Double Agent

by J. P. Nicholas

  "No can do. You were made aware of my rules, right?" She nods. "And what was rule number three?"

  "That you won't ever stay the night…ever." I smirk at her almost verbatim recitation of my third rule. "But can't I be the one exception to your rules?"

  "Not even on your birthday. But you are eligible for a goodbye kiss," I explain as I zip the fly of my jeans closed.

  I walk over to her, my shirt still draped over my shoulder, allowing her to get a good look at exactly what she is going to be missing out on from this point forward. I most definitely just ruined sex with other men for her…forever.

  As I press my lips to hers in a tender kiss, her tongue lashes out at mine, hoping to try to convince me to stay. She, like every other woman I have slept with, fails. God, women are so predictable.

  I bite down hard on it, making her retreat to her own mouth; therefore, ending the kiss.

  "Something to remember me by." Those are the exact last words I leave every woman with.

  "As if I needed something else to remember!" she calls out to me as I exit her apartment, close the door, and walk out of her life…forever!

  * * *

  That next morning, I wake up to the sound of a frickin’ annoying alarm on my phone, in my own bed…alone. Just how I like it. I knew today was going to be a day from hell.

  I have a press meeting lined up with the top twenty-five newspapers in New York City to discuss my life, both professional and, to a small extent, personal, ending the day with a speech announcing my candidacy for New York State Senator.

  I lie in bed for a minute before I reach for my phone. It's eight in the morning and I already have three missed calls and twelve text messages. So, the day is starting this way. Fuck.

  The three missed calls are from my publicist, my assistant, and my stylist. Thank God one wasn't from my lawyer. I hate when that prick calls. I decide to call my publicist back first.

  "Good morning, Delores. How bad is it?" She snorts, one of her unattractive quirks that I overlook because she is damn good at her job.

  "Why do you assume I always have bad news?"

  "Because you always do. Which bitch is claiming she’s pregnant now? If I had a dime for every are-you-the-daddy test I have taken in the past five years, I would be rich." She snorts again.

  "Need I remind you, you're a frickin’ billionaire?"

  "Well, then I'd be richer."

  "Indeed, you would be. Anyway, that's not why I called."

  "Then, by all means, please enlighten me, Delores."

  "Do you remember Marcia Gonzalez?" I rub the stubble on my chin and try to recall that name.

  "Doesn't sound familiar." Delores sighs.

  "I didn't think you'd remember her. She was one of your many conquests last month. Anyway, I think you should hire her for your campaign."

  "What the fuck? You know I don't hire women I've fucked, Delores. I don't mix professional with personal. It's bad for business."

  "I know. I know. But just hear me out?"

  "Fine. Shoot." Delores' tone changes from concerned to glee in a matter of seconds.

  "Okay then. So, I ran a poll and you are not looking so hot with minority voters, but especially Hispanics." I take this perfect opportunity to be the smart-ass that I am.

  "Whoa, Delores. You and I both know that I'm always looking hot." I flash her my boyish coy smile through the phone. Even though she can't see it, she knows me well enough to know it’s there.

  "Ugh. Wipe that grin off your face, boy. And really listen to what I have to say for once. I want you to pretend to be engaged to her. Your image linked with hers will provide a good boost with minority voters. You can still fuck whoever on the side, as long as the paparazzi doesn't find out about it. Although, I suggest that you just serial fuck her, and only her. That way, I won't have to do damage control when the 'razzi finds out. Just don't do anything that can tarnish your image."

  I consider what Delores suggested. She is right about my image, like always. If I want to win this thing, I need to shed my womanizer image. And the best way to do that is to appear monogamous. But serial fucking her for a whole year, I don't know if I can do that.

  "I don't know if I can serial fuck her and be content with that. I agree that I need to do this, but why her?"

  "Two reasons. One, she is Hispanic. Two, she owns her own cyber-security company called CyTek. Which we can use to destroy any story or picture that can tarnish your reputation and credibility as a candidate."

