Perky

by Julia Kent

  I toss a pillow at him. He tackles me. His erection presses, hard and urgent, against my upper thigh. The kiss that follows makes it very clear that his mother is right: He's going to be late for that plane.

  “Shower sex,” he murmurs in my ear, then licks my collarbone.

  “What?”

  “Shower sex. We can kill two birds with one stone. Get clean and dirty at the same time.”

  “You have a way with words.”

  “I have to, as a servant of the people.”

  “When we're naked together, you serve only me.”

  “Yes, ma'am.”

  “Before you leave for Texas, I want to give your penis a hug with my vagina.”

  “Isn't that the same as sex?”

  “My way of saying it is so much more intimate.”

  “You sound like a porny Care Bear.”

  “I’m Love-a-Lot Bear.”

  “Thanks for ruining that childhood memory. Whenever I see you naked, I'll be struck with images of Care Bears, and then I'll go soft.”

  “Your mom let you watch Care Bears? Were they all dressed in suits and carrying briefcases? Because I have a hard time imagining Jennifer letting you watch anything other than policy briefings as a kid.”

  “You're bringing up my mother in bed?” He looks under the sheet. “Might as well retire my cock.”

  I take a peek. “Hmmm. Your penis definitely needs a nice, warm, wet hug.”

  As he slides his hand between my legs, one finger slips between already-wet folds and enters me, the sudden sensation making me stretch, long and slow. I feel my blood moving to warm the surface of my skin, swelling the place where a larger, hotter, wetter–

  DING DONG!

  The doorbell startles us both, our mouths banging together as we kiss, teeth knocking against teeth with a painful rattle.

  “Ow!”

  “Ouch!”

  DING DONG! DING DONG!

  “Someone's impatient!” I gape, pressing my fingers against my front teeth, willing the nervy pain away. Shrugging into a shirt and sweatpants, he half-jogs down the stairs. I follow him to the top of the stairs, curious. Smoothing his hair back, he bends down, looks through the peephole, and goes dead still with an abrupt horror I can feel.

  “Who is it?” I call out.

  “My mother.”

  “Crap!”

  He shrugs. “You decent?”

  “Never enough for her.”

  “I meant, are you dressed yet?”

  “Oh! No. Hold on.” I run down to grab my clothes from the living room and put them on. The tag of my shirt scratches the base of my throat. Pulling my arms back out of the sleeves, I spin the shirt around, tugging so hard that I almost garrote myself. Without a bra, my girls are pert and nipples poking like they're trying to escape.

  “Ready,” I call out, zipping my jeans.

  He opens the door.

  Jennifer Tanager Campbell always looks like she's just been freshly made up on a television set, ready to take her seat on a panel of guests to be interviewed. The strong scent of expensive makeup and moisturizer overpowers her perfume. She's foundation in human form.

  And she's scary as hell.

  The second her eyes alight on me, I realize I'm really, really in the wrong place. I expect condescension. I expect irritation. I expect a lot of negative attitudes from Parker's mom, but then she says the unexpected:

  “I came here to speak with Parker, but I suppose it’s fitting to tell this to you, too.”

  “Me?”

  She hesitates for a beat.

  “It's about that photo.”

  I inhale forever, my body unable to stop.

  Parker's eyes narrow. “Which photo?”

  “You know the one.” Her mouth purses with distaste.

  “What about it?” Parker growls. That's the closest word to describe the sound that comes out of him.

  Jennifer flinches.

  “It was you,” I whisper, my voice dropping at the end with an accusation.

  “Yes. I–I had never used a smartphone before! They were so new!”

  A confirmation.

  “This was five years ago, not 1987. Your excuse is invalid,” I snap.

  Parker's face is completely blank. No tight jaw. No flushed face. Not the seething, narrow-eyed anger I would expect.

  His expression is downright deadly in a lawyer.

  Doubly so in an assistant district attorney.

  But in a guy who is all that and a member of the U.S. House of Representatives, that singular look aimed at his mother right now–it's lethal.

