Chapter Seven

Erik hadn't remembered the last time a Monday had been so long. By the time it finally reached one o'clock it may have well been one year later. His usual interests were turning into annoyances and he snapped at a few of his staff that day, finally deciding to tell them not to bother him unless it was an emergency. It was a gesture more for their sanity than his.

On a private search, he continued his look into this young woman's life. Even from all his resources, he found nothing to mark her record. She had massively slipped through any cracks she could find. There were no videos of her and hardly any pictures. It appeared that she, like him, had somehow missed the digital age of Facebook, Twitter, or even blogs.

Photos under her name showed women he did not recognize. Finally, he typed in Charles Gallagher and a few old pictures popped up of a man holding a violin. This man had kind eyes, wrinkles, and wore a cheap black suit that he appeared to be taking great care of. He was seen in different reception halls of both high and low-quality functions. It was in one of these pictures that a blonde haired girl stood just beside him and appeared to be mid-note in the word of a song. Her eyes were closed and she seemed to smile straight into the music.

It became clear to Erik that the girl in this picture and the woman he had met were now two very different women. Something had happened to break her and it clearly had destroyed her. Another picture showed the girl and Charles playing the piano together at another function. They looked into each other's eyes with so much heartfelt emotion that it might as well have been an advertisement for love itself. Those eyes were dead now, he figured that the light in her eyes had died with her father's very soul.

Erik admitted he had never known such emotions. At a low point, a past component accused him of having no feelings whatsoever. Of course, that only made the man look more powerless to have to result to points that had nothing to do with politics. Still, the American millennial generation seemed to care about such things and they would, somehow, be the ones that would rule the country one day. God, that was terrifying. When the decision between an electoral candidate and whether to get a Pumpkin Spice Lotte had the same weight, there was surely something wrong with the world.

Nonetheless, Erik couldn't let any of this distract him any further. There was work that needed to be done regardless of whether the thought of having Christine Gallagher alone with him that evening made his heart beat faster than it ever had in years.

VII

Meg sat with a pink pin sticking out from her mouth as she read the online comments from her newly published article. The words "gossip column" came up more than once and she was waiting for her boss to talk to her. This was not how she wanted things to go. Up until this point, she was in charge of meeting interesting people and having way too much fun doing it. She was only doing what she knew and so far the public hated it.

This new position already wasn't sitting well.

Have you read it yet? she had texted Christine an hour before.

Finally, her phone had buzzed, I like it a lot! How did you figure out how to get such personal stories from people? That's a talent!

So…you don't think it sounds like a gossip column?

There was a slight pause between texts which made Meg take the pen out and start tapping it on her desk.

I think it's just different from what they're used to. You're a good writer, Meg! Don't worry so much about it ;)

Thanks :)

As wonderful as it was to have Christine as a friend and as intelligent as she was, reporting was not her world. Things could get cut throat if she wasn't careful and missing the point of an assignment could be crucial. Meg took a nervous breath and let it out, only hoping that this wouldn't be as bad as her mind brought it to be in her head.

She thought about her time at the Harold, about how she didn't really like her boss, how she believed that personal relays could add to the facts and how the paper wasn't too crazy about that. This job had been a god send straight out of college even if it had landed her in a city as out of the ordinary as D.C. Two taps on the door.

It would be the chief editor. Him coming two hours before the end of the official day was a good thing. He only let people go in the last thirty minutes. This meant she would be given a lecture and a new story. She could handle that. Christmas was in four days and she got the day off this year. That would be nice.

VII

To say that she hadn't researched what his house looked like on Google Maps a few hours prior would be a lie. There wasn't anything that had appeared to had changed, not even the growth of the trees. The house itself was larger than the houses nearby. Still only two stories, it had dark windows on its sides, a black iron fence around a simple, but manicured yard, and a driveway on the side opposite of the street. It was a brick house, painted a deep navy blue, and otherwise did not stand out whatsoever from the houses. Olive trees lined the fence in the back yard, oak trees filled and concealed the yard and windows in the front. This house may have easily been older than those around it. Christine wondered how long it was his considering that when he first started in congress this neighborhood would not have been remotely safe for someone such as him to live in. Now however, it was fine enough.

