by Alex Elliott
“Not that kind of talk,” he replies, arching his brow again.
“Like what?” And it dawns on me. “Sexting?”
“Amongst other things.” He suddenly stops and categorically focuses his unrelenting gaze on me—the one that causes my skin to heat. “We could just text or hell, talk every now and then. Instead of us being on stage...we could say what we think.”
Say what we think? That’s rich. If he got wind of what consumes my thoughts, he’d rethink this thing we’ve got going on... me as his intern. Me as his pretend friend. His sex project—me as his ‘little sub’ as he calls me, when he’s in dirty talking mode. There are other categories—the hotter than hell kind I can’t contemplate and remain upright.
Sucking in a lungful of air, I bracket my hands on my hips, and steel all of my emotions. This man is never without a plan and it’s taking a vast store of my energy trying to keep up with him. “Is this about us becoming friends? It sounds like this idea of yours is in league with that ridiculous plot the Veep’s piloting. What was the word that she used? Hatched!”
I’m trying to calm down and strategize what I’m supposed to do, now that my grandparents have gotten cozy with those I’d stupidly believed would help me build a fortress between my family and myself. The fact that Gran and Pop haven’t sought me out is entirely out of character for those two. Their nature to bulldoze, when done flagrantly, is easy to sidestep. I’m more than queasy at the prospect of Gran operating in the dark—that’s nothing short of wacko!
Ben smiles at me. “This is about us becoming more than friends. I’ll text you my private cell number.” With that, he crosses his office, heading into the bathroom.
News flash! I need to be doing the same. “Very well.” I exhale, treading toward the door. “Not that I’m agreeing to anything set in stone, but we’re running out of time this morning.”
“What does that mean?” He pauses at the doorway.
Unlocking his door, I hold onto the knob. “We can try it. The friends part.”
*
The Kennedy Caucus Room is another work of gorgeous architecture and it’s hard to believe that I’m somehow related to this room in a far removed stepfamily line. There’s a continental breakfast being served and I push a cart stacked high with handouts, yet I don’t see Bennett anywhere. I smile, nodding to those nearby, and walk by several enormous marble pillars. Looking upward at the intricate chandeliers, I’m once again staring in awe. I enter the amphitheater—Jesus H. Christ!
Nora was right. The whole atmosphere is super-charged. Aside from Bennett’s consummate ability to rock the room, this Senate Foreign Relations roundtable committee meeting is night and day to what I witnessed in Boston. He’s up front, his deep voice rebounds as does his laughter and those around him chuckle heartily at something he’s shared. I refuse to gape at him or anyone really. It’s enough that with each step, the plug in my ass refuses to let me forget how he felt inside me yesterday—this morning—and the decadent direction that we’re headed.
“Do you need help?” Another staffer asks.
“Thanks,” I say, gathering up a pile of handouts that she takes to the front table where several of the dignitaries are seated and talking.
The one time I let my gaze drift to where Bennett stands, it’s as though he reads my mind and looks up, locking his eyes with mine. He smiles at me. Immediately, my thoughts break apart, like a deck of cards cast up into the air as my face heats.
Oliver flags me down. “Good morning. Give me some of those.”
“Hey. How am I doing?” I nod to two senators who pause in front of me after asking for a handout.
“Terrific. We might start on time.” He waves a hand to someone, his focus shifting from the room to me. “You deal with that side of the fringe. I’ll deal with the door and this section of heaven.” He tips his head toward a group whose sharp whispers sound waspish.
“Better you than me.” I hand him a stack of the documents, and then push the cart out of the way, taking my post as the lights dim. A woman introduces herself as a Georgetown professor in international finance, and speaks about U.S. trade policy with Cuba and the Caribbean.
Ten minutes later, I’m standing with my back to the wall as Bennett thanks the moderator and begins his talk. Beyond legislators and the press, the people present are top-level professionals—foreign dignitaries with their interpreters, lobbyists, CEOs. I’m accustomed to the cutting edge candor of the conversation that flows around me, or so I believe until Jackson Carter walks into the amphitheater.
