Unfinished Business

Put your money where your mouth is.

—American idiom

“Have you got the money?” Erica muttered, glancing around the lobby, orienting herself for the task ahead.

They had just cleared security—without incident, thank God. Now, all they had to do was get upstairs and into the room. If Angelique had the money, it would all be as simple as Mom's home-baked apple pie.

“Money?” Angelique responded from somewhere over Erica's shoulder. “What money?”

Every nerve in Erica's body flared red alert. She stopped short, turning slowly toward her friend. The money was critical. If Angelique didn't have the money…

“You don't have the money? Why not?”

Angelique rolled her eyes and shook her head until her long braids danced on her shoulders like marionettes. “Don't freak out. I have it. But I won't need it,” she corrected, waving her finger under Erica's nose. “I won't need it, because you're not actually going to do this.”

Erica sighed, relief flooding through her body. An
gelique wasn't funny—hadn't ever been—but as long as she still had the money…

“We're here, aren't we? I'm wearing it, aren't I?” Erica reminded her, keeping her voice low. It felt like every security guard in the place was checking her out as they hurried along the corridor. But that was silly. They didn't have X-ray vision.
And
, Erica reminded herself,
last time I checked, wearing a T-shirt wasn't against the law.

Yet.

Another flutter of nervousness winged itself from her throat to her heart, and Erica inhaled deeply and swallowed hard, forcing it down. When she focused on her friend again, Angelique was staring at her.

“If you actually do this, you're flat-out crazy,” she pronounced. “Crazy.”

“I'm
not
crazy, I'm committed,” Erica reminded her.

“Yeah, committed. Committed is exactly what you ought to be, if you ask me.” Angelique eyed the light blue blouse Erica had borrowed from her closet of tailored shirts that morning, knowing that the starched cotton was the only thing standing between the world and Erica's offensive T-shirt. “Trust me, girl. If you actually do this, you've lost it. Big-time.”

“Oh, I'm going to do it, don't you worry about that,” Erica said firmly, and she knew in her heart that no matter how nervous or scared she felt, the words were true. “Now, one more time: Have you got the money?”

Angelique sighed another put-upon-girlfriend sigh, and then nodded. “I've got the thousand you gave me, plus another thousand of my own in cash.” She patted the supple leather of her school bag. “If it's more than that, you're SOL.”

“It'll be enough,” Erica asserted with more confi
dence than she felt. Angelique opened her mouth for yet another comment, but when Erica cut her mahogany eyes sharply toward the corridor behind them, Angelique folded her lips. They both concentrated on looking innocent and inconsequential for the uniformed Capitol police officer stationed by the elevator doors. He was big, one of those thick-chested brothers with biceps like a normal man's thighs. The thick brother stared them up and down like he suspected something. It wasn't until a big, cheese-eating grin spread across his face that Erica understood that the brother wasn't hating, he was appreciating.

And why not?
Erica thought. She was pretty sure it wasn't every day he saw two young, nice-looking sisters exercising their rights as citizens by attending a congressional hearing.

When the elevator doors opened, the dude turned a bit to take in their rear views, but he didn't stop them.

Fortunately, they had the ancient elevator car to themselves.

“Two thousand should be more than enough,” Erica repeated as soon as the door closed them into the old metal box.

“Are you sure?” Angelique's voice rose and Erica heard concern mingled with annoyance. “Because I don't have any more money to invest in this venture, Erica, and I have a feeling you won't like jail.”

“It'll be enough!” Erica told her and pretended to be fascinated by watching the floor numbers light up over the lift's doorway, so Angelique wouldn't know just how scared she was.
Oh Lord, please let it be enough,
she prayed quickly.
I know it's been a long time since I had a man…but I'm sure not ready for a woman.

“You're not going to do it.”

