by Alex Elliott
“Simmer down. I’m aware.”
“And why is that, Senator?” I ask, not bothering to hide that I’m frustrated.
“I called and Nora relayed you’d left.”
When I miss another turn, I let loose. “Are you checking up on me? Talk about being a hard-ass!”
“Do you have a problem that I called to make sure you left, instead of camping out in your office? I realize you’re working flextime.”
“Oh...” My chest squeezes. He’s right. I’m being a bitch.
“Oh? Is that how people in Boston say ‘sorry’ when they’re so wrong it’s not funny?” He laughs, and I get it. He’s not calling to chew my ass. He’s calling because...he cares?
“Sorry. I’m still learning that there’s more to us than hair-pulling...” Shit. I roll my eyes, reminding myself we’re on a cell. Luckily I didn’t say sex, but the idea hangs in the air. Unspoken but as provocative and loud as if I’d shouted it.
“Need I remind you, I want us to be friends?” His voice softens. “I said it and I meant it.” Without fail¸ he has the perfect follow up.
What’s left to say?
Apologize...hello? “Ben, I was wrong. You’re not a hard-ass—well you are, but you’re not. You’re hard to classify, but you’re right. It’s been a long day, even if I’m cutting out mid-afternoon. My head is still buzzing from the chunk of time I spent with Leslie...the Veep’s press secretary—”
“What the hell happened?” he demands, and there goes our carefree conversation with the unmistakable edge to his voice.
“Zero to sixty much?” My turn to laugh, slow him from launching. “I found a translator and your schedule is almost locked down for Cuba, including press coverage on opening trade talks. Alicia from Congressman Shepard’s office gave me some pointers on tech stuff. Leslie and two other staffers from the Veep’s communications team came calling. They helped me map out a plan for your trip, and whoa. It was super informative. I feel like I’m getting a handle on whom to call...what to do.”
“You’ve been a busy girl.”
“Like everyone in your office. Now my schedule is kinda exploding too.” By the time I left the office today, my calendar was overrun with appointments as Ben’s Senate press secretary.
The navigation app kicks in and spouts out the next direction. I glance at the map on my phone, and exhale in relief. Finally, I see where I went wrong, and floor the gas.
“What was that?” he asks.
I take him off speaker. “I had to google my way home.”
“You’re driving? In D.C.?” And we’re back to him being an overbearing prick. A caring, overbearing prick.
“You drive. Why shouldn’t I?” I reply, wishing I could ask him to come over. Come over and let me do him.
“I have a driver and you can use the car anytime—”
“Excuse me. I’m not twelve.”
“Why won’t you let me make things easier on you?” His voice takes on an intimate tone that shreds through all the BS—I want him. More and more I’m discovering that his level of possession intersects with something deeper and darker. Yet the glowing feeling he evokes in me isn’t diminished. His desire to dominate hikes up my hunger to be with him. Naked. Open.
My heartbeat takes off in sprint. I concentrate on driving, pushing aside the coiled lust that begs to be set free. One more night, and we’ll be at the House. For hours, we can fuck. That term doesn’t seem adequate any more. Not with what I want to do with him.
“Bennett, no. Really I’m fine.” That’s a lie. I see that what’s developing between us is beyond sex. Beyond friendship.
“Look X, you’re my staff. It’s not a problem. No one would think twice if that’s your concern.”
“Like I said, I’m good.” I stow my ridiculous emotions. My apartment building is up ahead and I switch on my blinkers, slowing as I prepare to turn into the garage.
“If there was an opening to stay on as my staff...would you?” he asks and I stop staring at the oncoming traffic. His question lands like a boulder in my mind.
My heartbeat thuds a little faster. “I don’t know. We haven’t talked about the future. Mine.”
“We are now. Find out about school. I thought you were going to check and get back to me?”
A break in the traffic and I accelerate at the same time a car takes off from the curb. I swerve, barely missing the vehicle as it races by, the driver laying on the horn and giving me the finger. My heart pounds as I wearily glance down the street.