I do a double take. If I could slink down the wall and dissolve into the carpet, I flat out would. He relays something to Oliver, then takes a seat near the back. I pray he doesn’t see me. And then I exhale at the revelation—Carter wouldn’t recognize me if I sat right next to him. I’m wearing clothes—not a mask or a dark wig. How strange that idea is and then I look around the room and I absorb why all the cloak and dagger stuff is necessary at the House.
Last Saturday night, I saw Jax’s face but the club members at the House were all wearing various versions of masks and hoods. In truth, surveying the congressional members before me, I wouldn’t be able to pick anyone out of a line-up of two. And hopefully, that works in reverse for me.
My phone buzzes, and I clench my jaw. I forgot to turn it off. I head for the exit and intend to simply silence the damn thing...except it’s Brooke. She’s texted me. “Help. Emergency. Call ASAP!!!”
Chapter 9
TWO BIRDS...ONE STONE
BENNETT WAS tied up with meetings beyond the roundtable and I rush home after not seeing him for the rest of the day. Every hour, I phoned Brooke, touching base to make sure she’s all right—well as all right as she can be with her life spinning out of control. We’ve been through so much already, growing up together and going to the same schools, first heartaches and breakups. And now...this.
I open the apartment door, expecting to find my roommate on the sofa and a sobbing mess. I follow the litter of her things that begins in the foyer. Her messenger bag on the side table. A shoe nearby, then another by the wall.
“Brooke?” I call out but don’t hear a thing. I walk down the hallway and enter her room. She turns her tear-streaked face to me, lying curled up on her bed.
“Hey,” I say coming into her room. “How ya doing?”
“I’m not a bawling mess anymore.”
“But how are you feeling?” I lean over her, picking up discarded tissues, and toss them into a heap on her nightstand.
“So confused,” she says, sniffling. She wipes her nose on her sleeve and I sink down onto the bed next to her, not wanting to prod or push her. I hand her a clean tissue and brush aside her bangs.
Her dark eyes fill with what looks like fear, and my heart squeezes for her. “What can I do?”
“Make this all go away!”
“Oh Brooke. You didn’t say much on the phone...”
“No. I couldn’t say two words without wailing.” She sits up and leans her head against her headboard. “I just cried and cried and cried leaving the doctor’s office. I haven’t cried since elementary school. Remember the day I fell off the monkey bars and busted open my chin?”
“Yeah, you landed on me,” I reply, ruffling her hair. Crying isn’t something Brooke does. Even when her mom passed away, she appeared stoic—never shedding a tear at the funeral or burial.
“Well looks like I’m doing that again!” She hiccups and rolls her eyes. She smells like she’s been drinking, and I glance at the other side of the bed as she bends and lifts a glass. Pushing aside a pillow, she laughs bitterly. “Let’s toast my ability to fuck up!”
Underneath the pillow she extracts a bottle of Nolet’s Reserve.
Aw crap! “You can’t be serious. Brooke, give me the bottle.”
“Don’t worry. I have a plan,” she snorts and uncaps the bottle of gin, lifting it to her lips.
“I’m willing to help you... do whatever you say. But I won’t
stand by while you drink.” I rise up on my knees and reach for her hand. She tries to knock me backwards, and even though we’re pretty much evenly paired insofar as height and frame, I’m not tipsy. Thank God! “Give. It. To. ME!”
“No! Please,” she yells in return.
“Shush!” As gently as I can, I wrench the damn bottle out of her hand, crawl off the side of the bed, and scurry into her bathroom. She doesn’t follow as I pour the gin into the toilet. I flush, then set the empty bottle inside the waste can, and regard my reflection in the mirror. I’d better never let this happen to myself.
When I return to her side, I decide it’s time that we talk. “How far along are you?”
“Two months.” She sniffles, digging her hand into her jean pocket. “Do you want to see the ultrasound?”
She holds out a piece of crinkled paper, and I take it from her trembling fingers, and unfold it. I stare at the dark image. Black and white. The first picture of her unborn child. I don’t know if the baby is a boy or girl, only that he or she is two months. And tiny.
