by Tara Oakes
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HARD RIDE
February 2016
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SPINNING OFF THE KINGSMEN MC.
BADGE BOYS
PRETTY BOY
Badge Boys
Book 1
CHAPTER ONE
JESS
“Deny, deny, deny.”
I listen to myself and can’t help but cringe a bit at my very cliché response. I mean… isn’t that the very core, the essence, of politics? Deny until you’re backed into a corner with no other option?
Kristen, the brand-new intern, is having a pretty interesting first day, if I say so myself.
“The Senator has not now, nor has he ever, engaged in mudslinging or underhanded attacks against an opponent. We will continue to run our campaign with the utmost respect for those who run against us, and make better use of our time discussing the core issues rather than attack another candidate.”
I dictate the perfect, politically correct response for Kristen to forward to the media on dad’s behalf. I feel like this is all I do lately, put out one fire after another. I know elections can get ugly. I remember the last one, even though it was six years ago and I was still in high school.
I remember the security, I remember the reports, and I remember the glamour of it all. That’s how it looked from the outside — glamorous. Now, dad’s reelection campaign is in full swing and I’m currently on the other side of things as one of his campaign advisors, I know the truth.
It’s far from glamorous. It’s far from pretty. It’s downright ugly.
And dangerous.
Only those of us closest to dad know how truly dangerous a political campaign can be. We’ve been handling the current dilemma as best we could— until now. The only viable option left is to get the FBI involved.
Cooper had been against the suggestion. He thinks we can just play along and give the blackmailers what they want without bringing in any unnecessary involvement. I know better. We pay them off today, and they’ll be back tomorrow with even bigger demands.
No. We needed help. We need help. This is my dad’s career, his life we’re talking about. There is only one person I trusted enough to ask for help.
God help me.
~*~
“He’s here, Miss Leary. Shall I send him in?”
My stomach plummets and my heart stops, literally stops.
He’s here. Of course he’s here, I’ve only been dreading this moment for the past two days and it had to come ... eventually. I swallow hard and do my best to appear busy, straightening some loose papers, anything to mask the nerves that cause my hands to tremble.
“Uh-huh, yes. Please. Send him in, Roger.”
Shit!
I have no more than two minutes before the two of them return. I jump up and run to the full-length mirror behind the closet door, then smooth out the creases in my tailored skirt and pull down firmly on the matching jacket.
Fuck! It’s just not right! I look like a damn librarian! He hasn’t seen me in over six months, and I will not have him thinking that I’ve turned into a spinster! I can hear their voices down the hall and know my time is growing short.
I move at warp speed, kicking off the sensible leather flats that serve me well darting around between press conferences and media events, hearing them thud against the wall. I keep a pair of four inch, black patent leather stacked heels here in case I need to make a quick change for the occasional dinner meeting, and they are just what I need. I wiggle my feet into them as my hands furiously attack the large clip that’s been keeping my unruly hair at bay all morning.
I use my fingers as a comb, sifting through the waves until they fall right where I want them, in a sexy Brigitte Bardot kind of way.
“Right this way,” Roger’s voice is just on the other side of the office door.
One last look in the mirror at the thin, white, collared shirt tucked snuggly into the navy blue skirt and I’ve got just what I was going for. Buh-bye drab, boring librarian. Hello sexy schoolteacher. One last thing… I undo another button, showing just a bit more skin to sweeten the pot, turning around just in time to kick the closet door shut behind me.
“Miss Leary? Agent Gibson.”
Roger, my dad’s head of security, ushers in the federal agent.
My eyes lift slowly, as if in slow motion and they land on him for the first time in months. Oh. My. God. He looks delicious in sleek, black dress shoes, perfectly hemmed black trousers, and a modern black blazer that doesn’t even attempt to hide the powerful muscles hidden beneath that white shirt. My mouth grows dry as I catch a hint of the familiar ripples under the material.
The tanned, smooth, skin of his neck is like chiseled perfection as it melds into the sharpness of his jaw.
I stifle the urge to moan, and quickly bite my lip to suppress whatever very unladylike sounds are begging to escape. All this, everything that I’ve seen so far, is enough to knock me over like a tidal wave … but I haven’t even gotten to the worst part, yet.
His eyes.
I slowly blink, hard, preparing for what I’m about to see.
Those dark pools of liquid brown are just as intense as I remember. They have a well-rehearsed shield of protection over them, one that hides all traces of emotion — one that keeps you guessing, never knowing what he’s actually thinking.
He’s a true professional in that respect, playing his cards close to the vest, no matter the situation. I don’t waste any time trying to decipher those cool, steel-hardened eyes. Been there, done that. All it ever did was drive me mad when I tried.
His long, thick, lashes move slowly as his eyes scan me from head to toe, taking me in.
“Chris. Thank you so much for coming.” I avert my eyes to Roger, who’s patiently waiting for some instruction. “Thank you Roger. I’ll take it from here.”
