Free The Burnt Orange Sunrise by David Handler Page A

going to throw some old sweater on over it.”
    “I think you look great in it,” said Mitch.
    “Why, thank you, kind sir.” She treated Mitch to a dainty curtsy. “I like this man, Aaron. I just may have to run off with him.”
    “Sorry, I’m taken,” said Mitch, who was trying to figure out how Carly Cade had ended up married to a mean-spirited weasel like Aaron Ackerman. She was pretty. She was classy. She wasn’t dumb—Aaron had gone out of his way to identify her as a professor.
    “Mitch, you’re probably wondering what a major babe like Carly is doing with a beltway wonk like me,” Aaron said, gazing through Mitch.
    “Not a chance,” Mitch smiled, sipping his beer.
    “Believe me, everyone in Washington does,” Aaron assured him, his tone suggesting that the subject of their marriage was Topic Number 1 wherever people of power and influence gathered. Senators, cabinet secretaries, Supreme Court justices—they all talked about Aaron Ackerman and his comely blond wife. “They call us thebeauty and the beast. You can guess which one I am. All I can say on my own behalf is that I’m the luckiest schnook in town.”
    “And don’t you forget it, Acky,” Carly said tartly, tossing her blond head. “It’s like I always tell people, Mitch. I believe in equal opportunity. I’ve already been married to two handsome, athletic men with impeccable social skills. Now it’s Aaron’s turn.”
    “He
doesn’t
need to hear about your other marriages,” Aaron grumbled at her peevishly.
    She held her empty martini glass out to him. “Acky, will you get me a refill?”
    He snatched it from her and took it to the bar, where Les did the honors.
    “So how did you two meet, Professor?” Mitch asked her.
    “God, don’t call me
that.
Every time I hear the P-word I think of some old hag with a mustache and a hump. Make it Carly, okay? I was up in D.C. for a symposium on U.S. global hegemony at the American Enterprise Institute. I live in Charlottesville, teach modern political history at Mary Baldwin College over in Staunton. Anyway, the two of us were seated next to each other. I knew Aaron’s work, of course. We started talking, and I ended up inviting him down as a guest lecturer. After that, he just swept me off my feet.”
    “Translation: I got into her sweet little pants my first night there,” Aaron boasted, returning with her refill.
    “Acky, he really doesn’t need to know that.”
    “You told him I swept you off of your feet. I was merely elaborating.
    “You were not. You were being disgusting.”
    Over at the tavern table, the young man from Panorama was still negotiating on his cell phone: “I understand you perfectly—
Quentin
wants a limo. I’m just a little taken aback, because
Oliver
has already agreed to a town car. His people don’t want to make this into a big glitzy deal. This is
not
the damned Golden Globes. Those were Oliver’s exact words.”
    His companion bit her lip as she continued to labor at her laptop.
    “Feel like a game of eight-ball, Mitch?” Aaron asked, blinking at the vintage pool table.
    “You’re on.”
    Les racked the balls for them while Mitch and Aaron chose cue sticks from the rack mounted on the wall.
    “How about a small wager just to make it interesting? Say, a hundred dollars?”
    “Let’s make it ten,” Mitch countered. “So there won’t be any hard feelings.”
    Aaron let out a derisive snort. “What are you, short on nerve?”
    “Acky, he’s
trying
to be a gentleman.”
    “Really? I never realized that ‘gentleman’ was synonymous with ‘wimp.’”
    “Actually, why don’t we make it five?”
    “What
is
your problem?” Aaron demanded.
    “He’s trying to spare your feelings, if you ask me,” Les said.
    “I don’t recall asking you,” Aaron snapped.
    “Why don’t you break, Aaron?” Mitch offered, chalking his cue.
    “Don’t you want to flip a coin or some such thing?”
    “That’s okay. Go right ahead.”
    “Suit yourself.