4. Nash Lincoln

CHAPTER 4

NASH LINCOLN

I was behind the bar stocking wine and beer into the large chest when the hospitality crew showed up, all very eager to dress the room. I was grateful to be working at the party, even though it was a Monday night. I'd take every catering gig I could get over my other job.

I worked as an escort a few times a week—sometimes it involved sex, but it was always at my discretion—and sometimes, it was just acting as a companion for the socially elite men and women who procured my services in the nation's capital.

I preferred bartending a lot more than the escort gig, but the two jobs combined put a roof over my head and food in my gut. It paid for my membership to a gym down the street from my place, and I generally didn't have to be smart or witty because all anyone was interested in was my face and my ass.

The party that night was for a well-known lobbyist, Sean Fitzpatrick. I'd met the man six months ago at another fancy hotel downtown. I was there as the companion of a judge's widow, and part of my job was to allow my client to interact with her friends without my interference. I was patiently waiting on the peripheral of Mrs. Symington's group of friends and enjoying a club soda, when a strong hand touched my shoulder.

I turned to see a gorgeous man with a big grin. He was slighter in build and height than me, but he oozed confidence. "I'm Sean Fitzpatrick. You're quite handsome. Are you here with Georgia Symington?" I would later learn his ego was even bigger.

I nodded and allowed Mr. Fitzpatrick to lead me away from the group a few steps where the two of us talked about nothing in particular. I got the impression he wasn't in Mrs. Symington's circle of friends, but he was eager to be, so during a break in the action, I introduced the two of them.

It turned out that Mrs. Symington was on the trustee's board of a charity from which Sean was seeking support for one of his causes—I was shit with details—and Mrs. Symington was eager to jump on board with whatever Sean wanted.

Sean didn't seem any more comfortable with the guests at the party than me, so we had time to talk and get to know each other. I found him to be much more down-to-earth than I'd initially thought, and I gave him a little background into my life and escort job that I generally didn't share with strangers.

Later that night, Sean slipped me his business card as the party was breaking up. "I host a lot of events around town, and we always have issues finding bartenders who don't steal the liquor. If you're interested, call me. I'll put you in touch with my catering manager, Naomi Chu."

I called him the next week, and an hour after we hung up, I got a call from Miss Chu, a woman I would later come to respect very much. I was grateful to have more jobs as a waiter or bartender, which allowed me to turn down many of the lower paying escort jobs. I owed it all to Sean Fitzpatrick.

"Nash! Delivery!" I turned to see Naomi motioning in my direction.

I quickly closed the coolers and hurried toward the back of the venue, seeing boxes of liquor. "All of this?" I had no idea how big a party on a Monday night could be, but considering it was DC, there was no logical answer.

"Here's the order sheet. Can you do the inventory and sign off for the delivery driver? That means if anything is unaccounted for, you're on the hook—but you know that. I need to go deal with those decorator people."

The expression on her face told me she was pissed, so I took the paper and nodded, going to work. Head down, eyes focused straight ahead.

A young Hispanic guy I'd worked with before named Jorge walked from the back and grinned. "Hey, Nash. I wasn't sure if you'd be working tonight, but I'm glad you are. I almost ditched. The political parties Fitzpatrick hosts are one thing, but personal shit is another."

I chuckled. "What? You don't like the idea of a bunch of gay guys ogling your ass on a Monday night?" Of course, none of my catering coworkers knew I was bisexual, nor did they know what my other job entailed. I was grateful to Fitzpatrick for not fertilizing the grapevine.

"Hey, I'm not homophobic. Some of my buddies from the neighborhood were gay when I was growing up. A lot of the families were funny about it, so many of my friends left as soon as they were old enough, but I still see some of them from time to time."

"What's your beef, then?"

"No, I'm not worried about the ogling. It's the fact nobody tips, man. It's like they think because they're friends with Fitzpatrick, they ain't gotta tip us. I need the extra scratch. My girl told me she wants to get married, and I better be saving for a ring or no more panocha . I gotta have it, two, three times a day, man." Jorge's girlfriend withholding the candy made me want to laugh.

"Yeah, I feel ya. So, are you waiting tables or slingin' drinks?" That damn Texas twang was there in my voice, much to my surprise. Jorge must have heard it too, because he started to laugh and began pointing at me with both index fingers.

