by Alex Elliott
“Don’t feel well. It’s the weekend. What doctor is open now?” he demands.
I hear Brooke’s footsteps in the hall, and give Jon a short reply. “A clinic. Okay. Look I gotta go. Call you later.”
“Xavia. Fucking A! Don’t you dare screw this up for me!”
I can’t believe we’re having this fight. There’s nothing to do but hang up. “Bye, Jon. Like I said. Talk to you later.” I toss my cell into my bag and close my eyes, and start to count.
“I’m ready,” Brooke announces before I get past five.
“Are you positive?” I ask her, locking away all I’m feeling. “You still have time to reconsider.”
She walks over to the cocktail table. Dressed in yoga pants and a loose shirt with her hair up in a ponytail that’s swishing behind her. She stops and touches one of the wilted roses. “For the last time...yes. Don’t worry. I’m totally fine.”
“Just checking.” I inhale a deep breath, forcing my thoughts to stop churning.
“And you?” she asks, turning and meeting my gaze.
“A little confused but what else is new?”
All night, my mind spun in circles about Bennett. My last memory of him limping after me as I ran like my feet were winged looped countless times. Exiting from the hotel suite without the complete truth—now more questions twist within me. Biggest and most eviscerating is can I get beyond what he and I had? I can’t explain this to anyone. Who in their right mind could understand my need for savage sex? Public savage sex that I ask for. Beg for. I don’t just come for him—I bloom, tremor around his cock. Our type of brute primal connection—it’s too painful, too dark and explosive.
I’m willing to do anything to stop my streaming thoughts. I glance at the wall—tempted to slam my head against it, over and over but I doubt it would help. Gripping the side of the sofa, I center myself and focus on what will become of me and my fucked up future. For the last month since hooking up with Bennett, my life has been topsy-turvy and never did I imagine it would take a turn off a cliff. But it has.
“Let’s do this.” Brooke slips on her sunglasses, a sign she’s ready to hit the road.
I lift my computer bag from the cushion next to me and wonder why I bother to bring work with me. Work? There’s a huge question mark. I’m not employed by Bennett, but by the federal government, and there are end-of-month reports due from each division within a senator’s office. Mine included. Nothing overly taxing—just a bunch of forms Nora gave me. My last official assignment. I pick up a paperback from the cocktail table. A book of Brooke’s. “Mind if I borrow this?”
“Course not.”
Anything is better than aimless ruminating. I stand. Shit. It hits me. Without an internship, I need to decide upon a thesis subject—I doubt I can find another Capitol Hill placement what with this fiasco. Even if I could, I don’t want to chance bumping into Bennett. This isn’t a civil break-up—more along the lines of an underhanded production with several bad actors. The Veep—her campaign. Sicko POTUS with his demented offer that Ben refuses to discuss truthfully. Jon—did I blow our friendship? And of course, my grandparents will be onboard this bandwagon to hell. It’s like I pulled the grenade pin and the ripple effect gets larger and larger—only ending when I’m officially blacklisted from D.C. Classy, X. Real classy!
Who is in my corner? I wish I knew who my father was. With that admission, the low-lying ache inside me that I don’t dwell on fills me to the brink. Tears storm my eyes and uselessly I blink.
“Hey, are you okay?” Brooke stops and backtracks until she’s standing in front of me.
“I’m just tired, and being utterly ridiculous.”
“You didn’t say much when I picked you up. Want to talk now? We’ve got a long drive. It’ll take my mind off of what’s coming.”
For a sec, I try to suppress the agony bubbling upward, releasing a low hiss, but my chin starts to tremble. I’m losing ground. Oh shit. I can’t help myself. The pain of the past weeks and a lifetime blindside me. Tears don’t trickle from my eyes; a river of sorrow rushes the gates. I’m crashing—nose-diving-no-parachute crashing. Pain rips right through me like a jagged bolt of lightning and all I can do is fall fast.
Emotionally tore open, I understand why this hurts to the extreme. I look at Brooke. “Oh crap! I’m in so deep.”
“Yeah. That’s what I thought.” She gathers me in a hug. “So what did Stone do?”
