by Aubrey Irons
“Just so you know, I’m betting I could have you right here, right now, Princess. I’d only have to ask.”
“Oh is that a fact, huh?” I give him my most defiant, carefree look, but I know by the way he grins that he can see right through that. And I know by the way my face is flushed and the way I know he can feel the heat between my legs on his thigh that neither of us are fooled by my little act.
“Yeah, that’s a fact.” He growls, leaning closer still until his lips are barely millimeters away from mine.
“Then why don’t you then.” My voice is breathy, and I hear the words muted as if I’m speaking underwater. I’m willing him to kiss me; willing him to lean down press that mouth to mine and take me right here in the kitchen; right up against the refrigerator.
Please, please, please I beg inside my head, biting my lip and staring deep into his deep blue eyes and wanting nothing more than to feel him slide inside of me. I’m so wet and I can feel my heart just racing as we stare at each other. But I need him to make the move first. I’m running for a seat on the State Senate for crying out loud, I can’t be throwing myself at my bodyguard - or my campaign financier, or both, or whatever the hell Hudson is. I just can’t, and for that singular reason, every fiber of my being and every thudding beat of my pulse in my veins wants him to tear my panties off and fuck me right here.
But he doesn’t, and the moment passes, and we both know it. Hudson moves away from me suddenly, his own chest rising quickly with his breath as he stares at me hungrily with a look I can’t quite read; “Like you said, Reagan; it’s nothing.”
Chapter Twelve
Reagan
P A S T
“Are you drinking?” My older sister’s eyes are narrowed, red-rimmed as they are as she leans down to sniff the cup of soda she’s snatched out of my hands.
“N-no.” I mumble out, fairly confident that there’s no way she’s going to smell the white wine I’ve dosed my diet-cola with. Yeah, I’m drinking white wine with coke; I was a very special breed of eighteen year old rebel.
Quinn swears at me, even though I know damn well she’s had a few herself; “It’s a wake, Reagan, not an open bar,” She hisses; always the one in charge, especially now.
“It’s not a wake, it’s a memorial vigil,” I say it tensely through gritted teeth.
Quinn looks at me sadly, shaking her head; “Ray, he’s d-”
“He’s missing, Quinn, he’s not dead.” Well, missing for three months, last seen near the Syrian border; presumed dead.
My sister tenses her jaw and exhales through her teeth, either because she’s thinking it too, or more likely because she’s just not about to have this argument again with me, here of all places. “In any case, you’re not supposed to be drinking.”
“So?” I sneer at her; “I’m mourning.” It’s really only half true; maybe even less actually. Of course I’m upset about my Father’s death, but the anger is still so present that it’s clouding my ability to really grasp that he’s gone. I’m angry that it’s felt like he’s been gone for years anyways; always off doing something in some random part in the world that he won’t tell us about and that I don’t want to know about anyways. I remember asking him once when I was much younger if what the kids at school had said were true; “Do you sell guns, Daddy?”
“It’s complicated, honey.”
Right, “complicated”. It’s bullshit like that, mixed with his complete absence from our lives - certainly after Mom died, but almost completely in the last three years - that have me spiking soda with wine like some sort of total amateur. I storm away from my sister, just in time to see the staff ushering Hudson into the room full of mourners along with the two other guys; Bryce and Logan. I barely know them - honestly, I hardly know much about Hudson really - but in that moment of them walking into my Dad’s funeral, I kind of hate them. I hate them because they were closer to my father than any of us ever were; the military sons he always wanted and never got. And in that moment, there at his funeral, their presence makes me feel like they have more of a right to be there then I do.
