The Choice

by Alice Ward

  But it wasn’t that simple.

  I didn’t have to say a word. The answer to his question was in my blush. I’d only been with him twice, and already, it was all about him. He had the power again, and my heart in his hands.

  At first, he didn’t react. He just reclined on the sofa, quietly watching me. The more he did, the more exposed I felt.

  As if sensing my worry, Cameron’s hand left his lap, landing on my thigh. He took my hand and squeezed it in such a sweet way, it made butterflies alight in my chest. It was the smallest, most innocent gesture of acknowledgment.

  And yet it meant everything. I instantly felt better.

  No. Cameron was an asshole, with a misguided view of the world. He had outdated beliefs and could be totally full of himself. But he had weaknesses, like any man. I couldn’t fault him for coming to a club like this. If I’d been raised with maids and nannies, being told what I had to study in school and who I had to marry, I’d probably want to escape too. There was a soft side hiding beneath the politician’s polished exterior, and I’d been one of few who’d seen it.

  A new knowledge hit me. Without a doubt, I would never hand those pictures over, so long as I lived.

  I would just have to find another way to bring him down.

  “Hey,” he finally said, checking his watch when I made a move to find my clothes on the floor. He sprang up straight and cursed under his breath. “Holy shit, it’s almost five in the morning.”

  “Do you have somewhere to be?” I asked as I looked around for my shoes.

  “A meeting with—” He stopped. I looked at him. He was standing there, frozen, holding the condom on his dick. Then he carefully pulled it off, threw it in the trash, and slowly started to zip up his pants, tucking in his shirt. “A meeting.”

  It was easy to see the slipup. He’d forgotten that he was Apollo and had almost spilled to me a detail about his life as Cameron Brice. I wondered how much longer this charade could go on. If it would go on, which… I had to admit, I desperately wanted. As much as I cursed myself for this feeling, I already wanted him inside me again, not five minutes after our separation. It was too good. Too perfect.

  “On a Saturday? Oh, well.” I tried for a blasé tone as I pulled my camisole down and scuffed into my ballet flats. “Have fun.”

  I grabbed my bag and started to walk to the door. I took baby-steps, hoping that he would stop me.

  He did. He grabbed my arm, pulling me toward him. I stared back into his Guy Fawkes mask as he grabbed my hand, stretching it flat. He pooled the chain and clamps into it. “Keep these. Wear them when you’re not with me. I want you to think of me.”

  “I will.” I closed my fist around it. Honestly, I doubted I’d think of much else.

  “And I need to see you again. Here. As soon as you can.”

  It was more of a command, but one he didn’t need to make. I knew I couldn’t keep following him here and fucking him. It was pointless, and only getting in the way of my real aim. But as an addict, I couldn’t gather the resolve to say no.

  One more time.

  Just one more time, and then I’d stop fucking him, and fuck him over instead.

  “Next Friday,” I said, the word breathless and raw. “Midnight.”

  CHAPTER TEN

  Cameron

  Cassandra.

  Her name was like a part of my heartbeat, something I couldn’t forget for a moment.

  The following Sunday, I attended church services with my parents as usual, outside of the city. It was less about worship and more about projecting a certain image. Afterwards, we retired to their sprawling mansion in Solebury. I usually didn’t mind the trip because it gave me a chance to stretch my ’67 Mustang convertible’s legs over the sparsely traveled backcountry roads of Bucks County. But that afternoon, as I loosened my tie after services, I hit eighty as I traversed the rolling landscape and farms, feeling restless and impatient, my thoughts consumed by just one woman.

  A woman whose whole face I hadn’t even seen.

  It already felt like a lifetime since I left the club at six that Saturday morning. Just over thirty hours, and I’d been able to think of nothing but the way she’d looked, that innocent but sexy prophetess, doing my bidding. She’d worn those clamps without question, obeying me. And god, it was the hottest thing I’d ever experienced, her, impaled on my cock, grinding into me. I’d never felt a more sublime place than inside her. She’d been tight, and sweet, and I’d be hard-pressed to ever find that anywhere else. I ached to be in that utopia again. How could I possibly make it until Friday?