Erica's eyes snapped to her friend's face. They were
her best feature, Erica's eyes. Not that there was anything wrong with the rest of her. Even though she was smack in the middle of her thirties, she had a good figure and the hours logged at the gym to account for it. True, God had been a little generous on the top and the bottom, but any extra weight was certainly in the right places. And her skin was another blessing: creamy and smooth as an exotic coffee drink. She'd stopped processing her hair years ago and now wore it either wrapped like the women in Africa, or in long natural twists that sprang from her head like curly wires. But everyone always came back to the eyes—big and brown and deep-set in the warm oval of her face. And Erica knew how to use them, too. “Girl, you could sell ice to Eskimos with those eyes,” her Gram had always said. Erica fixed her face for maximum appeal as she stared down her longtime friend, roommate and general partner in crime.

“I'm going to do it.”

They had once been so much alike, but these days even their clothes bespoke the widening gap. In spite of the braids, Angelique was buttoned up and conservative in a nice suit and white blouse. In her long granny-style skirt and leather-free Birkenstock clogs, Erica looked and felt like a gypsy. Angelique must have been thinking something very similar, because she shook her head again.

“Do you have any idea how serious this is?”

“I know exactly how serious it is. That's why I'm doing it, thank you very much. Sometimes you have to put your money where your mouth is.” Erica shrugged her sloppy canvas bag a little higher up her shoulders, feeling constricted by the neat lines of Angelique's blouse. Clothing wasn't meant to feel like this—itchy and scratchy and tight. She rubbed at the overprocessed fabric and continued. “I mean, for the
love of Jesus, Angie! Haven't you ever been committed to anything in your whole life?” Erica demanded. “I mean, really, truly, deeply committed?”

Angelique gave her another eye roll and pouted her lips into that martyred-sister girl thing Erica hated.

“Don't you start with me, Erica,” she warned. “I'm as committed to education as you are. With my credentials, I could be working for a Big Six accounting firm, making a ton of cash, instead of teaching elementary-school math.” She frowned again, and Erica knew her friend was thinking—thinking hard—about that ton of cash. “And I'm committed to this friendship, aren't I?” she said after a few moments' pause. “Or else I sure as hell wouldn't be here,” she grumbled. “When they commit you, they might as well lock me up, too.”

And since there was nothing much she could say to refute that, Erica sighed.

“You're right. Thank you for coming with me. You're the best.”

“And you're my girl. You're stone-cold crazy, but you're my girl,” Angelique said, trying not to smile.

The elevator doors slid open, depositing them on the fourth floor. Bubbles of nervousness discoed from her heart to her stomach again, but Erica took a few deep, cleansing breaths and focused her attention on their destination.

She knew they had reached the correct door by the two burly Capitol police officers stationed on either side of it. There were probably a half dozen more officers waiting inside, Erica reasoned, stationed strategically around the room and on the watch for people just like her.

God help me
, Erica thought, and then centered her courage for the task ahead.

 

The Senate hearing room was packed as usual, mostly with print reporters and hired lobbyists who seemed more interested in their PDAs than the proceedings. A single camera, labeled “C-SPAN,” was parked at the front of the room where the TV audience could get an unobstructed view of both the witnesses and the panel. A lone technician stood near it, thick black wires draped over his shoulder. Erica followed the camera's aim and found the lens trained on the droning testimony of a middle-aged sister whom Erica recognized as the undersecretary for Elementary School Programs for the Department of Education. Erica searched her memory to find the woman's name: Henrietta Davies.

“We're too late. There's nowhere to sit,” Angelique whispered. “Okay. You tried. Now, let's go home.”

“No…” Erica craned her neck and spied a few seats in the very front row. “Up there.”

“But that's right up front!” Angelique complained. She nudged Erica's arm, pointing to the dais at the front of the room. “It's already started, Erica. Are you sure…?”

“Come on,” Erica said, pushing her way through the room, muttering her apologies as she jostled against arms and stepped on toes. Angelique would follow, Erica was certain of it. After all, she had on those three-inch black pointy-toe pumps made from the hide of some unfortunate living thing. Girlfriend was going to be in need of a seat.

