by Alex Elliott
“The president is waiting in the library.” He juts his chin over toward the house. “Come with me.” He turns to leave as if I’ll just happily totter along.
“Pardon me, Agent.” I cross my arms over my chest, waiting.
The man stops talking into his cell, telling someone to ‘hold positions.’ “Yes?”
“I can’t right now. Please tell the president, I’ll catch him later.” I arch my brow, pressing my lips together, and nod.
The agent peers over his glasses, his dark eyes widen, and he looks like he’s thinking what to do. Well, while he’s trying to figure how to keep his job, I’m done playing games, and walk past him with a stony, “Good evening.”
I march over to Jon and his buddy. Both guys glance at me and then exchange a look between them—protracted and I understand. Immediately. I smile at Jon. He’s found a hook-up and in my giddy-I’m-leaving state, I semi-shout his name to grab his attention. “Time to split.”
“More like splitting from the Secret Service. What the hell was that about?” Jon asks. “Who’d you piss off now?”
“Just Gran plotting,” I scoff.
“Xavia, nice seeing you again. It’s been a while,” the tall-blond-and-married attorney states, extending his arm to me.
I can’t recall his name, but I reach out and squeeze his hand. “Same. Sorry to greet and run, but I’m heading off calamity.”
“No problem,” he replies.
I smile at both of them and then focus my eyes on Jon. “So, are you up for leaving?”
“More than ready.” Jon says and grins over at his new friend. “Mitch?”
Now, I shift my focus directly to Jon, trying to catch his eye and nonverbally ask if Mitch is coming with us, but my BFF’s so hung up on the blond hunk in front of him, he ignores my intense stare.
“Need a lift back to the city?” I ask Mitch, taking the ‘bull’ by the horns.
Jon’s eyes widen and he shakes his head, leaning next to my ear and whispers, “I’m riding back with him.”
“You’re not seri—”
He jerks my arm, squeezing, and I want to laugh and ask him if he’s bonkers, but he gives me an I’ll-kill-you-in-your-sleep stare to silence my unwelcomed imitation of a dumbass. Stiffening, I feel a tendril of something foreign tighten around my throat—and wonder what’s come over me. I don’t want him to leave with Mitch.
Am I jealous of Jon?
Of the blond hunk?
Of them together? In a bed?
Fuck, I think am.
“Absolutely ready. After you,” Mitch pronounces and his smile widens gregariously. He sets his drink down, and I start to trek toward the front of the house.
I want to bolt away and I hate feeling like this. In lieu of leaving through the gargantuan downstairs where I’m sure Gran is holding court in the living room by this time, I head for the side walkway.
“Wait up, Xavia,” Jon calls, and I realize, I’m practically fleeing like my feet are on fire.
I slow my gallop, stepping onto the grass, and take a breath, glancing over my shoulder, and our eyes meet. I force a smile to my lips for Jon’s benefit when he and his friend join me.
“Chica?” Jon comes up to me, his eyes wide with concern.
My stomach pitches. I’m acting selfishly. “You know how it is...seeing the exit. I can’t leave fast enough.”
“Then call Nora,” he whispers before he steps back next to Mitch. “Okay?”
I inhale gazing into his dark eyes. “I’m thinking...remember? I need to do some research.”
We walk around the side of Gran’s home, toward the garden entrance. Together we stride over the pavers, in between the manicured lawn, and neatly trimmed hedges. I walk silently as Jon and Mitch whisper. Flanked by their low chatter and secret laughs, I feel alone and wrap my arms around my middle.
I follow the trail until we come to the circular drive, trying not to eavesdrop on their conversation but all the while, I can’t wait to escape being the third wheel. Once outside and facing the winding row of car upon car down the driveway, I shrug. “Hey, I’m going to go get my own ride. The queue is too long.”
There are several other couples waiting along the front steps for the two valets huffing it back and forth.
Jon places his hand on my shoulder. “You okay to drive?”
My cheeks feel numb as I try to keep up the pretense of smiling. I assess my level of intoxication—not too bad. “Yeah. I’m fine, just hot. Pop is right about the heat.”