A black framed solid oak door stood ominously before her past the brick walkway. In comparison to the lightly painted homes nearby with smaller foliage, this house would easily be hidden unless one was looking for it, yet there it was, waiting just for her to enter. A chill that couldn't be attributed to the cold night ran through her body.

Despite the snow that was beginning to fall, the cold that was surely turning her nose red, and the fact that her presence outside of this house might look very strange if anyone were to notice her, she stood out on the side walk for a long time just staring at the normal house. The buzz of her phone brought her back to life. It was a reminder that she had an appointment with "EU" in ten minutes. Should she go in early? She was always prompt for meetings, but should she be prompt for this?

From the outside, it appeared as if all of the lights were out and she wondered if anyone was home. In other houses near by it was obvious where people were even if a curtain had been drawn. What if she had the wrong house? She checked the notice from her phone and looked up to the address number near the door. It was the same. So long as he had told her the correct address, she was at the right place.

What if he had forgotten? What if this were not important to him whatsoever? Who was she to think that he really had time to give to her? He was such a busy person! She thought about going home. She seriously considered going home. Was it possible to ignore a person forever? To pretend they were invisible until they moved on with a life somewhere away from her? She would have to move away from Washington. She couldn't show her face again. She'd have to break up with Raoul too and she was so bad a getting into conflicts with others.

She hadn't noticed the front door open and the voice that came from it nearly scared her to death.

"I would prefer it if you stopped bringing suspicious attention to my home." Erik Underwood curtly said.

Her mouth opened slightly, but no words were coming through the dry air.

"Will you be coming in or leaving? My offer closes with this door."

"No, I'm coming," She piped up.

"Then come in before I let more cold into my house."

Christine's eyes widened for a second before pointing her head down and pressing forward down his brick pathway to his house. He had been holding the door open for her and once she was through the arch, the door closed without him having to push it. For a moment she took in her surroundings. She was in a gray hallway and there were stairs before her that curved to the right once reaching the next level. The floor was made of long rich and thick wood panels. A kitchen was beyond the stairs, what looked like a living room was before her just past the door, and there was a light coming from an open room behind her, but she didn't want to take the time to turn away from him.

For a moment, the two simply stared at each other in the dimly lit hallway. Christine was completely unsure of how to proceed. Should she take off her coat? Leave it on? Take her purse off of her arms? What? Eventually, she just broke the eye contact and looked slightly past him into a modern and sleek living room comprised of light grays, whites, and black leather furniture.

"There are hangers for your coat and purse behind you." He motioned to them with his eyes and she turned. to see metal prongs emitting from the wall. When he spoke again, she turned back to him, "I have a fire lit in the Study. We will discuss there." She turned to where the flickering light was coming from behind her. Before being able to make any assessments, he moved past her and spat, "No more standing in my hall!"

Christine shed her coat as quickly as she could while still being efficient enough to not feel even more awkward. After hanging her purse first and her coat over top of it, she followed him into the Study. This room was nothing like the modern room she had seen on the opposite side. This room was completely covered in sleek wood with inlets for books that covered the three walls before her from floor to ceiling except for the window that showed the small yard out front. On the inside wall was a very large fireplace made of black marble that shined even brighter from the well kept fire inside. Under the window was a large black leather couch where thick suede curtains hung proudly behind it. On the farthest side was a big black desk with a matching chair behind it, and in front of the fire was a large black leather arm chair what looked far more used than the couch. A few books sat on a small table beside it.

"Not what you were expecting?" His voice distracted her and she found him with a hand over the back of the arm chair.

"No, I, well, I wasn't expecting anything really."

He looked around the room, "This was the only room in the entire house that I didn't have to completely remodel due to decay left by the previous tenants. The classless people must have seen no use for a library, whereas, I do."

There was a part of her that wanted to give him a compliment on the room, part of her that wanted to express that she appreciated the classic taste, but no words came from her. Instead, she let her eyes naturally drift to the fire.

