A Vote For Lust: A Bad Boy Political Romance

by Natasha Tanner

  He was the closest thing I had to a friend in the Scope. Or elsewhere, really. Well, there was Pip... I mean Ace Glover, and Jack Starr too, but they were in New York, too far away. Would Pam make Seven come and finish me?

  Seven had dropped off the radar after the job with Nine, though. I’d never had the chance to thank him, ask him how he had felt. He sent the message and the proof, and then left without a trace.

  What if they sent Four? I had met her once or twice, and not for long. I knew she was as lethal as can be –but that’s true of every operative in the Scope. “All my fingers can point and shoot,” Pam used to say.

  If not Seven or Four, who? Nine was dead. I didn’t know about the others. Well, except for Pam, who was now in charge, so she was One. Perhaps she would consider me important enough to do the deed in person. Pam Overton, going back to the field once more for a last job. It fell in the realm of possibility.

  None of this mattered, of course. My task was not to find out who was going to kill me, but stay alive. I knew how to stay alive; I had done it for years. But not many people survive a finger once it’s pointed at them.

  There’s not much world after this, I thought as I watched Sadie’s thin sleep, her breasts go up and down following the beat of her restless breath. She had taken a bath, and then put on the same clothes she had when we met. The only ones she had right now. I should buy her some new clothes.

  But right now, I didn’t want any clothes on her.

  I started running my fingers over her shapely legs, then her arms, then I caressed her pretty face. She sighed at my touch, maybe in dreams. I unbuttoned her shirt slowly, engrossed at the sight of her chest going up and down as her breath became slightly faster. I kissed her breasts above the bra, very gently, an almost ethereal contact. I started pulling down the bra, uncovering new territories to conquer with my kisses. Her breasts seemed to last forever, and I felt in danger of getting lost in them. The nipples came out at last, and I kissed them too, ran my tongue around them, and Sadie was now awake, moaning in delight and groping the back of my head, her little paws sinking into my flesh once more.

  “Hello, pretty eyes,” she sighed, her voice failing under the weight of her own pleasure.

  “Hello, pretty face,” I replied, running my tongue in a straight line from her sternum to her navel, playing with the tiny orifice for a while, then venturing downward. The delicate fabric of her panties opposed a faint resistance at first, then yielded, letting me explore the even more delicate surface below. Her groin and crotch shivered in excitement as I rubbed the area gently, drawing spirals with my nose and making it tickle, then positioning my face between her legs and kissing what was between like a sweet intruder.

  This woman made me lose my mind every time I looked at her or merely heard her voice. I didn’t know why. If pressed on the specifics, I wouldn’t have been able to pinpoint what was her best quality, that thing that made her different from all others. She was pretty, sure, and I loved her body, but there was something beyond mere appearance, something dwelling below the surface, that called me irresistibly.

  Her skin trembled as I kissed her intimately, going up and down her slit, without forcing it open, just underlining its presence with light touches of my lips. I could tell she was really enjoying it when she lifted her legs slightly, offering her cavity for my tongue to explore at will. I did it very gently and slowly, though, barely pushing my tongue inside, enthralled by the scent and texture, without even attempting to counter the minimal resistance opposed by the wet skin. I grabbed her buttocks and squeezed them ever so slightly. The loud, delirious moan this provoked in her was the sign that I should give in to what I’d been craving. So I did.

  TOGETHERNESS

  SADIE

  Oh for fuck’s sake, it was happening again.

  I didn’t know why this man I barely knew made me feel this way. It hadn’t happened with any other. It was like we connected in a deep level, and he could make me vibrate with just a touch, a kiss, the slightest blow over my skin.

  Which he was doing now. He had awakened a deep ocean of desire in me, a quiet movement of inner currents that were starting to agitate with his gentle touch, and now I feel a maelstrom forming inside me, all that eagerness shaking and wavering as I received his cock.

