Chapter 6: The Unzippable Zipper
The door opened and a wave of Hillary Clinton's familiar perfume washed over him. Before Scott could say a word, her arms were around his neck, pulling him down into a fierce hug. At six-foot-three he had to bend low, but he wrapped her up just as tightly, smiling against her hair.
"Look at my baby's handsome face… and this body," she murmured, eyes crinkling with delight. She rose on tiptoe and planted a lingering kiss on his cheek.
Scott let her drag him inside, grinning the whole way. He set his suitcase aside while she shut the door behind them. They settled on the living-room sofa and Hillary simply held his hand, beaming like a woman who had waited months for this exact moment.
That level of warmth sent a small warning flag up Scott's spine. He knew this woman better than almost anyone. When Hillary turned on the full charm like this, it usually meant she needed something big — and the only currency she ever asked him for was money.
Their relationship had always carried an undercurrent no outsider would understand. It had started as pure transaction: he was her discreet stress relief, her private escape from the pressures of Arkansas politics and a complicated marriage. But once Scott moved into Hollywood and began turning her quiet influence into serious cash, everything shifted. He became her most reliable way to convert power into wealth without leaving fingerprints. From plaything he had risen to something closer to partner — still junior, but no longer disposable.
Everyone knew the Clintons lived modestly on paper. Their official income was under fifty thousand a year, and legal bills from old Arkansas controversies kept piling up. High office and revolving-door rules meant they couldn't openly cash in. Then Scott appeared.
In Washington and Boston — cities where Hillary spent most of her time — he quietly bought townhouses and filled them with designer clothes, then "rented" them to her at laughably low rates. He funneled long-term consulting contracts through her closest friend's law firm. He even arranged lifetime first-class tickets on American Airlines through perfectly legal channels. Bill's share was never forgotten. The moment Hillary left Arkansas, she traveled like a billionaire.
Scott's own status rose with hers. The real change came in the second half of last year when the press discovered his stock-market windfall and started calling him a self-made multimillionaire. Overnight he became a walking American-dream story, and Hillary's most dependable private bank. From that point on they stood on nearly equal footing. In some rooms his word now carried more weight than hers.
So when she greeted him with this almost clingy affection, Scott knew exactly what it meant. She had a favor to ask, and the price tag would be in seven or eight figures.
To his surprise, Hillary played it patient. She said nothing about Bill or the campaign. Instead she disappeared into the kitchen with Keisha, the Black housekeeper she had hired for the optics, and the two women put together dinner.
When the table was set, the contrast was impossible to miss. Scott's side held a massive grilled beef rib and a platter of sausages — lamb, pork, beef — pure Texas barbecue. Hillary's side was all fried fish, fried pickles, and crisp vegetable salads.
"Who would guess you're from the Natural State when you eat like that?" Hillary teased, spearing a pickle with her fork and raising an eyebrow across the table.
Scott looked up, smiling. "What, looking down on Texans now?"
The moment the words left his mouth, Hillary's face twisted with real disgust. Anger flashed in her eyes and her voice sharpened.
"How can one respect those rednecks? By acting like them? By turning into some Lone-Star fanatic?"
Scott set the rib down and studied her. This was not the cool, calculating woman he knew. "Hill… have you been under too much stress lately?"
She replayed her own words, went pale, and pressed a hand to her temple. "God, I'm sorry. You know how much has been going on. I'm just… rattled."
Scott leaned forward. "Tell me what's really happening with you and Bill."
In his past life he had only followed the headlines: Bill elected in '92, then the later White House scandals. The rest had been background noise drowned out by later presidents. When he first saw the Gennifer Flowers story on CBN a few days ago, he had dismissed it as a minor tabloid flare-up. But the major networks had picked it up and the story was snowballing.
Hillary's face hardened into something close to despair. "It's all Bill's fault — that idiot — and that woman. They've wrecked everything I planned. The party was terrified of Bush after the Gulf War victory. Nobody wanted to run. I told Bill to step up, get some national exposure, even if he lost. It was supposed to be practice."
Her voice dropped, tired and bitter. "Now he's humiliated himself. Forget the presidency; it's not even clear he can win re-election as governor of Arkansas."
"Is it really that bad?" Scott frowned. The Clintons were his shield. Without their rising star he would still be trapped in the foster system or worse. He needed them in the White House so he could become the ultimate insider investor. In his memory Bill had won. Had he missed something, or was this a deliberate hit?
"It's true," she said, voice flat. "That bastard Bill didn't clean up properly afterward. He thought such things were an unspoken rule between the parties — that as long as there were no photos, no one would attack him. But someone paid the person involved to come forward."
She looked up, eyes weary. "I'm not angry about the affair. Ours was never a love match. I needed his charm and his connections; he needed the doors my family and my law career could open. I've had my own… arrangements. What infuriates me is that his stupidity is destroying years of work. Everything I built could turn into a joke."