Seven Months Before the Demonstration
Dena sat behind her desk in the sprawling digs of the Baldwin Foundation in Chicago, located in River North. Her mother, Erica, had spared no expense on the office décor. Sleek cherry furniture was accented by old Pueblo tapestries, polished hardwood floors, and the ubiquitous bright white HVAC pipes that looped around the ceiling. LaSalle Street exec meets hippie Lakeview. Just Dena’s style. Chicago magazine had done a spread on it.
But Dena felt as if she was trapped in a hamster wheel. She never enjoyed the work and disliked coming downtown, preferring to conduct business from her condo in Lincoln Square. Hell, since the election, she’d lost interest in foundation business altogether. At first her plan was to hunker down and wait for the nightmare of an illegitimate president to fade. But then she started ResistanceUSA. Its explosive growth, at ten thousand after only three weeks and now 42,000, was proof she’d tapped into something huge. Her time would be better spent managing and expanding the group. Who knew where it could lead?
But today was a meeting with the foundation accountant, so she’d had to change from shorts to business casual and make her way to the River West building. She absentmindedly flipped her long braid and tried to focus on the documents in front of her, but they didn’t make a lot of sense. Her father had taught her how to read a P&L years earlier, along with the racing form. He laughed when she admitted she wasn’t sure which she liked best.
“The apple don’t fall far from the tree,” he said.
“Doesn’t, Dad. The word is ‘doesn’t.’”
“Who the hell cares, baby?”
She would frown at him in mock annoyance. Back then. Before.
Now her gaze slid to a framed photograph taken five years earlier of them on her father’s sloop on Lake Michigan. She was hoisting the mainsail in her favorite blue bikini. Her father saluted as she did, as if she was raising the American flag. A hot Chicago sun beat down, and puffy white clouds in the distance signaled their approval. The world was good. It was a sweet moment, one of the few they’d shared. She’d thought many times that she should get rid of the photo. She didn’t want the reminder. He was the enemy now.
She turned back to the financials. She didn’t quite grasp things, for example, how cumulative depreciation affected income. Hell, she wasn’t even sure what depreciation was. But Jeffrey would be studying the same documents; he’d catch any anomalies. He was good that way. In fact, she was glad when her brother gave up his acting career and came home to work at the foundation. Even more now that her own interest had waned. He seemed to be making up for lost time.
She spun in her chair and peered out the window. The noontime July sun bounced off the sparkling water of the Chicago River, making everything look dazzlingly clean. Jeffrey’s acting career in LA had been a cover, a carefully constructed lie held close within the family. The truth was Jeffrey had been in prison. He’d majored in opioids, then heroin at Indiana, flunked out, and moved to LA. Half a dozen busts for possession with intent to sell had used up whatever clout came with the Baldwin name, and the family could no longer keep him out of prison. Sentenced to two years in a medium-security facility, Jeffrey had officially become the black sheep of the family, conspicuously expelled and ignored by their father.
The Chicago media had discovered Jeffrey’s crimes, and to this day the family hated the reporter and newspaper that published the story. At the time, the coverage emphasized how wealth and prominence couldn’t shield a “bad seed.” Now, of course, the media was back, this time prowling for stories about Dena’s Resistance activities. She had learned to be cautious.
But their mother never gave up on her son. Erica made the awkward visits to the California state prison in Solano, always optimistic and supportive. She encouraged Jeffrey to get his associate’s degree online. He studied finance and did so well that his last job in the prison before parole was “inventory manager” for the warden, keeping track of the prison’s kitchen and job-training equipment. Kind of a junior bookkeeper, he’d explained in a letter.
The intercom buzzed and snapped Dena back to the present.
She tapped a key on her phone “Yes. Lori?”
“Jeffrey and Iris are here.”
Iris kept the books for the foundation. “Show them in.”
A moment later Iris came in. Petite and blond, she just missed being pretty—a forehead too high, eyes too small, a chin too pointy. Jeffrey followed, his face pinched with worry. They took their time seating themselves in the chairs opposite Dena. Once settled, they glanced at each other. Jeffrey nodded, giving Iris the okay.
Iris cleared her throat. “We have a problem.”
Dena’s cell chirped that night just as she and Curt were drifting off. Dena opened an eye. A doobie lay in an ashtray, two empty bottles of beer flanking it. Behind the bottles lay her cell, its screen flashing.
“Don’t get it,” Curt groaned.
“I have to.” Dena groped for the cell and knocked over one of the bottles. “Shit.” She pulled the phone toward her. “Hello?”
There was silence.
“Hello?”
Nothing.
“I hope you never get sucked off again, you asswipe. Stop calling me.”
The connection dropped. Dena silenced the phone and slammed it back on the bedside table.
Curt rolled over. “Again?”
She grunted.
“That’s the third time this month. You need a new number. Unlisted this time.”
“That doesn’t stop anyone these days.”
He propped his head on an elbow and tried to shrug.
She was quiet for a moment. “But you’re right. It’s time I did something. I’ve had it. I’m going to find out who it is.”
Curt rubbed her back. “You okay?”
“Everyone wants a piece of me.”
“What do you mean?”
She sighed. “Today at the foundation . . .”
“What happened?”
“I can’t go into it. Family business. But I don’t know how much longer I can do two full-time jobs. Every time I turn around, someone wants me to do something for them.”
“Ahh.” He took a lock of her hair and twirled it in his fingers. “But not as much as me.”
She turned onto her side. “Is that right?” She gave him a sly smile.
He took her smile as an invitation and scooted closer. She didn’t resist. He curled his arm around her and began to massage her butt.
She arched toward him and slowly circled her hips.
He lowered his voice to a whisper. “That’s right. Give it to me, Dena.”
She kept rolling her hips, establishing a rhythm that Curt mimicked with pretend thrusts. On their sides, only inches apart, their bodies didn’t touch. But their eyes were locked on each other. Dena’s pulse sped up, and her body tightened, vibrating like a tuning fork. She kept rocking and reached for him. He was hard. She wanted him. Wanted him to take her. To drive everything out of her mind except the feel of him inside her. He clearly felt the same way because he suddenly, violently rolled her onto her back and shoved himself in deep.