Rey might be the most infuriating man on the planet, and if he weren’t so goddamn right all the time, I’d want to deck him. Well, I still want to, but I won’t because he’s worth far more to me with his exasperating brain in his head than splattered all over my living room floor.
“You think that’ll work?”
“I do.”
His confidence bolsters something inside of me, but there’s an obstacle he hasn’t considered. And it’s kind of a big one, what with his insistence on respect for boundaries and all.
“She doesn’t want to see me.”
“Correction: she doesn’t want to see you making the same old excuses. There are circumstances under which she’d be thrilled to see you.”
The cunning gleam in his eye gives me pause, and by pause I mean, makes me feel like there’s a rock in my stomach because I’m not going to like this. But if he thinks there’s a shot at me getting Press back, I’ve got to know. “And what might those be? If risking arrest by trying to get close to her wasn’t proof enough, what does she want from me?”
His eyes narrow thoughtfully, and he stares into the distance. Even strokes his clean-shaven chin. If I’ve stumped Rey, we’re all in trouble. But eventually, his face gets bright, like a light bulb turned on above him.
“Was that difficult for you? Rocking up to her office building, all ready to be the hero?”
“With a live shooter on the loose? It’s fucking dangerous.”
“That’s not what I asked you. Was it hard for you? Did it take you out of your comfort zone? Aside from your worry about her—which I totally believe was genuine, otherwise I wouldn’t be here—was it unpleasant?”
If I put aside the dread that something had happened to her, the concern that I was going to get thrown in the back of a cruiser for obstructing a police action…no. If anything, it’d made me feel heroic and like a big man. And that’s not a bad feeling at all. “No. It wasn’t. What exactly are you getting at?”
“I think she wants you to make a sacrifice. Do something for her. Not in any way, shape, or form for you. Just something you think she’d like, no matter how much it makes you feel like you’re wearing a wool sweater in July.”
I scrape fingernails over the side of my neck because I can practically feel the scratchy fiber rubbing the wrong way against my sweaty skin. Beyond that, it makes me queasy. But I can understand why she’d want that from me—she’s tired of always being the one who can do something for other people. For once, it would be nice if someone were willing to put aside their needs and wants and put hers first, no matter what it costs them. As vomit-inducing as it is, I think I want to be that guy. For her.
“If that’s what it takes for her to believe that I really want her back—all of her—I’ll do it. Please tell me you have something in mind.”
“As a matter of fact, I do. How do you feel about grand gestures and groveling?”
Chapter Twenty-Six
‡
Jesus, these pants are tight. And it doesn’t help that I’m sweating like a pig. And my face itches. I scratch at the two-day scruff on my jaw before I tug at the shirt clinging to my abs. Then Rey knocks my hand away.
“Stop it. You’re going to make it all loose.”
I reach to pull at it again because, with the cotton adhering to me like Saran Wrap, I feel like I might as well be naked. “Maybe that wouldn’t be such a—”
The vise grip of his hand on my wrist halts me mid-yank. “It would be a bad thing. You look great. I promise. Would I let you look stupid?”
“You are, in fact, encouraging me to make an ass out of myself, so yes. You would.”
He grins at me, those straight white teeth shining out of his enviably clean-shaven face. “Yeah, but this is for a good cause. And it’s going to work. Also, if you’re going to make an ass out of yourself, you may as well do it properly.”
I roll my eyes, but I have to concede. “Yeah, all right.”
He lets go of my wrist, and I shake it out while he looks me up and down again like he’s created some masterpiece. “In my professional opinion, you look hot. She’s going to love it.”
She’d better. When Rey and I had brainstormed a couple nights ago about the perfect way for me to apologize to Press and make her see that I’m willing to go to any lengths to have her, I hadn’t actually thought he’d make me go through with this. But here I am, dressed like a pop idol tweens lose their shit over.
It’s Talent Show night at the club again. I use the term loosely. It’s usually some mash of burlesque, suspension demos, and an orgy. I guess it takes some amount of talent to make public sex appealing instead of awkward? But this is going to be a little different.
