The Phoenix Candidate

by Heidi Joy Tretheway

  But he’s traveling on business. What does this guy do? I mentally smack myself. No questions, Grace. Live in the fucking moment, for once in your life.

  Jared’s in the moment, shrugging out of his collared shirt, toeing off his shoes, pushing his jeans down to his ankles and kicking them free. He bends to remove his socks, then wraps his hands around the back of my legs, anchoring them in place.

  His lips creep slowly up my inner thigh as I stand, immobilized by this stranger. I feel him press his face against my very damp panties and inwardly cringe with embarrassment until I hear his groan, rich with want.

  I can’t apologize. I want this, too.

  His tongue finds my seam through the thin silk and he tests the lace edges with his tongue. His fingers hook under the waistband and he tugs my panties down my legs. “I need to taste you.”

  He nudges my knees apart and I shiver in my heels, Jared’s fingers digging into the back of my thighs. His tongue moves over my folds, parting me, tasting, and I nearly come undone when he touches the bundle of nerves that sends electricity skittering through my body.

  I steady myself with hands on his shoulders and let my fingers explore his dark brown hair that curls where it’s a touch too long to be businesslike. His tongue moves faster, working maddening little circles as a finger traces the bottom curve of my ass, nudges between my legs, and plunges inside me.

  Holy hell. I can’t contain my gasp and moan. His finger curves, finding the sweet spot inside me at the same time his tongue buries itself in the hood of my clit.

  My body is in meltdown.

  I cry out—a ragged, incomprehensible word, a plea for more and more and more as the orgasm rips through my body. Jared’s arms wind tightly around my legs, supporting them as they become jelly. His tongue teases every ounce of my climax from me.

  And when my body goes slack, my chest bent over his head and my nails gradually releasing his shoulders, he spins my hips and bends me over the bed, ass in the air. I pant to regain my breath as his hand dives into a pocket of his jeans for a foil packet.

  Our eyes lock and I watch him. I move to roll over, but a hand on my hip stills me. “I’m not done with you yet, Grace,” he growls.

  Sweet baby Jesus. The crinkling eyes are gone, replaced by hungry eyes, ready to devour.

  Jared leaves my feet, still in heels, planted on the ground. My chest is draped over the bed as he tilts my ass up, parts me, and presses his cock inside.

  It isn’t sweet or gentle or hesitant.

  It isn’t fumbling sex between strangers, or the basic paint-by-number sex that defined most of my marriage.

  It’s primal and so powerfully raw that my cry meets his groan as he slams inside me. I barely have time to take a breath before the next thrust, and the next, and I’m clawing at the bedclothes to anchor myself as he grinds deeper.

  “This,” he says. “This is what I need.” His fingers lace through my hair, pulling my head back, arching my spine as he sinks in deeper. “Tell me what you need, Grace.”

  “This,” I pant. “Harder.”

  I stripped for him. Crawled to him. Let him lick me as I stood in his hotel room in nothing but heels. He’s stripped my inhibitions now, and I can finally ask for what I want. “Mark me. Make me scream.”

  His hand connects with my ass on the next thrust, the hot sting and rush of warmth feeding an urge that I’d shelved in my fantasies between That sounds hot and Don’t you dare.

  “I could never hit a woman,” my husband had said. “Don’t even ask me for that.”

  Jared’s hand lands on my ass again, so hard I scream with surprise and a shiver of fear.

  This man is a stranger. This man could actually hurt me.

  But with his next lunge, his fingers trail delicately over the place he punished, soothing the sting, making me feel his gentle and hard, his soft and rough, his delicious contradiction.

  I let go of the fear.

  I let this sexy stranger use my body as surely as I am using his.

  I let him unpack one little fantasy, one dark corner of my mind.

  I wish it were more. But it would take a hell of a lot more than a one-night stand to explore all of those dark corners. And anything more than this one night, with this perfect stranger, scares the hell out of me.

  My insides clench and quiver and his fingers dig deeper into the flesh of my hips. He buries himself deep within me in measured strokes, gathering speed. I angle my hips higher, feel the head of his cock graze my most sensitive spot, again and again.

