“I told him not to believe everything he reads in the paper.”
“Did he ask about your plans for Dober Stadium?” Sheridan impatiently goaded her to say more.
“No. Why would he ask about that?”
“Because it’s the biggest project of your entire administration.”
“It didn’t come up,” Camille replied.
“Have you decided on the location yet?” Sheridan asked casually.
“As of now, the top choice is a vacant 110 acres in Playa del Rey. It’s perfect beachfront property. Stunning ocean views, close to the freeway and Pacific Coast Highway, and no immediate neighbors to oppose it.”
“What about the abandoned shipyard? You seemed hopeful about that site a month ago.”
“I got the preliminary assessment from the EPA last week. The shipyard is full of contaminants. Hydrocarbon spillages, solvents, pesticides, you name it. Remediation is estimated to be in the hundreds of millions and that’s before the first brick is laid. Playa del Rey is the only real option we have at this point.”
“Who owns—”
“I don’t want to talk about that right now,” she said interrupting him midsentence. “You haven’t answered my question. What did you think of my speech?”
“Do I even need to tell you?” Sheridan replied with a smile.
“Yes.”
“You were . . . OK,” he said expressionless.
Camille smiled broadly and playfully slapped Sheridan’s arm. “Thanks, asshole.”
Sheridan feigned pain. “Ouch,” he said massaging his bicep. “That hurt. You don’t realize just how strong you are.” The reflection in the blacked-out partition separating the driver’s cab and the back of the Escalade mimicked their playful exchange.
Camille met Sheridan only seven years earlier at a fundraiser at the Getty Museum days before she was to launch her campaign for mayor. Their already substantial individual magnetism doubled by simply standing together. They were married within six months at the urging of her campaign manager. Sheridan’s chiseled frame and devastatingly good looks were the perfect backdrop for Camille’s campaign. His presence took the edge off her raw, sensuous power and made her a less-threatening woman for the cameras and skeptical voters.
They were the ultimate power couple—glamorous, beautiful, wealthy, and ruthlessly ambitious. No one dared cross them for fear of losing lucrative city contracts or being banished to political and social exile. No party in the city was worth attending unless they were there. No fundraiser was considered a success if the Hardaways were not present. If the Hardaways sent their regrets, every high-end event planner in the city knew they must immediately change the date to accommodate their schedules.
“Be honest now. Tell me what you really thought.”
Sheridan turned off his telephone. The only light in the car came from the pad in Camille’s lap and the filtered headlights from cars approaching from the opposite direction. Sheridan tossed his cell phone onto the seat and moved in closer.
“You were magnificent,” he said as he moved his lips to hers. “I love you,” he said, punctuating each word with a kiss—“more now than ever before.”
The most powerful woman in the city could never resist Sheridan’s touch. His warm breath on her neck sent a shiver down one side of her body and back up the other. Her lips quivered as he kissed circles around her open, breathless mouth.
“The driver . . .” she warned weakly.
“. . . can’t see a thing.”
“We’re almost home. Wait just a few . . .” Her words trailed into a whisper, then a sigh and faded to a sensuous moan. “. . . minutes,” was her last breathless word.
Sheridan’s powerful hand massaged her trembling thighs and slowly separated them. Camille made a vain attempt at resistance, but the gentle force of his hand coupled with her desire for the pleasure to come made resistance impossible.
The pampered skin of his palm caused her head to spin as it slowly moved up her leg, stopping intermittently at just the right spots to tickle and tease her tender flesh. Sheridan made it his life’s mission to learn every inch of her body. He studied her like a map and in record time identified every point capable of causing her to shudder and moan in pleasure. She was helpless under his touch. Total submission was her only option.
She felt the warmth of his fingers between her legs. He now held her in the palm of his hand and could manipulate her to do and say whatever he desired. She gasped when his fingers slide beneath the moist silk of her La Perla panties.