  I hate when Delores makes perfect sense. I do need Marcia Gonzalez, whether I want her or not. I involuntarily shudder at the thought of being in a monogamous relationship. Even if it is just pretend, I know I can't take the chance of fucking a different woman every night. Once I announce my candidacy tonight, I can't take the chance. The 'razzi, as Delores puts it, will be all over my ass again.

  They have only recently gotten sick of the which-chick-did-Aaron-fuck-last-night story, and I don't want to cause a relapse.

  "I'm in. I assume you and Barry already talked to her and made her sign a contract?"

  "You betcha! That's one hard-ass lawyer you got there. That contract is fool-proof. No way that bitch is ever gonna squeal, except when you want her to."

  I can't help but laugh at the sexual innuendo joke that Delores just told. It's official, I have negatively influenced her.

  "I've been a bad influence on you, Delores. You used to be so sweet and timid."

  "And now I curse like a fucking trucker and make sex jokes. Yeah, I know. But I have a lot more fun now because of you. So, a little change was needed in my case."

  Delores has always been like a mother to me, and she is the only woman I ever use the L-word on.

  “Congrats on the engagement. You can announce that tomorrow."

  "Why not tonight?"

  "Let there be some mystery surrounding who you are tonight. It's free positive publicity. And on that note, I'm out. Good luck tonight, Studley."

  I hang up the phone, head into the bathroom, and look at myself in the mirror.

  You are now engaged. You are now a one-fuck bastard. This better be worth it.

  I take off my clothes and take a much-needed shower. I let the cool water soothe my troubled thoughts.

  As I exit the shower and wrap a crisp white towel around my waist, the elevator opens, allowing my visitor into my penthouse apartment.

  I exit my bathroom to see who it is. Timothy Valdino, aka my stylist.

  As he lays his eyes on my bare midriff, he instantly licks his lips and then turns his gaze away.

  "Oh, Mr. Hunter. You know I can't see you like this. I'm a happily engaged gay man, and you are too delicious and tempting."

  "Nice to see you too, Timmy."

  I pretend that I don't know how much that he hates that nickname. But I do get pleasure in seeing him flinch every time I use it. That's why I continue to do it…every time I see him.

  "For the thousandth time, Mr. Hunter. It's Timothy." He puts an emphasis on the “o,” as his Italian hand gestures come out, waving all over the place.

  "My mistake. I forgot," I say, flashing him my devilish grin. He sighs.

  "All is forgiven. Now, go get dressed. I can't take all the sexual tension."

  "What sexual tension?"

  "Mine. Now go."

  Timothy points toward the staircase, gesturing for me to head upstairs to my bedroom and put on some clothes. Although I don't see the point. He is only going to make me change into three different outfits before he decides that the first one looked the best because that's what he does.

  After I throw on a pair of jeans and a plain white T-shirt, I join Timothy in my massive walk-in closet.

  The closet is equipped with hundreds of suits, dress shirts, and ties to match. This is my professional closet. The items I like to wear for personal occasions, I keep in the drawers of my dresser in my bedroom.

  And just like I predicted, I try on three outfits before Timothy makes me change int
o the first one for the second time. He settles on a navy Armani wool and silk suit and a Ralph Lauren pinpoint oxford dress shirt in white, all accented with a navy and gold striped tie.

  After I try it all on and take a look at myself in the mirror, I have to admit I look damn sexy. As much as Timothy annoys me, in a little-brother-sort-of-way, he knows what will make me look fantastic. And that, ladies and gentlemen, is why I hired a gay Italian stylist.

  "Magnifico," Timothy says as he kisses his fingertips and releases it into the air. He does that every time, and I have grown accustomed to it.

  Although I crave spontaneity in my personal life, in my professional life, I need consistency.

  "You've outdone yourself yet again, Timothy." His face lights up as an overjoyed expression takes over his face.

  "And on that note, I'm off."

  "Give my best to Lance for me," I shout as he descends the staircase to the foyer.

  "I always do, darling!"

  The gold elevator doors close behind him. That man is definitely a character, I'll give him that.

  My phone rings and I glance at the caller-id and answer it.