  His muscles tense and his low groan builds to a shout. His body drapes across my back and his teeth sink into the top of my shoulder. And that twinge of pain pushes me over the edge with him, screaming and riding a crest, infinite and unbearable.

  Chapter Four

  There’s no note on the pillow and no trace of the man when I wake in a tangle of sheets.

  All he’s left is the intimate ache between my thighs, a hint of the pain he inflicted on my ass, and tightness lingering in my breasts from a night that could have gone on forever.

  No stories. No strings. And no regrets in the morning.

  Now it’s dawn. And it’s done. And I’m left alone in a beautiful hotel room to dress and do the walk of shame back to my sterile apartment.

  It’s only a dozen blocks, not worth a cab on a cool summer Sunday morning. I pass the dog-walkers and the ambitious yoga-goers, mats in tow. I see hipsters gather at coffee shops, each shop promising to be organic, fair-traded, and locally roasted.

  We’re all about craft brews here. Craft beer. Craft coffee. Urban gardening and fixie bicycles. Portland tries to be hipper-than-thou, more-ironic-than-thou. Right now, the kids are bringing back high-waisted acid-washed denim. They call it “normcore.”

  I’m too old for that shit.

  And yet, I’m not of a sufficient age for Capitol Hill either, where the women are bossy bitches, castrating dykes, or dogmatic hags. Bonus: slutty interns.

  I’ll decode that for you in male terms: strong leaders, political mavericks, and party faithful. Bonus: he’s probably gay.

  I tap my card on a keypad and ride fourteen floors up to my condominium at The Jamison in the heart of Portland’s new-money Pearl District. Even though I’ve owned this place for more than four years, it barely feels like home. I didn’t keep much when I sold my house: even things as innocuous as a couch were layered with memories.

  Ethan making forts under the coffee table.

  Ethan coloring at the dining room table—and on the table itself.

  Keeping watch over my little boy from a rocking chair in his bedroom when Ethan had the flu.

  I drop my keys and purse on the table by the door and touch his second-grade school photo. He’ll be eight forever. Our little family—me, Seth and Ethan—never even had a chance to take Christmas photos.

  Five years ago, I lived in a hundred-year-old house in Sellwood, a funky old neighborhood east of the river. I commuted to my job doing contract law, and came home to a carpenter and a little boy with a categorical knowledge of cars. He could spot a rare Tesla or Maserati on a Portland freeway and know it instantly.

  Now I live in a new high rise with sparse, kid-unfriendly furniture. When Congress is in session, I’m in a pocket-sized D.C. apartment with precisely one redeeming quality: its proximity to Capitol Hill.

  I shower, washing the smell of sex and Jared off me with regret. Not regret for what we did last night, but regretting that I have to take last night for what it was: one night only.

  He doesn’t have my number. I don’t have his. I don’t even know his last name. And I suppose I should be grateful he doesn’t know mine.

  I’m just about to make coffee when my phone pings with a text.

  Aliza: Details, girl.

  Me: You’re up early. Does that mean you weren’t up late?

  Aliza: I didn’t leave with Mr. Hot-and-please-bother-me. So…?

  Me: I am not having this discussion via text.


  Aliza: One itsy-bitsy detail? My Pilates instructor is going to show up any minute.

  Me: Leaving it to your imagination.

  Aliza: I’m not taking no for an answer.

  I ignore that text and pop a capsule in my espresso machine, inhaling the fragrance as it brews. My phone trills and I snap at Aliza, “You think I’m going to dish about dirty sweaty monkey sex and give you that to visualize all through Pilates?”

  A rich chuckle comes through the phone. A male laugh. “I’m not doing Pilates, but please, do tell me more.”

  I gasp and nearly drop the phone, holding it away from my face to see who’s calling. I don’t recognize the number, but my carrier tells me the call is from Springfield, Missouri.

  “Sorry, wrong number,” I say. I hang up, mortified, and slam another espresso capsule in my machine. I need to be mainlining coffee.

