SCOTUS: A Powerplay Novel

by Selena Laurence

  Stupid, stupid girl, her heart beat out. She’d known he might be in DC. But she’d intentionally avoided asking or googling, or doing anything where she might discover that he was indeed here, in the very same city that she now called home. Because she realized if she knew he was here, she wouldn’t be able to stay away. She’d be looking for him on every street corner, trying to go places she thought he might be, spending all her emotional energy praying to encounter him somehow, somewhere.

  Deanna Forbes had spent twelve years of her life looking for Teague Roberts in some fashion or other, and now suddenly, with no warning, she’d found him, and it was paralyzing.

  As the world around her kept moving, her mind stayed locked on that day all those years ago, the two of them sitting in Teague’s ten-year-old BMW 318i outside her apartment building as she handed him back the ring and told him that she wouldn’t be going with him when he graduated and moved to New Haven for law school.

  “Don’t do this,” he’d pleaded.

  “It’s not going to work out. I need to finish school.”

  “You can. We’ve talked about this. There are five universities within thirty miles or so of New Haven. I would never ask you to give up your dreams, baby. Just relocate them for a bit. As soon as I’m done with law school, you can pick where we go next.”

  She’d just shaken her head, her heart becoming like a chunk of lead beneath her ribs.

  “It’s not going to work,” she’d whispered again, even as everything in her told her this was wrong, and she would regret it for the rest of her life.

  Teague’s face had gone stiff then, his eyes cold, and she hadn’t been able to control the sob that broke loose. Just one, but it was enough.

  “This isn’t you,” he’d said. “It’s your parents.”

  She hadn’t confirmed it, but she couldn’t deny it either. Tears running down her face, she’d looked at him, silently begging him to understand.

  “You’re really going to let them do this to us?”

  “I love you,” she whispered, her lips trembling.

  “No, you don’t,” he’d answered with ice in his voice. “If you did, you’d never let them do this.”

  Then he’d gotten out of the car, walked to her side, and opened the door. She had no choice but to get out.

  “Have a nice life,” he’d told her, his voice cracking ever so slightly, even though his expression never did.

  And with that, Teague Roberts, the only man she’d ever loved, had gotten back in his car and driven away, leaving her alone in a dark parking lot and an even darker life.

  Chapter 2

  Teague’s long legs ate up the walkway that ran under the portico outside the East Wing of the White House. When he reached the double doors leading to the offices of the First Gentleman, the Secret Service agents stepped aside, opening the door for him.

  “There you are,” Kamal said, rising from behind his large carved desk. He walked to Teague and clasped his hand, giving him a firm pat on the back. “Glad to see you walking and talking. From the reports, your situation this morning was a little more serious than you relayed over the phone.”

  Teague flashed his friend a smile and moved to the sitting area where coffee, tea, and doughnuts waited, because even though Kamal might threaten to leave Teague with that watered-down shit the British drank, he’d never actually follow through.

  After they were both seated and had hot drinks in hand, Kamal raised an eyebrow. “So, what happened?”

  Teague described the attack during the early morning hours, and ended with the latest update he’d received about the assailant. “It appears he’ll be fine, but he has several days ahead of him in the hospital while that trachea heals.”

  “Well, I’ll save the lectures regarding taking on two men at once while one holds a gun. I’m glad you’re okay, as is the president, and we’re excited to present you as her nominee.”

  Teague grinned. In public, he’d need to be more serious about the whole thing, but here with one of his closest friends, he could let it all hang out for a few minutes. The fact was, he’d been working toward this his whole life, and while he was a partner in one of the most prominent corporate law firms in the country, he’d made sure to always keep a mixture of pro bono and paid cases, he’d clerked for a Supreme in law school, tried two cases before the Supreme Court himself, and published in notable legal journals at least biannually. He was as prepared for this gig as he could get.

  “Well, I couldn’t be more indebted to your lovely wife for her support. It really is a dream of mine to sit on the court.”

  Kamal scoffed. “There isn’t anyone more qualified. You were at the top of the list. The confirmation process is going to be hell, but I think we can make it through.”

  Teague’s confidence faltered just a touch, an image of a man with the same hazel eyes as him flashing through his mind. Gang tattoos and baggies of cash and drugs. He swallowed the memories away, reminding himself that he’d buried his one secret so deep, there was no way anyone would ever find it.

  “Well, I can’t say I’m looking forward to the grilling, but I am ready for it.”

  “Good,” Kamal said as the outside doors opened and a tall, blond man was ushered in by the Secret Service.

  “Derek!” Teague said, standing and walking over to shake hands with another Powerplay member. “I didn’t know you were coming today.”

  Derek shook hands with Teague and punched Kamal in the arm. “You know me, I love a front-row seat. I’ll watch with the staff in the Oval Office. Although WNN tells me you already put on a show this morning?”

  Teague repeated the story that was quickly becoming tiresome, and then it was time for the press conference to begin.

  He was ushered to the room adjacent to the one where the presidential press conferences were held. The president greeted him warmly, and they stood with a sprinkling of staff members while the White House press secretary made general announcements and then introduced the president.