  "Aaron Hunter."

  "Finally, you answer your phone."

  "Nice to speak to you too, Ree. What's up?" My assistant sucks in a deep breath and spews out words at a pace of about thirty-words-per-second.

  "So, I arranged a driver to pick you up outside your house at noon. He will drive you to the Wantago Resort, where you will have your press conference at two. I calculated traffic at the time, you should arrive there thirty minutes early, give-or-take a few minutes. Next, the same driver will pick you up and drive you downtown to the Prestington. That's where you will have dinner, schmooze and booze a bunch of rich-asses, and make the announcement. The mayor will introduce you. Just read the speech I wrote verbatim and you should be fine. I emailed you the final revised copy again this morning. Make sure you got it. I also arranged for Marcia to be picked up a block away from the Prestington, so you can arrive together. The driver is already aware of her rendezvous point."

  "Can you do one more thing for me?"

  "What is it now?"

  "Can you cancel the shindig tonight?" I try hard to fight back my laughter, knowing that Regina probably has the vein in her forehead throbbing at my last comment.

  "Are you fucking serious?" I burst into laughter.

  "No. I'm just messing with you. You need to take a fucking chill-pill every now and then. Better yet, go get fucked. You are so uptight twenty-four-seven. You're only twenty-two; enjoy life a little bit more."

  "I don't have the time to get fucked when my boss is announcing his candidacy for the Senate tonight."

  "I'll be fine, Ree. You arranged everything. It’s all set. Take the rest of the day off. Go to a bar, find a sexy man, and ride his dick for the rest of the night." She sighs.

  "Do you ever take anything seriously?"

  "No. Life is too short to be so damn worried and uptight all the time."

  "Maybe you're right. Go get 'em, Boss."

  "Go get some, Ree."

  She giggles for a good minute before she hangs up. God, I hope she takes my advice. She is the little sister I never wanted. I guess it's a good thing she isn't my real sister because, if she was, I never would've told her to go out and ride a cock.

  Just as Ree said, the driver picked me up at noon and had me at the Wantago Resort with thirty minutes to spare. Maybe I should give her a raise for all the hard work she does for me.

  I enter the room and see twenty-five reporters sitting in a circle formation. One chair is left vacant, mine. I take my place in the twenty-sixth chair and clear my throat.

  "I guess, since we’re all here early, we can start a little earlier." I place my hands in my lap in a desperate attempt to look dignified and professional. "I would like New York to get to know me better. And since you guys represent New Yorkers today, feel free to ask me anything you would like to know. So, any questions?"

  Instantly all twenty-five hands go up. It's going to be a longer day than I originally thought.

  "How about I just start to my left, and we go around the circle until all questions are answered. Sound fair?" They all nod in unison. "Great."

  I glance around the room, mostly women…thank God! I can charm any woman with just a flash of my smile, accompanied by an unannounced appearance from my dimples.

  You can do this. You are a Hunter, and Hunter men can charm anybody.

  I look to my left at the first reporter. Her hands are shaking, she must be new at this.

  "Good afternoon, Mr. Hunter. I'm Catalina Desperado from the New York Daily News. I saw a poll that stated most minority groups do not resonate with you. How do you plan to rectify that?" Create a fake-fiancée and flaunt her around like the floozy she is just to make it appear that since she likes me, you should too.

  "Good question, Ms. Desperado. I know that unlike most people, I grew up privileged. My father owned his own law firm, and my mother, her own practice. I am proud of my family and my heritage, as I assume all of you are as well. I recognize that the majority of voters view me as a privileged rich white man, and that is true. I am always going to be a privileged rich white man…that's never going to change. What is going to change, however, is the fact that I want to get to know those who aren't as fortunate as I am. I want to hear their stories, wants, fears, and struggles. I want to make this a better place for them."

  I survey the room with a quick glance and watch the majority of them nod in approval.

  "Thank you."