“Xavia, are you there?”
“Yep.” Gripping the steering wheel, I proceed inside the garage.
“And?”
“Done, Senator. This placement qualifies as an internship. It’ll fly and all I have to do is a presentation to the journalism department and agree to weekly online meetings with an advisor. But you’d have to agree as well to the publicity. The presentations are taped and used as webinars for other students to watch.”
“That’s a no brainer. I agree. Let me know who to contact and where to relay my support.”
“Not hard. It’s a form. I’ll send it to you.” Within the underground garage, I slip into Brooke’s spot and park, shutting off the engine. “I’m at my place.”
“Safe and sound. Good,” he says. “Read the email and call me later, Ms. Kennedy. Don’t make me track you down, unless you’d like to suffer dire consequences.”
“I bet you’d like that.”
“Affirmative.”
*
Entering the apartment, I find Brooke curled up on the sofa, watching a movie, and eating a bowl of leftover soup.
“Thanks...for everything last night,” she says, stretching when I sit down next to her.
“Hush. How are you feeling?”
She sets the bowl down on the cocktail table, and meets my stare. “More in control.”
“So. Any news?”
“Got an appointment. On Saturday.”
“Which one?” I ask, my body stiffening. “And what time?”
“The week after next. We’re due there at ten.”
I compute what she said about the procedure. The time required and nod. “How far away is the place? I want to get directions. Driving today was an eye-opener.”
“You mean the traffic?”
“How’d you guess?”
“It sucks in town. I’ll text you the address. It’s a private clinic. In Virginia. Less than an hour. And BTW, everyone who knows you, realizes you hate to drive.”
I tilt my head. “Really?”
She laughs. “It’s not like you make a general announcement. But yeah, you aren’t the best driver in the world.”
“I’m not horrible... am I?”
“Hun, you have a tendency to multi-task. A lot.”
“Doesn’t everyone?” I scoff, and then knock my knuckles along my head. “Anyway, we’ll be ready.”
Brooke rises and picks up her bowl. “I’m going to take a nap. I have studying to do. Seriously, I can’t thank you enough for last night.”
I get off the sofa and we hug. “Anything. For you.”
After fixing a quick omelet and salad, I down a cup of espresso and go to my room, undress and get comfy on my bed with my laptop and messenger bag. I sort through the documents the Veep’s office left and log on to the congressional computer system. My updated ID gives me access to some top-level information. I scan the directories, encountering several interesting doorways. One click and I lose myself for hours.
*
My work is done, and I lie back and yawn. Stretching, I roll over on my stomach. Now it’s time to see what Bennett sent me. I lift and cross my ankles, waiting for his email to open. It’s from his personal account.
From: Bennett A. Stone
To: X.s.Kennedy
Attached is the questionnaire.
Call me.
Ben
Clicking open the attachment, I skim the questions. Five pag
es of whoa. This relationship questionnaire resembles a psych battery. I shake my head at some of the questions. If you were on a deserted island, list three things you’d need to survive. I think, “Water. Food. Shelter.”
Easy.
But then I’d be naked.
If this question implies that we’d be together. If we were friends...we’d be naked friends. Very naked friends. And I’d need birth control. Then I think of Brooke. Maybe her life is like an island for all her money. I close my eyes, and bow my forehead on top of my arms. This questionnaire isn’t meant to be an instrument of torture, I remind myself.
I lift my head and immediately type a response to his message
From: X.s.Kennedy
To: Bennett A. Stone
Five minutes later, I have one question answered.
Have you read the questions...answered any?
Can I send you my own questionnaire?
X
I hit ‘send’ and print out the questionnaire, bound and determined not to read too much into each question.
My email account dings and I laugh surprised. Ben’s sent me back a message.
From: Bennett A. Stone
To: X.s.Kennedy
Are you writing a thesis?
FYI. I’ve answered ALL the questions.
Send me anything you’d like. Any time.