How much partying has Brooke down in the last two months? Astronomical!
She does older men and of late, it’s been in pairs. Should I ask if she knows who the father is? I can’t bring myself to ask something that might hurt her. If she knows, she’ll tell me...
I give her back the ultrasound photo, and lower onto the mattress next to her. “Tell me about your plan.”
“If you come with me...I’m going to get...” Her eyes fill with tears. When she blinks, they spill down her cheeks and stream off her chin.
“God, yes!” It feels like I can’t breathe. My eyes sting and I hug her, shutting my eyes to hide my tears that reflect her pain. She doesn’t need to see me cry. I’ve got to be strong for her. When I’m in control, I pull back and look at her. “I’ll drive you. I’ll stay with you.”
“The nurse gave me a place to call. When I get an appointment, I’ll let you know.”
I need a second. A moment as a bubble of sorrow expands and expands, filling me up from the inside. “How long will you have to stay?”
“The procedure only lasts a few minutes...but the recovery is a couple of hours. It’s in and out. Probably less time than it took for me to get pregnant,” she states and glances down. “You haven’t asked.”
“There are a ton of questions I haven’t asked and I’m not going to. I’m not here to judge you. We’re like sisters, and you’ve always been there for me. When Patrick divorced my mom and I found out he wasn’t my dad...fuck, the whole world basically found out that I don’t have a dad on record—you didn’t care.” Shit, I might have been little, but I remember the blistering stares I got from the parents and, even the nannies... when I was in the pick-up line afterschool. I didn’t understand why I didn’t get any invitations to parties or sleepovers after that, except from Brooke. Until I figured it out, or rather overheard my grandmother go off about how my mom had gotten pregnant while unmarried. Mom’s never told me who my dad is—says she doesn’t know.
“People in general are assholes,” she grunts.
Tonight, I’m not gonna argue that one. Being an illegitimate kid from Nantucket sucks it big time. Only outdone by being a Stillman without a father. If I’d been from another family, no one would question why my mother had a baby between marriages.
I squeeze Brooke’s hand. “What I’m saying is, I’m here for you. Not the story behind your pain.”
“For the record, I think I know who the father is and no, I’m not going to tell him.”
“Ever?”
“He wouldn’t care. Or maybe he would—he’d want me to end it.”
“Listen to me.” I hold her gaze. “It only matters what you want to do.”
“We both know I’m not exactly a fountain of healthy choices.”
“What’s the doctor say?”
She twists her fingers and shakes her head. “I didn’t ask. There’s no point. I’m not ready to be a mother. I’d screw it up so bad. If it weren’t for the fact that my father left me a shitload of cash, I’d be in jail...or worse. I’m not going to stop doing what I do. Even pregnant. I’m fucked in my head. I hate myself!”
“Brooke, don’t say that! You’re my best, best friend. You go to school and you’re near to graduating. Yeah, you need to cut back on partying—for a slew of reasons. But for the record, you’re golden. Your heart is so big and kind and generous.” I wrap my arms around her tighter and whisper, “We both need to get our acts together.”
“Some wake up call.” She presses her hands to her face as tears spill out between her fingers.
I hold on to her as she sobs so hard her body trembles, wracked by shuddering muscle spasms. We rock together until her tears stop falling, and I’m sure she’s not going to do something like head out the door and act on her need to disengage. It’s what she does and how can I help her refrain from repeating this? Birth control and I think about my own. I’m definitely the poster child of remembering to be consistent. It’d be so easy to help her. If she agrees.
“Can I make you something to eat?” I say. “We’ve got stuff.”
“As in food?”
“I went shopping yesterday. We’ve got everything from the basics to bagels. Salt, pepper, olive oil to a stocked freezer. How about soup and a salad? Nothing heavy.”
“Sure. Please,” she says.
“Won’t take me long to whip something up.”
