One Good Woman Read online

  One Good Woman

  Abby Knox

  Copyright © 2019 by Abby Knox

  All rights reserved.

  No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.

  Publisher’s Note: This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are a product of the author’s imagination. Locales and public names are sometimes used for atmospheric purposes. Any resemblance to actual people, living or dead, or to businesses, companies, events, institutions, or locales is completely coincidental.

  Edited by Aquila Editing

  Cover Designer: Mayhem Cover Creations

  This book is dedicated to who- or whatever made me have a dream with an actual plot. That almost never happens. Thank you, kind spirit. Or, it could have just been the night cheese.

  Contents

  One Good Woman

  Prologue

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Epilogue

  Epilogue

  About the Author

  Also by Abby Knox

  Coming soon…

  One Good Woman

  By Abby Knox

  Daphne Featherstone is a former investigative reporter who took down a corrupt career politician. Now her squeaky-clean reputation and popularity has catapulted her into a political career, and she’s on an unstoppably trajectory. Campaign life takes a toll on this forty-something divorcee, however, and pretty soon she’s facing an irrational need to get freaky on the campaign bus.

  Buckley Elliot is a down-on-his-luck wounded veteran who plans on voting for the other guy. He doesn’t trust that goody-goody Daphne Featherstone as far as he can throw her. When he overhears a plot to set her up, he positions himself as the man for the job. As soon as he meets her, however, he finds himself ready to stuff her ballot box… and stuff it FULL.

  GET READY! This one actually has a little bit of everything! Political intrigue? Check. Drama? Check. Secret societies? Check. Very premature ejaculation? Um, yeah … check. But don’t worry, it’s a political drama without any, y’know, actual current politics, if you get my meaning.

  Prologue

  The shadowy figure hurried down the long, narrow passageway toward the meeting room where all things are decided.

  Being overly cautious to make sure no one on campus saw him enter the construction site had cost him time. The empty journalism school building was closed for renovations, but he knew how to get down into the basement. There, he accessed the secret tunnel that began at the back of the now-obsolete dark room, with decades-old chemicals still cluttering the dusty shelves. The tunnel eventually led him to a rough, wooden staircase.

  He tapped in the six-letter code, which he had memorized easily, as it was his first name — S-H-A-W-N — then waited for reader to scan his blue iris.

  When the door creaked open and he stepped inside, a commanding voice boomed, “You’re late, Bag Man. We’ve already lit the candles and said the pledge.”

  The door slammed shut behind Shawn, aka Bag Man.

  Although everyone’s faces were hidden inside the hoods of their monastic brown capes, Shawn recognized this voice as that of Walter Stone, well-known lawyer of now-imprisoned former Senator Rex Cutler.

  “Am I the last one?” Shawn asked.

  “As usual,” said a third voice he recognized.

  “Fuck off, Tim,” said Shawn.

  “Code names, please,” said the booming voice.

  “Sorry, Walter,” Shawn replied.

  “Advocate. In here, I’m the Advocate. Let’s proceed with the roll call, now that we’re all finally here. Professor?”

  Tim replied, “Here.”

  “Scrivener?”

  “Present and accounted for,” said Royce, whose voice was a giveaway due to years of chain-smoking and booze. Old school journalists, thought Shawn, rolling his eyes.

  The roll call continued, and the caliber of some of the men present made Shawn start to sweat inside his itchy robe.

  “Judge?”

  “Present,” said a very famous federal district court judge.

  “Candidate?”

  “Here,” said the man chosen by the jailed Boss to take his place in the Senate.

  The list went on and on.

  “Bag Man?”

  “Present,” said Shawn, nodding.

  “And we know where the Boss is,” said the Advocate. “On to our agenda. First, let’s all congratulate Professor for being named Dean of Admissions.”

  Everyone clapped. Shawn sarcastically slow-clapped. As if there was any question on who would get that job. The job that should have been Shawn’s.

  The Advocate moved the meeting along. One by one, each member shared progress reports on various diabolical plots, schemes and shenanigans that would shock and dismay any average, respectable citizen of this country.

  Finally, the Advocate turned his attention to Shawn. “Bag Man, what have you got for us?”

  “I dug up the depositions from her custody dispute a few years back. It got pretty ugly. It would definitely take her down a peg in the eyes of her adoring public.”

  The Professor, the man named Tim, scoffed at Shawn. “Jackass.”

  “Custody dispute? Child’s play,” sneered the Advocate. “I know your daddy bought your way into Fang and Claw, but now you’re in the big leagues and you’d better bring your A Game.”

  “Understood, sir. My wife has gotten pretty close to her in recent days, she can find a weakness, a pressure point, and we can table this until next time…”

  The Advocate cut him off. “We won’t be scheduling a special meeting to accommodate your incompetency, Bag Man. You and your family may be big names in the world of fundraising, but in here, you’re just a trust fund boy. When you actually have something on her, The Runner will meet you for intel and take it all from there. The Boss has a lot of money riding on this, so don’t fuck it up.”

