Page 5 of Lone Spy

I never used to do this. I was always so controlled. But the stress has been overwhelming. The pressure, not just of fame, but also of knowing that at any moment my life could be ripped away through violence or scandal. With the slow deterioration of my rights as a consistent hum in the background. I feel like I’m on the verge of shattering.

Julian nods, running his knuckles down the side of my face, and I lean into his touch. "You're so beautiful," he says. "So fucking beautiful." His voice is husky, hoarse, hungry.

There's still concern lightly etched across his brow, but his lips have parted. His breath has quickened, pupils dilated. More bubbles of champagne-trapped memories surface. Julian's hands in my hair, my back against the wall. Him lifting me so easily with just one hand. The rip of fabric, the intimate fullness.

I swallow. Our eyes remain locked. His hand travels down my neck, thumb caressing my jaw before circling my throat. My lips part, a soft gasp escaping. The throbbing pain in my head abates, distributed to the painful points of my breasts, and a delicious ache between my legs.

"Can I make you feel good one more time before I leave?" Julian asks.

I swallow. It is impossible to deny him. His hand tugs the blanket, exposing my breasts and pulling a quiet whimper from my throat. Fingers tighten at my neck, not cutting off my air, but holding me still as his eyes rake over me.

Julian's always been so good at this. Even better than alcohol at wiping my mind, at making me forget. Not just about my life, my identity, but my very humanity, my mortality, my singularity. I close my eyes and sink into the sensation of him. Slowly, expertly, he devours me, disappears me, dissolves me.

I'm sittingin the living room wrapped in one of the hotel's thick terry cloth robes—its bulk a welcome weight. Sunlight presses against the sheer curtains, flooding the space with diffused light.

My headache is gone, defeated by good sex, strong coffee, and a plate of fried eggs, bacon, and outrageously delicious toast. A cheat meal well worth it.

I'm scrolling through the headlines—there is a piece on the latest candidate to announce a run for president. A woman, Rebecca Levi. I sip my coffee, thoughts dark.

A woman can't win. Let alone a Jewish one. America is too sexist and antisemitic. She will be torn apart.

Not even when the incumbent president is also in the headlines for saying that he believes America’s problems are so deep, so intractable, and the media so corrupt, that dictatorship may be our only salvation. As if an authoritarian government ever helped anyone but the oligarchs profiting from it.

Reginald Grand’s latest statements are not the only news about him. Two articles outline the continued investigations he is under.

Unlike past presidents, Grand refused to place his business interests in trust. He kept his international real estate company under his control. And that company, Grand Dominion Properties, recently acquired land in downtown Moscow for far below market price.

This “unusual” circumstance has led to accusations of violating the emoluments clause, which prohibits federal officials from receiving financial benefits from foreign governments.

These new ties to Moscow have resurrected the accusations of foreign interference in our last election. Those accusations are still just that—accusations as a special counsel continues their investigation. But I know they are true.

I know Grand is a treasonous, dictator wanna-be who I had the opportunity to kill and didn't. That's my biggest regret.

If I'd done it—pulled the trigger on that motherfucker when I had the chance—I'd be dead, true. But so would he. And the more time that passes, the more power Grand consolidates, the more I think not killing him was selfish. Horribly selfish.

I've murdered two men, both in self-defense. They coveted my body, craved control, but I wanted it more. Their blood still splashes across my nightmares and haunts the shadows of my mind.

The first was a director—my first starring role. Jack Axelrod invited me to his house to celebrate, drugged me and was about to rape me, when I woke up with just enough consciousness to grab one of his Oscars and bludgeon him to death.

Temperance Johnson strode into that crime scene like most men saunter into a club. Confident and on the hunt. He offered me a deal to save my reputation, to rescue any hope of fame rather than infamy. All I had to do was whatever he asked.

A star at the height of her fame, ensnarled by an unnamed US intelligence agency, forced into the art of espionage. It would make a good movie...

The second man, Vladimir Petrov, decided he would make me his whether I consented or not. He died just as bloody a death as Jack.

Instead of my pulling the trigger on Grand, we agreednotto kill each other. Not to expose each other. I wouldn't tell anyone how the Russian oligarch, Vladimir Petrov, under the direction of the Kremlin and with Grand's full and willing knowledge, used a sophisticated disinformation campaign to help him win.

And Grand wouldn't tell anyone that I bashed in Vladimir's skull with my vintage phone. Or leak to our enemies that I'm a US asset.

A deal with the devil, combined with raw talent and hard work, brought me here. To this hotel room. To this life. To this golden prison.

My phone pings and a text message alert from Ash flashes on the screen. "May I come in?"

He's probably standing on the other side of the door waiting for my response.

"Yes, I'm just finishing breakfast," I text back.

The door opens seconds after the text swooshes away and Ash enters. My smile is broad and welcoming, last night’s tension ignored and pushed under the rug. I'm good at compartmentalizing, and I'm pretty sure Ash shares DNA with a container store.

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