  "Mr. Hunter, I’m Maxwell Carter from the New York Times. I was wondering why you want to be a senator in the first place?" I have no fucking clue. I just woke up one day and said, hey, why not? I'm running out of women in New York who don't know who I am. I need a fresh start with the DC women. Just kidding, I am doing it to honor my mother, but I sure as hell am not going to tell you that story. Better not to open that can of worms.

  "Well, Mr. Carter, I’ve always dreamed of being able to make a difference when it matters. I’ve been in the spotlight my entire life. Just because I’m famous doesn't mean I can make a difference. That’s a lesson that took me a while to learn. I always thought that since I’m famous people care about what I say and do. That's not the case. I want to be a voice for those who don't have a voice."

  "Thank you."

  I manage to answer question after question in an intelligent manner. And, finally, I look to my right, the last reporter.

  She is extremely attractive. Her brown hair complements her deep brown eyes perfectly. Her skin tone is tanner than white, but not necessarily tan either, more of an in-between. She is wearing a strapless green dress, the only real color in the room, and her breasts are begging to be released from the top of it. Fuck me. She dared to be different, and I like that. People usually wear neutral colors at an event like this, beige, black, navy, white, or gray. But not her, she is wearing emerald green.

  "Mr. Hunter, I’m Nicole Parker from the Daily Yorker Gazette. I was wondering exactly how a man with your womanizing reputation plans on fighting for women's rights?" Where the fuck did that come from? Of course, the most attractive woman here has a question about me being a womanizer. Go frickin’ figure.

  "Well, Mrs. Parker…"

  "Miss Parker, actually." Fuck. She's single. And on that note, my dick springs upward to get a better view of her.

  "My apologies, Ms. Parker, I’m all for women's rights. And I don't believe mistakes I have made in my youth should define who I am today. Do you?"

  "Not necessarily. However, your last reported womanizing incident was two years ago. You were thirty at the time. I hardly consider that one's youth." Dammit. She came prepared. Why is this banter turning me on? Fuck, now I'm throbbing and hard. Maybe nobody will notice.

  I clear my throat, hoping to come up with some clever rebuttal. Nothing.

  "I am not the same man I was then, Ms. Parker. I am a new man. A better man." By th
e are-you-fucking-serious glare her beautiful brown eyes just shot me, I know she didn't buy into the bullshit that was spewing out of my mouth. Hell, I don't even believe it myself.

  "And what would you say brought on this miraculous change? What makes you a better man? Also, you still never answered my question on women's rights." Maybe I should just focus on that part.

  "I am well aware that women are being paid seventy-seven cents to every man's dollar for the same occupation. And that is not acceptable. I would love to work on rectifying that." She seemed to like my response, but she wasn't quite ready to quit just yet. Damn, she is feisty. That's so fucking hot. And suddenly, I’m wishing that all the other reporters would just disappear. That it would be just me and her. Alone. Oh, what fun it would be to see what is hidden under that emerald dress. I try to suppress the intense instinct to take her right here and now by taking deep breaths. After three counts, the urge is diminished.

  "I agree, that is very unacceptable. However, I don't see how a notorious philanderer, such as yourself, is going to bring about that change. Considering that you don't care about the women you hurt. Do you deny that you've slept with hundreds of women, and every time, just toss them aside like they're a tissue that you are done using?" Shit. This woman has balls. None of these other reporters had the guts to ask the questions she’s asking. And by the looks on all of their faces, they wanted to.

  "Philanderer, ouch."

  "Oh, I'm sorry. Did I hurt your massive ego?"

  How am I going to break this woman? Then it dawns on me. I have one trick up my sleeve that none of these reporters know about yet. And it just might get me out of here unscathed.

  "To answer your earlier question when you accused me of being a philanderer, I do plan to bring about this change. I don't know how many times I have to say I’ve changed before you believe it. You may never believe it. But I know I've changed. You call me a notorious philanderer, but have you seen a story of me having a one-night stand with anybody in the past two years?"

  "No, but maybe the tabloids got tired of the same old story and stopped reporting it." That's the truth.

  "Or, it could be because I’ve been in a monogamous relationship the whole time. In fact, I'm engaged." She laughs.