  I surrendered myself to the feeling. My pussy had been enduring Six’s tender siege without opening its doors, but bit by bit, gently, constantly, he’d been making it yield, and now I was welcoming him inside. I quivered at the way the shaft pushed my cavity around, its girth too massive to go unnoticed. Six slid it in slowly at first, then withdrew it almost completely until only the tip was inside, then entered me a bit faster, and then faster, and soon he was ramming my pussy as I screamed and whimpered and grappled at his arms to hold myself in the air, making the most of his thrusts, letting his rod push all the way inside me, a rough attack that was at the same time sweet and loving.

  “Oh, Six... uuuuh... this is so— aaah!”

  “It is,” he answered as he thrust his cock into me, “it is so, so much, pretty face.”

  We went on for what felt like hours, and the world outside stopped existing for a while. When we finished (four or five times in my case, one after the other, in waves of hot release that left me exhaust and elated), we cuddled and fell asleep in each other’s arms.

  * * *

  “You know what?” I said, grabbing the cigarette he was offering me. “I think I know who the buyer is.”

  A sudden change took place. Six became more alert, his whole body tensing slightly, as he looked at me intently with those luminous eyes. “Really? Who?”

  “A rich farmer,” I replied. “Scott Poole. He’s been pestering me for months trying to have Mark pass some legislation to help him. I’ve told him to fuck off every time. Politely, of course.” I sucked on the cigarette like it was a lollipop, started coughing, and continued, when I could speak again: “He must know by now that if Mark is reelected, he won’t have what he wants. And it means millions of bucks. Taking him out of the way may put a more receptive ear on his seat. Also, he wants an even bigger benefit for whoever becomes president in four years. Guess what: he isn’t interested in Mark Cross being POTUS.”

  “Interesting,” Six said, looking at the ceiling.

  “I don’t know much about the hitman business,” I admitted, running my hand over his huge, hairy chest, “but I guess if you can meet the buyer and explain things to him, he could tell the Scope to forget about it. This way they won’t be chasing you anymore.”

  “If he is actually the buyer,” Six said, without looking at me. “Then it could work. Maybe. If he’s not, I would be confessing a crime to a random concerned citizen. I would have to kill him too.”

  “No,” I said, turning my hand into a claw and sinking my nails into his skin until he had to say ouch. “No more killing. Promise me.”

  “Hey, you’re a piece of work,” he chuckled. “So now I have to make promises to you? It was just a little fuck, we’re not married.”

  I clawed at his chest, even harder now.

  “Promise me.”

  “I can’t,” he said stubbornly. “But this was my last job anyway.”

  It was not nearly enough for me. I wanted to know I wouldn’t need to be afraid of Six anymore. I needed him to truly change.

  “What do you care? The guy tried to rape you,” he had told me the first time I mentioned the issue. His logic was sound, of course. And heck, I wanted to kill the guy myself. But I wanted to believe that I could change him somehow, make him stop.

  “People don’t change, silly,” Millie used to say. And though I loved my sister, I wanted to prove her wrong.

  * * *

  “We gotta move,” the pile of bags said, entering the motel room hurriedly.

  Somewhere under the pile of bags was Six. He threw his multicolored loot on the bed; it overflowed, bags tumbling down over each other, spilling their contents on the floor. Tees, pants, dresses, bras, sne
akers, tops, belts, socks, hats, boots –there was a complete wardrobe there, or more than one: clothes for several different women, all mixed together for me to pick and choose. So that’s what he’s been doing all morning.

  How had he managed to put it all on his motorcycle?

  I looked through the window and realized he hadn’t. The bike was now waiting on the bed of a brand new pickup truck.

  “Hey,” he repeated, poking me with his finger as he looked into his cellphone screen. “We gotta move. Take a shower and get dressed.”