  “Yes, sir,” Shawn said.

  “Bag Man, this is a warning. If you waste our time again, you can consider yourself terminated from Fang and Claw.”

  Shawn wheezed a laugh. “But I thought admission to the society was for life.”

  The deafening silence that followed told him everything he needed to know.

  Chapter One

  Daphne

  Sipping a glass or three of California red while sitting outside on a warm spring night, gazing at blooming cherry trees is just what the doctor ordered.

  The deep, dry elixir and night breeze has me feeling so relaxed, I unfasten the top button of my white oxford shirt.

  One of my young campaign volunteers sees me do this and jokes, “Watch out, everyone! The soon-to-be U.S. senator’s about to dance on the bar!”

  Everyone cheers and lifts their beer glasses in the air to egg me on, and I have to smile. “There was a time when I might have actually danced on a bar, but those were the days before camera phones and YouTube, thank god,” I reply.

  The kids all laugh, and I’m happy to see them having a good time. They work so hard for me on the campaign. For me and for everyone in our home state. So hard that as soon as our caravan arrived in D.C. earlier this evening, I insisted that we enjoy a quick night out before the big announcement on the Capitol steps tomorrow morning.r />
  I’m sitting with my campaign manager, the famous firebrand Stacy Spencer and her husband. The two of them are the only people on my campaign even close to my age.

  I’m feeling grateful for these two fundraising titans, and also warm and a little bit loose-lipped from the wine. And a bit frisky. Alas, there’s no one in my life to take care of that last part.

  It’s a good thing the younger kids decide to relocate themselves to a cheaper pub down the street before they really turn out to be a bad influence on me. Someone could video me saying something really out of character.

  Not that any of those kids would betray me. I’ve personally vetted every single campaign volunteer.

  Stacy’s husband decides to join the younger folks on their impromptu pub crawl and leaves us older women to ourselves.

  “Stay and feel free to talk shit, ladies,” he says with a wink and a kiss to his wife.

  “Bye, Shawn,” Stacy and I say in unison.

  I smile as I watch him leave with the rest of the gang. He and Stacy are so in love, I find myself regretting remaining single on this campaign.

  “I’m glad you stayed, Stacy.”

  “What’s on your mind, boss?” she says, pouring me a third (fourth?) glass of pinot noir.

  “I need some girl talk and I don’t want to appear undignified to anyone else on the campaign. I know I’m supposed to be this unflappable woman. But sometimes…I don’t know how to say this…” I fidget with the stem of the glass. I glance around to see who might be listening; Washington, D.C. bars are full of spies. Drinks in the campaign bus might have been a safer choice, but the inside of that bus is starting to feel like a prison. Honestly, I can’t wait to get back home to tackle the next thing on my agenda: bicycling around the entire state. My security detail is still pushing back against this idea.

  Washington, D.C., with its classic, old-fashioned bars full of history were calling my name instead of another night of sitting braless, alone, binge-watching Scandal before sleep. Alone.

  “…woman to woman, Stacy? I feel like I might die if I don’t get laid. Just once. And I mean, someone who can really take control and just, like, bang the shit out of me. Just pin me down, tell me what to do, fuck my brains out so good that I cannot even ride my bike the next day. Is that crazy? Maybe the wine has gone to my head, but I feel like I’m losing it.”

  Stacy pats my arm. “Honey. I know. This is totally a thing that happens to strong women. You dominate every aspect of your career. And sometimes you just want to lie back and have someone else take control in the bedroom.”

  I breathe a sigh of relief. My ex-husband, Tim, was my one and only lover until the divorce. I’ve been picking up my emotional pieces ever since then and haven’t felt ready to open up my heart.

  Right now, I don’t care about my heart. I only want to open my legs.

  “I’m so glad I’m not crazy,” I say. Tim never wanted to take complete control in the bedroom. He saw it as demeaning or degrading. I thought that was an honorable trait in him until I found out what he really wanted in bed. Hint: it wasn’t me.

  Stacy replies, “Being on the road is a grind and you need to let your hair down. And you deserve it! And hello! You’re in Washington. D.C. for two nights. Tomorrow we tie a bow on your endorsement from the Senate Majority Leader and after the joint speech, you can take a little break. Enjoy yourself. Shawn and I can handle the campaign ins and outs for one day. How long has it been since you went on a date, anyway?”

  I shake my head. “I haven’t dated anyone since Tim.”

  “Really? Well then maybe I can arrange a date for you.”

  “Oh, honey, that’s sweet,” I say. “But the thought of dating—going out to eat with a stranger and making small talk and wasting all that time until you find a companion—I just don’t have that kind of time. Just between us girls, I’m sure you understand.”

  Stacy’s eyes widen and she smiles in understanding. “Oh yes. I know. It’s true what they say about us women getting extra horny in our 40s, and it’s so hard when we have careers and kids…”

  “…and college applications and divorce complications and senatorial campaigns,” I chuckle. “Not a complaint, it’s just…”

  Stacy replies with a sly smile. “I know, right? Would it not be nice if a powerful, busy woman could safely bang a random guy for the night without fear of scrutiny? Sometimes a vibrator just doesn’t cut it.”

