Always Yours (The Always Series Book 2)

by J. P. James

  With that final reminder to myself, the door shuts, and we get into the waiting car.

  2

  Chase

  Vance and I walk through Westie’s Bar and Grill. It’s already packed with guests. I look toward the makeshift stage and notice a rigger laying out the audio cables. We haven’t missed BJ’s speech – perfect timing. Vance catches a glimpse of the bar and disappears, per usual.

  In college, I used to arrive on time for parties, but four years of mistakes taught me that the first person to arrive at a party is the dweeb without plans or friends. I learned that lesson the hard way. I guess punctuality has a time and a place, like for interviews and meetings. But when it comes to going out for a night on the town, time goes out the window.

  BJ isn’t here yet, just like Jerry recommended. Jerry taught BJ the art of making an entrance. He says the later you are, the more people start to talk about you. You just have to make sure you hit the sweet spot before excited banter turns into deprecating gossip. That way when BJ makes his arrival, people already have him on the tips of their tongues. My guess is that my boyfriend won’t show up for another 30 minutes or so, giving the guests plenty of time to enjoy the drinks and food, but without anyone getting drunk or dipping out before his entrance.

  It’s a packed restaurant, and I see Vance approach the bar. With his good looks, he gets a bartender right away, and I laugh out loud in my corner. I look around casually, taking stock of the attendees. Despite not living in DC for very long, I’m surprised I recognize so many people. Just to the edge of the bar, I see the owners of Café de Olla from across the street, and they’re talking to Mr. Chen, the landlord who owns most of the commercial properties on this street. I remember that because I helped out on a piece about affordable commercial rent in DC.

  To my left, I see Bob and Belinda Manning, the former a prominent medical director and the latter a leading heart surgeon in the district, sharing appetizers with the owner of Johnny’s Smoke Stack, Johnny Silver himself. He dresses like a cowboy, but I think he’s from Philadelphia. I did a piece on lab-grown meat and the FDA, in which I interviewed all three of them. It’s interesting how my job gives me insight into these folks who, otherwise, would have no idea I exist.

  Belinda makes eyes at me and waves. Oh shit, I think as Bob and Johnny look my way. I wave back as she calls me over. I didn’t think anyone would actually notice me.

  “I remember you! You’re that reporter from the Post,” she says with all of the charm and hospitality of a Southern belle. “Robert, you remember…I’m sorry, what was your name?” she asks graciously. I know she means well, but I’m completely thrown off talking to these power players.

  “Chase Adams. It’s nice to meet you all again,” I say as confidently as possible. I shake hands with everyone. Oh god, I hope I don’t look like a hot mess.

  “You’re covering BJ tonight? That’s so great! He’s so charming and handsome, isn’t he?” she coos. Bob rolls his eyes at her. I wonder if she fawns over every good-looking politician. I guess I’m glad women find BJ attractive, but really, it doesn’t matter unless they vote for him. Of course, I don’t say this out loud.

  “Yes, he’s got great ideas for the future,” I speak brightly while smiling at Johnny Silver, who has a wicked grin on his face. He takes my hand.

  “Howdy, boy-o. I don’t think I remember you, and I sure would have remembered a young piece like yourself,” he says with an over-the-top drawl. He squeezes my hand, and my stomach curdles in on itself. Why do old guys feel like they can hit on young ones? He must be seventy if he’s a day. I should act smooth as the candidate’s significant other, but instead I just feel awkward.

  “You’re so kind,” I mutter. “If you’ll excuse me, I have to find the men’s room.” I bolt as quickly as possible into the crowd.

  Now I remember why I don’t like talking to others. Human beings can act weird sometimes. I thought I’d gotten better since I’m now working as a cub reporter, but still. People can be strange, especially if you’re a white-haired senior with a name like Johnny Silver.

  But still, it’s important to put on a brave face. After all, talking to people is now a key part of my job. In order to report the news, I have to groom potential sources, and that means I have to put myself out there. I have to make people want to talk to me, and that’s never been my strong suit.

