1)
The first time Dan Egan meets Amy Brookheimer he's pouring a drink down the front of her dress.
"Jesus fuck!"
He stumbles, takes a step back; wonders how his carefully engineered shoulder brush with the hot blond (who arrived next to Senator Hagen with the crazy-eyed, sleep-deprived look that could only make her a staffer) has gone so horribly wrong.
Then he looks down, notices the way his drink is making the front of her dress wet, the fabric cling to her chest.
So maybe it didn't go so wrong after all.
"What is the matter with you? Aside from the obvious mental deficiencies."
He's been caught staring. He grins apologetically. He's not sorry at all.
"So sorry, I didn't see you there. Though now that I have seen you, I don't know how I could have missed you."
She's barely even paying attention, examining her dress, scoffing, "Listen moron, you can't salvage this one, you just exposed my tits to half the senate."
He grins, glad they're skipping the part where they both pretend they're polite and appropriate and don't use swear words at important government functions.
"Could be worse," he shrugs, "At least they're nice tits."
She gives him a withering look. He smiles, all teeth.
She walks away without another word. Not even a glance. He knows she doesn't look back. He watches her leave until her form disappears into the crowd.
A hand claps him on the back.
"Remind me again, why did I hire you? Your people skills, right?"
His boss. The big lump stuffed into a suit chortles.
This guy is so low rent. Dan has to remind himself this is just a stepping-stone in his career every time the guy starts talking. He is so much better than this. He doesn't even turn to acknowledge him. He can still see blond hair weaving through slightly drunk senate members.
"That's Amy Brookheimer," his boss continues, putting a name to the pissed off staffer who managed to make him feel like dirt on the bottom of her shoe with just a look. And made him like it.
"And here's a fun twist: your future in this office now depends on her."
He looks at his boss, remembers the reason he bumped into her in the first place; the senate bill, the votes, Paula Hagen and her influence over the environmental lobby.
He remembers the look in Amy Brookheimer's eye and groans. "I think we have different definitions of fun."
His boss chortles again, "I meant fun for me. Now go: schmooze, scream, screw. Whatever. Just get it done."
2)
The second time he sees her through a window, yelling into a phone planted so firmly against the side of her head it looks like someone stapled it to her ear, he's still got half a coffee left.
He slips into the line anyway, just as she's opening the door.
"yeah, yeah," he murmurs into the phone that might as well be stapled to his ear, "I'm actually about to have a meeting about it right now," he smirks as he hears his boss chortle his approval.
He hangs up with that laugh ringing in his ears along with the accompanying threats about what will happen to little Danny if he doesn't find an in with Senator Hagen.
Or her staff.
The line is long and it takes awhile and that's how he knows Amy's trying to hide from him. She doesn't say anything even though she's right behind him and there's no way she hasn't noticed.
"A black coffee," he tells the cashier as the man swipes his credit card and tries to hand it back. He shakes his head.
"Keep it. I'm paying for hers too."
He turns around to see Amy, half cringing, half glaring at him.
"Consider it my apology. A drink for a drink."
"Oh, do I get to pour my coffee on you after?" She raises an eyebrow, still with the phone against her ear, someone yammering on oblivious on the other end.
Behind her the other people in line are getting restless, annoyed. The cashier clears his throat.
Amy grins suddenly. He doesn't like the look of that grin.
He also likes it way, way too much.
"Hey Sue," she says into the phone, stepping around him, "What kind of coffee do you drink? Yeah, yeah, Bruce too. Sure, ask Sheila," she glances at him, "ask everyone in the office. My treat."
By the time she's done ordering they have to rig up takeout cases in bags for her, just so she can carry everything.
"So, I guess we're even now?" He examines the receipt that smirking, douchebag teenaged cashier handed to him (unsolicited) and wonders how he can be so pissed off and turned on at the same time.
She glances at him over her shoulder. He thinks he detects a slight hair flip.
"Even?" She looks down at the bags full of coffees and pastries like she wants to laugh, "I'd say I'm pretty far ahead. Wouldn't you?"
She leaves without saying goodbye. He watches her until her form disappears into the crowd crossing the street at the corner.
He decides its money well spent.
When she reaches the crosswalk she looks back.
3)
"…and this is my boyfriend, Dan Egan."
Her hand is in his before he even sees her, handshake firmer than he expects until he raises his eyes and sees who it is.
"My sympathies," Amy replies to his "girlfriend" (they're going to have a talk about that later. And by later, he means after her boss publicly endorses his policy paper) crooked smile in place, eyes never leaving his.
"Pleasure to see you again Amy," he shakes her hand a little longer than he needs to. His "girlfriend" narrows her eyes.
"Wish I could say the same," Amy tells him. She still hasn't looked away. He's still shaking her hand.
His "girlfriend" coughs. Neither of them look up.
"Dance with me," he says. It's an impulse but it's not and he half expects a slap but Amy just grins like she's glad he cut the crap and just got to it already. Or maybe he's projecting.
He doesn't let go of her hand, just tugs her gently behind him towards the dance floor.
"I guess I'll just wait here then!" His "girlfriend" calls huffily.
"Thanks," he winks as they pass. She turns red, mouths silently with rage. As he twirls Amy into position he sees her giving them both the finger before stomping out of the room.
Well. Guess they won't need to talk about the "girlfriend" thing after all.
"Do you need me to lead? Or do you want me to step up on your toes?"
He looks down at Amy. Her words have a bite to them but she's looking up through her eyelashes, silk dripping delectably over every curve, warm in his arms and smelling like something a little too exotic and dangerous for D.C.