Applause for the last act sounds from the other side of the rigged-up curtain, and bile churns in my gut. It’s go time. But not without one last petulant snap at Rey.
“I can’t believe you’re making me do this.”
“I’m not making you do anything. You can walk away, and no one except me will be the wiser. But I’d urge you to consider the consequences of that first. How long are you going to keep running away from what you want?”
Mashing my hands into my eye sockets and over my forehead, I know it’s now or never. I can do this. I can do it for Pressly. It is the very fucking least I can do for her.
I shake it out one last time and head for the gap in the curtains, surprised when a very firm smack lands on my ass. Whipping around, I’m met with Rey’s toothy grin.
“Go get ’em, tiger.”
“Are you shitting me with this?”
His brows crease in mock confusion. “What? Is that not a dude thing?”
“Only in sports.”
“Right. Note to self: learn how to play golf.”
Given his facility in all other things, his complete and utter lack of knowledge about sports has got to be an affectation. Right? Although I suppose his erudition must know some limit. He can’t actually be omniscient. Can he? “Not—”
“Gotcha.”
Fucking Rey Walter. But his antics have loosened the panic curled tight inside me and I roll my eyes as I step through the heavy fabric.
Once on the stage, I can’t see anything at first because the lights are shining bright in my eyes. Maybe this is better. It’ll be easier if I’m performing in front of an abyss and pretending there’s no one here except Press. But the murmurs and a couple of giggles shatter the illusion.
I grab the microphone standing in the corner of the stage and tap it to make sure it’s on, cringing at the feedback when I get too close to the amp. “Sorry, sorry.”
My eyes have adjusted some, and I can make out shapes in the audience, including what I’m pretty sure is Rey darting across the room and dumping himself into a vacant chair at a half-full table. And that’s when I see her. Not clearly because the lights are still interfering, but there’s an expanse of creamy cleavage framed by blonde hair and a candy-pink corset top. To the side of the table are legs crossed at the ankle, one over-the-knee leather boot laid against another encasing fishnet-clad thighs.
I take a hard swallow and then start to talk. “We interrupt your regularly scheduled programming for…well, I don’t know exactly what this is. Let’s call it an act of contrition. Sprite, this is for you. Kindle, hit it.”
There’s a click, and then the opening electronic twangs sound across the room. I don’t want to make an ass out of myself because I suck instead of this whole thing being inherently embarrassing, so I start to sing. At first, I’m stiff as a board, clutching the microphone so hard it might crack between my fingers, my eyes closed just as tightly.
I might not be Adam Levine, but the thing is, I’ve got a decent voice. I was in the church choir all growing up, and if I hadn’t been so focused on academics in college, I would’ve tried out for one of the acapella groups. In truth, not much relaxes me more than a good sing in the car or the shower. Well, a few things. So I let the music take me, closing my eyes against the lights and
the stares and allow my body to move to the rhythm. The straightforward pop melody and the easy-to-follow beat make it effortless. It’s honestly easier to rock my hips and roll my shoulders than it is to stay still.
As the words come out of my mouth, they get louder because I’m singing to her. The bubblegum lyrics begging for her sweetness and her love feel right. Yes, I want the sophisticated elegance of political operator Pressly, but I also want the girl perched in the chair in that hot-as-fuck, fun-as-hell outfit just as much.
My voice bursts into a rusty falsetto for the chorus, but I push through to hit the note, clenching my fist against my chest because that’s where I want her. I thank god for the club’s incredibly strict policy against any kind of recording device, including cell phones, because if a video of this ever got out, I’d be the laughing stock of the District. As it is, I fully expect to have people humming under their breath at me whenever I come into the club for the rest of my natural given life. That’s penance I’m willing to do for making Pressly feel like I didn’t want every single ounce of her.
Singing about the sugar I want from her, I hope she realizes it’s not just sex. And when I say I’ve got to be a man, I know it’s true. Fake it till you make it, Lewis, and in the meantime no one will know the difference. Be so convincing Press won’t know I haven’t totally made it yet. If I act like I’m worthy of her, maybe I will be. I’ll never stop trying.