  It's sodium pentathol for Jennifer, his unblinking eyes a truth serum that works because of his astonishing lack of emotion. Being stared down by your own son as you admit to leaking a naked picture of his then-girlfriend to the dregs of the internet in a move that could have killed his political career–this has to be her low point, right?

  “I–I...,” she stammers, face aflame, all the anger Parker should be radiating coming off her in a sudden burst. “I thought it would ruin her! Not you!”

  Huh. She just sank even lower.

  One blink. Parker gives her exactly one, open and shut.

  Open and shut case.

  “Who did you send the picture to, Mom?”

  “What?”

  “Who? Who, exactly, did you send that picture to?”

  “I don't remember.”

  “It got onto a gossip website. If you were so inept with technology, I doubt you knew how to FTP it. And the forensic computer scientist I hired after Persephone broke my heart never could figure out who you sent it to. I hired an ex-hacker– ” he makes a scoffing sound. “More like I coerced him. I had some dirt on him, so I used it. Got him to find out who posted the photo. They traced it back to a small gossip site in Macedonia. Someone had used a security vulnerability to hack their way in from the dark web and inject the file. It was clearly professional. Impossible to trace. That means you had help. It didn't magically appear on the internet. And there's no record of an email you forwarded it to, or a phone number you sent the picture to.”

  “You knew she did it?” I gasp, horrified. Jennifer's face has no muscles in it, her skin just a pearly, make-up-covered canvas.

  “Until this moment? No. But I knew I didn't.”

  “But you knew someone sent it somewhere?”

  “When I had my phone analyzed, someone had downloaded and then deleted a Russian dark web app. That's as far as we got. And then it magically appeared on FapMagic.”

  “Right. They were the first to host it,” I say, recalling Fiona's brother's report.

  His head tilts as he looks at me with that same blank expression. “You knew?”

  “My parents hired forensic data specialists, too.”

  “Of course they did,” Jennifer says, a resigned tone to her voice giving my justice-seeking heart a victory.

  “And thank God they did, Mom,” Parker rebukes her. “It's because of Bart and Sofia that the picture was contained. If Persephone's parents hadn't acted swiftly, if they hadn't assembled the best damned legal team possible, if she hadn't copyrighted her own damn nude picture that I took with her phone and that she forwarded to me and then sued for copyright infringement to contain it, my political career would be over. And I would deserve it.”

  “What?” Jennifer gasps. “Of course you wouldn't! Saoirse never meant–” Her palms fly to cover her mouth, horrified eyes pinning Parker in place, her confession setting all my radar to screaming red alert.

  “What the hell did Saoirse have to do with any of this?” he barks, getting right in Jennifer's face, imposingly regal and terrifyingly exacting in his words. She's not weaseling her way out of this one.

  And she knows it.

  For a split second, I admire her. Why? Because she's being honest. Forthright.

  But she could have done this five years ago and saved us so, so much pain.

  Admiration turns to fury.

  Ah. There we go.
I'm back to my comfort zone.

  “She... helped me.”

  Boom.

  Finally.

  After five years, ladies and gentlemen, we get to the truth.

  The skanky seahorse did it.

  “Helped you?” Parker's hands fly up to his head, fingertips digging into his scalp as if he's trying to rake the rage out of his head. “HELPED you? She uploaded that photo from my phone to the secure FTP site? And how in the HELL did you two get your hands on my phone?”

  “I, um, well, Parker,” she stammers. “I don't know what FTP is, but we didn't send anyone flowers.”

  “That's FTD,” I point out helpfully.

  “Answer my other question!”

  Jennifer's lips form a thin line of refusal.

  For a long moment, no one says a word. Then, “Leave.” His arm goes up, finger pointing as he uses his other hand to snap the door open. “Get out, Mom.”

  “But Parker! I...” To my surprise, she turns to me with a begging expression, as if she expects me to intervene, to help her.

  I simply shake my head.