Of course, his being there is also just another lingering question as to what we’ve been doing the past few weeks. Since our pre-dawn ride to Bear Mountain, there’ve been other late-night calls and other adrenaline-filled car rides. We talk all night somewhere, or just go for a drive, or he shows me some wild rooftop in the city I never knew existed. It’s platonic, but only on the surface. We smile and do weird things like shake hands after he drops me off at my dorm. But it wouldn’t take any sort of particular genius to see that below all that stuff lies something much more adult. Something powerful and aching and sensual, and barely contained lies beneath that “friend” surface, and every time he calls or every time I look into his eyes as he says goodnight to me, I feel like it’s going to come rushing out of us like a burst dam.
And of course, his eyes spot me almost instantly across the crowd, and they linger, and I’m sure he can see the deep flush of red spreading across my cheeks before I hastily turn around.
“Ms. Archer,” The deep voice shakes me from where my mind is somewhere lingering on Hudson, and I turn to the older man with the thick mustache who I vaguely remember meeting before. He’s military, and even though I’ve never bothered to learn what any of those pins and symbols mean, I’m pretty sure the amount of medals on his chest the golden oak leaves on his lapel mean he’s important.
“Major Lawson, ma’am; United States Marine Corp.” He salutes me, and I’m sort of not really sure what I should be doing with someone so formal, so I end up awkwardly curtseying. The Major’s stern-looking mouth turns up slightly in the corners as he smiles in an almost grandfatherly way at me; “I was quite close with your father, Ms. Archer; in fact you and I have met before, though you were a little girl back then.” He breathes and turns away for a second before he looks me directly in the eye; “My deepest condolences for your loss, Reagan; William Archer was one of the finest men I ever knew.”
Great, someone else telling me how great of a guy my Dad was. It would’ve been nice to have seen that for myself when he was still around.
Instead though, I nod quietly; “Yes, he was.”
He reaches out and takes my hand, and as I look into his face, I really do see the hurt and the pain of someone who truly knew my father; “I know he wasn’t always here for you girls, but you should know that your father was so proud of the women you all grew up to be, and I know he wished he could have told you that more often.”
I realize in that moment of sadness in his eyes that while I lost the ghost of someone I should have known better, this man lost a friend.
“Your father was a great man, Reagan, and if you don’t mind my saying, the apples have not fallen far from the tree.”
I thank him again before he moves back into the crowd, and now I really do need that drink.
HUDSON
P R E S E N T
A week later and I’m practically tearing my hair out over this fucking girl. It’s this fucked up mixture of frosty single-word banter with the girl I’m playing house with coupled with the fact that she’s been parading around the apartment in bra-less tank-tops and tiny little lounge shorts while she’s been practicing for her speeches or having conference calls with Donald and the rest of her team; it’s psychological torture is what it is.
Part of me doesn’t want to believe she’s doing any of it on purpose; that sweet little Reagan Archer isn’t actually capable of the sort of tormenting sexual manipulation I’m being forced to endure. But I’ve made a vow to myself that if I see one more fucking glimpse of an upper thigh, or one more top of her breast just begging to slip out of the tight little tank top that’s hugging her tits and pressing tight against her nipples, than I will not be able to help what happens next between her and I.
Thankfully she’s clothed here, at some teacher’s union meeting or wherever we are that she’s giving a speech to. Honestly, I hate crowds; hate the sounds and the nois
es and the way they make me nakedly aware of William Archer’s words: Blend in. Blending in is not something I do well with in crowds. And yet, here I am, standing here and enduring. Tell me again why the fuck I signed on for this?
Reagan pushes past me to get to the stage, her shampoo in my nostrils and her fingertips just lingering over my wrist as she slips past me.
Fuck. Oh, right, yeah that; that’s why I signed on for this.
As grueling as it’s been when we’re alone and she’s driving me completely wild, we’ve also been going out to events and speeches and fundraisers, and that’s a whole new game. I’m seeing her more and more in the limelight like this, and I’m getting it; she’s amazing at this shit. As childish or as flustered as she gets when I tease her, or when we’re in the middle of this frosty bullshit cold-war, she’s fucking incredible at this whole politician thing. She exudes the confidence in front of crowds that you’re really only born with, and she acts the part and suddenly becomes older than her twenty-three years, and I get why she’s such a sensation.