My performance is garnering catcalls and scattered clapping, but I’ve got only got ears for sounds I don’t hear. Pressly’s windchime laugh; a whoop of delight; her terrible, terrible attempt at whistling because the girl can’t whistle if her life depended on it. But nothing.
As the song winds down, I give it my all, belting it out and breaking into my best moves. I’m not exactly Magic Mike, but if I put my mind to it, I’m serviceable. A body roll here, a hip thrust there…this is actually fun. In a completely mortifying way, of course. How lucky am I that Press finds being humiliated hot? Because this…this is not my jam. I mimic Adam’s last cool laugh, and then it’s over and the room erupts into applause. At least someone enjoyed this.
I shade my eyes against the glare and look to the table where Rey sat down, and yeah, she’s there, a fruity virgin cocktail clutched in her fingers. She looks shell-shocked, like a cracked candy coating.
I hand off the mic to Kindle, and they gratuitously ask for a round of applause because most of the audience is on their feet. I take a second to enjoy the standing ovation, but then I’m scrambling off the stage, trying not to trip and embarrass myself, and wading through a crowd I didn’t think was that big. And then I’m there, standing in front of Pressly, who’s still frozen in her chair. With an exceeding amount of care because these pants are so fucking tight I wouldn’t be surprised if they burst, I get down on one knee in front of her.
She cracks a smile. “What are you doing?”
“Humiliating myself. For you.”
“Why?”
“Because I want you. Not just want. Need. I’m a fucking mess without you.”
She purses her pretty mouth like she doesn’t quite believe me. “You got your bill. Without my help, I might add. You don’t need a pretty political wife.”
“No. I don’t need you for my career. If that’s what you think, that that’s the only reason I want you, I don’t ever want you coming to a Capitol Hill cocktail party with me again. I’d like you to, sure, because you’re a master at those things. I love watching you work a room, and I’d be glad for the help. But if I need anything, it’s the rest of you. Your intelligence, your optimism, your kindness. I want you singing pop music in the shower and trailing glitter all over the house. I want to open your pickle jars again. I want your wild outfits hanging in our closet next to your cashmere twin sets. And you know who else I need?”
“Who?”
I stand and, grabbing her hands in mine, tug her to her feet. Stepping into her, I wrap an arm around her waist and pull her tight against me. As her vinyl corset presses into my chest through the skin-tight stretch of my shirt, I slip a hand into her hair at the nape of her neck and pull, just a little. She yields, her body soft and pliant against mine, and she blinks up at me with those big blue eyes as her pink-slicked lips part.
“I need the filthy little slut who begs me for my cock, who likes nothing better than to lick my shoes and get fucked seven ways to Sunday. I want you to crawl to me, and I want tears on your face when you do. I want all of you.”
“Are you sure?” Her hands rest against my chest, her fingers spread wide over the thin cotton, poised to push me away. I don’t want her to push me away, but I’ve got to tell her the truth.
“I can’t say I’m 100-percent comfortable with it yet. I’m going to fuck up and say stupid shit, but you have my full permission to smack me upside the head when I do. Letting you go the first time was the stupidest thing I’ve ever done, but I only pushed you away because I didn’t want to hurt you. And now that I know I won’t… I might be a moron, but I’m not dumb enough to let you walk away again. Especially not now.” A tightness forms around her eyes as she glares at me, and her mouth opens to interrupt. “Not because of the baby. But because I can’t imagine someone more perfect than you are. I love you. Always have. And I promise to do my best to get this stick out of my ass. You just…you have to promise to be patient with me. I’m kind of a mess.”
She goes even higher on her toes than she already is in those boots, her hands pressed against my chest, her fingernails scratching lightly against my pecs. A heat spreads from them around my heart. I think she’s going to kiss me, and I can’t wait for the feel of her lips against mine.