Ben
Grinning, I open my browser, searching for a meme to send. The ‘Inner Villain’ test pops up and I snicker to myself.
From: X.s.Kennedy
To: Bennett A. Stone
Your turn.
Just a taste of what I’m wondering.
BTW. I’m Artic Fist Enslaver of the Metropolis.
X ;^)
I send him my message and within seconds my cell buzzes not from a text; he’s calling me. I answer with a “Tired of typing?”
“Hardly. Just in agreement. You’re an enslaver all right. Maybe I should have taken your test when we first met?” he says in a low voice, and I both shiver and laugh in delight.
“That’s on you.” I bite my lip, enjoying the rush of what his voice does to me. “Too late now, Senator.”
“Damn straight! And for the record... did you forget my direction to call me?”
His voice just dropped into that range of dark and deep, and I press my hand between my legs, stroking my fingers across my folds. Missing him. “We’re kind of talking.”
“A technicality. You’re pushing limits, Ms. Kennedy,” he replies. “I can deal with that part of you in so many ways, little girl. Maybe it’s what you want.”
“I want you,” I say.
“Fuck X. You’ve got me.”
The phone feels alive within my fingers. I roll my lip harder between my teeth. I remind myself to breathe. This is just a step...us talking.
I chuckle when he admits he once shaved his head and wore a Mohawk dyed red for a soccer game in college. Glancing at the clock on my nightstand, I do a double take. It’s after ten. We talked for hours, discussing everything from the music we listen to, don’t listen to, books we’ve reread and why, favorite places to visit, and basically we went through the list he emailed me.
“Uh...you’re slammed tomorrow. I’d better let you go.” I stare up at the ceiling, imagining the things I’d do to him if he was in my bed.
“Don’t. Ever,” he replies. “I’d seek you out. Find you. You’re mine Artic Fist Enslaver of the Metropolis.”
“Yeah? Sounds like you’re the enslaver,” I retort, keenly aware of his deep voice, his promise, and my heart pounding like I’m sprinting. “Hey, you never told me. What’s your inner villain? I know you’ve got one.”
“Prepare yourself,” he scoffs. “Dark. Cyborg. The Monarch of Men.”
I tap the space bar and look at the meme I sent him based on the letters of a person’s name. “What’s the ‘A’ for?”
“It’s not asshole if that’s what you’re thinking.”
I roll my eyes. “Some days, that might be open for debate. But tell me. A is for?”
“Anthony. After my grandfather. Antonio Aldebrando.”
“Aldebrando,” I repeat his family name, enjoying the roll of sounds on my tongue. “Is that Italian?”
“Yes. From my mom’s side. She’s was born in Atlanta but my grandparents were Sicilian. I wasn’t lying about my father’s side. They’re all diehard Southerners, and a few still hang confederate flags. Both sides are extremes with engrained opinions. A gulf exists between them. Even today.”
“Sounds old school, like a story or a movie.”
“More than you know. My great grandparents were hardcore. Wine makers and very devout Catholics. Ten children, but the crooked politicians, the mob and violence made living—farming impossible. And that’s more than you asked...isn’t it?”
I sit up, gripping the phone. “I want to know all about you, Bennett. Don’t you want to know about me?”
“That’s not a question. You know I do. Come to...” he pauses, exhaling. “To the office early. I need to. You’re aware of what I need.”
I swallow. “Nora mentioned she might come in early.”
“I saw her new revised work schedule. Apparently, she’s also gung-ho on flextime.”
“Hope I didn’t start something—”
“Trust me. You didn’t.”
I say later and we hang up. I lie down, and hug one of my pillows, closing my eyes and wishing, wishing, wishing he were right next to me. Right now!
Chapter 12
SYNC US
“HELLO?” I answer my cell. Inside my bedroom it’s dark and this call woke me from a dead sleep.
“Senator Stone?” The man’s voice has a foreign accent.
