Vetting The Senator

by Alex Elliott

  “Actually, Congressman Shepard, your assistant is the one who informed me how global the forum has gotten.”

  “I hope Alicia didn’t scare you. She can be overbearing in her opinions,” Troy snorts.

  “Only to you,” Wesley flings back.

  “I’m impressed, gentlemen. She told me all about the new medical response protocol and showed me the YouTube you both worked on. It’s tearing up the Internet. I tweeted about both.”

  “Thanks. We can use the support. Don’t be afraid to come visit us. We’re only two floors down, and maybe some of your amiability will rub off on my staff,” Troy replies.

  “I like your staff just fine.”

  “Then come down to visit us. We don’t bite.” Wes winks at X.

  Laughing softly, she smiles over to me, and that goddamn possessive streak within me fires up. Strictly speaking on the Hill and in proper decorum, I shouldn’t answer for her. But what’s going down is so much more than regular Capitol cocktail conversation. It’s my Dom duty to set the tone of how other men relate to her, and if that means telling my esteemed asswipe colleagues to step back, I will. Like a kid on the playground who doesn’t share well, I’m all too happy to react like an aggressive dipshit—especially with two indoctrinated Doms, homing in on my sub.

  Before I do something stupid, I tell myself they’re only pulling my chain. “Gentlemen, here’s the short and simple fact: this one is taken,” I answer, staring across at them, slightly lifting my brow. “In every sense of the word. Understand?”

  Both Wes and Troy go from cocky smiles to dead serious. Their stances stiffen, and then it’s as if they simultaneously zone in on the collar around X’s neck. Troy shifts his gaze from her neck to me, and he nods. “That’s understandable.”

  Wes bows slightly, unable to avoid being a total jackass as I watch him lift X’s hand. A cold ball of annoyance drops into my gut as he grins like a smug imbecile. Fucker is enjoying this moment. “I’ve known Senator Stone for years, and all I can say is, you must be very...very special.”

  “Senator Stone and Miss Kennedy,” the White House staffer announces brightly, “Right this way. You’re seated at the president’s table.”

  “Go figure.” Troy claps me on the back. “Enjoy the spotlight. Heard you ironed out a few wrinkles in foreign finance for Cuba.”

  “A few,” I mutter, pressing my hand to X’s back. I expected us to be seated with the Cuban diplomats, far the fuck away from North. I only hope this is more of Ryan pulling strings to showboat our announcement, not North’s futile obsession with striking a deal that never will happen. “I’d much rather be seated far away from that spot. Can’t have it all, Congressmen.”

  “Don’t know if I agree with that,” Wes retorts. “Ms. Kennedy, I look forward to seeing you again. Very soon. If not, I’ll come find you.”

  Son of a bitch. Stopping directly in front of him, I’ve got zero patience left. “Don’t push,” I snarl under my breath. If I could haul Wesley’s ass to the wall and pound some sense into him I would.

  Troy reaches out and grabs Wes by the shoulder. “Ben’s right,” he says in a low voice, surveying those around us.

  For the briefest of instances Wes and I exchange looks as he presses his lips into a line. Mock saluting me, he grunts out, “For the record, you’re losing your sense of humor.”

  “Let me worry about that,” I retort.

  “Fair enough,” Troy agrees, glaring at his sidekick. “Wes?”

  “If I got out of line,” he states with a frown. “It wasn’t my intent.”

  I meet his dogged stare. What is his problem? “Later, gentlemen,” I stiffly reply before piloting X away.

  “What was that all about?” she asks softly while we follow the White House staffer. “Aside from a congressional pissing match.”

  I nod to several senators and their wives. “Even with colleagues, lines have to be drawn. I go by the adage of keeping my enemies near, and always watch out for friends. It’s those closest that pose the greatest threat.”

  “And me? Should I be wary or take offense?” she whispers.

  “Let’s not get into this. Not now.”

  “Senator Stone, Miss Kennedy.” The staffer stops and gestures with her hand to two seats with engraved place cards on the plates. “If you need anything, your waiter tonight is Enrique.”

  An elderly man unobtrusively steps forward. “Good evening, Senator Stone and Miss Kennedy, what may I get you to drink?” He out holds a bottle of wine.

