“And you shot your mouth off to the wrong people, Byron.” It wasn’t a lie.
I reached into my breast pocket to pull out the text message I’d received in mid-February from a friend of mine atNews on the Hill, the mostly gossip rag about the happenings on Capitol Hill and those who worked there.
I’d developed an arrangement with Rich Morrow—you scratch my back and I’ll scratch yours—which worked out better than any cash arrangement I could have made.
Rich was the editor of that horrific piece of trash. I gave him some insignificant tips I picked up when chatting with Hill staffers in the know, and when he heard anything aboutme, he gave me a heads-up too.
As unbelievable as it might seem, I didn’t have many trusted confidantes—and with what Byron had done, I had one less. It was the cost of doing business, but it was getting steeper, and I hated it.
Rich had contacted me about a story Byron had tried to sell to a reporter atNews on The Hillregarding my tryst with the Chief of Staff for Senator Eileen Rowe, the senior Republican senator from Texas. His name was Marvin Thompson.
Marv was an attractive man of small stature who needed a canary and a miner’s hat to get out of the closet he’d constructedfor himself over the eleven years he’d worked for Senator Rowe. The woman was a liberal hiding in a conservative party, and I needed her support to block anti-trans healthcare measures that were circulating through committees on the House side.
Eileen had friends in the House from when she was a congresswoman before she was elected to the Senate. She had the power and influence to convince her former colleagues to send the bill to purgatory for the rest of the congressional term, which was exactly what she did at the urging of Marv, who loved a blowjob with a finger up his tight ass.
If the American voters knew the lengths folks went to get things done in the Swamp, they’d be clutching their pearls and speaking in tongues for the rest of their lives. I’d been around it for so long that I’d become permanently numb to it.
Once upon a time, I’d been just another wide-eyed optimist who came to Washington, DC, with visions of making the country a better place for my people in the rainbow community and anyone else who was disenfranchised by the way they’d been treated in this great country of ours.
And just like those who came before me, it was beaten out of me within the first month of taking the metro to the Capitol South station. It was a hard landing when I realized I’d become jaded without my knowledge, but it taught me that I could only rely on myself.
I unfolded the paper I’d been given and began reading, smirking as Byron’s face paled in front of me.“I thought you’d like to know that your assistant—well, after this, I hope he’s a former assistant—is shopping a story about a hookup you had with Marvin Thompson to get Senator Rowe to kill the anti-trans healthcare bill when it comes over from the House.”
I glanced up to see the shock I was going for. Fucker deserved what I was doing to him. “Oh, it doesn’t end there.”
Byron braced against the wall.
“He goes on to say, and I quote,Ordinarily, I’d run with it, but you’ve done me a few favors. Besides, following your assistant around town has given me plenty of avenues to pursue that don’t include you. Let’s get together for a drink...blah, blah, blah. Rick.”
I glanced at my former assistant, not sure what I’d been thinking when I’d hired him. Byron had no idea what the hell to do next, but I did.
“This was sent to me in February. I’ve been waiting for you to figure out that you’ve violated your non-disclosure agreement when you took that story about me to a reporter. I thought you were smarter than that.”
I ripped the paper in half and jammed it into the pocket of my suit pants to shred later. “A violation of the NDA you signed when you began working here means you are terminated immediately and, if you read the fine print, you forfeit any sick or vacation time accrued to date, along with any company contributions to your 401(k) plan, and you may be subject to legal action.”
I then turned to the pool assistant and handed over the folder. “Would you please get these in today’s mail? The attachments are in the mailroom. Call them and tell them to deliver the order for me to your desk. Send me an email with your employee number, and I’ll make sure you get credited with the overtime. Do not repeat the lies you heard here today.”
“Yes, Mr. Fitzpatrick.” The young man left us and didn’t look back.
I returned my focus to Byron. “Who else did you take this story to? Shopping gossip of this sort around town doesn’t really harm me, you know. Had anyone given credence to your story, it would have blown up Marv’s life, which isn’t really fair since you were just trying to smear me. Marv did nothing to you.”
Byron’s snarl told me he was taking offense to my comments. “You know what? Fuck you, Sean. I already have a new job. I never told anyone that you have a kink to have your dick sucked while you’re on conference calls or that you like to pick up random guys at Café Berlin and bring them up here to fuck while you make me watch. I’m sure you’ll see a significant reduction in your influence on The Hill if any of that gets out.”
I laughed. My sexcapades weren’t exactly secret, and Byron had signed a personal contract with me that outlined the ins and outs of our sexual relationship—which was also a binding non-disclosure document. I wasn’t stupid. I covered my ass, and my publicist, Valerie George, was the first button on my speed dial.
“I can’t help it if you don’t know how to live within your means. And the lies you just spouted about me, if they reach the papers, could get you into water so hot you’ll be a bouillabaisse on the menu at Chez Jacque by the dinner seating.”
He teared up, his voice carrying a pleading tone. “I’m not a horrible person for wanting more money, Sean. My rent is high, and I refuse to take a roommate. I want a car so I’m not always stuck on the metro or in a ride share. When I asked you for a raise, what did you say? You told me I was already overpaid for the market in our line of work. You can’t tell me there’s no way you cannot afford to pay me more, but you’re greedy.”
Byron’s hands clenched into tight fists as if he was contemplating a right hook to my jaw, but I stood my ground. Suddenly, his expression filled with rage and his tone turned cocky.
“A friend of mine said media outlets sometimes pay for stories. I needed the money for a downpayment on my car, Sean. You have one. Why can’t I have one?” He was screaming at the end of his rant, which wasn’t attractive at all.
I sighed. “You make thirty percent above the market read that I had done in the DC area last October. Stop spending yourmoney on stupid shit, Byron. You’re twenty-five. Grow up. Oh, and you owe me ten thousand dollars for the beach house you rented on Hibiscus Island when you said you were going to Nebraska to see your sick grandmother.”
Byron simply stared at me, his boiling rage leaving him unable to speak. I meant every word I’d said. I was nobody’s fool, and I knew how to read the statement from our accountant, highlighting the rental with a question of which client to bill for the charges.
Finally, he gathered his thoughts. “Fuck you, Sean. I know enough shit to bury you for the rest of your life. I’m out of here.”
