The Escape

by Alice Ward

  I paced the office, wandering down the hallway, contemplating. Where would I be if I were something Cameron Brice wanted to hide? When I came upon his office door, I knew the answer was obvious. I had to get inside.

  A quick glance toward the front of the building, and I placed my hand on the door. I tried to twist the knob, but it didn’t budge.

  Locked, of course.

  But that was it. My fingers twitched, my spine straightened. That was the Holy Grail.

  Then I heard noises in the front reception area.

  Sighing, I walked back to the front of the office to see Bob Simmons standing at his desk, looking at me. Already back. Fuck. “How goes it?”

  I shrugged. “Fine. I finished all those packets.”

  “Good deal. We’ll get you doing more meaty stuff this afternoon.”

  I didn’t know why, but “meaty” sounded dirty to me. My mind wandered back to Brice. I thought of his hard cock pressed against my abdomen and heat stirred inside me. My eyes trailed to my bruised wrists, and a pang of desire hit me low in the belly. I wished I could be back there, under his command. I quickly squelched that thought and massaged the bruise. If I was going to make this whole “employment” thing work, I had to stop thinking about kinky sex during it.

  Damn, why had I even gone out last night? I’d wanted to get a leg up on my assignment, but I’d only served to make a hard job even harder.

  Bob eyed me curiously, and I realized I’d gotten sidetracked from our conversation. “I’m happy to do whatever you need,” I answered him. “Did you go out to lunch?”

  He lifted a shoulder. “Nah. I never usually go out. Just went to the corner for something quick.”

  “Oh.”

  Shit.

  Bob surveyed the Cheetos on my desk and frowned. “You can’t be eating just that,” he said. He held a bag out to me from Philly Pretzel Factory. “Have one. They’re still warm.”

  “Oh, no, I’m—”

  “Come on,” he said, shaking the bag to tempt me. “You young girls. My daughter is about your age, and she doesn’t know how to feed herself. You’ll waste away.”

  I smiled. It was no wonder he seemed so fatherly. I got the feeling I might even like him… if I didn’t already know his political leanings were so ass-backward. I wasn’t sure a soft pretzel was better nutritionally than a bag of Cheetos, but I took it anyway. “Thanks.”

  “So, how do you like it here?” he asked. “You said in your application that you had an interest in politics.”

  I nodded. Not really, just an interest in bringing down political foes. “I may want to go into the field,” I said vaguely as I tore a hunk of pretzel off and popped it into my mouth.

  He didn’t question me further, so I didn’t have to come up with any more lies. During the afternoon, I did get to do “meatier” things. Bob had me combing Twitter for any mentions of Cameron, good or bad. I screenshot and filed them in a massive report to be handed to the candidate so that he could gauge public opinion.

  I didn’t need to go far to gauge exactly what public opinion in Pennsylvania was about Cameron Brice. There was, overwhelmingly, more bad than good. I’d thought Kiera was the only person who called him a douche, but the exercise proved to me that I was apparently mistaken. In fact, each tweet I uncovered was more scathing than the next. They insulted everything from his intellect to his haircut. It was almost enough to make me feel sorry for him.

  Almost. After all, he was the one who’d signed up for this run.

  And, if you don’t want to be called a douche, don’t act like one. Period.

  When I finished, I read over the report. Over two-hundred mentions of the word “idiot.” Forty-five “liar.” Twelve “douches.” Three “charlatans.”

  A partridge in a pear tree.

  What else? Out of touch. Aloof. Ineffectual. Deplorable. And of course, my favorite: Right-wing scumbag with too much hair product and too little concern for his fellow man.

  At close to quitting time, the rest of the employees filed out. I looked at Bob. I thought he’d asked me to email the report directly to Cameron’s email address, then realized it was probably one of the last things he’d want his boss to see. Cameron Brice couldn’t have wanted to read this utterly scathing shit about what an asshole he was. I mean, sure, it was true, but Brice didn’t strike me as the type of person to care about public opinion, especially since much of it was from enraged Twitter users who had a combined total of twenty followers. I hovered my mouse over send and then said, “Um, Bob?”

  He looked at me over his bifocals.