  “Wine?” I ask X.

  “Yes. Please.”

  I help her with her wrap and when she’s seated, I unbutton my jacket and lower onto the chair. The First Lady along with the Stillmans arrive at the table and then out of the corner of my eye, I spot Angela threading her way around the table on the arm of Secretary of State Fallon, greeting those seated. Blow me. This is too perfect. What next? We all meet up at North’s mountain top home for a weekend of charades.

  I slant my body over, whispering into Xavia’s ear, “This is going to get interesting.”

  “More so. I hope not.”

  The secretary of state pulls out a chair and I don’t waste my time watching as Warner continues talking. She takes a spot five seats away from X; not far enough but at least she and North can’t do much seated halfway around the table. I speak with the Under Secretary for Terrorism seated on my left when he starts up a conversation about the newly announced democratic elections that will take place in Cuba. An issue that’s plagued me if Diaz is replaced and a reason why I’d like to get to Cuba sooner than later to finalize our trade agreement. Stan Stillman is quick to comment and proceeds to grill the undersecretary. Without wanting to open up a massive discussion, I turn to Xavia prepared to draw her into our conversation but she’s talking with a White House correspondent seated next to her. I catch a snippet of their conversation—when X is asked about Jon Richter and the piece he’s writing for the Post on Jackson Carter.

  As I tune out the undersecretary and Stillman, I tune in to X’s conversation as she stammers that Jon—the same Jon who acted as our driver in Boston—hasn’t relayed much. The correspondent spouts Richter’s not only covering Jax, but is doing a broader piece on several congressional members. Why am I unaware Richter works at the Post?

  I lift my wineglass, nodding as if I’m entranced in Cuban foreign affairs, yet when X admits that for the last few weeks, he’s operated under the wire, I choke. The sip of wine in my mouth goes down the wrong pipe, and I hack into my napkin what feels like a lung. Fuck! Under the wire? What kind of shitshow is about to unfold? Could be nothing but more White House political buzz, however, the pit of my stomach begs to differ.

  Scanning the room, I spot Jax and weigh if I should confront him. Inquire what’s going on....but then he might connect the dots, linking Richter to X. He could assert who knows what to North—national secrets are being sold. Crafted retribution would provide POTUS with a huge bargaining chip.

  After Jax’s recent attachment to the president, I trust him as far as I could throw him. I’ll work my back channels, protecting her from getting involved as Richter’s friend. Won’t matter if she’s a Kennedy—the FBI would be brutal, pulling her into a staged scandal.

  Archer’s been out of touch lately—but cryptic message booms in my mind as I question if this is somehow related.

  During the speeches tonight where North gives credit for the turning tides in Cuba to Castro and his cabinet, I glance over at Xavia. My little sub with her razor sharp secrets. I should have known that Richter being a friend of this woman’s wasn’t a regular nobody. Fuck! Does Jax know he’s courting the press? So many questions and when I get her alone, we’re going to have a come to Jesus talk tonight.

  Throughout dinner, I skate the cresting conversation that circulates around the table each time one of the presidents articulates a point. North and Castro hold the highest stakes and all eyes are riveted on them. I divide my attention, surveying the Still
mans’ talk directed to North. Their exchange reveals nothing beyond joint charity references. Yet I’m also keenly attuned to the woman next to me. Each spoonful of soup X sips from her bowl, I’m conscious of her wiping her mouth or licking a drop from the edge of her lip.

  “Aren’t you hungry?” she asks me when the soup bowls are removed and the entrée plates are served.

  “Not really,” I murmur, watching as she decides what to eat first, noting how she smiles at those around her, detouring from comments about her stepfather with well-poised questions that might go undetected, but serve as the means to circumvent the subject of her family nearby.

  My name is called—I recognize X’s grandfather’s voice. I enter into another discussion with him on foreign trade, letting him pick the topic. I answer Stan’s questions with the sole purpose of monitoring his rebuttal. A few well-placed observations, and voilà—Castro edges his way into our conversation. I take a backseat, listening and dissecting their chat, discovering Castro appears fascinated with them, and keeps them entertained with stories, entwined with questions about Citibank like a spider weaving a financial web.

