Undressed To The Nines: A Thriller Novel (Drew Stirling Book 1) Read online

  CHAPTERS

  Dedication

  Prologue

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  Chapter Twenty-Eight

  Chapter Twenty-Nine

  Chapter Thirty

  Chapter Thirty-One

  Chapter Thirty-Two

  Chapter Thirty-Three

  Chapter Thirty-Four

  Chapter Thirty-Five

  Chapter Thirty-Six

  Chapter Thirty-Seven

  Chapter Thirty-Eight

  Chapter Thirty-Nine

  Chapter Forty

  Chapter Forty-One

  Chapter Forty-Two

  Chapter Forty-Three

  Chapter Forty-Four

  Chapter Forty-Five

  Chapter Forty-Six

  Chapter Forty-Seven

  Chapter Forty-Eight

  Chapter Forty-Nine

  Chapter Fifty

  Chapter Fifty-One

  Chapter Fifty-Two

  Chapter Fifty-Three

  Chapter Fifty-Four

  Chapter Fifty-Five

  Chapter Fifty-Six

  Chapter Fifty-Seven

  Chapter Fifty-Eight

  Chapter Fifty-Nine

  Chapter Sixty

  Chapter Sixty-One

  Epilogue

  New book

  This book is dedicated to those who helped bring it to life:

  Heather S.

  David B.

  Chad, Kristal, & Renee

  Thank you.

  Prologue

  If I had my choice I would kill every reporter in the world, but I am sure we would be getting reports from Hell before breakfast.

  ~ William Tecumseh Sherman

  American journalism has grown into a caste of gossips: puerile, insolent, and nasty. Unfortunately, the market rewards their outlandishness and gets bored paying attention to those with purpose and ethics.

  ~ Cindy Wells

  Brad Novak smelled pine.His hands were duct-taped in front of him, and his legs had been tied with cord that went to a noose around his neck.

  The man who had abducted him from his home was dressed in black. He took a shovel from his car’s trunk and started digging. “I need to know if there are any other copies of your files.”

  Novak had been in bed watching television when this man had surprised him. He’d pointed a gun and demanded access to everything Novak had accumulated on the Genaplat story. Genaplat Technology Labs was ostensibly working on microbiological research for private sector medical purposes. Novak had been trying to uncover evidence that they had actually been working on weaponizing biological agents.

  “You have everything.” He watched him dig a long narrow hole. “Everything I have is on that drive. You watched me transfer everything. There’s nothing else. I swear.”

  The man had forced Novak to open every cloud drive linked to his laptop and delete every account. Then the man destroyed the computer after transferring the story-related files to a thumb drive.

  Nearly two years of work, and it was all there.

  “I need to be sure.”

  The man wiped the sweat from his forehead with a towel. He placed the towel over Novak’s face, and although he was unable to see, he knew what was coming next. He felt water hit the cloth.

  Don’t panic. Don’t panic, it’s just a tactic.

  He panicked.

  Novak could feel the cord tighten around his neck as he began to thrash and twist. He forced himself to quit moving. He didn’t want to cut off his air supply.

  This is just a scare tactic. I’ll make him believe me. Concentrate.

  His abductor continued to pour water. As Novak approached a state of absolute panic, the man removed the towel. Novak gasped for air and the man struck him in the face with a closed fist. Novak started to cry. The man slammed him into a tree and told him that he could continue abusing him all night long if he didn’t feel like he was getting the truth.

  He unsheathed a combat knife and pressed the blade against Novak’s neck. “I’m just doing my job, Novak. Don’t take it personally. My task tonight is to be sure that this story is buried. You can’t just fuck with national security. Too many lives at risk.”

  Novak felt him cut through the cord. He took a deep breath.

  “Is this information anywhere else?”

  “There are no other copies.” Novak answered with complete conviction. He was telling the truth.

  “Okay,” the man said. “I believe you.”

  He sheathed the knife and replaced it with a black automatic.

  “Why?” Novak looked him in the eyes. “I’ll drop the story.”

  The man didn’t believe him and squeezed the trigger.

  CHAPTER ONE

  Sex has become a political metaphor.

  ~ Michael Wolff

  I can’t even smile at a man unless I’m ready to be a bitch or give him my number.

  ~ Drew Stirling

  Drew Stirling hated these events. Spending an entire evening with her parents was always unpleasant, but it really tested her patience having to endure them at a political fundraiser. She always managed to act charmed and interested, her expected role, but an undercurrent of depression had hit as she’d dressed an hour earlier. Being here was worse than the time her parents insisted she accompany a distant cousin to a family wedding. Both occasions had the same tasteless food, bad jokes, and the requirement that she pretend to remember people. She needed a second drink.

  Oh God, why couldn’t I have been on assignment somewhere more pleasant like Somalia?

  She looked around to see if anyone interesting had shown up as she made her entrance.