I lift the phone from my ear, glancing at the screen. It’s four fucking thirty in the morning. “What’s this about?”
“Ambassador Hackett and the vice president request your attendance at a meeting. This morning. Your insight would prove beneficial.”
To whom? “Is there an emergency?”
“No.” That’s all the man says and I stare at the ceiling.
If Virginia wanted to set up a meeting, her scheduler would have contacted Nora—gone through the regular channels. Same thing for Chief of Mission Will Hackett, the newly named Ambassador to Cuba.
“Who are you, and why are you calling to set this meeting up...at four?”
“I apologize, Senator Stone. But I wanted to catch you...before you went for your jog. I was told to inform you that this appointment will be to your advantage, concerning your upcoming trip abroad.”
He still hasn’t identified himself and my patience is growing shorter. Fully awake, I’m less inclined to engage in political parlaying like this.
“Whoever you are, you should also know I jog at six in the morning. Don’t shit me. What’s this meeting about?” I’m not paranoid. The more I get to know the Veep, the more off-the-wall I’m learning she is. The slapdash method she runs her office is polar to how I run mine. She accused me of being linear, meticulous, and a hard-ass. Well fuck yeah. I don’t phone people—well not anyone besides Xavia—at oddball hours unless it’s a crisis.
“Just breakfast. A planning session. Again, I apologize, Senator for the early call. I couldn’t chance missing you.”
“Where?” I huff out.
“A car will be sent for you. Seven—”
“That won’t fly. I have other appointments. I’ll drive. Just need the address. Text it to me.”
Silence. A good long three seconds or more. Fuck. What’s the big deal? “All right, Senator. If something comes up, call me. You have the number.”
Number but no name. “What the hell—”
He hung up.
I look at the screen of my cell and there’s his number. I don’t like this type of fuckery. I peel off the covers, and cross my bedroom, not stopping until I retriev
e my other untraceable cell from my desk where I’d left it last night. In some crapped up domino reaction, I text Archer. “Find out about this cell number.” I press ‘send’ then forward the number.
Naked, I stand in my study and gaze outside. It’s pitch black. What the fuck? I’ll start my day and get my head on straight with my morning jog. If I could, I’d burn through my upcoming appointments. With each step, each breath my real focus is on tonight. On Xavia, and what I have planned for my little submissive who’s been a minx this week. My muscles tighten as I move and envision what lies ahead as I return to my bedroom and change.
Outside my apartment building, I stretch for a couple of seconds, then begin to pound the pavement toward Q Street. By the time I reach Logan Circle I’m warmed up. Less than three miles and I’m wired with adrenaline pumping through my veins. I’ve got my phone and as I stare up at X’s apartment, sweat running down my face, I glance around the street. A few people are out and about. Walking dogs, getting into cars, trekking to a coffee shop a few doors down.
I text her a message. “Are you awake?”
My phones buzzes. She replies, “I am. I take it you are...”
Keying in the truth, I hit send. “I’m downstairs.”
“As in my apartment?”
I don’t care if she thinks I’m crazy. On this adrenaline rush, I return, “As in yes. COME DOWN.”
“BOSSY MUCH?”
I clench my jaw. “Care to find out?”
“Give me three minutes...maybe four.”
In no time, Xavia exits her building, and our eyes connect. I’m only a few feet from her lobby doorway. I lift off the lamppost I’m leaning on, relishing her tousled hair, and the tight little T-shirt she’s wearing, stretched snug over her tits. Those beauties I could watch bounce for hours. “You look good enough...” I don’t finish the sentiment. I reach out to her and pull her with me down the block and around the corner.
“Where are we going?” she asks.
“Don’t know.” I usher her to a dimly lit alley, and then I’m done with waiting. I take hold of her, hauling her to me. Our mouths collide, slide to fit—meld, and I taste her. Minty and sweet, and I wrap my sweat-coated arms around her soft contours, craving to get closer. Skin-on-skin comes to mind. “Baby,” I whisper, needing more.