The thirty-something, ebony-skinned man nods before taking his leave, abandoning my guest and I to our awkwardness. I rethink that. Nothing about agent Christopher Gibson could ever be confused with awkward. That part’s all me.
“I told you, all you’d ever have to do is call, Princess.”
His deep, velvety, tone serves like a backhanded reminder of too much of our past — first and foremost, his nickname for me.
“Jessica,” I correct him. “Or, Miss Leary, if you prefer.”
He smirks, his dark eyes finally leaving mine to wander down as slowly as possible, causing my body temperature to rise.
“Whatever you say, Princess.”
His disregard is sobering. It reminds me just how inflexible this man is. It’s his way or the highway. Well, I’m not the same naïve little college girl that he can lead by the nose, or boss around in his sexy, domineering way.
A lot has changed in the past few months.
He’s about to understand just how much.
“Miss Leary will be just fine. Please,” I gesture to the chair opposite my shiny mahogany desk. “Have a seat. Let’s begin.”
I love the extra height the high-heeled shoes provide as they help me stand tall against his imposing form. The artificial height isn’t enough, though, as he still towers several inches over me.
I like the role reversal, of him doing as I say for once, and taking my instruction to sit. He unbuttons his jacket first, letting it fall open so can be seated comfortably.
The light shining through my office window causes the shiny golden tin of the badge on his belt to wink at me. The dark brown leather of his holster can also be seen, just barely, deep under his arm, and I know it doesn’t sit empty.
The first of his three guns can be found in that holster; and I know there’s another on his ankle and his opposite hip. He’s like a walking fortress; instead of b
rick and stone, he’s made of rock-hard muscle and determination. All that firepower is just the icing on the cake.
I decide against my usual seat behind the desk, instead taking advantage of the situation to gain some leverage over him. I lean my left hip onto the corner of my desk and slide up so that I’m perched in front of him, forcing him to raise his head and look up at me for a change.
I know it’s not much, but it’s a subtle little tactic to gain just a bit of control over him, even though I secretly feel anything but in control. I can’t let him see that, though. Can’t let him know what this little reunion is doing to me.
A sturdy knock at the door draws my attention, but not his. I feel his heavy gaze inspecting my pantyhose-clad legs, dangling in front of him.
“Jess?” Kristen is hesitant to enter, so she only pokes her head in. “Can I get you both some coffee? Tea?”
“Miss Leary doesn’t drink coffee,” the baritone answer comes from his lips, not mine.
He thinks he’s so smug, that he knows everything.
I laugh to myself. “Black,” I begin my drink order while the shy intern shifts her weight from foot to foot. “Two sugars in mine, please. Agent Gibson will have a little hazelnut creamer in his.”
His eyebrow shoots up at my hidden challenge. He thinks he knows me. He thinks he knows me so well.
Kristen shuts the door carefully.
“A lot’s changed, Chris.” I make the claim confidently, crossing my legs high at the thigh and my arms over my chest.
He unexpectedly rises, and his broad shoulders tower directly over me. He strategically places each of his large hands on either side of me, closing me in.
“Oh, I don’t know about that, Princess. I don’t think all that much’s really changed. For instance, I know you’re holding your breath right now, holding it, afraid you might pant because I’m this close to you. I know you still don’t like coffee and that you will take a sip of it, just to prove me wrong. And most importantly, I know that you’re crossing your legs tighter than a vice right now, afraid of what will leak out if you don’t.”
His lower lip twitches, amused with himself.
I open my mouth to speak, to deny what he thinks he knows, but he leans closer. The stiff material of his jacket skims the top of my thighs when he moves in, placing his full lips just millimeters from my ear.
His hot breath tickles the baby-fine hairs near my neck, and he growls, “Tell me I’m wrong.”
He’s challenging me, knowing I always rise to the occasion. I remind myself once more. That was then. This is now.
“Here... I-I’m sorry!” Kristen walks in with a Styrofoam cup in each hand, looking like a child who’s just walked in her parents screwing.
I push Chris away forcefully, my whole hand splayed against his rock-hard chest. He laughs, knowing I might as well be pushing against a steel door; but he cooperates and moves aside.
“Kristen, it’s fine. Agent Gibson was just reminding me what a gentleman he can be.” My words drip with sarcasm.
Chris takes the cup my intern extends to him and I take mine.
“Why don’t we make this a group meeting? Kristen, could you please show Agent Gibson to the conference room and let my father know he’s arrived? I’m sure Cooper and Roger will also want to be in on this one.”
“Sure. Agent Gibson? This way, please.” The perky little brunette with cat-eyed glasses steps aside to allow Chris to exit first.
Chris and I played chess once, kind of like people play strip poker. I beat him every round because, while he’s busy looking at the move right in front of him and making sure it goes off just as he plans, I know how to sacrifice a pawn to distract him while I swoop in from the side.
Did I just turn the tables upside down, kick him out of my office, and send him right to my dad? I sure did; and that’s checkmate, bitch. I’m not sure who dislikes the other, more… my dad, or Chris.
