As rain began to patter against the window pane, he kept his gaze on the man on the other side of the desk.

Then he spoke.

‘There’s another component to the services I offer that you might want to consider.’

Roe barely spared Simon a glance. ‘Such as?’

‘In addition to digging things up, I’m also very good at burying them.’

The second look Roe gave him almost made Simon giddy, until the politician’s mouth twisted into an ugly smile.

‘I assume you’re referring to the late Senator Taureau’s many indiscretions.’

‘He never lived long enough to see his reputation fall apart,’ Simon replied.

‘But fall apart it did, and I intend to keep mine long after I’m in the ground.’

‘With all due respect, that’s what my last employer said.’

Roe raised a brow. ‘And with all due respect, Mr Reeve, you were stupid enough to take a job with the white-trash royalty of Scarborough.”

Snap and retreat.

Simon had had enough. He stood and draped his coat over one arm.

‘I’d think about it if I were you,’ he said casually, even as his throat burned. ‘Everyone thinks they’re bulletproof until someone comes along and shoots a big hole in the middle of their forehead – speaking from experience.’

He shot Roe a venomous smile and left the office.

One he was in the elevator, he closed his eyes and tipped his head back.

Prick.

Then again, he knew Roe was a prick when he took this job. He knew right from the start that Roe was hell-bent on destroying Murray’s bid for the leadership – and any chance of him becoming the next leader of this country – at any cost.

Michael Roe was a bastard. It hardly made him an anomaly in politics, and usually the vote came down to one bastard or another, but every so often you’d get someone like Matthew Murray. Someone young and fresh and friendly who would make the entire country fall madly in love with him.

He undid the button of his jacket and, as it popped free, he burned with the reminder that it wasn’t the same size he wore a year ago, and neither was the flesh beneath it. He’d traded a steady diet of cocaine and whiskey for drive-thru in front of the television and kissed goodbye that dream of having washboard abs again.

A fucking snake in the grass for a bastard like Michael Roe, a black hole of debt that didn’t seem to be getting any smaller, and now to top it all off I’m getting a fat ass.

He sighed and forced himself to think about the task at hand.

Roe was right. No closet was empty, and with someone as young as Murray there wouldn’t be skeletons but fresh corpses. It would be easy to follow the stench of decay.

Simon Reeve had been a damn good bloodhound once. He still was, he told himself daily, ignoring the fact that the last year had watered down much of his bloodlust.

He’d get it back, he swore right there in the elevator. He’d get it back if he had to tear Matthew Murray apart with his bare hands.

* * *

‘No, damn it! You cocksucker!’

Miranda didn’t see any reason not to have a full-blown tantrum as the bus motored onto the overpass. The next bus wouldn’t be along for another half-hour and she’d run like hell from work to make it to the stop on the other side of the parking garage in time.

She was soaked through and through, and as she stamped her foot she felt the leftovers from the last three puddles squishing from the soles. Every filthy word she could conjure spewed out of her, burning a hole in the centre of her chest until nothing more came out.

For once she hadn’t been running late. For once she had felt in control and confident that she’d make it home in time to share a bite to eat with Juliet before her sister headed off to the pubs.

But no, because the goddamn buses in this city were apparently running on a clock set by the Mad Hatter. Miranda had lost count of the number of times she’d had to run for one that left too early, or sit and stew while the minutes ticked by as the driver played games on his bloody phone.

And there wasn’t even a shelter at this stop next to the parking garage. There was just a damn pole in the sidewalk and a view of the overpass. If it had been payday she might have given up and called a cab, but every cent left in her bank account was spoken for. She’d just have to wait it out, but she’d be damned if she did it in the rain.

As the wind picked up and whipped rain in her face, Miranda ran again, this time uphill, until she reached the entrance to the parking garage. She was frozen as she headed towards the side that overlooked the bus stop she’d run from, but at least she was spared the needle-sharp torrent that had stung her bare legs.

As she settled against a concrete ledge, she pulled her phone from the soggy depths of her bag and swore as the touchscreen did nothing. Her hands were too cold and too wet, and it took another minute of blowing on her fingers before she was able to punch in her passcode and get to her contacts.

‘Don’t tell me,’ Juliet answered, ‘you missed the bus.’

‘I missed the fucking bus and I’m soaked,’ Miranda growled. ‘I’ll be home by nine, but no pizza for me.’

‘Too late, I already ordered it. I’ll leave it in the oven for you.’

‘Did he get his bath?’

‘Yeah, I put him in a puddle in the driveway with a bar of soap. He loves it.’

Juliet laughed after she spoke, but there was a hint of acid to her words. Juliet was great with their toddler nephew and didn’t so much as flinch when it came to a shitty diaper or a vomit-soaked onesie, but she wasn’t the most reliable person when it came to remembering to bathe Eddie before putting him to bed. More than once Miranda had checked in on him to find his face and hands caked with whatever he’d been given for his supper, and had had to wipe him down while he squirmed and shrieked out his exhaustion.

Given some of the shenanigans Juliet had gotten up to these last few months, Miranda supposed she should consider the poor little bugger lucky that his other aunt remembered to feed him.

‘You want me to see if I can have someone pick you up?’

‘No, it’s only half an hour.’

‘Are you soaked?’

‘A little. My jacket seems to be keeping my tits from marinating.’