  I shove my panic down and give my carton of half and half the sniff test. It fails, so I heap extra sugar in my cup.

  My phone rings again and I groan and curse at once. Then I straighten up, paste a smile on my face, and answer.

  “Hello?”

  “Representative Colton, this is Senator Conover’s office calling to arrange a meeting today.” It’s a male voice, but different from the other caller.

  “Today?” I squeak. On a Sunday?

  Senator Shepard “Shep” Conover is the Democratic dark-horse candidate for president. Although the field has thinned to three, at sixty-eight, he’s the oldest candidate by more than a decade, not nearly as well-funded as Mr. Hair-and-Teeth Aaron Darrow of California, and he has far less name recognition than past vice-presidential candidate Jim Boyce.

  Also, he has no earthly reason to meet with me.

  “No time like the present, Ms. Colton. How soon can you make yourself available?”

  “I—uh, where does he want to meet?” I’m tripping over easy words, so I sip my too-hot espresso—sonofabitch, that hurts—and try to re-engage my brain.

  “He hosted a private fundraising dinner last night in Portland. He’d like to see you as soon as possible before he flies to Seattle later today.” The man’s clipped tones hint at a Southern drawl. “Is nine too early for a meeting downtown?”

  My eyes swivel to the clock: it’s just after eight. But given his leadership of the Senate Committee on Foreign Relations, when Senator Conover says jump, people don’t ask how high. They jump and wait for his signal to come down, gravity be damned.

  “I can make it. Anything I should prepare for the senator?”

  “No. We’ve got it. Just give your name to the concierge and they’ll escort you to his suite at The Nines.”

  I’m mid-sip listening to the staffer’s instructions and nearly choke. Of course it has to be that hotel. Of course.

  “Thank you,” I croak and click off the phone, making sure it is completely off before I let out a little scream of frustration. Time to put on my big-girl panties and act like a member of Congress.

  Chapter Five

  “The senator would like you to sign these nondisclosure forms before you meet.”

  The bland, late-twentysomething staffer hands me a clipboard and pen and guides me to a seat. Man, he doesn’t miss a beat. I frown, sign my life away, and hand back the clipboard.

  “Coffee?” he asks brightly.

  “Please.” I press my hand against my knee where it’s already bouncing with nervous, espresso-injected energy. Any more coffee and I’ll hit my target heart rate. Then I can skip working out today, right?

  An inner door of the suite opens and Senator Conover emerges, looking fresh and spry, his white hair perfectly matching a starched white shirt with monogrammed cuffs. Navy trousers hang on his lean frame the way only expensive tailoring can.

  “Ms. Colton, it’s a pleasure to see you again.” His handshake is firm and his skin is perfectly smooth, as if he’s just finished a manicure. His eyes twinkle with the avuncular charm I admire on Sunday talk shows.

  To have that charm turned on me, full force and in person, is stunning.

  “Senator Conover, thank you so much for asking to meet with me.”

  He chuckles and steers me to a pair of wingback chairs. “Oh, we’re all friends here. It’s Shep. Please. It’s been a while since we met at the Associated Press luncheon last November.”

  I squeak out “yes” because my head’s spinning with his total recall. That, or a staffer briefed him. The senator is a person who people remember meeting. I, on the other hand, am not.

  He continues, “I’ve been keeping my eye on you and the good work you’re doing, Grace—may I call you Grace?”

  Well, considering you’ve asked me to call you Shep, I don’t see how I can say no.

  “Of course.” I try to inject my voice with warmth, try to observe perfect manners as I sip my coffee, and yet I feel like I come off as a sullen, awkward teen next to this elder statesman.

  Shep Conover oozes charm and good breeding and money.

  Except for the last one, which I only came into by way of Seth’s life insurance, I have none of the above.

  “Grace, I’ve had my eye on you because I think we might make a good team.” He smiles broadly.

  “On which legislation?” I mentally rifle through my bills under construction or consideration—environmental reform to improve downriver water flows for salmon, anti-revenge porn and cyber-privacy laws, and a handful of gun-control laws that make me pretty unpopular, even with people in my own party, and especially those from the South.