He sips from the disposable cup, winking at me, like a son-of-a-bitch. A sexy son of a bitch, but that doesn’t make him any less of an asshole.
Once I have my office to myself, with the door safely shut, I finally release the breath I’ve been holding, my shoulders drooping from the weight of my pretense.
I lift myself from my seat on the desk and take a second to ensure I’m steady, taking measured breaths until the lightheadedness passes. I did a lot better than I thought I would, facing him for the first time after all these months ... since he broke my heart.
The heavy aroma wafting from the cup o’ Joe in my hands turns my stomach and I drop it in the wastebasket closest to my desk. Taking a cleansing breath, I dive back into the small coat closet — I keep a mini wardrobe’s worth of clothes in there for last minute changes after all-night strategy meetings.
I unzip the black bag of underthings and remove a fresh, dry, pair of panties.
Damn him, I curse under my breath.
Damn him for always being right.
~*~
The carpeted hall leading to the conference room is narrow and I have to dodge more than one volunteer along the way, nearly tripping in the heels I’m unaccustomed to wearing this time of day.
The glass enclosed conference room comes into view, and I see the group of men situated around the modern table. My dad, with his ever-greying hair and matching grey suit, is seated at the head of the group, his tie slightly askew from a long day’s wear. Roger’s shiny head is facing away from me, and I can see the coiled wire, discreetly placed behind his ear, indicating the intercom device utilized by the entire security team.
To his left is Cooper’s blond silhouette, his slim frame is posture perfect — he’s my dad’s campaign manager. Across the table, perfectly situated to see my approach is none other than the man of the hour....
Agent Christopher Gibson. Since he’s already made the move in my office to bring up nicknames, perhaps I should call him by his — Pretty Boy.
I know he hates it even more than I hate the moniker he gave me while we were dating. Princess. Some might consider it a compliment, but I always felt there was a dark undertone to it, like he was somehow poking fun.
I can see by the gestures of the men around him that they’re speaking to him, but cannot hear what’s being said ... the room is soundproofed. He ignores them and simply locks his gaze on me before I make my entrance.
His short, dark hair has just a bit of height in the front, and is perfectly styled with just a bit of shine from the gel used to keep it in place. His symmetrical features and strong jawline grab the attention of a curious middle-aged volunteer who passes me as I reach the door to the meeting room.
“Oh my God …” she whispers to herself at the newest addition, the man candy among the drab cookie-cutter politicians who usually fill these rooms. I’ve come to know Tami well — we gossip over the latest reality TV developments in the breakroom every day.
“Is he real, or am I dreaming again?” She’s practically drooling.
I laugh. “He’s real, Tami. He’ll be working around here for a little while.”
Her face brightens, her lips stretching into a smile. “See, Jess? This is why I volunteer for your dad. It’s not about what your country can do for you … it’s about what you can do for your country. With the help of a drop-dead gorgeous man like that, of course.”
I roll my eyes. Tami’s been married over twenty years, and her favorite motto is “I can look, but I can’t touch.”
Well, she’s damn well looking right now. She’s looking really hard, too.
“Whoa!” I stumble past her and try to stop myself from falling, but it’s no use as I topple to the ground, sending a maelstrom of papers up into the air.
“Jessica!” As he’s closest, my dad is the first to lunge from his chair, and takes hold of my arm; helping to lift me from the inglorious face-plant I performed in from of the entire room.
Kill. Me. Now.
“Darling? Are you all right?” Cooper’s New England accent expresses concer
n while he moves to help, taking my other arm as I crawl to my knees.
A strong grip takes hold of my waist from behind and pulls up hard, bringing me to my feet so fast that I fall into the impenetrable barrier behind me — Chris’s chest.
“She’s fine, she’s fine. Just a little distracted. Heels were always a little tricky for her.” I’m close enough to feel his words vibrate as they rumble through him and into me.
I feel something else, too — something subtle and familiar, yet overwhelming. I clear my throat and step away from Chris, putting space between my ass and his....
“Oh, that’s right. You two know each other already,” Cooper’s quick to add.
Please, Lord. Don’t let this turn in to a pissing match. Cooper damn well knows we know each other. It was one of the many reasons he not only objected to reaching out to the FBI for help, but vehemently opposed requesting Chris specifically be assigned to the case.
“Let’s just move along, shall we?” I feel the heat rising, covering my neck, my cheeks, and I can only pray they don’t look as red as they feel.
I keep my eyes low, studying the ground before each and every step — not only to avoid another tumble, but also because I just don’t have the nerve to meet anyone’s eyes.
My dad’s seen me make an ass of myself plenty of times. It’s not him I’m too embarrassed to look at … it’s the person standing directly behind me, whose eyes I can feel burning into my back. Knowing him, those eyes are fixed right on my ass.
“Let’s dive right in,” I toss the hefty file of paperwork and photographs onto the sleek table surface directly in front of the seat I think is best to take as my own. Sitting beside Chris will keep me from having to look directly at him.
The three gentlemen take the seats they hastily abandoned due to my groundbreaking performance in high-heeled acrobatics.