  Then I pulled into the horseshoe driveway, and an already long week suddenly stretched longer.

  Bernadette’s father’s familiar black BMW was parked in front of the door, taking up too much space, the way Ellery Dryden usually did. He owned the biggest coffee business in the States, with likely the most miserable employees, because for Dryden, it was always more, bigger, better. The blowhard demanded it, at the expense of everyone else. Unable to pull around him since he’d parked in the very center of the driveway, I coasted to a stop behind his New York license plate, cursing to myself.

  Blindsided again. She wasn’t supposed to be here.

  I threw open the door just as my parents were removing their coats and handing them to their maid. “Oh, Cameron, dear, look who turned up,” my mother said, as if it was a great surprise. As if she hadn’t fucking orchestrated this whole thing.

  Bernadette beamed at me, expecting a happiness I couldn’t bring myself to display. Dammit, I couldn’t even pretend, that’s how annoyed I was. I shifted my gaze to her father.

  Bernadette’s father was shaped like a series of stout rectangles. I could see clear over the top of his bald head. His voice was low and gravelly as he shook my hand. “Hello, boy. Good move, taking that tough stance on the Hunter’s Hill Development.”

  I opened my tight lips, and the bruise on my temple stung as I recalled the people who hadn’t thought it such a good move. “Hello. Thank you, sir.”

  My mother guided them to the parlor, where she usually took guests. We had twenty other rooms that were suitable for entertaining, but my mother preferred this one because it had the fullest bar. Bernadette laced her arm through mine as we headed in there, and I saw the ensuing hours so clearly. We were destined to engage in hours of mind-numbing conversation while my mother imbibed too many cocktails. Then, still more excruciatingly dull conversation, this time at the dinner table over a dry roast beef.

  I looked over at the woman my parents wanted me to marry as we stepped through the double doors. She was wearing a clean white suit, and as usual, not a hair was out of place. “I didn’t expect to see you.”

  The disappointment was evident on her face. “You could at least pretend to be happy.”

  “I’m happy to see you.” Deliriously. When she glared like she didn’t believe me, I patted her hand. “Very. It was just a surprise. A delightful one.”

  My mother started on her first Bellini, as my father and Dryden discussed some new priceless bauble over the fireplace my father had secured from their latest trip to China.

  Bernadette’s glare deepened, and she whispered accusingly, “Why you didn’t call about that early dinner?”

  Dinner. Fuck. I had said I’d make reservations, and then we’d go back to her house and...

  I winced. “Sorry. It’s been a hectic week.”

  She crossed her arms as the maid came with cocktails for us. I took a Bellini off the tray and handed it to her before taking a sip of my own. Then she leaned forward and whispered, “Maybe we can get some time alone this week?”

  I swallowed, thinking of the way she’d come on to me at her place. How was it that all the moves she’d tried to make on me felt so wrong, and yet when I imagined Cassandra doing the same thing, I only wanted more? “I don’t know, Bern. This week’s tight.”

  What was it? It was like I didn’t want to cheat on Cassandra, whose real name I didn’t even know, with
the woman most people — including the tabloids and my parents — would call my girlfriend.

  She pursed her lips.

  During dinner, she sat next to me, carrying on a conversation with my father. The Dryden family was staunchly conservative and had contributed substantially to my campaign. Ellery did not mince words and made no bones about his hate for liberals. With no one on the other side of the political spectrum to temper the conversation, he and my father held no restraint whatsoever. It started with illegal immigration, traveled to international relations, and then the topic turned to women’s rights. Bernadette nodded right along when her father pronounced that, “Women should keep their damn mouths shut and accept what they’re made for — popping out babies.”