  Nope.

  She walked towards her parents who were sitting at the main table with the Congressman and several couples she assumed were tonight’s whales. She smiled. She waved across the room to several people who had recognized her. Drew wondered if her father realized he was pimping her. No, the thought would never occur to him. Her father and the Congressman stood as she approached their table.

  “Drew,” Congressman Lance Boyd said. “How pleasant to see you here. How have you been?”

  She smiled at him. She faced her father.

  Peter Stirling leaned in as if to kiss her on the cheek. “You’re late,” he whispered.

  “So wonderful to see you too, Father,” she said. She spoke louder than his whisper had been, and he frowned at her sarcasm while he pulled out her chair. “Hi, Mom,” she said with some sincerity.

  “Sit, honey,” Monica Stirling said. “Your chicken is getting cold.”

  The meal continued. The congressional aides nodded and said, “Yes, sir,” over and over like chickens pecking corn. The Congressman rambled on about his pet projects, how the Democrats were ruining the
country, and how decent Christians and patriotic Americans needed to act. The Party needed to stay strong by voting more, writing more letters to their senators and even to the President. They needed to give more financial support. Always that.

  Drew picked at her chicken. She ate her salad and asked for another drink. Her father held these dinners a couple of times a year. Her mother would call a month before and invite her to go shopping, an unspoken bribe to attend. Drew never needed whatever jewelry, outfit, or three hundred dollar shoes her mom would buy for her, but her mother’s job was to keep up the family front, and Drew always agreed to attend.

  “You look darling tonight,” her mother said to her. She thanked her and returned the compliment. They rarely moved past superficial chat, not even when they were alone, and never when her father was around.

  “Honey,” she said, “I was hoping you’d go with me on Sunday. Pastor is starting a new series on, oh, what is it? Something in the New Testament about the end times. It’ll be fascinating, I’m sure. It’s been so long, Drew, since we’ve gone together. I’m sure you’d find it interesting. The end times, you know? The state of the world.”

  Drew knew exactly how long it had been since she’d attended church — the ninth grade. Her mother never directly asked her to go with her anymore because she had to know the answer would be no. But her mother would express her hope, and Drew listened. Then she’d change the subject.

  Sometimes Drew would say something like, “I’m sure you and Dad will enjoy it,” but she only did that when she was feeling bitter. She knew her father attended about six times a year, much to her mother’s unspoken disappointment. Tonight, she just smiled and told her that she had a prior commitment. Drew changed the subject to celebrity news. A famous couple was getting a divorce.

  There was never an end to the gossipy topics she could bring up: a politician caught cheating, a Hollywood couple getting divorced or getting back together, a famous person getting arrested for a minor crime or capital murder, or someone adopting an African baby or supporting a 5K walk to fund the cure of a rare blood disease nobody could pronounce. Drew couldn’t care less, but it gave her something to talk to her mother about. Discussing other people’s drama became their form of intimacy.

  After dinner, she endured an hour of speeches and a couple slideshows confirming the downward spiral of America. The official event ended after everyone was again reminded that their financial support was all that held the world from falling apart due to the evils of liberalism, terrorism, and the hatred of the One True God.

  Drew had no other plans that evening, so she mingled. Mom would be happy. Less criticism from Dad. Free drinks. She ran into a few fans.

  “Hi, Drew,” said a stranger. “You probably don’t remember me.”

  “Oh, of course,” she smiled. “Wasn’t it Atlanta? What? Two years ago?”

  “You remembered.” The stranger was glowing. “Honey, honey, come here,” the stranger called to her husband. “Meet Drew, an old friend of mine.”

  Drew had hundreds of these old friends. If she pretended to remember them, they’d believe her, or at least keep up the charade for whatever person they were introducing her to. Generally, people would politely allow her to walk away after a moment of being nice, but sometimes Drew would have to resort to making up an excuse to leave. She hoped it wouldn’t come to that now. She really wanted to head to the bar.

  “Honey, this is Drew Stirling, Peter and Monica’s daughter. You recognize her, of course?”

  The stranger’s husband reached out his hand and tried to move his eyes off her cleavage in a way that wasn’t awkward, but he was unsuccessful. “Oh, yes, the commercial. I remember,” he said. He went on to list her resume as if she didn’t know it herself.

  There were a couple of nationally run commercials, the biggest one running during last year’s Super Bowl, and a role on a modeling reality show that she’d come in second on. The bitch that won was in rehab now — not that Drew was happy about it — and it had officially made her the winner. If the show hadn’t been cancelled, she’d have had a spot on this year’s judges’ table.

  And, of course, she’d done the late night television show circuit. Short dresses, lots of leg. Cleavage. Smiles. Prewritten jokes.

  She continued to smile while she withdrew her hand and tried to inconspicuously wipe it free of his sweat. He continued with chatty, meaningless small talk, and Drew could see that his wife now regretted inviting him over.