The mayor held his hand firm to show a semblance of resistance, but when he pressed the tip of his finger inside, she shuddered and silently prayed he would continue. Sheridan knew she wanted more when he felt her hips gently gyrating on his hand. His head began the slow descent down her body, caressing and kissing her breasts, but leaving her blouse buttoned and white ruffles unruffled.
She anticipated where his lips would land through the haze slowly enveloping her. The euphoria of the State of the City address was a distant memory. Lust and passion replaced power and prestige. All she could feel was the weight of his head sliding down her body. His intoxicating musk filled her nostrils, and the sound of his lips kissing their way up her thighs was like the melodic strumming of a violin in the hands of a virtuoso.
“Baby, stop,” she pleaded as he slid her panties to the floor of the limousine. “Honey, we’re . . . We’re almost home,” she weakly protested as his lips tasted the first drop of her sweet essence.
Camille slowly slid sideways and lowered her back onto the Corinthian leather. The fabric of her Yves St. Laurent skirt formed a puddle at her waist as Sheridan’s head rested between the mayor’s legs. The magic carpet ride took an erotic detour as Sheridan’s dancing tongue skillfully took her to secret places only he could find.
Camille could only hold on tight until the ride ended. She prayed the driver couldn’t see through the blackened limousine partition as her head rolled from side to side on the seat. Sheridan was merciless as he plunged deeper and deeper. She felt the added pleasure of the coarseness of his tongue and tickle of his goatee. “Why do you do this to me, baby?” she pleaded helplessly as he maneuvered the magic carpet even higher. “Please don’t, Daddy,” she moaned and quaked at the exact point his tongue performed the most remarkable figure eights, pirouettes, circles, twists, and turns.
Sheridan knew the signals. The undulating hips, the twirling Pradas, the steadily increasing flow and the tightening grip on his head. In this moment she belonged to him, not the city of Los Angeles. He possessed her body and soul. There were no urgent problems only she could solve or crises demanding her immediate attention. There were no voters’ hands to shake or rosy baby cheeks to kiss. There was only Sheridan and Camille Hardaway. He was the master, and she was his slave.
“You’re going to make me cum, baby,” she warned.
No need to tell this to Sheridan. He knew the precise moment she would be reduced to shuddering muscle spasms, tangled hair, and disheveled designer clothes.
Three . . . two . . . he counted down silently as his tongue guided the magic carpet to the highest point of the journey. And one—
Camille clamped down on her bottom lip to prevent a frenzied shriek of pleasure from escaping. Her hips lurched upward. Sheridan skillfully stayed in position throughout the entire series of spasms showing her no mercy. Her fingers gripped the back of his head as if she were trying to stay on a bucking bull. Her body froze at the peak of pleasure. Her hips remained suspended in the air with Sheridan planted firmly inside her. Then suddenly, her body dropped to the car seat as Sheridan gently administered the final twirls of his tongue just as a painter would the final strokes on his masterpiece.
Camille’s body continued to twitch as she looked out the window and saw the landmarks indicating the mayor’s mansion was only two blocks away. She quickly lifted Sheridan from between her legs, retrieved her crumpled panties from the floor, and used them to wipe away the
evidence of her passion from his face.
As the car glided to a stop in the circular driveway, Sheridan dabbed the sides of his mouth with his fingers said, “Did that answer your question? You were magnificent.”
Camille sat sternly at the head of the conference table in her office at city hall on Tuesday morning. The generals in her army were to her left and to her right. Chief of Staff Tony Christopoulos occupied the seat to her right. Bill Wong, the city administrator, to her left. The head of the real estate division, Scott Harrison next to him, and the new baseball stadium project manager, Ben Venabrink, faced Camille at the opposite end of the table.
The décor offered no clues that would lead anyone to conclude it belonged to the beautiful woman in the immaculate navy blue pantsuit at the head of the table. Dark mahogany panels covered the walls. She inherited the art from generations of stodgy old men who preceded her. Even the desk was a relic from the past. The only hint offered was the subtle trace of violets, blackcurrant, Bulgarian rose, and Egyptian jasmine from Camille’s favorite perfume resting gently on the shoulders of everyone who entered the room.