  “I’m done with the report. Where did you want me to—”

  He leaned back, confused. “Didn’t I give you the email? It’s C-B—”

  “Oh, you did,” I said to him, looking over the open email message. I’d hoped for more of a buffer between Cameron Brice and me. “You really want me to send this directly to Ca… I mean, Mr. Brice?”

  He nodded. “Mr. Brice insists. You can introduce yourself as the new clerk so he knows who you are. Show a little personality, if you’d like.”

  Personality? I stared at the screen. Taking a deep breath, I began to type. Hello, Mr. Brice. I’m your new clerk. I like rainy days, piña coladas, and walks on the beach.

  Then I erased it.

  Personality. I typed a couple more lines, erasing all of them. I wasn’t sure I wanted to show him my personality because I’d shown him enough of myself already. I imagined writing: Hello, Mr. Brice. Remember me? Because I sure remember you. And your tongue.

  Finally, I just wrote: Good evening, Mr. Brice, I’m attaching your daily social media report. Thank you.

  Screw personality.

  And I signed my name Brooke Ellis.

  Then I remembered. Shit.

  I quickly backspaced over the name and signed Violet Wilkes, Clerk, Cameron Brice for Senate.

  I read it over and over to make sure I wasn’t making any more catastrophic mistakes, closed my eyes, and clicked send. I was going to fail FBI training if I didn’t get better at handling stress than this.

  When I looked up, Bob was studying me curiously. I explained, “I didn’t realize I’d actually have a chance to interact with Mr. Brice as a clerk.”

  “Oh. Well, of course you will. Mr. Brice comes in here fairly regularly since it’s convenient for him. He’s not as scary a guy as the liberal media makes him out to be, though, so don’t be alarmed.”

  I swallowed. Just the thought of seeing him again and my nipples hardened. Thank god for chunky cardigans.

  When I next looked at Bob, he was pulling on a windbreaker. He shut off his laptop and said, “If you’re the last one here, all you have to do is set the alarm and lock the doors.” He demonstrated the procedure to me — three times. “Got it?”

  I nodded.

  Then he left.

  And I was alone.

  Alone! Score!

  After I’d finished my lunch, I began yawning incessantly, feeling the previous night’s lack of sleep catching up with me. But now, I sat up straight, wide awake. I spun around in my chair, hardly believing this luck. Grabbing my coffee mug from my desk, I walked into the kitchenette, determined to get the energy to do my “overtime.”

  I got another bag from the vending machine, Doritos this time since Bob wasn’t there to berate me, and I’d really been on a roll with the healthy eating. I promised myself I’d bring in a salad tomorrow, and do an extra-long sparring workout this weekend. I poured myself a coffee and added the creamer, wondering if I could find something to jimmy the lock on Cameron’s office door. I was just heading over to my desk with the full mug, thinking a paper clip would do the trick, when I ran straight into a solid, six-foot-something wall of muscle.

  My mug sloshed between me and the giant barrier, and while recognition had begun to dawn, it wasn’t enough. I couldn’t stop myself in time. As hot coffee sloshed on my knuckles, I screamed, “Shit!” in surprise and dropped my coffee and bag of chips on the floor
. The mug, shaped like a little Santa Claus head, shattered into pieces as I instinctively got into a boxing stance, covering my face with my closed fists, the way I’d been taught in class.

  Before I could throw my first punch, I looked up into the face of Cameron Brice.

  He dropped his briefcase and raised a palm to block my punch, ready. “Hey. Hold on.”

  I froze, gasping for breath. When I could speak, I still wanted to punch him, but I restrained myself, him being my employer and all.

  “Oh my god!” I placed both hands on the sides of my wig, hoping it wasn’t planning on sliding off my head. “You scared the shit out of me!”

  “Sorry,” he said, putting a hand on my elbow. He smiled crookedly at me, and I couldn’t see anything that resembled the man in the club. He had a gorgeous, movie star face, one that it almost hurt to look at. Somewhere, underneath all that beauty, was the tongue that had been my undoing last night. There was a dark five-o’clock shadow on his jaw, and his hair, which so often had been perfectly coiffed, was more tousled and unkempt. “Whoa, slugger. I thought I’d wandered into a ring with Muhammed Ali.”

  I just goggled at him.

  “Violet?”

  I couldn’t figure out why he would be naming flowers in my presence. I stared more, stupidly, like a mute.