"Hey, what can I say? Grew up in southwest Texas, near the border. Creeps in from time to time." I shrugged. I didn't give a shit what anyone thought about me or my accent—or so I kept telling myself. I'd tried damn hard to rid myself of the telltale twang over my adult life. Sometimes it worked, but when I least expected it, it crept back in.

Jorge laughed. "Hey, man, I'm just bustin' on you. I ain't got room to talk. My parents immigrated from Juarez before I was born. I grew up in DC, but my abuela doesn't speak English, so we learned both languages at the same time. Comes in handy in this job. Somebody's an asshole? I pretend I don't speak English, and they usually leave me alone and stomp off, mumbling like a fool."

We both laughed at that one. Avoiding confrontation was a great way to keep my job, or so I'd learned, though, at six foot with a muscular build, I could intimidate my way out of a jam, having learned the technique growing up in foster care around southern Texas.

Jorge and I talked about football as we stocked the bar. He went to get supplies from the kitchen while I cut fruit for the garnish. The decorating crew was in full swing, and everywhere I looked, there was black, silver, and pearly white. There was a banner hung at the front of the room near where a band was setting up, and it read, Happy 40th, Sean! I wasn't sure if the man was going for classy or creepy, but both worked for the occasion.

An hour later, the guests started arriving, and we became invisible. A few of the power players in town I recognized from previous parties and events, where I'd been on the arm of a woman or a man, depending on the type of party and the guest list. Of course, they didn't recognize me because the help was generally faceless and nameless beings in the world of Washington society.

After six months in DC, I wasn't sure if I liked it yet, but I'd been subletting a place from the owner of the escort business, Caroline Bering, of Monumental Promotions, Inc. She was giving me a hell of a deal on the fully furnished apartment she kept in Georgetown, which I truly appreciated.

It was decorated in an eclectic style with lots of flowery, overstuffed chairs and shabby chic tables—or so Caroline told me when she showed me the place and offered it as a sublet. It was comfortable, and if I ever had time for a love life, I'd have a nice place to fuck somebody. As it stood, that was a pipe dream.

I had planned to give the town a year, so the clock was running, and since I had no idea what I wanted to do next, I was biding my time. I'd made a promise not to get involved with anyone until I knew what I wanted out of life. I damn well didn't need any sort of entanglement. I had too much shit to figure out on my own.

I had no skills beyond fucking or mixing drinks, but both got me where I needed to go. No attachments. No regrets. Those were words to live by that I'd learned from my only friend, Clint, who had been my roommate at the group home where I'd been placed until I phased out of the foster system and took control of my future at eighteen. Clint and I took off together, and we had a good time until he went his way, and I went mine. It was a relief to have someone I could trust back then.

I'd been on my own for nine years, traveling the country and finding shit jobs along the way to keep me from starving and sleeping on the ground. I'd been homeless a few times, and I hated it, which prompted me to find new and different ways to make money.

Hustling was something I'd dabbled in after Clint and I separated, finding it provided a decent living, but I had to stick to my guns—no condom, no suck or fuck.

When I arrived in DC with my trade ready to be plied, a woman stopped me outside of the Hamilton Hotel, where I'd stopped to wash up after fucking a businessman in a nearby alley for a hundred bucks—he wanted me in his ass bad because he suffered from low self-esteem. He kept telling me he couldn't believe someone as gorgeous as me would fuck him, and he cried when he jizzed all over the dirty ground behind a dumpster. I felt bad for the guy, but then I decided maybe I was providing a public service. I still laughed at my na?vety.

Anyway, the lady said I was handsome and asked if I'd thought about modeling. As far as I knew, DC wasn't known for its modeling industry, so I suspected there was more to it. Caroline Bering bought me breakfast, and I signed up to be a member of her elite escorts. Fast forward a few months to when I met Sean Fitzpatrick, and that was me in a nutshell. Nothing more, nothing less.

The birthday party was in full swing as people milled around the room while appetizers were being passed. I'd tasted a few as a server with a less than full tray stopped by, and the food was damn good. Jorge was busy flirting with a gorgeous waitress with a big rack, when an equally gorgeous woman and a hot-as-fuck silver fox strolled up to the bar.

I grabbed two beverage napkins and placed them on the bar top. "Good evening. What can I get you to drink? The host's signature cocktail tonight is called an Irish Gold. It's made with Tullamore Dew, peach schnapps, and a hint of orange juice, finished with a splash of ginger ale," I repeated for the hundredth time that night.