  Jessica gave him a bright smile, murmured, “Showtime,” and walked to the podium in the press conference room. As she introduced him, Teague looked out the doorway into the conference room, noting several of the well-known reporters and repeating names in his head in case he needed to address any of them. Then he saw a flash of dark hair, mahogany really, worn long and loose, and he swallowed the thick sensation that crawled up his throat.

  He shook off the foreboding. After all, there must be several million women in the country with that hair, and at least tens of thousands here in DC. It was ridiculous for his thoughts to jump straight to the one woman who’d ever owned his heart. Deanna was long gone, probably married to a nice Aryan lad and popping out kids near her parents’ Sewickley Heights estate.

  “And so, I am delighted and honored to announce Mr. Teague Roberts as my nominee for the United States Supreme Court,” Jessica said before turning and applauding along with the rest of the room.

  Teague shook off his fanciful thoughts and breathed deeply before striding onto the stage, shaking the president’s hand, and turning to face the sea of reporters.

  Once everyone had quieted down, the president told the reporters that Teague would be taking questions for a few minutes, then she stepped aside. Teague squared off in front of the podium, adjusted his notes in front of him, and looked up. Straight into the eyes of the only woman he’d ever loved.

  Deanna was frozen in place, watching as Teague Roberts, her Teague Roberts, stood next to the president of the United States. He was breathtaking. More beautiful than even her overactive imagination could conjure. All six feet three inches of him was wrapped in a perfectly tailored designer suit. His head was shaved, leaving his smooth dark skin and model-perfect bones exposed.

  His chest was broader than twelve years ago, his stance more confident, but those beautiful hazel eyes were just the same. She was so mesmerized, so desperately thirsty for every little detail she could glean from staring at him, that she didn�
�t realize the room had quieted and he was at the podium about to take questions. She continued to drink him in, and then he raised his head and looked right at her.

  Deanna’s breath caught, and she saw Teague’s eyes widen for only a split second before he cleared his throat and began to speak.

  “Thank you, Madam President, and members of the press. I am honored to be here, and humbled by the president’s nomination.”

  He went on, carefully avoiding any direct eye contact with her, his gaze roaming over the room, back and forth, as he said all the right things in all the right ways.

  Her heart raced, and her mind scrambled for a way to get to him, have a moment to speak with him, any tiny chance to be closer. She was so distracted that she nearly missed when the other reporters started asking questions. She quickly turned on her voice recorder to help make up for the fact that she was too discombobulated to take adequate notes.

  “I subscribe to a loose constructionist view of the Constitution,” Teague answered a reporter. “And I firmly believe that the most important job of the Constitution is to protect the civil rights of all Americans.”

  Another reporter questioned Teague, and he answered with so much self-possession and practiced sophistication that Deanna didn’t need to wonder how he’d become the president’s nominee.

  “Mr. Roberts,” Marcus Ambrose from WNN said, standing and putting all of his tall model-worthy looks at the center of the room’s attention. “Can you tell us about what happened to you last night that resulted in you injuring a twenty-three-year-old man named Justin Reynolds?”

  Teague nodded, not seeming intimidated by the question at all. “Of course. I was coming home from my office at about four this morning—I’m known for falling asleep there when I work late.” The press corps chuckled. “I was on a small side street just a block from my house when two men came at me demanding my wallet, watch, et cetera. One of them had a gun, which he pointed at my face while the other one kindly relieved me of my possessions.”

  The press corps chuckled again.

  “What happened next was simply that I saw an opportunity to fight back, and so I did. The attacker’s injuries were not premeditated on my part, simply the result of me trying to defend myself. And I’ll add for the public viewing this—I am an amateur boxer who grew up on the South Side of Chicago, where things can get pretty rough. I do not recommend that the average person try to fight back if they’re being held at gunpoint.”

  Deanna could see the White House press secretary looking at his watch and knew that they were going to be wrapping up soon. She felt a desperate and reckless surge go through her as she stood, hand in the air, and said, “Mr. Roberts?”

  His head swiveled toward her, his gaze sharp and wary.

  “Yes, Ms…”

  “Forbes, Washington Sentinel,” she replied, surprised she could manage to get words out of her mouth when being the object of his gaze was so much of…everything.

  “Go on, Ms. Forbes,” he reiterated.

  She cleared her throat. “I’m wondering if you can tell us your views on Roe v. Wade.”

  He watched her for a moment too long, then gave the tiniest of nods. Point to Deanna, he seemed to say.

  They used to play this game in college. Dreaming of the day when he’d be an important attorney and she’d be an investigative reporter. They’d get out a game of Clue and then take turns interrogating each other’s characters. “Why were you in the bedroom, Ms. White?” “Who gave you the axe when you entered the parlor, Mr. Green?”

  And now, here they were again, only this time the question was significant, and the answer was everything to a certain segment of Congress.

  “As does the president, I fully support Roe v. Wade and its application,” Teague replied, sending the room into a frenzy. But the press secretary put an end to it by walking to the podium, shaking Teague’s hand, and leaning into the microphone to say the final words of the conference.

