by R. C. Martin
It’s not the kitchen—but it’s one step closer.
He kisses my lips, and my smile breaks free before he suggests, “How about we get cleaned up?”
“That’s probably a good idea. I could use a shower.”
“Me too,” he chuckles.
“Does that mean this is about to go?” I ask, dragging my knuckles along the side of his cheek.
He studies me a moment, as if trying to decipher my meaning before he asks, “Do you want it to go?”
I shake my head, silently hoping that my answer will make him keep it. I’ll love him with or without a little scruff—but I swear, he was made to sport a little hair everywhere.
“All right then. It stays.”
“Yes!” I cheer, feeling positively giddy with the news.
He kisses me before finally breaking our intimate connection. Then he says, “I’ll clean up out here. You hit the shower first.”
Hooking my legs around his ass, I stop him from pulling away from me completely and suggest, “Or we could shower together.”
“We do that, angel, and it might be a while before we get to that cuddling you asked for.”
“Netflix can wait, can’t it?”
“Mierda.” He makes a noise that’s something between a laugh and a grunt before he moves my legs from around him and quickly scoops me up into his arms. “Yeah. Netflix can wait.”
Blaine
ON TUESDAY NIGHT, I’m still floating on a cloud every place I go. I’ve seen Michael for the last four days in a row, and two of those days I went to sleep wrapped in his arms. I won’t get to see him today, but he called me before my shift started. While it’s admittedly a bit disappointing to be in bed without him now, I still have the memory of our fabulous weekend to hang on to. Aside from the twenty minutes he stepped out to talk to his wife on Saturday night, he was all mine. Getting a glimpse of what that’s like was heaven and hell mixed into one.
When I allow my thoughts to go there, there being the realm otherwise known as reality, where Michael is a married man and a high profile politician, the uncertainty I feel about our future makes me anxious. Though, in order to keep my happy cloud afloat, I decide not to think about all that we’re up against.
I trust Michael. Even though we haven’t had a serious conversation about whether or not he plans on leaving his wife any time soon, I trust his heart. I trust his intentions. I know that he cares for me deeply. I can sense it all through my body when he makes love to me, or when he ties me up to fuck me, or even when he simply looks at me from across the room. Besides, he’s rightfully claimed me to be his, promising me that he is mine.
“All right, I’m back,” says Irene as she enters the galley behind the bar, clocking back in from her dinner break. “What’d I miss?”
“Not much. People drinking. You know, the usual,” I reply with a grin.
“That, and the guy who keeps staring at B from the far end of the bar,” Dodger mumbles as he passes by behind us.
Rolling my eyes, I insist, “He is not.”
“Don’t listen to her, Irene. She’s in denial.”
“Oh, wow, he’s cute,” she observes, pretending to straighten the liquor bottles on the shelves. Turning her neck to address me, she asks, “Are you serving him?”
“Nope,” I proclaim triumphantly. “Dodger’s got that end right now.”
“Hey, Dodge, is it time for your break yet?”
My jaw falls open as she speaks over my head. I turn to face Dodger, knowing good and well that he hasn’t had his dinner yet. He smirks at me before shifting his gaze to Irene.
“You know what? I’m starving.”
“Dodger,” I hiss.
I chance a glance over my shoulder, to the guy sitting in the same exact spot Michael sat the first night he came to the Lounge. By the looks of him, I wouldn’t put him at any older than twenty-nine. He’s not wearing a suit jacket, but he’s got on a button-up and a tie. Judging by the loosened knot and the opened collar, I’m guessing he’s had a long day, and he’s simply here to enjoy a drink or two. Then again, if I’m to go by the way he’s looking at me right now, I’d also have to admit that maybe he wishes I was on the menu, too.
Unfortunately for him, not only does Michael fill his dress shirts a hell of a lot better, but he’s made me a taken woman.
Unfortunately for me, my friends don’t know that—and I can’t tell them.
Facing Dodger once more, I open my mouth to fabricate some excuse as to why him leaving me with his guests is a bad idea, but he beats me to it.
“Come on, B. Just go talk to him. You never know. You could like him.”
“Or not,” I counter.
“At the very least, he could be the perfect rebound. Seriously—he’s cute, and I know cute when I see it,” says Irene before abandoning our conversation to help a new customer.
“Good luck, B.” Dodger grins at me, and I glare at him before he winks and takes his leave.
Knowing that there’s nothing to be done at this point, I get back to work. I help my few patrons first, but there’s no avoiding the far end of the bar. Eventually, when the staring stranger runs low on the scotch I’m pretty sure he’s drinking, I head his way.
“Hi, there. Would you like another?” I ask, nodding down at his glass.
“That depends,” he replies, swirling around the ice in his tumbler, a small, mischievous smile on his lips.
“Okay. Depends on what?”
“Depends on if the woman who is offering will tell me her name.”
Tilting my head slightly, I ask, “Not that I mind telling you my name, but how could that possibly have anything to do with your scotch?”
His smile stretches into a grin before he replies, “Because a woman who knows her liquor deserves to be addressed by her name. How did you know it was scotch?”