She even dresses older. I mean obviously there’s no place for yoga pants and bra-less t-shirts on a campaign trail or on a news blurb. But the problem is, even in those conservative long skirts or even those fucking pants suits, she’s still sexy as all hell. Jesus, when’s the last time I- hell, when’s the last time anyone has checked out a chick’s ass in a pants suit?
But even as stunning as she looks, I’m still mesmerized by what she’s saying, and by her poise and her grace. And the people she speaks to go fucking nuts for her, and seeing that, I realize that she might actually win this thing.
I’m grinning at her from off-stage, laughing right along with the rest of these teachers over some joke about PTA meetings that I don’t even get, when I feel a tap on my arm. Before I can even turn, the tap is turning into a hand which snakes its way through my arm, and then all of a sudden I realize I’ve been blind-sided with a hug.
“Hiya handsome.”
Rachel- No, Tiff- shit. I’ve met her before. She does something with events planning with a firm we worked with months ago, and it seems she’s about as forward now as she was then when she literally palmed me her hotel key; which, of course, I left on the bar. There’s persistence, and then there’s just plain skanky, and the latter is a total turn-off for me. I wonder briefly if the bartender I passed the key-card on to ever ended up having a great night back then.
Samantha; that’s her name
“So, how’re things, big guy?” She purrs out; oozing sex through the wildly inappropriate low-cut of her neck and hemline, and pressing her tits against my arm.
I glance back at the stage, at Reagan, before I turn back to her; “I’m sort of working right now, actually.”
“You? Work?” She giggles obnoxiously and runs a finger up my chest, and it’s annoying the shit out of me.
“Yes, Samantha, I work.” I say irritably.
“Well, you want to come work on me?” Jesus, subtlety is not in this girl’s vocabulary. For a half-second, part of me responds, if only because I’m still so on fucking on edge from the week of watching Reagan; seven days and nights of working out with her, watching her practice her speeches in fucking shorts and tank-tops and seeing just a peak of her panties one time when the skirt she was wearing around the apartment rode up to her ass as she bent over to pull her boots on. Yeah, that part of me responds, just for a half-second.
But no; fuck no.
“Maybe some other time, Sam,” I smile thinly at her and turn at the sound of applause just in time to see Reagan coming off the stage, and then I’m even more pissed that Samantha’s kept me from hearing the rest of her speech.
“But boooo, I thought you’d be more fun.” Samantha wines, tugging on my arm and pressing her tits up against me even more.
‘Boo’? Is this girl fucking serious? I turn around again to yank my arm out of my grasp and give her a withering look, and when I turn back to the stage again, my eyes narrow and I growl.
Reagan is talking and laughing with some douchey looking prep-school poster-boy, her hand on his arm as she laughs uproariously at something that’s just come out of his pompous-looking mouth. Erika, Reagan’s obnoxious “brand manager” is there too along with Donald, and the two of them are beaming like a couple of assholes at Reagan talking with this chump. The confusing surge of jealous only intensifies when they turn and nod at me before they all start to walk over to where I’m standing on the side of the stage with Samantha still hanging off of me.
“Hudson!” Donald says to me, as if we’re old pals. His face is all red and puffy from smooching this guy’s ass; “I wanted to introduce you to Congressman Kennedy.”
Oh you’ve gotta be fucking kidding me.
The douchebag chuckles and puts his hand on Reagan’s shoulder for whatever reason he’s deemed that to be appropriate as he laughs, as if Donald’s just made the joke of the fucking century.
I want to hit him.
“Oh, no, not those Kennedy’s; I wish!” He chuckles again and Reagan is laughing right along with him; loudly.
“Chet Kennedy,” He says, sticking his hand like he’s about to sell me a used car. Holy shit, this is Chet the ex boyfriend? If I wanted to hit him before, I want to knock him the fuck out now.
“Nice to meet you,” I say as formally as possible, my voice frosty and leaden as I stick my hand out.