  “I never meant to hurt you!” she rasps through tears, looking at Parker, who won't even glance at her. She finally looks at me. “Or you,” she adds feebly.

  “You are so full of shit, Mom.”

  “Parker!”

  “Get. Out. Now.”

  “Wait,” I blurt out. “Why did you come here and tell Parker now, after all this time?”

  She drops her eyes, two tears splashing directly on the floor. “After Parker made his announcement about that revenge-porn bill, I worried that this could come back to haunt him. I wanted you to be on top of it.”

  “You finally told the truth when my career was on the line. Not when my heart was broken,” he hisses.

  “I–”

  “Leave, Jennifer. Now.”

  To my surprise, she responds to my words. As she steps outside, she calls back, “I never meant to–”

  Parker clicks the door shut, hard.

  We look at each other in silence for a moment. I walk to the foot of the stairs and sit down, all of my strength suddenly gone.

  “It was your mother and Saoirse. You knew all along it wasn’t you, though,” I say finally, my voice filled with a kind of marvel rather than accusation.

  “Of course I knew. I had reports from a forensic data specialist that confirmed I was interviewing a defendant in a maximum security prison when that file was texted to the anonymous website.” His shoulders slump.

  “And you never told me.”

  “Oh, I told you.”

  “No, you didn’t, Parker.”

  “I told you so many times, Persephone! Over and over again! I sent emails. I sent screenshots. I left voicemails. I texted you!”

  Here comes the anger.

  Here comes the anger I deserve.

  “You know what? You’re right.” My eyes seek his. “You’re right. You did. I’m sorry. I’m so sorry. I’m sorry I didn’t listen to you. I’m sorry I didn’t believe you. I’m sorry that whatever stupid story I was telling myself became more important than the truth.”

  My throat is shaking. I didn’t know it could do that, but it’s quaking in front of him. The words are pouring up and out, words I’ve wanted to say for five years, but I couldn’t give myself permission to believe that he really felt this way about me.

  Is it too late?

  “You know,” I say, rubbing my hands up and down my knees as if they are stones that need to be polished, the movement soothing because of the tsunami of emotion inside me, spinning round and round, crashing against the inside of my chest. “You know, Parker, even if I had read the reports, I don’t think it would have mattered.”

  “I know.”

  “You do?”

  “After about a year, I realized that. You were dug in.”

  “A year? It took you a year to give up?”

  “No.”

  “When did you give up, then?”

  “Never! I never gave up. That’s the only reason we’re here right now. Because I never gave up. Why do you think I crashed Will and Mallory’s wedding rehearsal rehearsal dinner?”

  “You said that it was an accident.”

  “It was. Until it wasn’t. Those ten minutes or so in the beginning, when I pieced it all together and realized you were there... God, Persephone, it was as if Fate herself stepped in, reached down through my mouth into my chest, and cracked my heart like an egg. When I saw you from across the room and realized who Will’s Mallory was, it felt like divine intervention. I wasn’t expecting it. In fact, I’d been so busy with the events of the last year that I’d been living on autopilot.”

  “You were pretty busy with Saoirse, too.”

  “No. Saoirse came back angling for me with that too-smooth, too-perfect way she has of turning people like me into goalposts. And you know, for a split second, I decided to say yes to her. I don't know why, but I said yes.”

  I clear my throat.

  “Not sex,” he clarifies with a disgusted huff. “Look what one or two dates got me. You saw that picture of us. She happened to be there the night that guy choked, and then the heart attack... you got the wrong impression. You decided my motives weren’t pure, and you seduced me for revenge, Persephone. But you know what?”

  “What?” I whisper.

  “You seduced me five years ago. Five years, nine months, and six days ago. What we had in bed yesterday, or on that videotape you made? That wasn’t a seduction. That was a reclamation. That’s what we can do right now. Reclaim.”

  “Yes.”

  He eyes me where I sit, then pulls me up, kissing me. I melt into him, the bizarre visit from his mother still ringing in my ears, my surprising lack of anger more destabilizing than her admission of guilt. For five years I've been so livid, but how can I be mad when Parker Campbell is kissing me like this?