  I feel myself blush at the truth of this. “Oh, for sure,” I say. “A powerful man has a one-night stand and he’s seen as charismatic and virile and insatiable.”

  Stacy rolls her eyes. “But a female soon-to-be senator? We’re looked at as too immoral to be elected if we’re known to sleep around.”

  I sigh. “I just want to be bad for one night. Is that too much to ask?”

  My emotions grow the more I talk about this. A lump forms in my throat and I cannot stop myself from baring it all. “I’m so fucking horny. Oh shit, I am not going to cry about this right now. This is so stupid.”

  I do indeed feel stupid as tears well up in my eyes. I dab at them with a cocktail napkin.

  Stacy eyes me while sipping her drink. “You want me to pay someone? I’ll do it out of pocket, won’t even be taken out of campaign funds.”

  I straighten in my chair suddenly. The mere suggestion of campaign funds makes the hairs on the back of my neck stand on end.

  “Stace. I’m shocked that you would even consider donations as an option for anything but campaign expenses.”

  Stacy laughs. “Relax, Stone Angel. That was a joke.”

  I bristle but try to smile. “I know it was a joke. I’m just exhausted and emotional.”

  I have always detested that nickname. It comes from the title of my investigative column at the Daily Citizen, and even giving up a career in journalism hasn’t allowed it to die. Plus, it just reminds me of the publisher, Royce, who came up with the name. He still gives me the willies. He and his secret fraternity gang he used to low-key brag about. He never gave up a name of the group or said who was in it. But once at an office party, he had a little too much brandy and nearly spilled it; he likened it to Skull & Bones.

  At the time I had joked to Tim, who worked as an editor at the same newspaper, that anybody who talked about a secret society probably did not actually belong to one.

  Tim never joined in on my jokes about Royce — he hated rocking the boat. Which worked out well for him in the end, I guess. Soon after our divorce, he went on to accept a surprising offer as head of the journalism department at a top university.

  Stacy puts up her hands in surrender. “I apologize. I tried to lighten the mood and I crossed the line. We still friends?”

  I smile warmly. How could I ever think Stacy would do something so inappropriate as to hire me a prostitute or misuse campaign funds?

  “Of course.” I lift my wine glass to toast. “To friendship.”

  “To friendship,” Stacy echoes as we clink glasses.

  Maybe it’s the wine clouding my brain, but I feel so lucky to have Stacy. Even though she’s a little edgy and snarky sometimes, she’s always fun to have around.

  And it reminds me that it’s time—beyond time—to have a little more fun.

  Chapter Two

  Buckley

  If that don’t beat all.

  That investigative reporter who put my senator in jail is holding her very own campaign event just down the street from my motel.

  I click on the event page on my phone’s screen, and then mutter out loud to no one, “Oh look, the Senate Majority Leader will be there to announce his endorsement of her, right on the Capitol steps. She’s big time now, ain’t she?”

  Daphne Featherstone, the former reporter for the Daily Citizen, will be there in person during the annual Cherry Blossom Festival, handing out buttons and fliers, and probably giving out a boatload of empty promises out of that determined—and admittedly cute—little face of hers.

  All that and a
n endorsement from Senator Bridges. Ain’t she having a moment?

  “Seems like a good time to go down there and give her a piece of my mind,” I say to myself.

  Sometimes I think I ought to adopt a dog so it doesn’t feel so weird to be talking to myself about politics. Or talking back to the TV when The Bachelor is on. Yeah, I have my guilty pleasures with reality TV and I don’t even feel guilty about them.

  Reading more on my phone about today’s campaign speech by Ms. Fancy Britches, I decide it almost seems like it was meant to be for us to having a meeting.

  I may be feeling less than generous about her right now, but the truth is, I used to kind of dig her style.

  There was a time when I would read her investigative column religiously every morning as I ate my cheesy grits and sipped my black coffee. Sometimes I agreed with Featherstone’s point of view, like when she had called out a certain mayor for being opposed to bike lanes, because it turned out he was in the pocket of a company that had more interest in keeping people in cars instead of on the backs of bicycles.

  Then one day last year, she set her proverbial crosshairs on longtime Senator Rex Cutler, our home state’s most powerful career public servant.

  I have no attachment to the idea of long-term senators, but Rex is esteemed in my mind for one very personal reason.

  I remember it like it was yesterday. I’d been grunting and growling my way through my first physical therapy session. The D.C. area was expensive to live in, but this is where the VA sent me for my particular needs. I had just had my lower left leg amputated from a bad combat wound overseas. Suffice it to say, it was one of my darker days. All of a sudden, a couple of burly, bald men in dark suits walked into the PT room center. And if I know anything about reconnaissance — and I do — those guys were making sure the room was safe. Seconds later, Cutler himself strolled in to introduce himself.