After a few uncomfortable seconds—and more than few uncomfortable glares—Erica slid into a chair not far from the long table where today's witnesses sat, well within the view of the senators on the panel in front of them. Erica knew most of their faces from watching CNN and C-SPAN, and could have named every member of the Senate's Health, Education, La
bor and Pensions Committee, even if their identities weren't emblazoned in white on black placards in front of them. They were from all different states, but they were all men and all white. They were also all over fifty…with one notable exception.

He was a young senator from one of those backwater Southern states the rest of the Union didn't pay much attention to—and by far the most handsome member of the committee. Erica studied him, taking in the breadth of his shoulders concealed beneath a neat dark blue suit. He had dark hair, cut too short, like he'd recently been to a U.S. Marine barber for a scalping, but the hair took nothing from the crystal clear of his bright blue eyes…

Or the harsh, brooding line of distrust he was frowning right into Erica's face.

She'd seen that look before. In every TV appearance he'd made, this man had one of two looks on his face: a condescending smirk, or this same steely-eyed high-noon stare-down he was giving her now. Those sharp eyes seemed to take her in, digest her and then linger on Erica like he could read the words on the T-shirt concealed beneath the borrowed blouse.

Or like he could see down to her bare skin.

Or like he wanted to.

Or…something…

And worse, even though he was staring at her with that smug, superior, know-it-all look on his handsome face Erica couldn't tear her eyes away from him—him and that condescending smirk and those flashing blue eyes.

You think you're bad, huh?
she thought, giving the man her best “mad dog” mug.
You think you're smart? Welcome to your worst nightmare, Senator. I'm just as bad as you are and twice as smart. So you bring it on, okay? You just bring it on—

And then, as she was staring at him, challenging him in her mind, the man leaned back a little in his chair and let a slow grin spread slowly across his features. The harsh lines around his lips broke, changing his expression into a gentle playfulness that seemed to penetrate the very core of her being. A strange shot of heat fired through Erica's body, igniting her from nose to toes and every spot in between, and the next thing she knew, she was sitting there, grinning up at him like the whole thing was some kind of game and not as serious as life and death.

“Why is that man smiling at you?” Angelique hissed hot spit into her ear. “Who is he?”

With difficulty, Erica tore her eyes away from the man and turned to her friend.

“That's Senator Mark Newman,” she whispered. “Everybody knows him. Even you. He's at the end of his first term—but he's their heir apparent. The one the ‘forces of evil' are grooming to run for president in ten or twelve years. If he survives reelection, which I hope he doesn't.”

Angelique stared at her blankly. “And I would know that how?”

Erica sighed. “He's the Gulf War hero. The first one. Gulf War One.”

Recognition flooded Angelique's face. “Right, right! I
have
heard about him.” She nodded, assessing as much of the man's physique as she could with the table in the way. “Well, well. You always hear about his handicap. They don't tell you that he's a cute little war hero, do they?”

“Cute?” Erica stole another glance at the man, who was still staring her down with that little smile on his face—that little smile that said,
I know you
—then rolled her eyes back to her friend, vowing not to look at him anymore. “Sure he's cute, if all you care
about is outward appearance. But just below those cool blue eyes and pretty-boy exterior, you'll find a warmongering
hawk
. A conservative nut job. A Right Wing weirdo with pretensions of grandeur. He might be cute, but he's the last thing this country needs.”

“Down, girl.” Angelique patted Erica's knee, but kept her eyes on Newman. “Mmmm. There are times when I can
almost
see myself with a white man….” She shook her head. “This is one of those times.”

The young senator was still staring and smiling like he knew they were talking about him. Angelique was right: He was definitely on the right side of “cute”: maybe thirty-seven or -eight, broad-shouldered and vital compared to the grayish and balding heads of the other members of the Committee. With his dark hair, strong, square jaw and crystal blue eyes, he had that look: the look of a man every woman wanted to be with; the look of a man every man would want to be like.