When I arrived here last week, her refrigerator and pantry were empty. With a mom who is into dirty martinis, stained glass, and metal work, I learned to cook as a kid. Gran and Pop might have paid the tuition for my private school education but that was it. My mom does her artwork as a hobby and has a large house and a few condos as part of her divorce settlements from three wealthy husbands. After I was born, my grandparents cut her off. We didn’t have any house staff after Patrick and Mom split up. I enjoy cooking. Living with Brooke, who considers the basic food groups as coffee, mixed drinks, and take-out, I don’t mind being delegated as shopper and chef.
As we talk, I nab a hair tie from her nightstand, and pull my hair into a ponytail ready to hit the kitchen. Her gaze drops from my face and her brows knit together. “Nice scarf but it’s summer.”
Unconsciously, I must have been fiddling with the scarf at my neck and immediately I stop. I laugh, but it comes out shrill. “Not on the Hill. There’s only one season. I’m going for the conservative look.”
“Since when?” She reaches out, pulling on my scarf and her eyes widen. Her fingers move to my neck, pushing aside my scarf. “What in the fuck have you been doing?”
I stare back at her, and blow out a serrated breath, shrugging. “It’s no big deal. I met a guy.”
“A guy? Or a wild-ass vampire!”
“He’s intense,” I reply, feeling a scalding blush overtake my face.
“Ya think? If he fucks as savage as he sucks...based on what your neck looks like, you’d better be careful. Those types break condoms, and I don’t want you to be next.”
“I’m not!” Holy crap. How’d she know that’s what happened the first time Ben and I did it?
Brooke raises her hands in defense. “I’m just sayin’.”
* * *
MY PHONE buzzes. I reach for my cell but the screen is dark. What the fuck? I shift my gaze to the glove compartment, and open it. My other phone is buzzing. My brow tightens as I remove the cell, but when I see the number displayed, I laugh. It’s Xavia and she’s doing as I suggested.
“Hey, what’s up?” I bite back a chuckle.
“Not much. I’m returning your call,” she says in a sultry voice that causes my skin to constrict. “How’d the rest of your day go or are you still at it?”
It’s after nine, and if she only knew I was parked downstairs, curbside. Would she come down or tell me to get lost?
“I’m on my way home,” I say and look up at her apartment. I’m parked on the next block over, yet I can still see her terrace. A
ll the windows across the front and one on the side. Tonight I’ve watched her walk back and forth between her living room and what I imagine is the kitchen. It only takes a few words out of her mouth and I’m hard, wanting nothing more than to find her. Strip the clothes from her body, then shed mine, and hold onto her slim hips as I slide inside her. Bury my cock within her pussy for hours as she lies underneath me. Letting me own what’s mine. “Baby, I—”
“Please, Bennett. Don’t say it,” she begs, and I’m struck by the edge to her voice.
“Xavia, what’s wrong?”
There’s silence. And it stretches. Did something happen at the office? The pounding in my ears gets louder and I sit up. Now, I slant forward, staring at her apartment. My muscles go rigid, my pulse races. That edge to her words acts as a catalyst to my obsession to possess her 24/7. Well fuck sitting in this car! I run through the chances of the doorman stopping me from accessing the elevator. If I enter the lobby, I’d overpower him without thinking twice, and risk the police being called. A repeat performance of what happened at Harvard. Could bring a hailstorm down on Xavia after she’s asked me not to make matters worse.
As of yesterday, the press is on high alert over X and me as ‘friends.’ Summer in D.C. and droves are on vacation from Congress. Like the lush lawns outside the White House, gossip around the Capitol has dried up. Me barging into her building—definitely a break in strategy to keep her grandparents at bay and off her case. The press will be all over it.
I close my eyes, grit my teeth, and force myself to calm the fuck down.
“This is a secure line. Talk to me. Did something happen at work? I heard that the Veep had a Secret Service detail take you to redo your ID badge.”
“Oh that,” she huffs out. “It’s true, I’m now green. An official staffer. I hope the others around the office aren’t upset.”
I open my eyes, and my brow tightens. “Why would they be?”
“There’s something known as badge envy on the Hill. Going from red to green in a single leap isn’t exactly low key.”