“New York Legislature; Westchester County, of course.” He says, as if I should know what even means. His eyes drop to the ink peeking out from my cuff and I see this smirking, judging look pass across his face. I squeeze his hand extra hard, enjoying seeing him wince. Reagan’s eyes are boring in on me, with a look on her face that I can’t quite read.
“Hiii! I’m Sam!” Fuck; she’s still fucking here and she’s still hanging off my arm. I glance at Reagan and see her eyes narrowing at Samantha before she slips her arm through Chet’s. My blood pressure immediately spikes through the ceiling.
Donald and Erika are all over the two of them, gushing over every dip-shit comment that comes out of his mouth and making sure every damn photographer in the room gets a picture of him and Reagan with their arms linked. Samantha is still tied around my arm, and the whole thing is just like watching a slow-motion car-wreck in action as I stand there with my throat feeling tight and my rage bubbling just below the surface. I want a cigarette; hell, I kind of want a drink.
Chet’s people come over and tear him away for something, and I can’t manage more than a barely perceivable nod as he tells me again how great it was to meet me. Donald’s shoots me a dirty look and taps the daily schedule printout in his hand against his watch, as if it’s my fucking fault that Chet has us running off schedule. I finally manage to shake the bimbo off my arm as he and Erika split, and then we’re alone on the side of the stage.
“What?”
Reagan’s shooting me this thin little smirk, her eyes flashing at me; “So, Sam-”
I roll my eyes; “Not what you think.”
“Oh and what would I be thinking, Hudson, and why would I possibly think that?” Her sarcastic smile is exaggeratedly fake.
“Relax, Princess, she’s not my type.”
Reagan bristles at the word; “And what type would that be that, Hudson? The kind that has something besides air between their ears?” She snorts, “She sure had me fooled.”
For some reason, I grin; getting a weirdly smug sense of satisfaction from the fact that Reagan is clearly jealous. “Well what about you and Chet back there? You guys pick out color-schemes yet for the Lincoln bedroom?”
Reagan rolls her eyes, “Oh give me a break-” Her eyes land on me and she grins; “What, are you jealous?”
I tense up inside, but I keep my voice cool; “What, of Chet and his collection of polo shirts and boat shoes?” I snort; “Uh, no, Reagan, I’m not.”
“Oh, and what, is little miss Tits McGee back there supposed to make me jealous?”
I want to laugh, but the fire in he
r eyes stops me, and I let out an exasperating sigh instead; “Jesus, what about our relationship would make you this jealous seeing that girl hanging off my arm?”
“There is no ‘our relationship’, Hudson” She snaps, looking fierce and adorable at the same time.
“Yeah, no shit, Princess.”
I see her eyes blaze at me, and she opens her mouth to say something but then stops herself and shakes her head instead; “We’re late for the next appearance today, let’s go.” She says curtly, before turning on her heel and storming away, leaving me standing there watching her walk away. I want to kick myself for saying shit like that to her, but really, I know why I do it. I push her away like that because I can’t let her get close; not with the shit that I’m carrying around. Fuck; I saw hell on Earth in the desert, so why the fuck can’t I deal with this girl?
Chapter Thirteen
Hudson
P A S T
“What are you drinking?” Reagan’s been giving me this weird look from across the room for the past fifteen minutes while I’ve been giving my condolences to the rest of her family. I’ve finally extricated myself from Bryce and Logan, and some Aunt who I’ve never met before, and made my way over to where she’s sitting on the bottom step of the curved staircase in the foyer.
“I’m not.”
She frowns at me as she sips on the cup of what looks like coke but smells suspiciously like something else; “Well, it’s a funeral, you probably should be.” She clearly has been, as she leans into me and holds my gaze in that slightly glazed way a good couple of drinks will do to you. She sighs and looks into her cup; “Sorry, I forg- It’s just sort of weird being back here without him, even if he was barely every here anyways.”