"I prefer customary heat." He continued, "I designed the house to embrace the heat from the fire place. Even if I am of wealth, I choose to not let the parasites at PEPCO have me."

Christine recounted the days over the past summer where she went without air conditioning from the bills getting too high and thought how strange it was for a millionaire to have the same annoyances. Her facial expression must have changed for he continued.

"You cannot honestly tell me that they're after money from those of less income. They survive off of the wealthy in this city pumping outrageously different temperatures from the outside into their town home mansions. The poor are more of a collection of allowances in comparison."

"I never thought about it that way." She commented, still looking into the flames.

He moved forward to look at a large painting that hung right over the mantel. His interest in it drew her to it as well.

"Do you have interests in art, Ms. Gallagher?"

It was the first time he had said her name. The words once again flowed over his tongue like a pleasant song and she wanted to hear him say it again, only to understand if such pleasant tones could be possible twice in only a few moments.

"I think I've seen this one before." She recalled seeing a painting of men on horses that were ready to run into the early morning. It was the musky coloring that stood out to her and she peered into it trying to remember.

"Do you frequent the museums?" he further implored.

"When I can. Did you lend this piece to one of them?"

"No," he answered simply, "This is the original and a very well made copy hangs in the National Portrait Gallery. This happens sometimes, you see. Most people can never tell the difference unless they are an expert. Many unknown and relatively unoriginal artists can support themselves by making copies of other works. This original, titled Fired On by turn-of-the-century artist Frederic Remington, was expertly copied by a relatively unknown painter in Cincinnati. "

Christine looked at the horses and men who were taken from an old western scene as they prepared to turn and flee. There was such clear and unrepressed fear in the eyes of these beings and even the dawn was not being depicted in any sort of hopeful way. Taking a step back from it, she changed her sightline back to him. His white mask also seemed to shine in the fire as the marble did.

"Why this painting for your study?" she asked forwardly, feeling like such a painting would bring her grief in a work setting.

"You don't find such expressions inspirational, Ms. Gallagher?" he asked with a smirk.

Christine looked at him for a moment and thought she saw a light flicker of humor behind his slightly different colored eyes. Turning away from him and back to the painting, she said quietly, "There is so much fear. Even the horses are scared. I would want to work next to something that represented strength and hope. Otherwise, what would keep me from feeling as if I were ready to run as well?"

He didn't move, "I prefer looking into what I never want to be, rather than looking into a societal expectation. Emotions will come and go and I would rather be out here than in this picture."

She wasn't sure if he was insulting her on this, but finished in saying, "That's a very deep perspective, Dr. Underwood. An answer I would imagine coming from someone with a degree in psychology."

Erik seemed to chuckle half-heartedly to himself. He motioned to the couch behind her, "Sit, please."

Turning slowly, she did as he requested and immediately began to feel a pit of nerves grow in her stomach. When she looked up again, the feeling she had of him watching her closely was justified by the sight of his eyes upon her. He was standing next to the arm chair again, sliding his hand along the top of the back, then slowly taking a seat and lacing his hands over his otherwise open-appearing body language.

"As much as I would enjoy speaking on the subject of art further, I feel our conversation deserves a turn in another direction."

He seemed to wait a long time and Christine responded out of anticipation, "I'm listening."

"Good. You will listen. But first, inform me, exactly how much do you know about me, Ms. Gallagher?"

VII

Erik had been waiting by his window an hour before eight-thirty had come. There was a long thin couch that sat right at the window of his Study that was hardly used as he preferred his arm chair in the center of the room. The seat wasn't comfortable to him and he didn't like being so close to the outside, but he had to see her approach. He wanted to see if she had changed somehow, if he had been wrong and would need to decide to throw her away before entering.

It had begun to snow. The weather reports were calling for a storm to hit Washington straight on in the early hours of the morning. He wondered how she would approach. Would she be in a taxi, maybe? Or perhaps she would be taking the bus from somewhere else in the city. Practically speaking, she lived less than a mile away from him. There was something warming in him to know how close she was to him.