* * *
I PROMISED Bennett that I’d never tell anyone about his precious and private Clubhouse, but so the fuck what! Choking the steering wheel with my hands, I tell Brooke about my recent journey into the world of hard savage sex. About me thoroughly enjoying the savage sex. And that it sometimes occurs in a room where other people—don’t ask me who—watch Ben and me go at it for hours. Then I can’t stop talking, and I relay the dirty details about the spankings, being tied up, but leave off about giving him a blow job on stage.
“And you two work together?” She gasps, her expression is one of stricken, and unabashed. “That’s a miracle in and of itself.”
I shake my head. “Unfortunately that’s not all. I’ve begged him to fuck me at work. I’m talking pleading for him to shove his cock inside me. Screaming at the top of my lungs, expounding the dirtiest...the filthiest suggestions, while he pulls my hair and spanks my ass. How crazy is that?”
“If I didn’t know you better...” Brooke snorts. “I’d say you’re brainwashed.”
“No. I wanted it. He only offered and I agreed. I can’t explain it, except with Bennett I’m free.”
The irony of being tied up, cuffed and muzzled and how it feels as if for the first time in my life I’m fully engaged. So alive and so filled with sensation. Brooke doesn’t judge—she sits in the passenger seat, wearing an expression that runs the gamut from shock to outrage to giving me a high-five.
“Holy mother! I want to visit your club. Can you get me in?” she asks. “You know, when I’m recovered. Not like tonight.”
“It’s not my club,” I correct her, but I don’t believe her. “You’d actually come to the House if you had the chance?”
“If it’s half as insane as you say it is, definitely. I’m down for having my ass smacked if it’ll make me sound like you. A livewire—or high without the drugs.”
An hour later, we’re sitting in the parking lot of the medical facility that resembles a private spa. I drove us from D.C. to a quaint town in Virginia and with each mile, I spilled and spilled everything to her.
I lift my bag from the backseat. “I don’t know what I’m going to do now. I’ll be blacklisted from the Hill.”
Brooke grabs my arm and shakes. “Never! Believe you me. Your grandparents may hold some political strings, but my dad is the ultimate ringmaster. He’ll help.”
“Thanks,” I whisper.
We enter the two-story building that has wide windows, huge traveler palms, and moss-colored walls with matching leather furniture. The staff is dressed in light pastel scrubs, speak in hushed tones as Brooke goes through an intake, filling out forms, and providing her identification which the intake counselor promises will remain confidential. I sign the forms as the person who will drive her home and accept responsibility for her upon discharge. We exit the office and are led to a private room. The nurse enters and instructs Brooke to remove her clothing. She gives her a cup to urinate into, and informs Brooke the doctor will be here soon to examine her.
“I’ll be in the anteroom,” I suggest, pointing to the small outer room of the suite, containing a sofa and television.
“Don’t go,” she says and when I glance over to her, she looks ashen.
“What’s wrong?” I ask, coming to her side.
“I-I-I just...fuck this is crazy.”
“Nothing is crazy outside of last night. What are you thinking?”
Now she’s the one crying and I hold onto her arm as she huffs out, “Oh shit.”
The nurse returns and tries to soothe Brooke
. “You just need a sedative. It helps. I’ll go get one and be right back.”
When the nurse leaves, I stare into Brooke’s dark eyes. “Just say the word,” I tell her.
“God, I’m a mess.” She closes her eyes, and bites down on her lower lip.
I hug her, wrapping my arms around her and wish with all my heart that she wasn’t torn in half from indecision. Letting her go, I watch as she peels open her eyes, brimming with tears. She blinks, exhaling a breath, and a stream of tears trickle down her cheeks. I wipe the trail, but more and more fall.
“Am I going to burn in hell?” she asks in a small voice.
“Of course not. But this is one of the moments, where it doesn’t matter what anyone else thinks except you.”
The outer door opens, and Brooke stiffens. A stark, I’m-going-to-kick-your-ass look crosses her face and makes me think she’s going to scream. “What do you want?” she croaks.
She’s definitely not talking to the nurse—I turn and stop.