  He held up his phone, which was opened to his email account. “You emailed me?”

  “Oh.” I blinked as I remembered my alias and slumped into poor posture, taking my voice a notch lower to timid. “Yes. Right.”

  “So, what? Did they leave you all alone here? I’m sorry,” he said, tapping the side of his head like, how could I have forgotten? He held out his hand to me. “Cameron Brice.”

  Of course he was. After studying him for so long from afar, and knowing him so intimately last night, it was hard to believe we’d never been formally introduced.

  I stared at his hand, not knowing if I should touch it. I was afraid of what might happen, how my body would respond if I made contact with his skin again. Already, I could feel my nipples harden, pushing against my bra, wanting him, making me thankful to the inventor of sweaters. Would I be able to play along and pretend like I was the mousy clerk, Violet Wilkes? Or would I totally lose it, like Cassandra, and give myself away?

  “Thanks for the report,” he said, still holding his hand out.

  “Oh. You’re welcome.”

  I’d put it off long enough. Tentatively, I reached out and shook just the tips of his fingers, and damned if electricity didn’t surge straight up my arm, through my heart, low into my abdomen. Something dangerous stirred between my thighs, and I was in danger of growing wet for him. I snapped my hand away quickly, hoping he didn’t feel it too.

  But from the way he was staring at me so intently, I knew he’d felt something. “Have we met before?”

  Shit. “No,” I said quickly, too quickly. I licked my lips and tried again. “Don’t think so. I mean, maybe you saw me at one of your rallies? I’ve gone to a lot of them. I’m a big fan.”

  God, I couldn’t stop babbling. Please, don’t recognize me! I screamed inside my head, hoping I wouldn’t throw up from sheer nerves and over-gushing.

  He considered this. Then he just nodded, much to my relief. He’d bought it.

  But the relief dissolved a second later, and I found myself desperately wishing he had recognized me. What if he had? What if he’d taken me into his office, stripped this ridiculous disguise off of me, and I got to experience his miraculous tongue once more?

  Screw it.

  Now I really was wet. Embarrassed, my eyes trailed to the mess between us. I turned around to seek out some paper towels, but he’d already reached for the rung underneath the cabinets, unfurling a pile of them and ripping them off the roll.

  I reached down to pick up the shards. Smiling, broken Santa stared up at us. “Ho-ho-hope this wasn’t anyone’s favorite mug,” I mused to myself.

  Or… not to myself. I realized I’d said it out loud when he gave me a quizzical look.

  Oh, god, could I be any more of a moron?

  Cameron Brice was a typical wooden politician with absolutely no sense of humor. I needed to keep my goofy jokes to myself, and get out of the building, stat.

  Then he said, his voice low and oozing a little of that magnetic charm I’d completely fallen for last night, “I guess we’re both on the naughty list now.”

  A shot of fear struck my heart. For a moment I thought my cover was blown, and he’d recognized me. “What?”

  He pointed at the broken cup. Okay, so he wasn’t talking about last night. Nothing like trading lame Christmas jokes in the middle of May. I let out the breath I’d been holding.

  He dropped the paper towels on the mess stretching across the linoleum floor as I heard footsteps behind us. “What are you doing, Cameron?” a voice boomed.

  Behind him, in the darkened hallway, I could just make out the outline of the white-haired man that up to now, I’d only seen on television, standing woodenly behind a podium with an official presidential seal. Back then, he’d been smiling winsomely.

  As he moved closer, I saw that now, he was frowning like he’d just met death.

  Ron Brice.

  Cameron’s father was a typical vice president. Meaning, since he hadn’t run for president, he’d been completely forgotten after his political term. Oh, there had been talk of him running for Top Dog twenty years ago, since he’d been a lot like his son. Gorgeous, young, ambitious, the deadly trifecta. But those aspirations were quickly squashed after Shadygate, when it was found that he spent forty-million taxpayer dollars on a party for some of his supporters at Shady Palms Resort in Palm Beach, Florida. Yes, Forty. Million. Dollars. That was bad enough, but when it was found that there were underage prostitutes on hand and several notable politicians had partaken of their services, all shit hit the fan. The Democratic party had a field day, and speculations and rumors crowded the news outlets for months. Half a dozen congressmen stepped down from their positions in disgrace. And Ron Brice’s political rise to fame hit a cement ceiling.