  Besides concentrating on X and her grandparents, I continually track Gabriel North’s attention, which is seamless. Only a few isolated times has he glanced over to X, and those were fleeting as his gaze flickered around the table. He doesn’t ignore Warner, nor does he overdo his regard of her. Being privy to his sadistic tendencies in his dungeon, and his desire to watch me fuck and discipline the woman to my right makes dinner ill-at-ease to the tenth degree and it’s taking forever for it to end.

  “You look pale,” Xavia comments, gazing up at my face.

  “It’s the air conditioning.” I feign, hooking a finger in my collar as if I’m uncomfortable. What I am is overrun by attending to several key players near us, trying to uncover the nature of their relationships—which leaves me with no revelations...only indigestion.

  Finally, the torturous dinner is over, and I take Xavia’s hand as we all make our way into the ballroom where the Marine Corp band is playing. Paquito D’Rivera takes the stage where the sounds of the musician’s alto sax are unquestionably mesmerizing.

  Xavia sways and in the dim lighting, I trace the curve of her hip poised inches from mine, silently grunting in satisfaction when she ‘accidentally’ brushes against my semi-erect cock. My bad mood lessens and I pull her to me.

  “Excuse me, Ms. Kennedy?” a man’s voice calls her name from behind us.

  Turning, I stare as bitter anger chokes me when North bows toward my submissive with his hand outstretched. “Would you do me the honor of a dance?”

  Photographers blast away in cascade of flashes as I comprehend the impossibility of the situation. Under the onslaught of press coverage, she can’t refuse him and the motherfucker knows it. She and I exchange a protracted look, and fuck me. It’s a DEFCON 5 kind of warning that blares inside me. I clench my jaw in fury, feeling as though any second my molars will crack.

  Jax is beside me. Clapping me on the back, he whispers, “Smile. It’s only a dance.”

  Chapter 19

  POTUS MINDFUCK

  DANCING WITH President North, I smile politely as the glittery snapping lights from countless photographers’ cameras flash in my periphery. I attempt to listen to him, his innocuous comments and easy to answer questions. Woodenly, I respond with a ‘yes’ or ‘no’ as we float along the dancefloor where I remind myself not to gape over at Bennett.

  This has been the night from hell. Throughout dinner, Senator Warner stared at me, stabbing the food on her plate, and chewing what seemed like glass. Several times, vitriol laced barbs exited her mouth in comments under her breath and directed to me. Five seats away, and I don’t know why she’s on a warpath against me. Besides that single incident of running into her—literally—on my first day, I have no clue, what’s eating her. I have passed her a few times in the hall at work, and once in the ladies room. But tonight, some bug crawled up her ass—one she didn’t attempt to hide.

  “I’ve been trying to connect with you for quite a long time. Do you realize that?” North says and I’m jarred from my internal clutter.

  “Oh, please excuse my grandmother,” I say automatically, glancing up at him.

  “This has nothing to do with Grace,” he replies, and his fingers press into the lower part of my back. “I’m interested in you. I can help your career, if you let me.”

  He’s not much taller than me in my extreme height heels, and for the first time, I notice the unsettling way his eyes peer across at me. North isn’t just looking at me, he’s stabbing me with his unblinking topaz-colored eyes, that incrementally shift between mine as though he’s trying to delve into the recesses of my thoughts. Some sort of mindfuck, and I drop my gaze, hoping to amputate his unnerving attention.

  “I-I don’t understand,” I stammer but when he presses his erect cock into my hip, I flash my eyes back to his face, glaring and searching for a clue that this isn’t what it seems.

  North’s eyes are more hooded than before.

  “Don’t you?” he asks.

  “No. I don’t need your help with my career,” I reply, arching my hips away—as far away as I can get.

  He snakes his arm tighter around my waist, all the while smiling at me. “I meant no insult. But you do have aspirations beyond being a staffer stuck in a dismal office.” His voice comes out smooth. Confident. And has the opposite effect on me.

  Shit! I’m repulsed, and tug my arm as I try to free myself from his grasp. He’s swift to staunch my escape, twirling me as we dance. Instead of breaking free, I hold onto his hand or risk face planting.