His brow creases. “I can always ride back—”
“No,” I whisper stubbornly. Jon has always been there for me. “Go have some fun. Lots and lots of screaming, hair-pulling fun. You deserve it. No excuses. Call me tomorrow.”
Both men give me that surprised expression as if their connection is covert—which it isn’t to someone like me. I’ve learned to read nonverbals in assessing my sources as a writer—I’m all eyes when it comes to seeing below the surface.
“Catch you tomorrow. We’ll talk strategy on getting you intimately hooked up in D.C.” Jon says with a wink. We hug, kiss, trade another ‘Bye.’
Alone, I walk to my car, scanning the night sky and wonder where’s my doorway to change. Glancing back over my shoulder as I approach my car door, there’s Jon laughing again with his new friend. New connection. That’s a lesson worth learning. New connection. New possibilities.
I level my shoulders and think, what the hell? Maybe a little Hill climbing in D.C. is just the ticket. Tomorrow, I’m going to call Nora and see what’s the deal with Senator Bennett Stone and his unforgettable... persona.
Chapter Two
The Road to Hell ...
“I’m running late. Where’s— what’s the kid’s name?” I bark into my phone, chewing off my assistant’s ear, ready to can this idea of taking on an intern this late in the game. “Logan arrivals are a madhouse. I don’t see her.”
Grabbing my luggage off the conveyor belt in a cramped corner, I’m two clicks past calm and collect.
“Yeah, not surprising. There’s a tech convention that hit Boston today,” Nora replies unfazed. “The latest iPhone just got released.”
“What’s she look like—the intern?”
“Scrap that plan,” Nora informs me in her no-nonsense voice. “You’ll connect with Miss Kennedy outside. Hold on...she just sent a text. She’s outside the terminal, waiting for you at the curb. Black Ford Bronco.”
I watch a pair of legs walk by attached to the kind of shoes that whisper follow and fuck me. The woman turns as if sensing my unrelenting stare and gives me a look over her hipster glasses, a silent promise of something dark and forbidden. Our gazes intertwine—hers knifes my brain, spreading fire that resonates in my core. The vixen in heels breaks eye contact abruptly and my dick twitches, harder as I take in the rear package. Longer than hell legs and a tight ass, but decisively it’s the woman’s stalking gait that has me hypnotized. Intrigued, I want her to look back—hell, come back. For a beat, I watch her, relishing the focused sway of killer legs and hips in a synchronized catwalk stomp. Then she’s gone—swallowed by the swarming throng.
“Bennett Stone, did you hear me?” Nora’s grating voice reminds me I’ve got a cell in my hand.
“What...fine.” I switch gears, well-accustomed to schedule flips and flops, and head toward the main exit. The revolving door comes into view and I’m back on track. “As long as this is the final stop. Any other changes I need to know about?”
Nora laughs. “Ben, you sound grouchy.”
“I am. That last stop in BFE ran way over our timeline and taxed our budget. Sorely.”
“Cheer up. After the coffee house talk, you’ll be at your hotel no later than nine. Get some rest. You’ve got a full day tomorrow and it’s jam-packed.”
“How refreshing,” I snort, tugging on the leather strap of my carry-on and not thrilled by a stop before I hit the hotel bar. “So intel on the MIA intern? Shit. Just what I need.”
/> “Hey, you’re the one who dismissed your entire team two days early, so please, don’t go there.”
“For the record. You’re the one who twisted my arm to take Miss Kennedy under my wing. I thought we had coverage. Apparently we both suck at stellar decisions.”
“Don’t be cute. She’s your ride tonight and there’s bonus points attached to her. The operative word: payback.”
“That’s a word we don’t say aloud and yet you have. You’re starting to scare me, Nora.”
“Boss, no one scares you. Besides, how much trouble can one intern be? She’s a double-play in accruing favors from some heavy hitters. Did I mention she has ties to the Stillmans of Nantucket and Midtown? Need I remind you, doing the Kennedy clan a solid is amassing some serious cross-party power and endorsements?”
“Thanks for the recap. Now, I’m seriously considering cutting her loose.”
“Ben, please. It’s only for a month.”