He wonders if she knew he was coming.
"Is this the dress I ruined?" He runs a hand down her side. Admiring the fabric. Obviously.
"No." He smirks at the way her voice shakes a little, the way she tries to hide it.
"This one's more expensive. Better," she murmurs and he knows the tone of her voice, knows exactly what it means when a woman's words deepen that way, "try not to spill anything on it, okay?"
"Oh I won't," he whispers in her ear, feels her breath catch as he leans close, nose barely brushing against the sensitive skin of her neck, "There's more than one way to ruin a dress."
The song begins before she can respond and they're off. Beneath him Amy shifts, responding to the slightest pressure, swift and graceful on her feet. But she's pushing back a little too. He can feel the pressure, not enough to change the steps or lose the rhythm, just enough to keep him off-balance.
He pulls her closer. She twirls away.
He looks at her and she looks back and it's a little while before he realizes the song has ended.
4)
This time, the moment he opens his eyes he's expecting to see her.
He's never hated the sight of an empty pillow quite so much.
It's a weird reversal. Usually, waking up to an empty bed is like a Christmas come early. Not that he cares much about awkward morning afters and hurt feelings—that sort of thing requires having feelings in the first place—still it's always like a present he wasn't expecting when he doesn't have to waste the breath. Except this morning.
This morning, the present is waiting in the kitchen.
He chooses to ignore the little explosion he feels in his stomach when he sees a blonde head bobbing up and down over his coffee maker wearing only his t-shirt. When he can't ignore it anymore he decides its indigestion.
"Of course you would have some pretentious, space age coffee maker that costs more than my car and spits out mud that tastes like black death when I'd bet a year of my salary you only drink mochachinos from the shop on the corner."
"Pay up. I only drink skinny vanilla lattes from the shop on the corner. Gotta be able to fit into those suits," he says lightly as he slides into a seat at the counter across from her.
"Don't get too excited. I make shit money, just like you."
He's absurdly happy.
Because she brought up work. And that makes this all so much easier on him. That's why he's smiling so wide and feeling so light and making himself late for the meeting by lingering in his kitchen chatting about bad coffee.
Obviously.
"I guess that Hagen is a real tight-ass huh? She has that reputation."
Amy hums noncommittally, still focusing on the coffee maker.
"What is it like, working for her?" He asks, trying to make the question sound absentminded, which works mostly because the hem of his shirt is riding up her thigh and ninety percent of his attention is trying to wrest his thoughts away from that inch of bare skin.
"You work for a senator. You know what it's like," she responds as she moves over to search his cabinets for food.
"Yeah but what's Hagen like. I mean, where does she stand on…I don't know, say…cap and trade agreements?"
He feels it more than sees it when she stops, one foot still extended to try and reach the cereal on the top shelf. It looks uncomfortable. He's about to say something when suddenly it's like she unfreezes, swiveling around and leaving the kitchen without another word.
It doesn't occur to him to follow her until he hears the front door slam shut.
5)
The last time he sees her, before Selina Meyer, and the veep, and the presidency, and a hundred sweaty back rooms and cramped campaign busses and the crowning jewel of both their careers—the last time she looks just the same as the first time.
Crazy-eyed, sleep-deprived, and like she wants to rip his throat out.
Only…that's not what it feels like she's doing, when she goes for his throat.
His mind kind of blanks out as soon as he feels her tongue pressed against his skin and then he's stumbling back through his door. Vaguely he hears the door swing shut and their clumsy footsteps across his foyer and feels his back slamming into the wall, but the only thing he really registers is Amy.
Amy in his apartment, Amy in his hands, Amy on his lips, Amy, Amy, Amy.
It turns sweaty, and hazy, and god damn it all it feels good, and maybe even a little bit mean, but this time she is definitely—definitely—looking at him.
It isn't until it's over that he realizes they never left the living room.
She speaks first.
"You know what sounds good right now?" She asks his ceiling. He doesn't answer, just waits for her to finish her thought. He's a lot more interested in catching his breath right now.
Her head lolls to the side and she gives him that smile, one corner of her mouth quirked up, and suddenly breathing doesn't seem so important.
"Ice cream."
By the time he gets back she's moved from up off the floor to his bed and he's not complaining.
And yeah, so maybe he's never gone and gotten ice cream for a girl after sex and he's definitely never let her eat it on his Egyptian cotton sheets but…the vote is tomorrow. He really needs that environmental lobby.
"So about that whole Hagen thing—" He starts as they both dig in their spoons.
"I can't get you the environmental lobby." Amy cuts in. He looks up, startled. Stares as she licks the last of the ice cream off the back of her spoon.
"I—why not?"
He's so surprised all of his subtlety has left him. Amy just goes for another scoop, trying to dig out a piece of brownie from the carton.
"I don't work for Senator Hagen anymore."
His jaw drops. He looks at the ice cream he walked six blocks to get, the small stain of chocolate currently spreading on his pillowcase, and the words just burst out of him.
"And you didn't think to mention that before?!"
Amy shrugs, the faintest glimmer of a smirk, "It didn't come up."
He just sits there, silent, marveling, turned on and pissed off and seriously, seriously, screwed in every definition of the word while she finishes her ice cream bite by bite wondering every second how he, the master, could have been so masterfully played.
He is so fired.
"So, who do you work for now?" he finally ventures, looking for one last angle.
Amy licks the corner of her lips, the ice cream gone.
"You wouldn't know her."