  Thus, all the Brice hopes and dreams had been pinned on Cameron. It had to be a lot of pressure.

  Not that I could ever feel sorry for him. Did Cameron feel sorry for the yellow-horned toad?

  No, of course not. He was a douche.

  “Had a momentary kitchen malfunction,” the younger Brice said smoothly, pointing at the cup. “This here is Violet Wilkes, our new clerk.”

  Crouched on the floor, I looked up, up, way up, to the man hovering above me in the doorway. He was just as tall as his son, with similar handsome features, but his hair was the color of snow. He was wearing a tuxedo. Ron Brice, former vice president of the United States, regarded me like a piece of gum stuck to the bottom of his shoe.

  Then he scowled at his son. “Well, let the help take care of it. You have somewhere important to be.”

  Then he strode away without a word to me.

  Cameron quickly straightened and started to walk away. Then, thinking better of it, he came back, grabbed the paper towel, and tossed it in the trash. “I do have to go. Sorry for the scare. And the mess.”

  I nodded. “Don’t worry about it,” I started, wondering about the important “somewhere” his father had been talking about. I wondered whether he would deign to tell me, or just regard me as part of the “help,” unworthy of conversation.

  It didn’t hurt to try, I decided, when I realized I didn’t want him to leave just yet. I could just be asking as small talk. As he started to walk away, I blurted, “Your father looked nice. So where are you headed?”

  He turned, leaning against the doorjamb, a dash of surprise on his face. “Meeting. Then a benefit.” He scratched the back of his neck, suddenly looking tired. “Came here to change.”

  To change? He looked only slightly haggard, but the stubble on his jaw and thick, rumpled black hair was sexy, like he’d just stepped off the cover of GQ. “Oh. Well, have fun.”

 
He snorted, as if the idea of having fun at those things was absurd. “Are you planning on burning the midnight oil?”

  I had, up until he arrived. But now, a new idea had been blossoming in my mind, one that sounded infinitely more exciting. “No, actually. Leaving right now. Why?”

  He narrowed his eyes, confused. He pointed at my dinner, the bag of Doritos that was still on the floor, splashed with a little coffee. “With the coffee and the chips… looked like you were hanging around for a bit.”

  Right. Fuck. I mumbled, “I just remembered I have to take my... um, cat... to the vet.”

  He nodded as I cringed. Cat? I hated cats. “Have a good night, then.”

  I only realized how hard I was breathing when he’d gone into his office and shut the door. No, I had definitely not had my fill of Cameron Brice for the evening. Quickly, I grabbed my backpack, noting the stretch limo parked outside, waiting for them. I raced back to my apartment, thankful it was so close. Pulling off my wig and dowdy clothes and changing into a sweatshirt and ripped jeans, I took off the ridiculous horn-rimmed glasses that would have made me cool in the 1920s before grabbing my keys, and jumped in my crappy car.

  The limo was still idling outside when I returned to headquarters. I pulled into a spot on the corner and waited as Ron Brice stepped outside, followed by Cameron. I leaned forward and let out a dreamy sigh as I scanned his impeccable tuxedo and shiny patent leather shoes. God, in this rundown neighborhood, he was nothing short of an oasis, a vision.

  When the limo pulled away, I easily fell in behind it, scratching my scalp, happy to be free of that atrocious wig. I knew he wouldn’t be going to the club, but I told myself this would be worthwhile. Even though I wasn’t sure what trouble he could get into, dressed so well, at barely seven o’clock in the evening, with his father.

  More likely, I already wasn’t ready to let him go.

  CHAPTER SIX

  Cameron

  I must be losing it, I thought as the limo pulled up outside the stately brownstone in Rittenhouse Square.

  It had been a disastrous meeting with PETA. Forget about earning their vote. After what I’d done to that stupid toad, I was, in their book, the devil. I threw out every platitude in my arsenal, and each one was met with so much resistance that I nearly lost my cool and told them all to fuck off. My father saw me losing it and came to the rescue, something I shouldn’t have let him do because, for the last fifteen minute limo ride, all I’d been listening to was him berating me and telling me how I needed to act.