Around eight o'clock Erik began to realize how cold it may seem to a normal person. He quickly made a fire. It immediately began to blaze and warmth began to fill the room. There was a part of him that stared into the blaze that somehow hoped this ancient form of warmth would be pleasing to her. It was easy for him to forget things like touch and temperature changes. Such humanistic weaknesses were not of interest to him.

Back at the window, he recalled a clock chiming the third quarter of the hour from the kitchen. As if cued, a skinny young woman with a pale complexion walked slowly to the gate in front of his house. She was wearing a navy blue pea coat with a big black scarf and matching black mittens. The woman looked down and pulled a phone from her pocket. Erik could see snow sticking to her hair that shined gold in the street lights. She looked up and squinted. She was checking the address of his house, looking back at her phone, then looking up again. For a few minutes, she looked all around, as if trying to take in something that mattered.

The minutes ticked by and Erik became flustered. There was nothing interesting going on out there, so why wouldn't she simply walk up to the door? Was she so confused on how to match numbers to numbers that she had to think so hard? She was going to make the neighbors start wondering things. There could be no more of that and when he opened the door he was almost surprised that it didn't come off its hinges.

Some words were exchanged, but she was quickly inside. She looked around for a few moments, not in a prying way, but something more out of interest. He watched her and realized a bit too late that their focus had become shared on each other. She turned away, he offered for her to hang up her belongings and join him in the study.

She was taking longer than he would have liked and when she finally stepped into the room with him, time seemed to slow for him again, this time in his favor. She was wearing a light gray v-neck sweater over black slacks. A gold locket hung from neck and she fiddled with it compulsively in a nervous way. Her eyes traveled his study, finally stopping on him and he began to press her lightly for information on her thoughts. When things began to move in a casual direction that wasn't exactly what he desired, he had her sit before him.

"Inform me, how much, exactly, do you know about me, Ms. Gallagher?"

The young woman froze before him and his curiosity grew as to how she would react in comparison to other subjects he had cornered in the past. No, this was different. He didn't want her to feel forced to be with him. He had forced the attentions mercilessly from countless people of different statures in the past. This girl was clearly afraid of everything, perhaps even herself, but for some reason that he couldn't place, he didn't want her to fear him. It was something in her eyes, something beyond the clear blue that others were not able to see. There was more in her than she would let show and that was of interest to him. It was like cracking a shell without breaking the nut, delicate, yet done with the right amount of force.

"I…" She started and soon looked away from him to the floor, "I guess I know as much as anyone else would."

"Not necessarily. I'm sure that if you were to go to Eastern Market on any clear weathered Saturday that hardly half have even heard my name. Or perhaps you have schooled yourself more than that? I have to force Raoul to do such homework for he is a lazy child. Are you a child, Ms. Gallagher?"

The young woman made a face as if insulted and quickly answered, "Okay, I know more than the average person then. You're a politician, a whip for the democratic party in the house of representatives. Someone who keeps to themselves, but goes to functions when necessary. You were rumored to be the next Secretary of State, but aren't. And I know you're an orphan. That's what I know."

The flicker of fire in her answer was intriguing. She had done her research and he ruled her out from being a fool. Still, it wasn't enough to earn outright respect.

"Wikipedia is a useful resource, I've been told. Wouldn't you think so, Ms. Gallagher?"

"I wasn't given a lot of time before our meeting," she spoke through her teeth.

Erik shrugged, and leaned his weight against the arm of the chair behind him, "Your knowledge is adequate enough."

"Have you found anything on me? If you are considered under the radar, I must be invisible." She said this casually, but the way her voice shook told further truth.

"Not when one has the right resources." He leaned forward as if this were some secret, "It helps that I represent your birth state."

If bricks had been near by, he was sure that she would have attempted to build a literal wall right there and he was prepared to take each brick that she put between them. A little of the red color she had collected from the cold outside was fading from her cheeks and leaving even paler white skin as it went.