  But journalism has always been my true love, even if personality-wise, I’m not a natural fit. I interned at the Washington Post the summer before my senior year, and it cemented my desire to be a reporter. It wasn’t glamorous, but I loved being part of the machine. I brought office supplies and took notes during meetings. I did everything big and small to get them to take me seriously. Now, here I am. A newb, but I feel like a settler staking my claim during a land rush – with my newfound position at the Post, I’m not going anywhere.

  But it does put me in a strange position. I know a lot of DC’s prominent citizens because of various assignments I’ve covered on federal law enforcement, my current beat. You’d be surprised how many different people I talk to, but in a setting like this, it doesn’t really matter. Most of the other millennials here only care about getting drunk as soon as BJ finishes his speech.

  I find Vance and grab my Moscow mule from him. He raises his margarita, and I join in the toast.

  “To kissing ass and taking names,” he announces.

  “To not getting hit on by seventy-year-old strangers,” I mutter. We laugh quietly. Walking through the crowd, I notice other important people here, people I should probably try to mingle with for BJ’s sake. But then, I’d have to subject Vance to whomever we meet, too. Also, I’m terrible at chit-chat. When it comes to an assignment, I’ll talk to anyone: a death row inmate, a psycho with a personality disorder, you name it. No one scares me. Casual conversation, on the other hand, makes me nervous. I wonder if I’ll trip on my words or blab about something inappropriate. God forbid I mention anything confidential.

  “Gentlemen, can I buy you a drink?” asks some yuppie with slick blonde hair. He looks like your typical office bro. He probably goes to the gym during his lunch break.

  “Why?” asks Vance suspiciously. He’s always wary of random acts of kindness.

  I put my arm on his shoulder and smile at the poor guy. “We already have drinks, but thank you,” I say before pulling Vance along.

  The frat guy quickly grabs Vance’s ass. I only know this because I hear the sound of Vance’s fist connecting with something, and then an emphatic oomph! Four years of college parties gave Vance a really mean right hook.

  “Don’t touch me,” Vance spits at the frat boy writhing on the ground. My friend turns back to me with a sniffy face.

  “I’d give that a solid eight out of ten,” I say as I pat his back like a proud parent.

  “I’ll wind up a bit tighter next time,” he says as he shakes out his wrist.

  “Going for the home run, huh?” I laugh as we move away into the crowd. It’s bad that my best friend just punched someone at a fundraiser, but at the same time, that guy deserved it. I’m secretly glad he’ll be sporting a shiner for days, if not weeks.

  Besides, most of the people here are like my classmates from college. DC hipsters are a special breed, like National Public Radio fanatics on non-GMO steroids. Everyone is clean-shaven and dressed well, but you’ll find them any weekend wearing flannel and Doc Martens, even when it’s the height of summer with 90% humidity. They’re mostly young professionals, not seeking out political careers but still looking to make names for themselves. They are the finance bros and marketing hoes of the 21st century. Both groups love Westie’s Bar and Grill. Westie’s has always catered to a younger crowd, and now that they’ve extended their craft beer selection, it’s pulling in every twenty-something from the metro area.

  “Hey, Vance! Remember me?” a voice calls out from the dance floor. A young guy runs up from the crowd and gestures at himself like he’s the prodigal son. I watch Vance’
s face go from confusion to guilt in a matter of seconds.

  “Pete! Hey, it’s been, what, four years?” he asks nervously. I haven’t seen Vance this uncomfortable since he told his parents he wanted to be a stylist.

  “Come on, I want you to meet my girlfriend!” Pete says as he waves us behind him. He weaves his way through the crowd with us close behind.

  I grab Vance’s arm and whisper to him, “Remind me who Pete is?” He shoots me a wicked glance.

  He leans in and says conspiratorially, “I think I conveniently forgot to mention Pete. It’s for a good reason. I let him stroke me at the Rugby house during orientation week. He dropped out a month later to forage for mushrooms. Now, we’re all here. Go ahead, laugh,” he says with the most unaffected tone.

  I’m glad the restaurant is so crowded. Wow, that’s unreal. Some people really do swing both ways, but I manage to get it together before Pete stops us at a booth full of people.