I can’t help but laugh as I confess, “Because I saw the bottle out after Dodger poured your first glass. Besides, I certainly hope I know my liquor—for your sake, for their sakes,” I continue, nodding back at my other guests. “And especially for mine. It would be kind of hard to keep my job otherwise.”
“I like you,” he tells me, his grin still firmly in place. “What’s your name?”
“You don’t know me well enough to like me. And I’m Blaine.”
“Well, let’s change that, shall we? I’m Lewis.”
“And would Lewis like another glass of scotch?”
“Please.”
“Coming right up.”
Instead of reaching for the glass in his hand, I go about filling up a fresh one. I pour a couple shots over the rocks, and return in no time. I don’t plan on lingering, but then he asks, “What’s your favorite book?”
“My favorite book?”
“Yes. I’m convinced you can learn a lot about someone if you know their favorite book.”
“I see,” I reply, stepping closer to the edge of the bar as I grab my hips. “Well, I don’t have a favorite book. What’s yours?”
“Hmm,” he hums, tugging his eyebrows together disconcertingly. “Curious. You don’t like to read?”
Smirking, I remind him, “You didn’t answer my question.”
“The Catcher and the Rye.”
“Wow. Your favorite book is about an adolescent who gets expelled, gets his ass kicked more than once, can’t get laid to save his life, and whose greatest confidant is his ten-year-old sister. What does that say about you?” I tease.
Laughing, he props himself on his forearms against the bar as he says, “So she does read.”
“I never said I didn’t. Furthermore, I think that a person who is capable of picking just one book out of the millions that exist in the world to mark as their favorite lacks imagination. Or, perhaps, they don’t read that often. So in a way, I suppose you were right after all. You can tell a lot about a person if you know their favorite book. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I should get back to work.”
I leave him with a shit-eating gri
n on his face, which only makes me laugh. I thought for sure that my quip would turn him off somehow, but over the course of the next hour, I find out that it had the opposite effect. Dodger comes back, much to my relief, but that doesn’t stop Lewis from catching my attention. When he calls me over, Irene chuckles and nudges me with her elbow, encouraging me to respond. I roll my eyes at her but walk the distance toward Lewis anyway.
“If I stay much longer, I won’t be able to drive home—but you know I can’t leave without your number.”
Deciding that I’ve let this go on long enough, I shrug and reply, “Sorry. I don’t give my number to customers. It’s kind of against my own personal code.”
I say this knowing that while I’m not lying, I have made an exception. Just once. Even though I can’t admit that to anyone, I have no intention of ever going out with Lewis. Ever.
“Fair enough,” he says with a nod. “Do you have a pen?”
“I do,” answers Dodger, offering him the writing tool from over my shoulder.
I cut my eyes up at him, but he only smiles before conveniently disappearing.
When I turn my attention back on Lewis, I see him scribbling something on his cocktail napkin. Once finished, he folds it in quarters and then tucks it between his forefinger and middle finger. Propping his elbow on the bar, he extends his hand, offering it to me.
“If I can’t have your number, you can have mine.”
“Lewis, I—”
“Just take it. What harm will it do?”
I stare at the folded napkin long enough to come to the conclusion that if I do take it, not only will Lewis leave, but Dodger and Irene will leave me alone for the rest of the night. My mind made up, I snatch the napkin from his grasp and shove it into the back pocket of my slacks.
“Have a good evening, Lewis,” I say from over my shoulder, walking away from him. “Get home safe.”
“I totally saw that,” Irene practically sings as I pass her on the way to the register.
“It was nothing,” I insist with a shrug.
“Yup. Nothing at all. Just a cute guy who is totally into you.”
My mind races toward another guy—my unbelievably hot guy—and I suddenly get the urge to remind him that even when other guys are hitting on me, I’m still his.
Pulling out my phone, I construct a quick text and send it before either Dodger or Irene can catch me.
Missing you – always, your angel. xoxo
Michael
“SO, YOU’RE REALLY going to keep that? This is really going to be a thing? Little hairs in the sink every morning?”
Looking away from my reflection, I cast my eyes on my wife. She’s sitting on her vanity stool, her back to her own mirror and her gaze aimed at me. She’s still in her negligee and matching robe. For a split second, I try to remember the last time she walked around in one of my discarded dress shirts. When I can’t remember, my memory fills with images of Blaine, who lounged in my shirt all day Saturday. There was something about it that I loved. Not in the sense that it stroked my ego or played into my vanity, it merely spoke of her idea of comfort, which is vastly different juxtaposed with Veronica’s.
Forcing my thoughts to remain in the here and now, I reply, “I don’t leave little hairs in the sink.”
“Oh, yes, you do. You just don’t notice because I’ve been going behind you after you leave for the office.”
Resisting the urge to scowl at her, I return my focus to my task as I remind her, “We don’t share a sink. Feel free to not go behind me.”
“I just don’t understand why—”
“Are we really going to have this argument? We’re really going to argue about my beard?”
“Is that what it’s called? You keep it so short, it looks like you simply forgot to shave over the weekend. It’s not professional, Mike.”
“All right,” I mutter as I continue to shape my new beard. “I guess we really are going to argue about it.”
“I leave for three days, and I come back to this. It’s a surprise.”