  My jaw clenched, and my hands tightened into fists as my father laughed along with it. I looked at my mother, who didn’t look perturbed in the least.

  “Men should run the world, women merely decorate it,” he said, as I leaned over and took another gulp of my wine.

  By the third insult and my third glass of wine, I was in a sour mood, ready to pick a fight. I looked over at Bernadette. “So let me ask you something,” I said. “Do you have any opinion on abortion?”

  She nodded. “I’m pro-life. You know that.”

  I did. But I got the feeling she was merely saying that because that’s what everyone she’d ever held in her company said. “Why?”

  She looked confused. “Why… what do you mean, darling?”

  I shrugged. “I just want to know what brought you to the opinion.”

  She looked over at her father. “Well, I think killing babies is wrong.”

  “And if the pregnancy endangers the mother’s life…?”

  She opened her mouth, for once at a loss for words while my father barged in. “We all know that that represents a small percentage of the cases we’re referring to,” he said dismissively. Then he looked at me, his eyes narrowing. “What’s your point, Cameron?”

  I showed him my teeth. “Just that nothing is black-and-white. Contested issues are and have been hotly contested over the years simply because there are no clear answers. Each side has a valid point and we need to listen to and respect each other.”

  “And a liberal’s valid point is?” Dryden asked with a disbelieving laugh.

  “Simply, that a woman should have a say in what to do with her own body. But here’s what I think… there has to be another, better option. We can send people to the moon, yet we can’t figure out how to eliminate the need for abortion by providing health focused, inexpensive options that prevent it to every person, man and woman, who wants it.”

  Dryden snorted. My father planted both hands on the sides of the table’s head and gave me a look that said, You dare defend liberals in front of your biggest campaign contributor?

  But I didn’t fucking care. As much as I didn’t think it right to tell women what to do with their bodies, I was still a proud conservative because that’s where the majority of my political beliefs leaned. But in no way would I ever think liberals’ views didn’t count. They were there to temper our own. Bernadette, though? She leaned whichever way the wind blew, and right now, she was leaning with her father. If she were ever my wife, she’d lean with me, and never have a real opinion of her own.

  As if sensing this, for the rest of the long hours I spent in her company, she was decidedly icy to me. Of course, she was the perfect guest, complimenting my mother on the décor and the moistness of the beef, regaling us with charming stories of her childhood, affecting the woman that any politician would be glad to have on his arm. But she’d shut me down completely, giving me one-word answers and barely looking my way during dinner. I almost felt bad about it. I probably would have felt bad about it, if not for Cassandra.

  Cassandra. The last part of dinner, pleasantly buzzed from my third glass of wine, I’d imagined the way she’d rocked back and forth on me, her tits bouncing, making those little moans of pleasure. I imagined the way I’d kissed her, tasting her, wanting to be a part of her. It was such an overpowering feeling that I was glad the brocade tablecloth hid the stiffening of my cock.

  When the Drydens left in the early evening, Bernadette smiled and thanked my parents for the invitation. I leaned in to give her a chaste kiss, and she turned so my mouth grazed her heavily powdered cheek.

  Then she came up close to my ear and whispered to me, a warning look on her face, “Don’t fuck with me, Cameron.”

  I stared at her.

  “I’m on your side,” she seethed. “But I don’t have to be. I will rip you to fucking shreds, do you understand?”

  Never had such vile words come from such a pretty mouth. This was a woman who understood the rules of the contract our parents were etching. In it, she wasn’t required to have an opinion. She was only required to be present, on my arm, a figurehead for the perfect family. Love, or even affection, was not mentioned anywhere, and it was clear she didn’t feel it and didn’t need to feel it, where I was concerned. The purpose was to get me closer to the White House, plain and simple.

  What a fucking bright future I had.

  When she turned back to my parents and kissed them both, the smile had returned. She breezed outside, as if she hadn’t just threatened me. The door slammed, and there must’ve been surprise on my face when my father demanded, his face red, “What are you doing, boy?”