I'd tasted it, and it wasn't my cup of tea, but I was a company man when necessary, so I offered it. Surprisingly, the lady stared at me, pointing a sharp nail at a bottle of wine. "I'll have a healthy pour of pinot grigio, and he'll have a double Glenlivet on the rocks." She was not playing around.

I nodded and prepared their drinks. They were a stunning couple, but the guy looked familiar. I hated the feeling I knew someone but couldn't place where or why. I was left with one conclusion—at some point, I might have had sex with him, and seeing his wife gave me an uneasy feeling in my gut.

I didn't run background checks on guys I fucked, or let fuck me on occasion, but I was good with faces. The handsome guy standing at the bar was familiar.

I placed their drinks on the bar, and thankfully, the guy tossed a twenty in the tip jar. I nodded as they left, taking in both of their asses. Not a bad view as far as I was concerned.

The couple went to mingle, but I couldn't help but keep trying to ferret out how I knew the guy. It niggled on my mind, and I was unable to take my eyes off them as they made their way around the room. The two of them seemed to move as one, and it was hypnotizing. I'd never seen a more beautiful man in my life, and the fact he was with an equally gorgeous woman reminded me the fucking universe wasn't always fair.

The night wore on, and between making small talk with Jorge, who kept trying to fix me up with his sister, his cousin, his girlfriend's sister, and even his mother, I was bored out of my skull. There were toasts for Sean Fitzpatrick, and thankfully, only the birthday boy enjoyed the signature cocktail.

When the handsome man I'd been eye stalking returned to the bar without the beautiful woman, I was determined to get to the bottom of why I thought I knew the guy.

"Another Glenlivet, sir?" The guy's hair was dark blond on top with grey at the temples, which made him look like a stock photo.

"I'll have a beer instead."

I held up two bottles, one a domestic and one an import. The man pointed to the domestic, so I opened it and offered him the bottle and a frosted glass. "Thanks," he responded before he lifted the bottle to his full lips, pushing the glass away.

"Can I get a glass of pinot for your wife?" I didn't see her anywhere nearby.

"She's in the ladies' room. Vani had a little too much to drink, so she went to freshen up. It never happens, you know, where she drinks too much, but all the pressure—" He drifted off as he continued to scan the room. It was then that I figured out why he looked familiar. I'd seen his face—and his ass—on the front page of the free paper for months.

He was a United States senator, and he'd gotten caught doing someone who wasn't his beautiful wife. He'd recently lost his re-election bid and had somewhat disappeared from public life. I was surprised he'd show up at such a high-profile event.

"Are you looking for someone?" I studied him closely before I realized he was staring back. I'd been bored, but now I'd found something, or someone, interesting to focus on. At least the man was smoking hot!

"I'm looking for a Judas. You know, you think you know someone, and then one day, you find out they sold you out for a bag of magic beans. I mean, come the fuck on? We've been friends since college, and now? Fucking now he decides to sell me out? The bastard didn't even have the decency to show up tonight so I could confront him like Sean promised."

Senator Blondie seemed to have an axe to grind, and I had no customers, so I ventured into the breach… I thought I wanted to be an actor for a week when I was in New York, so I tried out for a Shakespeare play. Not good at it. Another dream dashed to bits.

"So, your man did you wrong? How?" I quizzed, not meaning anything by the phrase.

"Fucker isn't my man, but he betrayed me. If I find him, I'm gonna beat his ass." Senator Blondie sloshed his beer. Just then, Sean Fitzpatrick came around the corner with the man's wife, who looked as if she'd been waging a war of her own.

Sean escorted the woman up to the bar—holding her upright—and took in the sight of the two of them. "New plan, Nash. I need you to see that the Brady's get somewhere out of sight. The Senator can't afford another scandal."

Brady? The cogs slowly turned and slid into place. I remembered the man's name was Spencer Brady, the junior senator from Virginia. "Oh, this is?—?"

"Yep, and I need you to get them out of here without the press seeing them and causing more problems. I'll get someone else to clean up. I won't forget this." I could see Sean Fitzpatrick was completely serious.

Considering I wanted to get away from being an escort, which meant I'd lose my place to live, I needed cash, so maybe Sean had connections that could get me out of sex work? I couldn't pass up his offer. "Okay, uh, where do they live?" I quickly dried my hands.

