Page 160 of Bone Deep
I tap the number. The line trills only once.
“This is Senator Buterbaugh.”
The voice is polished, campaign-ready, the same voice that delivers speeches about family values and traditional marriage while he votes to strip rights from people like his own son. Like me. I don't waste time with greetings. I don't waste time with anything.
“Your presidential campaign will not see the light of day,” I say, and my voice comes out steady. “You will cease all pre-announcement activity, effective immediately.”
“Who is this?” The Senator's voice sharpens, losing its politician sheen, gaining an edge of anger.
“My name doesn't matter.” I spit the words out, feeling them land somewhere between my teeth and the receiver. “My name is inconsequential. My name...” I pause, let the silence stretch. “Is what your son moans when I sink my dick into his perfect ass.”
The inhale that comes across the line is audibly choked. Like I've physically struck him.
“You listen to me—”
“No.” I cut him off, my voice rising, filling the back of this car like smoke. “Youlisten tome. I don't need to tell you how good that feels for your son because you know firsthand, don't you? Do you moan your dominatrix's name when she impales you with her strap-on?”
Dead silence.
Not the silence of a bad connection. The silence of a man who has just felt the floor disappear beneath his feet. I can hear him breathing, ragged and furious, can picture him in whatever office he's occupying, his face going pale, then red, his hand gripping the phone until his knuckles turn white.
“That's what I thought.” I pick a piece of lint off my pant leg, watching the fiber detach and float toward the floor. “You really should be more careful, Senator. She's been recording you.”
I let that sit. Let him calculate the damage, the headlines, the end of everything he's built. The end of his “righteous path”. The end of the moral majority's poster boy.
I sigh, long and deliberate, and brush another invisible speck from my knee. “Your presidential aspirations end here and now. That conversion therapy funding legislation? You will kill that first thing tomorrow.” I pause, tilt my head toward the window, watch the city blur past. “And Senator?”
Still nothing but angered breathing, harsh and rhythmic, like he's trying not to vomit.
“If you breathe a word of this to your son, say another disparaging thing about him, or so much as entertain the idea of another piece of hateful legislation...” I lean forward, drop my voice to something almost gentle, almost intimate. “The world will witness what 'Mr. Family Values' does every Monday night. If something happens to me or Ryan, the video is released. Are we clear?”
The silence stretches for three full seconds. Four. Five.
Then, finally, a clearing of the throat. “Understood.”
The word sounds like it's been dragged through broken glass.
“Good.” I make my voice firm, final, the voice of a man who has nothing left to lose and everything to protect. “Don't test me, Senator. The only reason I've given you the opportunity to avoid exposure is to protect Ryan. But I won't hesitate if you don't comply.”
I don't wait. Don't need to hear him grovel or threaten or bargain. I pull the phone from my ear and end the call, the screen going dark in my palm just as the car slows, then stops.
The hotel looms outside the window, all glass and light and the kind of wealth that buys silence and complicity. The kind of wealth that raised Ryan Buterbaugh and tried to break him.
I take a deep breath, letting it fill my lungs, feeling my cufflink press cool against my wrist. Then I tap on the partition, thanking my driver, and open the door.
The moment I step into the hotel lobby, I spot Jen standing off to the right. I stop walking. “What are you wearing?”
She gasps dramatically. The woman is dressed like she walked out of some high-fashion Alice in Wonderland fever dream in white tailored pants, black knee-high boots pulled over them, a black top that's solid over her breasts but sheer mesh below. A flowing black silk cape drapes from her shoulders and trails behind her. An ornate black hat with a square top tiltedat an impossible angle adorns her head. And attached to it—I squint. “Is that a vinyl record?”
Jen beams. “It is.”
I stare. She strikes a pose. Then another. Then another. Finally, she spins in a dramatic circle and throws her hands out. “Tell me I'm beautiful.”
A confused laugh escapes me. “You look more than beautiful.” Her smile widens. “But what kind of event is this, Jen?”
She hooks her arm through mine. “You'll see.”
That answer does not inspire confidence. “Jen—”