  “Can I thank you first?” I stood on my tiptoes to reach his face and plant a playful kiss on his lips. He grunted. “Oh, OK, bad boy,” I added, taking off my shirt and bra right there in front of him. “I’m so dirty and sweaty, you know? I really needed some new clothes.” His eyes remained immobile, but I grinned, realizing the excruciating effort he was making not to look down. I took off my pants too, and then my poor panties. I stood there wearing only a pair of socks and a wristwatch. “Hey, bad boy, I said thanks. Did you hear me?”

  He looked down. I felt his green gaze on my small, sweaty, dirty body like a hot liquid washing all over me. His eyes drank every square inch of my skin, first on the front and then on my back, when I went to the bathroom and turned on the shower.

  He didn’t follow me. As soon as I closed the door, I heard him grunting once more. This man was part beast. And I kind of liked that.

  * * *

  The house was small and inconspicuous, tucked between two hills and well away from the main road. It was completely surrounded by trees, which in this time of year were already tinted with every color in the spectrum, from light green to furious red to deep blue to vivid yellow to cheery brown. “There is only one bed,” Six had warned me, and I retorted that I could sleep on a couch or the floor, thank you very much, but he left me the bed and took the couch for himself. I wanted to invite him into the bed so much that it burned, but I didn’t. I was still unsure about what I wanted, and an unsettling, primal discharge of fear invaded me from time to tome whenever I thought about him as a professional assassin.

  I hadn’t connected my cellphone to use the Internet so I didn’t know where I was in the map, but at least I knew now which state we were in, which was something. Six had advised me not to activate my WiFi or any other connectivity features. Of course, I hadn’t even thought about making any calls. Well, except that one time I was thinking of calling 911, and that other time, too.

  “Can I use that?” I asked, pointing at a notebook lying on a small desk.

  “Use it for what?” he asked. His voice came raspy from the kitchen, where he was in an omelet-making process that somehow involved liquor and a cigar.

  “I... I want to get in touch with my sister. Tell her I’m OK.” I was fine when I started to say it, but by the end, I felt hot tears pooling behind my eyes, pushing to flow away. I had hidden this anxiety from myself for two days, but now that I was somewhere that looked a bit like a home, all of it was coming back in full force. Millie would be so worried for me... I was everything she had in the world, after mom and dad’s death. And now I was missing, and there hadn’t even been any news on TV, so she would very probably have no idea about what was happening. “I know they can track you on the Internet, but if I use Tor...”

  “No. Tor has been infiltrated by the CIA and the FBI for a while now. Use this.” He opened a drawer and produced a tiny USB pendrive.

  I turned on the notebook. It used one of those spartan versions of Linux tailored to cybersecurity, so there were no fancy applications or colorful icons. Everything was minimal and washed out. The pendrive turned out to hold a custom secure browser and an integrated anonymous email app. Six pointed at two menu options and told me how to send a message.

  Dear Millie, I wrote, I want you to know that I’m OK. I can’t tell you where I am right now, or with whom, but I’m perfectly fine. Only I miss you so, so much. Please take care, and don’t try to contact me. I will get in touch again as soon as I can. I’m in the middle of someth

  I looked around, expecting to see Six watching what I was writing. But he was still in the kitchen, cooking and drinking and smoking; the pan was sizzling audibly and I could notice the regular metallic sounds as he stirred the ingredients and moved them around. Again, the thought creeped into my head: The time is now. I would have to be fast. Tell Millie what had happened and where I was in as few words as I could, ask her to send help, to alert the authorities.

  I made my decision.

  Backspace. Backspace. Backspace. Backspace. Backspace. Backspace. Backspace. Backspace. Backspace. Backspace. Backspace. Backspace. Backspace. Backspace. Backspace. Backspace. Backspace. Backspace. Backspace. Backspace. Backspace. Backspace. Backspace. Backspace. Backspace. Backspace. Backspace.

  ... as soon as I can. I love you. I love you. Take care. Sadie.

  SEND.

  I closed the window and sat there for a while, staring at the austere screen.

  “Everything OK?” Six asked as the smell of cheese, garlic and olives invaded my nostrils. I would have to ask him how he made his omelets exactly, but I suspected the recipe varied all the time, according to whatever he had in the pantry. Be it as it may, the smell was delicious.