  He introduces us to his girlfriend, along with a few of his friends. I try to look normal. His girlfriend is nice but dull as cardboard. Pete’s friends are more of the DC “hip” crowd than the young professional types, but after Vance’s fight, I’m glad to be talking to civilized, sober-ish people.

  “Are you guys here to see BJ, too?” Pete asks.

  “Yep, I hear he’s a classy guy with a large penis,” Vance says loudly. I cover my face. Oh god. Leave it to Vance to start with something like that.

  Pete guffaws but doesn’t take the hook.

  “How was school? What are you doing now?” he asks Vance as his girlfriend scans the room, looking bored.

  Meanwhile, one of Pete’s friends comes up to me and introduces himself. He has a pretty face, but he’s a bit skinny. Even if I were single, he’s not quite my type.

  “I’m Kyle. I manage a photo booth rental company, which means I’ve come to hate wedding season.” He says this so effortlessly that I wonder if he’s rehearsed this line. The boy seems genuine, though. He has a great smile, and if he’s flirting, he isn’t obnoxious about it. I smile back tentatively, even though I know better. I don’t want to give him the wrong impression.

  “Wow, and I thought I already disliked weddings,” I say.

  “No worries. I’ve been in DC now for about seven years, so I’m used to the pandemonium,” he continues.

  Kyle seems both easy-going and energetic. Is that what seven years in this city does to you? Now I’m reminded of the fact that I’m still a new person in this great city, trying to fit in.

  There’s no magic cure for being new. I just have to go out, meet people, and learn about DC, and before I know it, I’ll be walking to work, eating a bagel, and poof. I’ll be a real Washingtonian. It’ll happen quickly, I’m sure.

  “I have to use the restroom. It was nice talking to you, Chase,” Kyle says before crossing the bar. Pete, Vance, and various friends are all chatting and gossiping around me. I take a mental picture, and it looks something like a modern-day Renaissance. People come from different walks of life and gather at the same bar for the same cause. Call me a softy, but I think that’s poetic. Vance even looks like he’s having a good time, standing out like a traffic cone in his bright orange pants.

  I pull my phone from my pocket to check the time. BJ should arrive any moment. I scan the room, looking for him, and that’s when it hits me.

  It’s like when you cross into a ray of sunshine by accident and are momentarily blinded by the light. That’s what this feels like, except the only blinding light here is pointed somewhere towards the back. I scan back across the room for the source of that warm glow, and I find…him.

  He’s standing in the corner of the stage all by himself. He’s got to be at least forty years old, older than most of the people here tonight. And he’s staring right at me. How do I put this? I’ve never been the type of guy to have crushes. Before BJ, I’d only had two other boyfriends, and both relationships were short-lived. Honestly, I don’t find many men attractive, and especially not older men. This man, however, staring at me from the corner of this overcrowded bar? Hubba hubba. He’s gorgeous. I don’t even think “gorgeous” does him justice. I didn’t know someone could leave me breathless and curious for more.

  I feel like the restaurant is blurring around me, and all I can see is this handsome god of a man. I take in everything about him. He’s wearing a navy, striped suit with a white dress shirt and a blue cashmere tie. The suit fits perfectly to his wide shoulders and broad chest. His rich black hair almost absorbs the light, it’s so dark, and he’s got a devastatingly square jaw. His body is stunning, and I want nothing more than for him to cross the floor toward me. I want him close enough that I can put my hands on him. I want to travel from his biceps down to his abdomen. I want my body to touch his body before I erupt in flames.

  More than anything, I can’t get enough of his eyes. When I was younger, I spent a summer with my grandparents in Oregon, and we took a day trip to Crater Lake. Even though it was July, there were pockets of snow everywhere. We made our way up the windy roads until my head was spinning. Finally, we reached the top, before walking to the edge of the crater and peering down at the water below. That electric blue lake has never left my mind. It pierced my brain like the first time I was stung by a bee.

  But forget lakes and bumble bees. The lancing gleam of this stranger’s blue eyes has me swollen and hard for very different reasons.

  Vance grabs my arm. “Who in the world is that?” he asks with the same lustful curiosity I’m feeling. He whistles at him from across the room. He smiles but doesn’t break his gaze with me. I feel hot all over.