"What all do you know?" She spoke just above a whisper. She was tense, perhaps terrified about something, trying to hide something.

"Surprisingly, not that much." He said that in hopes she would relax, however, she did not, her shoulders remained just as knit, "You are correct in your invisible abilities. I know you are twenty-five, that you have been without a legal parent since you were sixteen. Your grades were above average, though you never embraced a serious path. You stayed in Annapolis some time, then Baltimore, but soon disappeared. When you reappeared you were working for Raoul Peters as a paper pusher and now you're the head of his office within one year. I bet you were thinking you found your calling, didn't you?"

Her eyes had narrowed. She was angry about something. This was all public knowledge if people did the right amount of research, he simply had an easier route of obtaining the information.

"It's not a 'calling.'" She clipped, "It's a job."

"How exciting," He rose his visible eyebrow.

"What's the point of this? I didn't come here to have my past brought up and be insulted for it."

"And wouldn't it be pleasant to never be accused of paper pushing, or even to take a step farther, to never be accused of sleeping your way to being head paper pusher?"

She stood, "Is this part of that disgusting deal you have with Raoul? Is that it? I don't see what you want with me except to try and break him. But the fact is, I need to keep my job and if I know one thing about you it's that your a politician and politicians are untrustworthy at best!"

"You say this from personal experience." It was not a question.

She breathed heavily and didn't lose their eye contact for a second, "You're right. Raoul can be very childish, or really, he never wanted to leave the fraternity. But for now, I need to keep my job and my house. It's not much, but I'm not going back. And it wasn't always like this either. You already know too much. I don't want to let you in on anymore just because I can't talk circles like you can."

Ms. Gallagher made a move to leave, but he stopped her by taking a single step, "What if I gave you an option outside of the office?"

Turning back to him she snarled, "I don't do under the table deals."

"But it's a tempting one, I assure you." He stood and went back to the mantel, touching the frame of the painting with a few fingers before looking back at her, "You say you do not want to go back, how about a step forward? He may be wealthy, but what I offer is more than financial security."

"What?" She snapped, hardly turning around. He realized he need to reel her back in.

"I will give you life back, Ms. Gallagher. What is more valuable than a life?"

He could tell that his words were affecting her, but he couldn't tell in what way. She spoke slowly, "Life is survival." He wished to continue, but she asked instead, "Isn't it?"

Erik's eyes turned to the painting before him, "Life, my dear Ms. Gallagher, is avoiding this." His mismatched eyes returned to the inquisitive young woman before him. She who stood and swayed with her arms heavy by her sides. "Clearly, you haven't been. What's worse is you can't honestly even consider yourself riding your own animal. It appears to me that you are the one being driven and you are just as afraid."

The woman's eyes flashed to the fire and her body turned toward it to feel the heat. One of her hands went up to hold her other arm. Shadows danced over the curves of her hardened face. "Are you going to tell me that my hardship has been small compared to others? That children in Africa are starving or something? In your metaphor, I have no money for my own horse."

"I see no point in the association to starvation in third world nations. They were granted the life they are bound in whereas you have a chance to be unbound. My question lies with whether you will take this opportunity or not."

Her eyes slowly dropped to the flames and her face was blank before him. Fear was not radiating towards him, there was an impression that he couldn't place. Brokenness? But a brokenness that held clear thought and meaning. What was it about her that was so interesting to him? She was so easily lost to the rest of the world, so easily trampled and forgotten…but he could not forget this. This had never happened before with anyone, he had never cared.

"When you say opportunity," she quietly said, her voice nearly being lost in the crackling flames, "What exactly do you mean?"

"Would you care to sit back down, Ms. Gallagher?" He motioned to the couch again with a sweeping hand, "And I'm afraid I have not been a good host." He was back at his desk going into the compartment that held drinks and glasses. He took out two wine glasses. "Perhaps you would appreciate a drink as well?"

Ms. Gallagher was still holding her elbow with her opposite hand, "I don't want you to think that…" There was shame, possibly embarrassment about her, but she looked straight to him defensively, "I don't drink often. I really don't, it's rare. Raoul drinks….a lot. Probably too much. I don't. I hardly see my friend because we're so busy and I should have turned my phone off."