“Babe, don’t do this.” A man enters the room and he’s not the usual type Brooke hooks up with. He’s built like a Mack truck. Tan. Blond. And young. If he’s in his early thirties, I’d be surprised. This must be Derek. The married man with kids.
And he looks like hell.
“How about if I go get a cup of coffee?” I say to Brooke, looking between her and the man.
He nods to me, then shifts his gaze back to her, taking a step closer as if he’s approaching a shy creature about to bolt away. Should I warn him she might clock him?
“Don’t go far. Please,” Brooke whispers.
“Okay. I’ll be right out there. On the other side of the door.” I leave her room and walk to the outer threshold of the suite where the door stands wide open.
Outside in the hallway, the nurse is talking with another medical worker. “Can you believe it? Derek Wolfe is here.”
The other woman giggles. Annoyingly. “I’m going to have him sign something. Do you think he’d autograph my clipboard?”
“Why not? Let’s get a photograph with him.” The nurse digs out her cell phone from her uniform pocket.
When they approach the doorway, I cross my arms over my chest. “May I help you?” I ask in a stern tone as I flick my gaze between the two women.
“Just here to give my patient her sedative.” The nurse goes to wind around me but I step in her path. She’s a good deal shorter than me, so I bend to make direct eye contact.
“Your patient is indisposed at the moment. Can you come back?” Both women stare at me like I’ve lost my mind.
“Uh, we have a schedule to keep,” the nurse snaps. “I don’t have time to play games.”
“Ms. Tate needs a moment. I doubt a few minutes will undermine your schedule.”
“Please step aside,” the nurse insists. “Or I’ll call security.”
Now, it’s my turn to get pushy. “This isn’t the time to go fan girl crazy over Wolfe. I heard what you both said.” Must be something in my glaring expression, but she’s got enough smarts to not push the issue.
I close the door in their faces, and lock it. Taking a seat, I lean back and look up at the ceiling. Wiggling my ankle, I listen to the muted sound of Brooke’s voice and that of Derek Wolfe. Not that I can hear exactly what they’re saying, but enough to wonder about who he is. Besides a hunk, married, and here.
Getting out my cell, I google him and holy shit! The father of Brooke’s baby is famous all right. The hottest director hits Hollywood this year is the theme posted online when it comes to Wolfe. Started out as a stunt man for Brad Pitt, then moved onto directing after marrying the daughter of a huge movie producer—the one who bailed MGM out of bankruptcy. Wolfe’s last military action movie banked millions, making the top-five list of the highest grossing films this year.
The door opens and out Brooke and Derek walk, holding hands. “So,” I say, scooting off of the sofa. “Everything all right?”
“Xavia, this is Derek Wolfe.”
“Good to meet you,” he says in a deep voice as we shake hands.
Brooke looks at me, then back at Derek and smiles. “I’m not going through with the...procedure. We’re getting married.”
“Sounds like you’re certain. A lot more sure of the future. Now.” I relay, “I’m ecstatic for you both...for all three of you!”
“Thanks for taking care of her.” Derek pulls Brooke into a hug. “She told me you were the one who helped her when I couldn’t. I’m in your debt, Xavia.”
“That’s what friends do.” I grin.
“Can you drive my car back to the condo?” she asks. “I’m leaving for L.A. but I’ll be back by Tuesday. In time for class.”
“You don’t have to ask.” I gather my messenger bag, and at the nurse’s station, we stop and explain her decision.
“There are forms that need to be signed. And a refund to process,” the woman behind the counter replies as she looks over her glasses none too pleased.
“Babe, we’re pushing the departure as it is.” Derek slips on a pair of sunglasses, tugging her arm. “Let them keep the money.”
“I’ll deal with this.” I shift the strap of my bag on my shoulder. “Go. You don’t want to miss your flight.”
“You’re golden, X.” Brooke wraps her arms around me, squeezing me, and I inhale a bit shakily.
“Xavia, we’ll talk soon.” Derek steers Brooke away from the counter.
I watch as they walk down a back hall, then outside. Streaming sunlight casts them as silhouettes against the glare. Brooke turns and waves, and I feel a twinge in my chest—a surge of happiness for her fills me. She’s tapped the royal keg insofar as screw-ups, screw overs, and only with her extreme wealth, could she possibly survive the firestorm of what will ignite if...when this gets out, and combusts. But she’s like a cat with nine lives, and out of everyone I know, she’s the one who always lands on her feet.