‘If you change your mind, call me back and I’ll see if Tim can pop up for you.’

‘Thanks,’ Miranda said and hung up, but made a face as she tucked her phone back in her purse. She’d rather walk home in a blizzard than get a ride with one of Juliet’s creepy friends. The last one who had picked her up had spent the entire ride talking into her tits and accenting every point he made by squeezing her thigh.

She shivered and looked towards the North End of the city. One of the two suspension bridges that crossed the harbour was barely visible in the rain that wrapped the entire downtown, and the fog devoured the second bridge and the city of Dartmouth on the opposite side.

She supposed that the weather forecast had predicted this soggy mess, but Eddie had had an upset stomach that morning and, between cleaning him up and shouting for Juliet to get her ass out of bed, Miranda didn’t give the weather a second thought until she heard it hit the window behind her cubicle.

She thought of that other Miranda, the one who lived in the future and had her shit together, who took coffee to work in an aluminium flask and wore heels to work instead of comfortable flats. Other Miranda would have tucked an umbrella in her huge purse and maybe owned a stylish raincoat and some cute rubber boots.

Then again, Other Miranda knew how to drive and rode a comfy sedan from her waterfront cottage in the country, and didn’t work in a call centre because she made a tidy living selling her paintings online.

In real life, Miranda wrung the moisture out of her hair and busied herself with braiding it into a long rope.

She jumped as the car nearest her chirped and flashed its lights, and moments later a figure followed the thump of footsteps on the pavement. Miranda kept her eyes on the view before her, but her body went on alert as the car’s owner appeared on the periphery. She reached into her purse and wrapped her fingers around her keys, something she often did when she shared a bus shelter in the dark, then relaxed as the slam of the car door echoed through the concrete shelter and moments later the vehicle coughed and hummed to life.

The momentary worry – that she’d end up a corpse in the trunk of that shiny silver sedan – having passed, Miranda resumed her mundane task, pulling her braid loose and starting again.

‘Hey, you need a ride somewhere?’ a man’s voice called out to her.

Miranda turned and prepared to make a grateful but firm refusal. Her stomach flopped as she saw who was in the driver’s seat.

Of course, it was the Bathroom Blowjob Guy.

Her spiel of thanks-but-I-have-someone-waiting-he-should-be-here-any-minute vanished, and when she spoke to him it was to say, ‘Are you serious?’

He stared back at her for a moment, then nodded. ‘Yeah, you got me. This is my thing. I ask women caught in the rain if they want to get into my fancy ride, and when they say yes I floor it and laugh like hell all the way home.’

She wasn’t sure if he was trying to be funny or merely sarcastic. Either way, his remark did nothing to change her mind.

‘Thanks,’ she said, her voice as flat as her humour, ‘but I have someone waiting. He should –’

‘If you did, you would have had him pick you up at the entrance.’

She crossed her arms over her chest. ‘Why would I get in a car with a stranger?’

‘Well, if you want to get technical, we’re not exactly strangers.’

‘I can’t tell whether you’re referring to the fact that I caught you getting a blowjob in the ladies’ room, or the fact that you decided to brag about it to me later on. Either way, you’re not doing anything for your case. If you’re trolling for a handjob while you drive, you’re talking to the wrong woman.’

He chuckled, a sound that grated up one side of her and down the other. ‘Listen, darling, I know you have no reason to think I won’t stick my dick in any wet hole, but trust me when I tell you I can do better than a drenched rat with raccoon eyes.’

Miranda’s sense of vanity overcame her need to be a hard-ass. With a horrified squeak, she reached up to rub her fingers beneath her eyes.

The man produced a can-shaped package of moist towelettes. ‘By all means, walk around the city terrorising old people and small children while incubating a nasty cold if you would prefer that over my heated seats.’

Miranda knew that the last thing in the world she should do was accept a ride from a stranger, let alone this one, but the chill was setting into her ass and she could feel the heat radiating from the car.

She could practically hear her sister advising opportunistic imprudence: Don’t be such a pussy. Get in the car and let him stare at your tits for a few minutes if it gets you out of the cold.

Hell, Juliet would have talked this guy into buying her dinner in addition to the ride.

‘One second,’ she said, and strode to the back of the car. She dug into her bag and pulled out her phone, and as she snapped a picture she saw the man adjust the mirror.

She came back around to the driver’s side where he waited with a smirk and started to type on her phone. ‘I’m sending this to my sister. If I end up floating in the harbour, they’ll know who to look for.’

‘Fair enough,’ he said, and she heard the click of his power locks. He gestured to the trunk. ‘There’s an emergency kit in the back with a poncho inside. Lay it on the seat before you sit down. I’m trying to be chivalrous, but this car has less than twenty thousand kilometres on it and I’d rather you not fuck-up my upholstery.’

She’d accepted his ride, but she wasn’t about to dissolve into graciousness just yet. She plucked the plastic wrapper from the emergency kit, and once she was at the passenger side she didn’t drape the poncho over the seat but stripped off her wet denim jacket and covered herself with the poncho before getting inside.

‘I’m a little impressed,’ he said as she placed her plastic-wrapped ass on the seat. ‘I never thought of asking you to put it on.’

‘I already look hideous with my mascara running down my face, I might as well look pathetic dressed like a gas-station sandwich.’

He handed over the towelettes and locked them in. ‘Where to?’