  If he hadn’t spun me at that moment, I would have jerked my hand from his grasp. The music changes, and now we’re dancing a salsa surrounded by other couples. I try to follow the rapid steps of the dance, and quiet my brain, telling myself the president must be carrying a concealed weapon. I quickly conclude that has to be true. I’m overreacting—not the first time—but this time, all the eyes of the world are on me. People nearby clap and North recaptures me at the end of another pivot. He’s controlled, an exceptional dancer, and when he laughs, his chuckle is warm and gregarious.

  Flagrantly, I attempt to convince myself I’m truly, truly mistaken. This man is married. His wife is accomplished, witty, and has left her mark as a warmly respected first lady. His children—two daughters adore him and aren’t flakes. They’re twins; one’s a pediatrician and the other is an Air Force Lieutenant. Both are working mothers and role models for the nation.

  I’m breathless. Not from the dance but from my overactive imagination. The song ends and then there’s more camera flashes and people applaud.

  “You’re an excellent dancer, Mr. President.” I wince from the excessive lightshow of the overzealous photographers nearby.

  “Early on my wife made me take lessons.” He steers me toward the side of the room. “I’m surprised you’re so sensitive to being photographed.”

  “I’ve never been comfortable being under the microscope,” I reply stiffly.

  “No comparison to a dimly lit room and the right person. Privacy in the right house. Is it, Ms. Kennedy?” President North bows toward me, his hand curves snug around my waist.

  The space around me contracts. I replay his words reverberating in my ears, and I whip my gaze back to North. “What did you just say?” I’m definitely about to lose it.

  “My submissive means nothing. Just a stepping stone to get to you. You’ve always been the prize. I’d like us to get better acquainted. And I have the perfect spot. Did Senator Stone relay my offer to you?”

  “What offer?” I bite out. The muscles within me constrict into rigid bands as a chill slithers over my skin, takes root in my gut.

  “Ask him.” He waves to people along the walls.

  Now I’m the one holding onto him. “Why don’t you fill me in?”

  His brow crinkles for less than a second. “I’m exceedingly motivated where yo
u’re concerned and this won’t impact my ties to your grandparents, if that’s worrying you. I’m prepared to be very generous and supportive to your future career in the White House. To Stone’s upcoming election campaign. You both scratch my back, and I’ll scratch yours. I want one night with you.”

  Is this asswipe power broker trying to trade favors with me for sex? If only I could kick him in his presidential nuts and not be tried for treason. “That’ll happen on the first of never, Mr. President.”

  “Playing hard to get. I enjoy a good challenge. Until we meet again,” he whispers in my ear, wearing a charming fake-as-shit smile. “Thank you for the dance, Ms. Kennedy.”

  “Mr. President...” It’s all I can get out. I choke on the words tripping along my tongue at what sounds like a threat—or a sick promise coming from POTUS. Either way, it’s pure bullshit. What I’d like to say versus what’s sane to admit clogs my throat.

  North’s assistant latches onto him, and starts up a conversation that sounds like a briefing on some guest he’s about to meet. Jesus! I stumble as another guest steps on the hem of my gown.

  “So sorry,” the woman apologizes.

  “I’m fine.” Grimacing, I grab a fistful of material with one hand, thankful for this mini reprieve. Being out on the dancefloor with this over inflated egomaniac is one thing. Now, I have to return to Bennett and act sane—pretend to be oblivious to the president’s seedy advance—as I try to figure out what offer North referred to. If I admit any part of this lunacy, my over-the-top Dom will go off the deep end. Been there with Ben—this requires sophistication, not my usual bomb-dropping techniques.

  Earlier, my possessive Dom was a click away from decking his buddy, Senator Anderson. If he lays into North, that will be the end of his career. A brawl during a State Dinner isn’t forgotten. He’ll be arrested by the Secret Service and locked away in an undisclosed federal facility I remind myself at least ten times as President North and I exit the dancefloor.

  And crap! It can’t get any worse—but yet it does. Up ahead Senator Warner blocks my path, and this time she has her arms folded over her chest, not bothering to hide her venomous glare. “First Stone,” she snarls. “What in the hell are you doing you little sl—”