  And touching me there?

  He pulls one of my legs up, my calf against his now-bare ass as I realize his pants are off again, he's tugging on mine, and... here we go.

  “You want sex now?” The tip of him is against my inner thigh, nudging, seeking, finding.

  He enters me. “Sorry to be so ambiguous.”

  I laugh, tightening around him. “Again? I can't believe it.”

  “You're judging me for wanting sex?”

  “No. Judging myself. I'm ashamed that this is the way I recover from big shocks. That having a quickie with you is the thing I crave most in the world.”

  “It's a reset button.” His thumb moves down to my clit. “Like this one.”

  “That gets turned On when you touch it. Never Off.” Words fail me as he drives into me, the mention of a quickie a promise to our future selves. I'm more me with him than I am without, feeling this emotion that doesn't exist anywhere but in his orbit.

  As my orgasm rides up, up, up from within me, it connects with that feeling, stroking Parker as he curls his hips, his thumb performing magic in a rhythm that we ride until I'm biting his shoulder. He's breathing hard against my ear as we come hard–so hard–against the wall, Parker holding me up, my body driven into so deeply, it’s like he's touching the past.

  And rewriting it.

  Heat pulses deep inside, as if I've captured his heartbeat and am holding it for safe keeping.

  Which is the best way to describe love that I can imagine.

  18

  Epilogue. Or stinger. You decide.

  * * *

  Coffee tastes better when I'm holding hands with Parker.

  It's a biochemical feat. You know those chemical companies in New Jersey, with the labs that develop ways to make products taste the same so they become addictive? So you experience the exact same rush of the familiar that lights up the neurons of your brain, to coax you into buying more, more, more of the same product?

  That's Parker for me.

  He has three hours before his plane leaves. Our plane, I should say. He canceled the flight with his mother and
stayed for another night, a night we spent talking nonstop.

  Ok–fine. We stopped a few times.

  More than a few, if you know what I mean.

  Now I'm headed to Texas with him. There is no timeline. Raul says I can take as long as I want, but I need to be back for the barista competition in Boston in two months.

  Meanwhile, Jennifer has apologized up and down. She even FaceTimed with the two of us this morning, pleading with Parker to forgive her.

  He did.

  Because Parker's superpower is finding connection with people.

  But he hasn’t forgiven Saoirse. Guess who’s in for a shock when she learns Parker's buddy, Congressman Ouemann, has an in-law who works at a certain major media outlet–the very same outlet Saoirse's been gunning for–and who now has her on his permanent NFW list?

  I'll let you guess what the F stands for.

  DC is all about buddies helping each other out.

  My parents are understandably nervous, but they’re trusting me. Mom says the energy read is positive. I visited Jolene this morning, drank some basil tea, gave her a huge tip, and told her she was right.

  “I know,” was all she said, with a grin.

  Meanwhile, Parker is making plans to submit lots and lots of bipartisan bills with Congressman Ouemann here in Massachusetts, so there's that. We'll be back. We have to.

  Malzilla Marries Boston is coming in 2020 and we need to see the advance screening, so I anticipate racking up the frequent flyer miles between Texas and Massachusetts as Mallory figures out new ways to torture the wedding party.

  Logistics are just ways around obstacles that aren't really important. What matters is that Parker and I are together. Period.

  Forever.

  As I sit at a table at Beanerino and sip this outstanding cup of fresh Sumatran, Parker rubs his chin absentmindedly and watches a campaign ad on television.

  “Ugh. This is what happens when you live so close to New Hampshire. It's never-ending election season now,” I complain.

  “I like elections.”

  “Good. I'd imagine you have to as a member of Congress.”

  “No. Plenty of people hate it. But not me.” A gleam in his eyes as he watches the presidential hopeful on screen makes my throat close.

  “You seriously want to be president, don't you?” I finally say, each word like a brick I'm pushing out of my mouth.