A half-hour later, I’m feeling the fog of too much caffeine and too little sleep. I head for the entrance and tell myself, I’ll feel better when I get something to eat and take a nap. Outside on the sidewalk, the summer heat hits me like a wall, and for a second I’m disoriented on where the car is parked. The lot is teeming and I press the key fob, not paying attention to anything or anyone except locking onto a pair of flashing taillights.
“Miss Kennedy!” Someone shouts and I turn, thinking I’ve forgotten something pertaining to Brooke.
Flashes burst apart in my field of vision. “Why’d you choose to abort over adoption?”
“What?” I say, utterly stunned. “I didn’t—”
A woman steps in front of me. “How far along were you?”
“Is Senator Stone here?” Another question comes at me, then someone shouts, “Does he know?”
More flashes erupt from cameras and then several people with press passes thrust microphones in front of my face, battering me with question after question.
“No comment,” I reply automatically while being elbowed on all sides. I walk in the direction where I believe Brooke’s car is located, but I can’t shake these reporters or the brewing number of photographers who seem to sprout from out of the sidewalk. Where do they come from and why do they believe I’m the one getting an abortion? Cardinal rule of damage control: do not engage. Sound bites and partial quotes will be used if not abused. Half-truths are the worst form of a lie.
A man yells from somewhere behind me. “How long did the abortion take?”
Blindly, I hurry in a semi walk-sprint when I see Brooke’s car, and squeeze the fob. My heartbeat hammers in my ears as I yank open the door. The reporters crowd around me and I trip over my own feet, falling onto the front seat. I clutch the steering wheel as flashes blast away. For a second, I freeze but then I slam and lock the door. Pinching the key, my hand shakes so hard that I can’t get it to go into the ignition.
Inside the car it’s an oven. Shit, I can’t just sit here. I close my eyes, blocking out the sight of the throng pr
essing against the car—I can’t deal with their questions, their stares, or the slivers of snapping light flashing. Inhaling, I seek to quell the confusion and anger that singe through my body like a fire-breathing snake. Hot and sweaty and pissed, I suck in another deep inhalation.
Opening my eyes, I jab the key into the ignition. This time the engine revs and I don’t waste time. Laying on the horn as my only warning, I slam the car into reverse, then shift gears.
In no time, I’m back at the condo and I can’t believe my eyes. Outside the building I’m confronted by a similar scene as what I just escaped. Reporters and camera crews crawl the sidewalk. A couple even exit the lobby. As if in slow motion, I watch as heads turn in my direction. Fuck! I’m not gonna stick around, and stomp on the gas.
But where can I go? Of all the possible places to crash, there’s only one place that comes to mind. The office. I’ve got my green security badge, giving me round-the-clock access.
It’s a short drive and I exhale in relief when there’s no one milling outside the entrance to the Russell Building. I park and enter the empty corridor leading from the garage. My feet slide along the smooth marble floors. The guard on duty smiles, checks my ID, and tells me not to work too hard.
The ride in the elevator to the fourth floor is quick but painful. The knots in my stomach twist as I walk down the hall. My gaze bounces along brass sign plates reinstalled on the corridor walls, and I run my fingers over the one outside Bennett’s suite, blinking back the stinging in my eyes. When I unlock the outer door to his office, the faint familiar scent of his cologne lingering in the reception area makes my skin constrict. The scent gets stronger as I near the interior and my heart pounds harder with each step I take across the plush carpeting. I stand at the threshold of my office and peer across at his door. Hard to believe it’s only been weeks—feels like a lifetime.
Sighing heavily, I give into temptation, and cross to his office door and open it. I don’t dare enter if I want to preserve my sanity. Inside the hint of his cologne mixed with the undercurrent of his leather office furniture washes over me. My skin breaks out in goose bumps as my nipples pebble. Some form of sexual Pavlovian response, and my eyes start to burn again. I blink, stepping back under the threat of tears, and slam his door shut. Oh fuck!