“Perhaps it was a surprise on Sunday. It’s Wednesday now.”
“Right. You’re right. Now it’s just annoying.”
I draw in a deep breath, taking a moment to collect myself. The last couple of days have been more difficult than I could have foreseen. I was under no false impression that being back in the mansion and sleeping next to Veronica would be as it had been before. Nothing with Veronica is the same. Her touch. Her kiss. Her presence in bed—even the sound of her voice reminds me that what we have is broken. It’s been broken. I just didn’t notice it until I noticed Blaine. Now, every crack and crevice that has eroded over the last two decades is hard to ignore.
The last thing I want is to be the reason why this argument escalates and turns into something it’s not. I don’t want to say something that I’ll regret. I knew that the facial hair would be an adjustment for her—but it’s not her I’m aiming to please. Not anymore. Since I was eighteen years old, she’s made it perfectly clear that she prefers my face clean shaven. She’s never asked me what I prefer when, in fact, I like the beard. I always have. However, it wasn’t until Blaine that I realized its worth.
Turning to address her directly, I keep my voice low and even as I explain, “It stays. I’m sorry you don’t like it. Now, if you wouldn’t mind leaving me in peace to finish? I’ll be late otherwise.”
We stare at each other, both of us silently standing our ground until she rises to her feet and takes her leave. I watch her go, knowing that she’s angry, but not giving a damn. After all—it’s my face.
MY MORNING DOESN’T get any better. It’s as if the conclusion of one argument makes way for the beginning of another. A cabinet meeting ends up being a disaster, with nothing but bad reports, and a bill that I did not wish to pass was passed anyway. My foul mood runs so deep, when Heidi reminds me of Everly’s class field trip, of which I promised to make a special appearance, I almost decide to back out of it. Except, thinking about the disappointed look on my niece’s face the next time I see her if I skip, I change my mind.
Schools bring kids to the Capitol Building all throughout the year. Some travel far, and reservations are made months in advance. Everly’s fourth grade class is the first of the fall session, school having started only a few days ago.
“Do you know where they are?” I ask Heidi on a sigh.
“Yes, Governor. Except, you’re going to have to look a touch more pleasant than that before I let you stand in front of five classes full of nine and ten-year-olds.”
I force a smile, knowing that she’s right, and then drag my hand down my face. “Tough day.”
“I know. But you love your niece, and she’ll be happy to see you, so perk up. It’ll do you some good.”
“All right,” I mutter, smirking down at her. “Enough with the pep-talk. Let’s go.”
We run into the students as they are exiting the House of Representatives. Their hushed tones as they whisper to one another makes me smile, certain that the teachers and volunteer parents are responsible for striking the fear of God in them, no doubt insisting that this is a building that mandates respect and inside voices.
This is why, when I hear Everly yell, “Uncle Mike!” I can’t help but laugh.
“Everly Cavanaugh!” I hear Gabriel before I see him. After spotting my niece—shrinking at her father’s tone, her cheeks red in a blush, and her eyes peeking his way—I follow her gaze and spot him. “You know better,” he mumbles quietly.
“Sorry, daddy.”
Wishing to play the roll of doting uncle, I shift my attention back toward my niece and call out, “Miss Cavanaugh?”
“Sorry, Uncle Mi—I mean, Governor Cavanaugh.”
I stifle my grin and hold out my hand. “Come here, please.”
She makes her way through her classmates quickly, most of them offering her compassionate glances as she passes. The snots of the group are easily detected, their smirks a clear giveaway as to what they
think is about to happen.
When she’s standing right in front of me, I crouch down so that I’m the one that must look up at her. Turning my head, I tap my cheek, silently requesting a kiss. She giggles before pressing her cool lips to my face, and I nod my approval before nipping at her nose with my thumb and forefinger.
“You have a beard,” she observes.
I run my hand over my jaw and declare, “I do. Do you like it?” She nods her head enthusiastically. Grinning at her, I instruct, “Be sure to tell your Aunt Veronica that the next time you see her, all right?”
“Okay!” she agrees innocently.
“Would you like to introduce me to your classmates?” She nods once more, and I stand to full height, reaching for her hand as I go.
Shifting her little body until she’s standing directly beside me, she clears her throat and sweeps a few stray strands of hair from out of her face. I smirk down at her when she rolls her shoulders and begins her introduction.
“Everyone, this is Governor Michael Cavanaugh. He’s been governor since I was seven. So…two and a half years. Right?” she asks, whipping her head up to glance at me.
“Yes, very good.”
“All right, Everly—time to join the rest of your class,” Gabe commands.
I wink down at my niece before letting go of her hand. She smiles up at me and then obeys her father, returning to her previously occupied spot. For the next ten minutes, the teachers of the group facilitate a small question and answer session. When Heidi interrupts, reminding me of my next appointment, in approximately twenty minutes, the teachers are quick to thank me for my time before they all bid me farewell.
I say goodbye to the little guests, and they continue on their tour as I start back for my office. I’ve barely made it two steps before I hear Gabriel call out to me. I turn to address him and see him jogging the short distance between us.
“Got a minute to spare for your older brother?”