  Suddenly, a voice interrupts my thoughts.

  “He’s here! He’s here!” a shout comes from the bar. Someone scurries across my path, and like the switch of a lightbulb, our contact is broken. I blink wildly to gather my thoughts. Where am I? Who’s here?

  I turn just in time to watch BJ and Jerry arrive through the front doors to much pomp and fanfare. BJ looks so young to me, with his slightly chubby cheeks and the peach fuzz on his chin. He blushes as he waves and greets his potential constituents.

  He hasn’t seen me yet, and I’m not surprised. He must be trying to greet one hundred people all while walking in a straight line – talk about multitasking. My boyfriend’s grinning so big, I wonder if his face will ever be the same.

  It’s funny because I can’t imagine BJ enjoying this kind of attention when he was a kid. He joined every nerdy club he could find. He was President of the Robotics team, and then he spent two years on the Speech and Debate team, not to mention a full four years as a member of the Anime Club. He was a nerd through and through, and popularity wasn’t exactly second nature for him. A traitorous thought passes through my mind. Maybe BJ likes politics because this way, he finally gets to be the center of attention. He’s making up for lost time.

  Ew! Listen to me, sounding like a whiny witch. One minute, I’m swept away by a pair of piercing blue eyes, and the next minute, I’m questioning BJ’s motives. What’s wrong with me? Maybe journalism is already turning me into a cynic. I guess I have more growing up to do than I’d thought.

  Jerry walks onstage while BJ waits by the stairs. He taps the microphone, and everyone shields their ears from the reverb.

  “Thank you for coming! Isn’t Westie’s the best?” Jerry asks the crowd.

  Most of the patrons cheer and holler in approval. I start to imagine Jerry as a WWF announcer.

  “Alright, sounds like you guys enjoyed the bar. I won’t keep you waiting any longer. Without any further ado, I’d like to welcome to the stage your mayoral candidate, Mr. William ‘BJ’ Jones,” Jerry says. He stands back from the microphone to clap as BJ makes his way to the stage.

  Everyone cheers. The lights go out and then come back on to reveal BJ like a knight in shining armor. Bounding onto the small wooden platform, he looks like a superhero. He isn’t blushing anymore. The flush has subsided, and his skin is its normal pink-white shade again. He unb
uttons his suit jacket and carefully lays it over a stool before pumping both fists in the air and rousing the crowd.

  “Thank you, thank you. It’s truly an honor to be here. I can feel the energy in this room move through me like electricity!” BJ bellows like Hulk Hogan on steroids. Oh god. The WWF comparison is so unfair, and instantly, a pang of guilt washes over me. Focus, Chase, focus. You’re here for your boyfriend. Control your facial expressions.

  “I’d like to thank everyone who made it out here tonight. When I became the President of my Robotics team in high school, I thought for sure I’d never be popular in my entire life,” he admits a bit nervously. Everyone laughs with him. I feel hot again. Oh god, were my suspicions right? Is the nerd from way back when trying to make up for his historical lack of popularity?

  BJ continues. His eyes look wild, and he starts sweating as his voice rings through the crowd. “I have so many wonderful people cheering me on. Thank you. I feel like the popular kid. Thank you for making my campaign a success! I want to get a good look at all of your meaningful faces.” He pauses and looks out into the crowd, lifting a hand to his forehead to shade his eyes.

  BJ’s speeches usually captivate me, but tonight, I feel more than a little distracted because I can still feel that man’s burning gaze on me. I feel like my skin is on fire. Oh shit, it’s desire. I want him, whoever he is. My body craves him. My mind races as I think of all the things we could do. In my wildest dreams, I’d meet him in the bathroom. He’d rip this suit off of me and fuck me in the stall. Or we’d go outside to catch some air. I’d insist on sucking him off in the alley behind Westie’s, away from everyone. I dream about all of the make-believe scenarios. We could get a hotel, where we’d make love all night. We could take a yacht out and rock the boat as we go hot and heavy in the cabin. I want his body. No, I want his cock. I want his beautiful, throbbing cock. I want it to tease and please me until I can’t take it anymore. I want ecstasy.