  As the members of the press began to pack up their belongings, phones out, dialing in the story as rapidly as possible, Deanna stood, caught in something that lay midway between a dream and a nightmare. Wondering how she could see him again, and debating whether she had the guts to, even if she could. The room emptied, and she shook off the strange effect the event had on her, slowly putting her tablet, keyboard, phone, and mic away in her briefcase. She was zipping it up when she heard his voice, and nearly jumped out of her skin.

  “How long have you been at the Sentinel?” he asked.

  She looked up, her breath short and tight. He stood two feet away, close enough that she could see the deep black of his pupils. He still moved on cat’s feet, so silent that she’d not even realized he was approaching.

  “Only a few months,” she answered, hating how breathy her voice sounded.

  He nodded. “Did you know I was here?”

  “Not until today,” she answered, heart hammering, palms sweating.

  “So, you made it,” he said. “A reporter for a big city paper.”

  “And so did you. Congratulations, by the way.”

  He smiled, but it was wry, almost bitter.

  “Thanks. It’s been a long road.”

  She nodded, unsure what to say beyond this but desperate for something, anything to make him stay, so painfully aware that she’d made the mistake of a lifetime.

  “And you like the paper?” he asked. Polite, nothing more.

  She nodded. “It’s a good job.”

  He glanced around then, his hands stuffed in his front pockets, seeming uncharacteristically unsure of himself.

  “Do, uh, do you want to grab a cup of coffee or something?” he asked finally.

  Her heart leapt into her throat, while her stomach did a little squiggling jig.

  “Yeah,” she answered. “I’d like that.”

  Chapter 3

  Teague walked along the sidewalk outside the White House, trying his damnedest to figure out why he’d asked her to coffee. Bloody hell, as Kamal would say, had he lost his mind? In those moments in the press conference when he’d been replying to questions while he struggled not to look at her, he’d felt like twelve years had been stripped away in one supercharged moment. He still felt less than, and she was still the most beautiful woman he’d ever seen.

  Her thick dark hair was long, just the way he’d always loved it, and certain parts of his anatomy had no trouble remembering how he used to wrap those silky tresses around his hands as he pumped into her from behind, long and slow.

  Her skin was as clear and unlined as the day he’d met her, and her sky-blue eyes were just as sparkling and mischievous, promising that everything going on behind them wasn’t innocent and sweet.

  But her body. My God, her body. She’d put on weight, in all the best places. She’d always had an athletic build, long, muscular legs, and broad shoulders. Now she had an even more defined ass, tits that made his hands itch to mold them, and curves for miles.

  He never should have asked her out for coffee. What the hell had he been thinking?

  “How about here?” she asked as they approached the Beltway Bean.

  “Sure,” he answered, leaning in to open the door and hold it for her. She smelled like strawberry wine, and his dick did a tango in his dress pants.

  “You ever been here before?” he asked as they stepped into line at the bar.

  “A few times,” she answered. “I like their cappuccinos.”

  He chuckled. “You always were a connoisseur.”

  The small shop was typically jammed, but after they got their drinks, he stalked a pair of senate interns until they got nervous and left. Grabbing the table they’d vacated, he waved her over, and they each took a chair at the high two top.

  “So, what’s it been?” he asked, even though he knew exactly, nearly down to the minute. “Ten years?”

  “Twelve,” she answered. “I was twenty and you were twenty-two the last time we had coffee.”

  And sex, his mind adde
d.

  “Well, it appears the years have been good to you.”

  “And obviously, they’ve been successful for you,” she added. They each sipped their drinks, the awkward bleeding all over them.

  “So, you married? Living with someone?” he asked nonchalantly. Yeah, sure, that.

  She shook her head. “No. I was seeing someone back in Boston where I moved from, but it wasn’t going anywhere.” She looked up at him from under her lashes. “And you?”

  “No. No time for all that. I work eighty hours a week and spend the other few at the gym or sleeping. I’m not all that exciting.”

  She shifted on her chair, and her blouse slipped a touch, giving him a peek at the cleavage that hid beneath. His heart raced and his skin heated.

  “Well, from what I heard on the news earlier, today’s been enough excitement for a few years at least.”

  He chuckled softly. “It’s been a strange day for sure.”

  “So, what you told WNN… Is that all that happened with the muggers?”

  He raised an eyebrow, trying to assess why she was asking. “Is this a question from a reporter? Or my ex-girlfriend?” he asked.

  “Completely off the record,” she said. “I honestly hadn’t even thought of it.”

  She looked slightly offended, but considering how disloyal she’d been to him in the past, he didn’t think it was out of line to ask.

  He smirked. “The guys were poseurs. Gangbanger wannabes, and like I said, I work out—a lot.”

  “And the man you hurt?”

  “He’ll be fine. It really was unavoidable.”

  “Of course, I understand.” She sipped her coffee again.

  “Do you?” He wondered, because she looked a little pale, and it brought home to him the fact that no matter how expensive his clothes, no matter how prestigious his degrees, to Deanna and her family, he was a poor black kid from the projects. Violence was par for the course, right? Hurting people was second nature to him. He was a thug. Just like his brother.