  I blinked. “What?”

  My mother tottered on her heels, eyes bleary, completely blitzed. “She looked like she can’t stand you!” she gasped, devastated. “What was the purpose of putting her on the spot, interrogating her like that? She’s a fine woman!”

  I shrugged, feeling for my keys in my pockets. I knew what this was shaping up to be. Another Cameron-bashing session. I had to get out soon. “She is. And we’ll be fine,” I muttered, surprised how little I cared.

  “Are you?” my father snapped, inspecting me. I was wearing one of the several custom-made Kiton K-50 suits I owned, but I hadn’t slept all weekend. First, with Cassandra, and then last night, thinking of her. So I’d forgotten to shave. Who cared? “You look like hell. And you act like you don’t care. What you need to do, boy, is go to her place and get down on your knees. Bring her flowers and make her—”

  “Dad.” I looked at Mom, uncomfortable with the way they were both nodding in agreement about this, as if they’d discussed their plans for my courtship with Bernadette at length. This went so much further than political parties or views… this was archaic. I knew I could easily show up at Bernadette’s apartment later tonight, take her to bed, and all would be forgiven. But I sure as hell didn’t want to. I held up a hand. “Stop.”

  “It’s you who needs to stop this behavior, Cameron,” my father said. “You need to get on the ball, and now. Don’t ruin everything we’ve built.”

  My father started to grab his jacket from the coat closet and inch toward the front door. If I wanted to get his ire up, to put an end to this conversation, all I’d have to do is speak one word: Shadygate. His not-so-secret shame.

  But that word was forbidden in this household, and I really didn’t feel like getting disinherited tonight.

  My father clicked open the front door. In a flash, my mother shifted all her concern toward her husband. “Where are you going?”

  “Meeting some friends. Local,” he said vaguely, leaning forward and kissing her before turning a hard stare at me. He pointed his finger at my chest, drilling me in the sternum. “I expect you to get this done right.”

  Get this done. As if marriage was a business contract. To my father, it was. “You’re not seriously expecting me to…” I murmured.

  He huffed, and I could see it written all over his countenance. He wanted me to propose to Bernadette.

  “But we’ve only been seeing each other for a few months,” I put in, my thoughts a tad fuzzy from the drinks. Truthfully, it was simply a duty, a chore I had to perform to stay in my father’s good graces.

  He’d long since grown t
ired of my protests. “I don’t give a shit. Make the move.”

  I watched as he stepped out the door, knowing exactly where he was headed, despite it being nearly eight in the evening on a Sunday night. My mother, from the way she trudged into the parlor and poured herself a double, knew it too. It was the elephant in the room.

  “Really, Cameron,” she said to me, disappointment dripping from her voice. “This could be so easy. Why do you have to upset us so?”

  I followed my mother as she collapsed on the sofa. “Instead of worrying about me, why don’t you do something about that?” I asked her, pointing out the window, where my father’s taillights could be seen before he pulled out of the driveway in his Mercedes.

  She closed her eyes for a few long seconds, then opened them with a sigh. “About what?”

  “About him,” I said. “You know he’s going to some other woman.”

  She gave me a reproachful glare. “Cameron. How dare you.”

  The surprised look was an act. My father had never been faithful in their thirty-five years of marriage. I’d become wise to that when I was seven and caught him naked with my governess, fucking on my parents’ bed. He’d been vice president then, and we’d been living at Observatory Circle. I never told my mother, but I gradually came to understand that dalliances in this world of men of power and ambition were almost expected.

  My mother had come from an old, respectable name, a descendant of the Roosevelt family. My father’s grandparents had immigrated here from Europe. He had come from working-class roots but had been so ambitious and talented that he quickly rose to fame after law school. Her name only bolstered his position, added to that status. I never saw love between them, not even regard, really. I was positive there’d never been lust. They simply tolerated one another for the sake of… what?