An architectural rendering of the new ultramodern stadium sat on an easel just over Ben’s left shoulder.
“Mrs. Mayor,” Ben said as he stood and walked to the easel, “the Playa del Rey site offers the perfect location for this project. There are 110 undeveloped acres overlooking the Pacific Ocean. The property has enough space for a 175,000-seat arena, which would make it the largest sports stadium in the world. The second largest being the Rungnado May Day Stadium in North Korea at 150,000 seats.”
Ben removed the top rendering to reveal an aerial view showcasing the oval footprint and fully retractable roof. “Every element of this state-of-the-art, multipurpose sports and entertainment complex is of the highest quality. Per your instructions, our architects have come back with a design that, as you can see, is not only innovative by today’s and even tomorrow’s standards, but will stand the test of time and befits the importance of the location. Great cities have great buildings in great locations. And Los Angeles is a great city.”
Camille listened but didn’t react. At first glance, she looked unimpressed, but upon closer inspection one could see her fully dilated onyx pupils.
Scott Harrison took his cue in the well-choreographed presentation. He stood and continued seamlessly. “The property is owned by the Vandercliffs. An old-money family in Bel Air, the only remaining member of which is a Gloria Vandercliff. Miss Vandercliff is in her seventies and never married. She is the sole heir to a real estate fortune estimated to be well in excess of 2 billion. She isn’t interested in getting rich off the city. She’s an enormous Dober fan and sees this as an opportunity to give something back to the game she’s enjoyed her entire life.”
“For God’s sake, enough about her,” Camille snapped. “I don’t have all day. How much does she want for the property?”
“For the entire 110 acres,” Scott stammered, “Miss Vandercliff, through her attorneys, of course, is asking $120 million. The property is worth at least twice that in today’s market and preliminary environmental impact studies show environmental remediation needed on the land is minimal.”
Camille exchanged a knowing glance with Tony Christopoulos. They each had calculated the true value of the property before Scott gave his estimate. Tony gave Camille a slight nod of approval.
“This design incorporates feedback from regulatory agencies and citizens,” Ben said referring back to the renderings. “It includes changes you requested and also recommendations from the governor.”
“I don’t care what that asshole thinks,” Camille fumed. “He’s only got one year left in office.”
“This is an incredible opportunity for the region,” Scott interjected. “Building a state-of-the-art, environmentally friendly event pavilion, housing with multiple public transportation options, represents smart development and an incredible economic engine. This will ensure the Dobers will remain the Los Angeles baseball team for the next fifty years.
“Going into this project, we wanted to build a world-class event center incorporating the best in design and technology,” Scott said. “Now, because of the constructive feedback we’ve received, Dober Stadium will be a world-class waterfront park and public gathering place serving as a model of sustainable urban development.
“This design lives up to the importance of this incredible waterfront location and fuses together the vision of the Los Angeles Dobermans with the landscape of the beach and the input we’ve heard over the past several months from stakeholders, community leaders and—”
Camille slapped her hand on the desk. The smack reverberated off the paneled walls and caused everyone in the room to jump. “Enough of the dog-and-pony show, boys. Let’s get to the bottom line. She wants $120 million for the land. How much will that cost?” she said, pointing to the rendering.
Scott yielded the floor to Ben and returned quietly to his seat.
“Approximately $1.6 billion. This latest design increases the overall footprint of the event center, includes market rate housing, expands open space, and builds an expansive new waterfront plaza for the public to—”
Camille stood abruptly from the table. “I’ve heard enough,” she said looking at Scott. “Start negotiating with Vandercliff first thing tomorrow. Tell her Camille Hardaway wants Doberman Stadium built on her property. Offer her $80 million and if she refuses tell her we’ll take it by eminent domain.”
Scott looked up and said, “But, Mrs. Mayor, there are no grounds for eminent domain with this project.”