"Oh, uh, I don't actually know, but I'll get a suite, and you can take them upstairs and make sure they get to bed. I don't think they sleep together, so I'll make sure it's a two bedroom. I'll be back." Sean rushed across the room toward the lobby, leaving me more than a little confused.

I walked around the bar and looked at the guy, seeing he was still fucking gorgeous, even if his eyes were red, and he wasn't steady on his feet. Of course, I knew all about the bullshit that had happened to the man, but I was sympathetic.

A person should be able to determine when they want to tell others about themselves—their real selves. Nobody had ever asked me about myself, so I'd never said it out loud.

People like Sean Fitzpatrick assumed a lot about me that I didn't bother to correct, but then again, it was my truth, wasn't it? Nobody had any business knowing anything intimate about me unless I chose to tell them.

Sean rushed back with an envelope in his hand. "Get them out of here. The guy who fucked him over—allegedly—just arrived, and with the amount of alcohol they've consumed, it'll be front-page news. Get them anything they want, on me, of course." Sean quickly shoved the envelope into my hands and hurried off to greet a dark-haired man who didn't look happy at all.

I turned to see the couple I'd been assigned were both nearly passed out on their feet, so I steadied the lady and motioned for the man to follow me out through the kitchen to the freight elevator. It had the potential to be a long night.

I woke up to someone puking, but then, it sounded as if it was in stereo, so I hopped up from the fancy, uncomfortable couch and went to one bedroom door and then the other, confirming they were both returning the liquor from the previous night.

Glancing out the sliding doors to the balcony, I noticed the sky was barely beginning to pale, so I went into the full kitchen, checking the clock on the microwave to see it was five in the morning. I grabbed two glasses from the cabinets and filled each with filtered water. There was a gift basket on the counter with packets of hangover remedies, so I retrieved two packages of ibuprofen and went to the room on the left where Mrs. Brady seemed to have finished emptying her stomach.

"Mrs. Brady, I have water and painkillers. May I come in?" I asked quietly. The door opened, and Mrs. Brady offered a sick smile, tightening the complimentary robe around her middle.

"What's your name, young man?" the woman whispered. She seemed classy to me, nothing like the foster moms I'd had when I was going through the system. This woman gave off a kind and gentle vibe, and I immediately liked her.

"I'm Nash, ma'am. I brought you some water and some pain relievers. It's awful early, so why don't you take them and lie back down? I'll order breakfast in a few hours if you tell me what you'd like."

Mrs. Brady grabbed the water and the pills, downing them in a few gulps. "I can't think about food right now. Where's Spencer?" She returned the glass to me.

"The Senator is in the room across the suite."

"Where are you sleeping, Nash, is it?"

I smiled at her kind nature. "I'm on the couch, ma'am. I'm fine."

We both heard a god-awful sound coming from the other room, which made Mrs. Brady laugh. "Oh, Lord, I can't remember the last time we both got shit-faced. Will you take him the water and pills? He's gonna need them."

With that, Mrs. Brady closed the door, and I heard another groan from the opposite side of the suite.

I hurried over and knocked on the door, "Senator Brady, sir, I have water and painkillers. May I come in?" Somewhere along the way, I'd learned some manners that got me by pretty well. If I'd had a mother, I'd have bet she would have been proud.

I heard a grunt and took it to mean it was okay, so I opened the door. The man was standing in his boxers and undershirt, holding a towel up to his mouth. "I, uh, here." I held out the water and the pills, which he took, popping the meds and chugging the water in a few seconds.

"Mrs. Brady went back to bed. It's quite early, so I suggest you do the same. I'll order breakfast in a little while, and then I'll get you out of here without anyone seeing you," I suggested.

"How'd we get up here in the first place, uh, what's your name?" The senator's voice was a whisper, likely from all the vomiting.

"It's Nash, sir."

"Ugh, please, call me Spencer or Spence. How'd we get up here?"

"Mr. Fitzpatrick suggested perhaps you and your wife might be more comfortable in this complimentary suite, and he asked that I escort you and make sure you were both okay. I crashed on the couch in case you needed anything."

"That's, uh, that was kind of you. I'll take it up with Sean but thank you for looking out for us since we both seem to have lost all common sense because of all this bullshit."

The man walked to the bed and sat, planting his elbows on his knees and burying his head into his hands. Never before had I seen a more downtrodden man in my life. What they must have been going through, I could only imagine.