“Only?” I echo, pondering how a girl related not only to the Kennedys, but also the Stillman older-than-dirt banking family will work out. Probably the epitome of a dynasty princess and more than likely will show up with her own entourage in all its giggling, glitter glory. Who hasn’t seen those monogrammed sorority sisters flouncing around on campuses? I for one have always avoided those girls like the plague—except during a campaign for reelection when I’m hacking off parts of me, selling my soul, piece-by-piece.
“Less really. Twenty-eight days. Not an eternity,” Nora is quick to reiterate.
“Let’s hope none, for your sake. Anything else you’re trying to sneak in on me—last minute?”
“As a matter of fact, yes. You requested face time with the Boston independents at Harvard—your old alma mater is hosting a campus talk tomorrow. Stamp that request as done!”
“Are you pulling my chain?” For months, my office has repeatedly sought to nail down a face-to-face with the Ivy League independents in hopes of snagging some swing voters to jump ship, but they’d put me off—or rather, Dean Nolan, my old advisor had shut the crimson doors in my face.
“Nope. Believe it or not, your new intern is the one with the connections. It’s her you need to thank.”
I smirk. “Yeah, right.”
“No joke and no other major changes besides your return to D.C. You’ll head back on Thursday. But it’s the same old grind for Bean Town. Teachers’ union. A factory tour and lunch. This time it’s in Easton. Professionals talk in the afternoon at Boston General. On to Harvard for the meatspace talk with students and faculty, and it’s being recorded so don’t admit to inhaling.” She laughs nervously.
In the middle of the aisle, doesn’t matter that I’m jostled on all sides, my focus narrows. I recognize a hiccup when it occurs in real time. “What have you done, Eleanor?”
“Err, I made a tiny adjustment. You’re also doing a cocktail reception plus dinner at the Hyatt.”
“Hold on, when did that get switched? That’s the reason for a delay in my return. I’m off a day because of a goddamn dinner?”
“Christ, Ben, you’re blazing a circuit through the northeast like a rock star. There are scads of last minute supporters with VIP ticket requests. New followers blew up our FB page not to mention continually jam the switchboard downstairs. We moved the venue to accommodate the swell to your fan club and it won’t kill you to do one tiny cocktail party.”
I start walking again, counting to five, and then reply, “Fine. What else?”
“Veep called and wants to set up a meeting. Sounds super important.”
Marching silently through the crowded corridor, I hyper focus on the cocktail glad-hand scheduled tomorrow night...at the Hyatt. Nora has the ability to squeeze blood from a rock if she smells possible voters for our campaign. Unfortunately, she also turns a blind eye to my campaign finances, and every event upgrade costs me and means in the circle of my senate life, I’ll be signing the receipt in blood—political promises—same thing. Feeling this latest squeeze, I grit my teeth and reply, “Uh, call her back, and see what she wants. Everything from her office comes with a price tag.”
“No worries. I’ll field and let ya know. You fly out Thursday morning after a quickie breakfast press conference. Trust me, you could do this last stop in your sleep.”
“Sleep. A commodity better enjoyed back home. I’ll be in touch,” I mutter, tucking my cell into my suit pocket, envisioning my empty condo. Worse my empty bed—empty and zero action, but it beats hotel hopping.
“Hello, Senator Stone.” The attractive and familiar woman before me smiles, holding out her hand. “I enjoyed your speech last week in Connecticut. Are you just arriving?”
“Ah, Mrs. Henderson,” I nod, recalling her and her husband, and release her hand—the one with the platinum ice rink—but she doesn’t release mine.
“Call me, Abby. Please.”
“Good to see you again, Abby.”
“If you have some time, I have an apartment. We could have dinner. Drinks. Get to know each other. My place isn’t far and I have a limo.”
Direct.
Novel.
But no way.
“I’m sorry, but I’m heading for a talk and have a late night meeting in the city. Driver is right outside.” Abby’s husband—a media mogul—is a new supporter, yet this play is far from new. Matter of fuck, it’s getting old. But shit, I’m in the game and it’s too late to get out in midstream. I give her a mild quirk of my lips, the kind that imbues intimacy and trust—thank you executive coaching. Holding her hand, I do the pump-n-pull, tugging her in slightly to me, letting my gaze rove down her body as if I’m actually considering her offer. I’m not; truthfully I’m wondering if the minibar at the hotel is stocked with aged Scotch. Damn, I need a drink but for now, look back into this woman’s eyes. “I’ll be thinking of you. Can I drop you a line?”