Camille snapped her head in Scott’s direction. “Did I ask your opinion?” she replied sharply.
The other men at the table looked relieved they were not involved in the exchange and avoided eye contact with the mayor and Scott.
“No, Mrs. Mayor,” Scott replied cautiously. “You did not, but—”
“No buts,” she snapped. “I want Dober Stadium located on that site. If you don’t think you can make it happen, let me know now, and I’ll replace you with someone who can.”
“Mrs. Mayor,” Tony said, unfazed by her display of force and dominance over the others in the room. “There is one other obstacle that won’t be as easy to get over.”
“And what is that?” she asked coldly.
“John Spalding, planning commission chair. He’s made it his mission to ensure no new stadium is ever built. He has rejected all designs and locations we’ve floated by the commission. He feels it’s a waste of tax dollars and the money should be used to build affordable housing for teachers and first responders.”
“Fuck teachers,” Camille said angrily. “We’ve already built thousands of units of subsidized housing all over the goddamn city. Isn’t that enough?”
“He doesn’t think it is,” Tony replied calmly. “He’s said privately he believes you’re using this as a stepping-stone to the governor’s mansion.”
Camille walked to her desk and sat down. “We’re done here. You leave Spalding to me,” she said coldly. “Please see yourselves out.”
The four men silently retrieved papers and exited the office as Camille launched into a heated exchange on the telephone with her next victim of the day.
The smell of chlorine filled the yard as Gideon Truman completed his usual 6 a.m. swim. Danny St. John sat nearby at a patio table reading the morning paper, taking leisurely sips of coffee and a eating a warm croissant.
“Your coffee is getting cold,” Danny called out.
“One more lap,” came Gideon’s breathy reply as the water splashed over his shoulders.
Gideon’s Hollywood hillside home had an unobstructed view of downtown Los Angeles. The forty-five-foot high letters of the iconic HOLLYWOOD sign looked down onto his yard from a hill in the distance. The city lay at their feet like an intricately woven carpet and the peak of the tower at city hall was just visible between the high-rises, hotels, and condominiums.
The two men lived toge
ther in the house since Danny’s former lover, Pastor Hezekiah Cleaveland, was murdered by his wife Samantha. The devastating loss of Hezekiah, followed by the mysterious death of Samantha, created a bond between Gideon and Danny bound by love and tragedy.
They liked nothing more than being in each other’s company. They traveled together on Gideon’s assignments to exotic parts of the world. They dined at the finest restaurants, attended the A-list parties and ordered takeout from their favorite Chinese takeaway on Sunset Boulevard every Thursday night. They enjoyed the many perks of Gideon’s celebrity status together, but the most enjoyable time was when they were alone in the house on the hill and safe in each other’s arms. They were soul mates and no verse or brimstone-spewing televangelist could tell them otherwise.
At thirty-one, Danny was more handsome than he had been on any day prior in his life. To Gideon, he was the prototype on which God based the design for the most beautiful man since Adam. His tender brown eyes, delicately chiseled face, and chestnut skin made Gideon sigh with pleasure every time he saw him and each time was as precious as the first.
Gideon finally emerged from the pool. His skin glistened in the morning sun as remnants of the water trickled down his muscular frame onto the terra-cotta tile. He wore black Speedos on a body needing no camouflage or modesty. At forty-five, Gideon had the physique of a man half his age. The distinguished hint of grey at each temple was the only clue he wasn’t twenty-five.
“Mayor Hardaway is all over the front page,” Danny said laying the newspaper on the table and pouring Gideon coffee from a carafe. “How was her State of the City address last night?”
“She was amazing.” Gideon said as he toweled himself dry. “I hate to say it, but for some reason she reminds me of Samantha Cleaveland.”
Danny gripped the carafe tighter when Gideon said those words. He could almost hear the whoosh of a bullet rushing past his head—the same sound he heard on the night Samantha tried to kill him.
Danny wiped the sound from his mind and continued filling the cup. “How so?” he asked guardedly.
The Committee Page 3