"Yes," He began to pour both of them a glass of rich colored red wine and she winced, "The journalist, correct? Normally I would say such flights around a room that the person would clearly be desperate of social advancement, but I admit the way she worked for a story was impressive, even if it was ultimately gossip."

Ms. Gallagher made an uncertain face as Erik walked to her with a glass held out in front of the flames.

"Consider this a social drink, then." He held it out to her for a very long time, waiting until she took it and not allowing her to say anything else. She stared at the liquid, not bringing it to her lips. He wanted her to drink, wanted to see her reaction to his tastes and so he continued, looking at his own glass, yet keeping her in his sight line, "This wine can only be made from a rare grape that only grows on the side of a mountain in Chile. Incredibly rare and takes twenty-four years to ferment before it's sold. You can smell the trees that surround the mountain side within the it."

Following his cue, she lifted the glass and inhaled. She was like prey to him, but not the kind that he wished to kill. It was like watching something from outside of an enclosure and all he could do was try to channel enough combined energy between them to have her see him from beyond the reflection of the glass. His thoughts to control her actions came alive before him as she slowly lifted the glass to her lips and drank. Something about her. There was something about her that begged to be observed.

"What do you think?" He all but purred.

The young woman looked up to him suddenly, as if scared, then her eyes showed skepticism. He covered himself by turning away, walking back to his desk, and leaning on it to appear far more at ease than he actually was. Dropping the question entirely, he moved on, "I believe I requested that you sit, Ms. Gallagher."

She turned to look at the couch, but stood longer staring past it than moving to it. He followed her gaze, "They're calling for a white Christmas, you know. I assume you celebrate."

Her head turned back to him only slightly, "I used to."

"You don't anymore, then?"

"I was asked to celebrate this year. I might, though I'm not any good at accepting gifts. It seems weird."

"Noble." He sipped his wine and savored it on his tongue before swallowing it.

She moved to sit down on the couch again and finally turned around to him. "What is this about, Dr. Underwood? The subject keeps changing."

"My mistake," He spoke to his wine as he twirled the glass in his hand, "How do you like your employment under Representative Peters?"

Her response was defensive, "I don't see what that has to do with this conversation."

"I'm asking if you had a choice, would you move from your current position to one of more interest?"

"Please get to the point, Dr. Underwood." He could tell her patience was getting very thin and he found it interesting that she didn't appear to be snapping at him out of fear of being cornered, but simply out of impatience. This was different from what he was used to.

"You may be aware of my patronage in the cultural arts both nationally and abroad. In my time outside of politics, I have been directly associated with some of the most successful performance venues and galleries in the country. Regardless of my money being part of this, my consultation is highly sought after. So much so, that it is considered a high and expensive honor to receive my opinion. This is to say, that those of high caliber would agree that there is merit to my knowledge."

The look on her face was very pained. Her hands were very tightly wrapped around the larger part of the wine glass and the liquid remained untouched from her first sip. He recounted that he never got her opinion on whether she liked it or not. There was no certainty for him on the evaluation of whether or not water seemed to be building the corners of her eyes, so he pressed on.

"I offer you greatness. I offer you a chance to hone your talent, to bring it out from where you've kept it for too long." He looked down to this glass of wine, taking in the smell of the grapes before continuing, "And I want you to use your voice only for me."

Their eyes met and there was clear confusion on her face. Her head began to shake back and forth slowly.

"Do not answer so quickly without real reason, Ms. Gallagher."

"I never want to sing again." She said so fast that the words were jumbled. She was trembling.

"You were under that impression only a few days ago. Clearly, something within you can be swayed otherwise."

"I'd rather forget that happened." Her head hung low, "I… need to forget that happened."

"Why?" his ultimate question.

"It's easier not to feel…anything."

Visual of "Fired On" at capitolintent DOT tumblr DOT com. Lots of stuff happening in this chapter :) Don't forget to tell me what you thought!