Her lips drift open, and she stares up at me. This is the kind of woman I could bang and walk away from and not miss a step, or my next mundane thought. Abby is a drive-by screw and I’ve met my share. Smart. Beautiful. Rich. And top of the list, she doesn’t do strings. Just wants get laid in all her vanilla, creampuff existence. I have crossed paths with hundreds. Thousands. Not that I fall into bed with many; well not anymore. Her story doesn’t get me hot or horny but Abby doesn’t need to know that dirty detail.
I bite my lip and she lets go of a low gasp as if on cue. “Absolutely. Anything you want. Any time. I have a private jet.”
“Sounds good. I’ll be in touch.” Truthfully, I’ll never be in touch except in mailers, invitations to support a political function, my next PR election buzz—all via volunteer campaign staffers. Look, I’m not cold—I’m a realist and yeah, a tad manipulative, but fuck I’m a politician for crying out loud with a swelling fiscal budget and auditors crawling up my ass. No pretense here. Call a calculating spade a spade—I’m not arguing.
But that’s where I stop with the ‘transparency’ policy and admittance that I am what I am. Forget Washington. Sure, I’m a wolf, but in fact, I’m worse. I’m a dirty, dirty-minded prick that has nothing to do with D.C. If Abby or any like her kind step foot number one in my bedroom aka dungeon, they’d scream bloody murder. If she ever got wind of the type of kink I’m into, she’d walk—no she’d sprint to the nearest exit.
Abby grins as she replies, “I’ll be waiting.”
“Later,” I say, and give her a wink. Turning on my heel, I have an urge to take a bow as I imagine someone shouting, “Cut!” And that’s how this campaign trail game is played, ladies and gents. Walking away, I slip on my sunglasses, and shake my cynical—correction—my realist head.
Outside on the curb, a black Bronco idles, and leaning against the hood, the driver is texting nonstop. I clear my throat, less than impressed.
He glances up, and immediately his brows draw together. “Senator Stone?” he asks, losing his phone into his pants pocket.
“Last time I checked.”
The driver darts to my s
ide, looking like he belongs in a rock band more than working as a driver and I figure Nora’s plans changed—the intern is still MIA. His nametag reads “Jon” but it’s his tattooed arms that catch and hold my gaze.
“Just leave the luggage,” he says.
“You’re my ride to the coffee house and hotel?” I ask tersely, handing him my bag.
“Yeah and all day tomorrow. Here, let me get that.” Bending forward, he almost bumps into me, but I slide to the left.
“No problem. I can get my own door. You worry about getting me to the next two stops and we’ll be square.”
“Sure. I’m down with that.”
Loosening my tie, I reach for the door handle as he pops the tailgate. Somewhere close-by a truck backfires. I clench my jaw, tightening my grip on the door, and remind myself, I’m not on any political hit list. Not yet. I open the car door, scanning the street and taking in the people scurrying on the sidewalk as my neck muscles knot. Too much Starbucks. I exhale and lower into the interior of the backseat then stop. I stare across the padded leather seat at a woman who meets my gaze with an arched brow. Mutely, I question who she—
Holy hell.
It’s the pair of legs from the airport corridor.
Shoes and all.
But fuck me running, I know this girl...know those incredible lips.
“Good evening, Senator Stone. Sorry to be running late. Rental car mix-up. The Apple convention is great for Boston but the city is slammed. But good news. We have a car and a driver. A volunteer. I just let Nora know.” She leans forward, wetting a pair of full pink lips, and proffers not her hand but an envelope. “Your plane ticket. Do you want it? Or shall I hold on to it? I have everything that Mrs. Swan sent for tomorrow’s itinerary.”
Mrs. Swan? Oh yeah. Nora’s new married surname. “Right,” I reply, my brain uncharacteristically blitzing as I stare over the rim of my sunglasses.
In the early evening light with her blond hair pinned in place and hiding behind glasses—I stare at a woman who’s a contained version of the untamed girl from the dance club. Hardly old enough to be an intern—nothing like the other ones on the Hill.