  “Yes, it’s all fine,” I replied, and I felt a pinch of something... weird inside me. I’m with you now, I thought as I reflected on what I had just done, or better, failed to do. I’m here now, hiding, with you. We’re in this together.

  GAME OVER, PLAY AGAIN?

  SADIE

  A week had passed since the attack when Mark Cross appeared on TV speaking about it. There had been no news until that point –somehow it had been covered all this time. But now, it looked like every journalist in the United States was gathered around him, at the entrance of the court building, pointing a mic or a recorder at him.

  He described briefly a version of what had happened, in which he was alone in his office, working on a proposal, when the assassin appeared. In his story, he had seen the man approaching and walked around his desk in an attempt to stop him, but the killer had gotten nervous and shot without aiming. The bullet had landed on the window, shattering the glass, and the assassin had dropped his gun to fight him by hand. After landing one or two blows, and receive a couple, too, he fled, grabbing his gun before disappearing. No mention of me being there, or of his trousers being unbuttoned when he was found lying unconscious on the floor, his sad fleshy lump taking in some air.

  Dozens of questions rained on Mark Cross as he was closing his narration of the incident. It was hard to hear any of them, but of course one would imagine that everyone wanted to know who was involved. His answer froze the blood running through my veins.

  “We have reasons to believe that an assistant in my office may have acted as an accomplice to the attacker,” he said, glancing briefly at the camera before continuing. “A young lawyer I took under my wing a few months ago. I trusted her completely, but I guess that was a mistake.”

  There was a mini chaos when every reporter asked basically the same question at the same time. They wanted to know who this young lawyer was. Of course they wanted to know who she was.

  Mark raised his hand to calm them down and, when the noise subsided, spoke loudly and clearly.

  “Her name is Sarah March,” he told the reporters. “She had been working with me for almost a year. She knew that I often stayed in my office working late at night, and we suspect she may have told the attacker that I was there and even granted him access to the building. In fact, she may have been with him that night, maybe waiting for him in the car. Yes,” he added, raising his hand again, because the reporters were asking again, “there was a car. No, we can’t give any details.”

  I couldn’t believe what I was hearing. I stood in front of the TV set with my mouth agape, trying to process it all. What a fucking bastard... But I already knew that. I had been too naïve in thinking that he wouldn’t try to turn the incident that would have been his doom i
nto a powerful political advantage.

  “Where is she now?” a reporter asked, echoing what the others were trying to ask too.

  “We don’t know,” Mark Cross said. “She’s on the run.”

  He turned around and walked into the court building.

  * * *

  On the run.

  I was on the run.

  I should have seen it coming ten miles away. I was too dangerous for Mark Cross after he had been caught trying to rape me. He couldn’t save face; there were too many things to explain. A shattered window, a broken lip and a crushed nose, sounds of people shooting each other in the parking lot. One of his assistants was missing and other people who worked for him already suspected that he had set his sights on me. He needed to neutralize me as a threat, so that I couldn’t step up and speak. And even if I did, anything I could say would be discredited from the start, because I was a suspect of being an accomplice to attempted murder.

  Ethically, he was being the worst asshole; politically, he was following the book like the best student.

  Once more, I tried to weigh my options. What if I stepped forward anyway? A judge would have to investigate. They would find out that I had left home and gone to his office that night. There were cameras along the road. But he could say that I had gone there precisely to meet the killer, maybe enter the building with him. And even if there was absolutely no proof of that, I certainly had left the building with Six. Some camera could have caught us.

  But all of that was immaterial, I realized with growing despair. This was not a matter of proving anything. I was in the middle of a political campaign, and I was being used as a weapon. Justice was secondary; I would end up where the struggle of the opposing forces would leave me. If Mark was successful, I would surely go to jail. If he was not, I would get a chance to prove my innocence, but my political career would be tarnished forever.