  After a polite exit, Drew headed towards the bar. Like all attractive blondes, she had an “I can’t stop and talk to you” smile which she employed as she made her way to a bar stool. She sat by herself and ordered a drink. After a couple of sips, she counted down to herself. Twenty, nineteen, eighteen, seventeen, sixteen…

  “Excuse me, aren’t you Peter’s kid?” an awkward chubby man asked. She continued with polite small talk. Middle-aged married men appeared as if she’d walked onto a used car lot. She wondered if somewhere, out of sight, they had a dry erase board with their names on a list. Tonight, so far, none of them were brave enough to come out and admit they’d cheat if they could get away with it, but she knew which ones would. She’d met a few brave ones.

  Thirty minutes passed. She was contemplating whether she’d have another drink here, find the hotel bar, or just head home when she felt a strong hand grasp her right shoulder.

  “Drew?” He spoke into her left ear just above a whisper as he caressed her bare shoulder for an imperceptible moment.

  “Congressman.”

  “Please, call me Lance,” he said. “At least when we’re not in a crowd.”

  “Or around my father.”

  “Yes. Or around your father. How are you?”

  “Bored. Wishing men could think of something original to say.”

  “No boyfriend these days? What happened to—”

  She cut him off. “Long gone. Where’s the wife?”

  “Home.”

  They continued to chat. Powerful men and beautiful young women behaved like magnets, attracting each other and repelling others. It wasn’t long before they’d been alone for twenty minutes. Drew had forgotten they were at an event.

  “Another drink?” he asked. She shook her head just a fraction and looked up. He turned and followed her eyes. Her father was walking towards them. Yet another social sin committed on her part. She knew the speech by heart. He was about to tell her that drinking so much, flirting with married men, and in general, not being like Mom was such a disappointment. He expected her to act like a Stirling and not lower class trash.

  “Congressman, sorry for interrupting,” Peter Stirling said. It wasn’t his first lie of the evening, but it was the most obvious one. “I’d like you to meet the Hendersons. They are new to the team. There they are,” he pointed towards one of his congressional aides, “standing next to Susan.” Congressman Boyd set down his drink, and moving his body between her and her father, he winked at Drew and left without further comment.

  Drew was used to these little speeches her father gave. Be a good Christian. Be well-behaved. Don’t dress so provocatively. She would nod and say she understood.

  “Look, dear, I know you make a good living,” he said. “I don’t care for it, but I accept it. It’s your life. I’m not happy, but you have to be your own person. I can’t help thinking if you’d gone to college, if you’d used your mind instead of your looks, if you’d applied yourself, you wouldn’t be here flirting with a married man, a congressman for God’s sake. You’d be here in proper business attire talking about medicine or law or something respectable.”

  “Modeling isn’t unprofessional, Dad.” She’d given this speech too. “I work hard. I’ve kept my clothes on. Jesus, I exercise like a professional ath—”

  He cut her off. “Don’t swear at me. I mean that. And if you ever pose nude…” He did not finish his threat.

  She knew what the threat was. He’d promised to disown
her. His eyes focused on hers. He whispered, “Sometimes,” but he didn’t finish this sentence either. She knew the thought behind what he was about to say. He’d only said out loud once before that he wished she’d been born a boy, but once was enough to taint a lifetime of arguments.

  You’re such an asshole. Jesus Christ. Why am I here? Fuck.

  Drew walked away without further comment. She found her mother and gave her a hug.

  Poor woman.

  She headed to the exit, but made sure to linger. She wanted it obvious she was leaving and obvious that she wanted the Congressman to know. She noticed him notice.

  “Good night, Drew. Thank you for coming.” The Congressman talked loud enough for it to seem like the opposite of intimate. “Let me walk you to the door.”

  “Thank you,” she said. She smiled at him.

  “Your father wasn’t happy. I’m sorry if I caused any trouble.”

  “Same argument, different scenery. Don’t worry about it.”

  As they walked towards the exit, he touched the back of her arm, slowly moving his fingers down to her elbow. He looked into her eyes as he released his touch. He checked to see that nobody was in hearing distance and quietly asked her if she’d like to meet later for a drink. He paused, then told her he wanted to talk to her about doing some promotional work for his next campaign.

  She noticed he wasn’t shy about hitting on her, but that he left himself a plausible excuse in case she took it the wrong way. She didn’t.

  She handed him her business card.

  “My cell’s on there,” she told him. “I’ll be up late.”

  She felt his touch when he reached for her card. She didn’t release her grasp until she was confident that her body language had communicated, “I’ll take your call.”

  CHAPTER TWO

  ...but she makes hungry

  Where most she satisfies...

  ~ William Shakespeare

  I never wanted to risk being the politician that had to go on television and say, “I did not have sex with that woman,” but there are temptations and then there is Drew. There wasn’t a choice involved.