  Missouri counts as the South, right?

  “On all the legislation.” He smiles again, and now it’s getting creepy. “I’d like you to consider being my running mate.”

  I blink.

  My jaw must have hit the floor and shattered because I can’t speak. I just sit there as my face gapes.

  And then I breathe. And then I sputter into a coughing fit and cover my mouth and make horrible choking noises that don’t belong in this hotel room with Senator Shep-Fucking-Conover.

  “Would you like some water, Ms. Colton?” a male voice asks as I hack into a napkin. It’s not the senator’s voice, but it’s familiar. Low, warm, dipped in a light Southern accent.

  I drop the napkin and look up, directly into chocolate brown eyes that crinkle at the corners. Jared.

  Sonofabitch! I’m not going to be the first thirty-nine-year-old to have a heart attack, but I could be the first to keel over for this insanity.

  I muster all of my composure, which is in shreds on the floor, and apologize to the senator for my coughing fit. Then I ask for details while mentally forcing my brain down this singular path, excluding Jared entirely.

  Running mate. Vice president. Veep. Ho. Lee. Shit.

  I don’t know how Geraldine Ferraro or Sarah Palin felt when they had this talk, but I’m ready to pee my pantsuit.

  “You can take a bit of time to think about it, as I will, but I plan to announce a few days before the convention,” Conover says. That’s in late August, less than two months away. “Before we commit to each other, we’re both going to have some work to do. I’m deep in fundraising and appearances, and I’ll expect you to get up to speed on my platform so we can dovetail on the issues.”

  My mouth tightens but I say nothing. I can imagine how fun it will be hashing out our differences over social issues when I’m a pretty flagrant liberal and he’s more of a moderate, Clinton-esque Democrat.

  “In short, Grace, I think we could be a good fit. You balance the ticket in every way that matters, and some of the ways that shouldn’t, but still do. You’re a woman. You’re nearly thirty years younger than me. You’re from the West. You’ve been focused on domestic issues.”

  “You mean gun control.”

  “Among other things. A Conover-Colton ticket has a good ring to it. Nice alliteration, and broad name recognition.”

  He doesn’t say it, but he doesn’t have to: There’s no way a second-term congresswoman from Oregon would be invited
on a presidential campaign if she didn’t have something more to offer than being a youngish female legislator from the West.

  And I do. I have a story.

  My personal tragedy from five years ago has become a national narrative, and losing Ethan and Seth is a political chip.

  I let out a shaky breath and try to refocus. Bring coffee to lips. Sip. Swallow. Breathe. Repeat. I miss most of what the senator’s saying, but I catch snippets including “background check” and “image management.”

  “I’m sorry, could you explain that further?” I ask, hoping he’ll just rewind and play it all back to me. He’s been gesturing toward Jared and I’m still fitting the pieces together.

  The senator glances at his watch and stands. “Grace, I’m sure Jared will explain what his consulting entails better than I could. I need to be on a plane and in Seattle by lunch. Can I count on you to follow up on what Jared asks?”

  My eyes go wide and my panties go damp as I remember the things Jared asked of me last night. Strip. Kneel. Crawl to me. My cheeks flush, but if the senator notices, he doesn’t indicate it.

  “It was a pleasure to see you again. I suspect we’ll be spending a lot of time together soon,” Shep says, clasping my hand between both of his. He turns his megawatt smile on again and I swear to God, I could bask in that. With SPF 100.

  Chapter Six

  I hold the wingback chair for support and paste a smile on my face as I watch the senator and the staffer who made me sign the nondisclosure form leave the suite.

  That leaves me and Jared and a hell of a lot of silence.

  He picks up several thick manila files from a side table, perhaps the same ones I saw in his hotel room last night, and sits in the chair opposite me. His expression is unreadable.

  I remain standing. Fight or flight. That’s what I’m deciding as I lament there’s nothing in view that I could bludgeon Jared with.

  “Ms. Colton. Please, have a seat.” He gestures to the chair I’m supposed to occupy.