Instead, she cuffs me upside the head, and a surprised “ow” tumbles out of my mouth before I can stop it. But it rapidly turns into a grin because she’s smiling and her eyes are bright with hope and happiness.
“You better mean it because I’m going to hold you to that.”
“I do. With everything I have. I’d go around the earth for you.”
That’s when she kisses me. Throws her arms around my neck. I hold her tight, so tight, as our lips meet, and the taste of her, god, I’ll never get enough. And I never have to. She’s going to be mine again, all mine.
Our make-up make-out session is interrupted by an exaggerated clearing of a throat. We pull apart, and that’s when I remember exactly how public our private moment is. Everyone is staring at us with sappy, love-struck expressions. Except Rey, who’s regarding us with a wry curl of his mouth. That self-satisfied motherfucker.
“As much as I’m enjoying this, perhaps you’d like to save it for later? I was rather looking forward to Tangent’s singletail demo.”
Press and I regard each other sheepishly, a blush crawling into our cheeks.
“Yeah, no problem,” I volunteer, steering Press to her seat and tucking it under the table once she’s sat down. Rey takes the chair to one side of her, and I eye the last empty one.
“Can you even sit down in those pants?”
Saucy-fresh Press is back, and even her teasing makes me happy, swells my heart so full it crowds my ribs.
“That remains to be seen.”
Luckily my on-stage gyrations seem to have loosened them, but I still take it slow, lest the seams start to give. I manage to get my ass in the chair without the leather splitting wide open. A good thing, because it’s not like there was room for underwear in this medieval torture device masquerading as pants.
When I’ve settled, I reach under the table to weave my fingers through Pressly’s, and god do I love the feel of it, the feel of her. And as Tangent leads a collared and leashed Scooter onto the stage, an intimidating whip in his other hand, I lean over to say, “What are you going to tell Clay?”
“Nothing.”
What? She’d never seemed that keen on him, and now that she knows I’m all in, what does she still need him for? “But…”
The corner of her mouth pulls into one of those charmingly awkward smiles as
she shakes her head. “I broke things off with him weeks ago. If anyone wanted to use me for my connections, it was him. I figured if you and I didn’t work out, this baby would be better off with just me than with parents who’d gotten married solely for political purposes.”
Relief floods through me that Press wouldn’t have sold herself short even if she hadn’t decided to take me back. That she’s come to realize that her needs and wants are important and she should expect happiness from life, not just fulfilling her duties as a cog in the political machine. I’m going to spend the rest of my life trying to give it to her.
“I think that was a good decision.”
“I think so too.”
She smiles again, a real smile, before she dips her head toward me. It reads as a request for affection, so I lean in to kiss her, brushing her hair aside and darting my tongue out to taste the sweet sensitive skin behind her ear. After making her shiver and sigh, I whisper, “Love you, Press.”
The squeeze of her fingers and the stroke of her thumb in my palm tell me without words that she loves me too.
Epilogue
‡
Six months later
I smile at Press across the room. She looks divine tonight. I mean, she always looks good to me but maybe even more so now. I feel like some women look fragile when they’re pregnant, but not Press. If anything, she looks more powerful, less like anyone would dare fuck with her, as if anyone would’ve dared before. She owns the room with her perfectly done, twisted-up hair and the empire-waist dress that drapes over her rounded stomach.
There’s a certain glow in her cheeks that causes a pulse of regret in my stomach. I could’ve had this years ago. It dissipates quickly, though, as I picture Rey brushing the weight of my remorse off his shoulders like so much lint from his exquisitely tailored suit. “How about you don’t waste any more time on that?”
He’s exactly right.
Excusing myself from my conversation with the representative from New York’s 9th Congressional District—one of my favorites because we have the same politics and I find her hardline attitude and fierce conversational style comforting—I head toward the lion’s den. Pressly is schmoozing with Joe Creed, owner of a ridiculously successful aerospace firm who’s angling for some juicy government contracts. He’s a power player in West Virginia state politics.
True North (Compass series Book 4) Page 25
