Always Yours (The Always Series Book 2)

by J. P. James

  I take my jacket off and head toward the stairs.

  “You’re drunk. I’m tired and don’t feel like fighting tonight. Please, let’s just go to bed and talk more in the morning,” I request.

  When BJ doesn’t budge, I pause on the stairs and turn to him. He’s wobbly, but he looks like a raging bull underneath his drunken stupor.

  “You know what? I think you can’t handle the attention I’m getting. I bet you want the spotlight, don’t you? You’re tired of being a lowly reporter; you want the drama and glamour of politics,” he accuses.

  I roll my eyes. “Since you’ve known me, when have I ever wanted drama?”

  He swats his hand at me. “Newsflash, Chase. You can’t handle the attention. No one’s looking at you anyway, no matter how much you want them to. It’s all me,” he gloats as he trips over the rug. He catches himself on the coffee table.

  Seeing him struggle to stand up straight again after saying such awful things makes a weird emotion take over. I don’t feel angry. I don’t feel hurt. I don’t feel disgusted. I just feel pity, and I didn’t think I could pity someone I love. I deserve better than this. I drop my jacket on the stairs and walk to BJ.

  “BJ, at this rate, I don’t think you can handle it. You’re becoming another sleazy politician who’s bought and sold. In this case, you’re selling your policies to the highest bidder. I think you should leave. We can talk tomorrow,” I say. I reach for his face, but he jerks himself away from me and marches to the front door.

  He grabs his coat and turns to me. He looks shocked. I can tell that no one has ever laid down the law for him. His face is red with anger or embarrassment, I don’t know which.

  Opening the door and standing on the landing, he utters a warning, “If you ask me to leave, then there’s no sense in talking tomorrow. We’re done. I thought I could lean on you, but you’re just thinking of yourself. Is this what you really want? Think hard before you decide.” He makes this statement like he’s a coastguard who’s warning me of a storm on the water.

  The outside air rushes through the living room and cools my flushed face. Our arguing must have raised the temp in this room a few degrees. I didn’t even know I was sweating.

  I feel a lump gather in my throat. My heart beats faster and faster. I think this is what is referred to as fight or flight. Adrenaline surges in my veins, but I know we’re teetering on the edge of a cliff. Now, BJ is telling me that I’m the one who decides whether we regain our footing or slip and fall.

  “I think you should leave,” I decide, my voice calm and unwavering. Unlike all the previous words that have flown out of my mouth tonight, these feel right. That’s the worst part.

  BJ’s face twists as he looks at me with disgust. “I thought we were going places. Turns out, it’s just me headed for big things.” Ouch. His words sting like a poisonous prickle.

  He walks out into the hallway. “You’re nobody, Chase, and without me, you’ll be nothing,” he curses before slamming the door and marching out of the building and out of my life.

  I walk to the window and watch him as he strides off down the street. I watch until I can’t distinguish BJ from the street lights in the distance. He’s a speck, like all of the other specks walking on the horizon.

  My body goes on auto-pilot. I feel numb and totally dazed. What just happened? What have I done?

  Before I know it, I’m sitting on the living room floor with tears soaking the front of my dress shirt. Have I been crying? Clearly, but it’s not until I gasp for air that I realize I’m shaking with sobs. My body goes limp as waves of sadness wash over me. I feel as heavy as a lead weight. I feel like I’ll never get up again. I feel stuck.

  But I know I stood up for myself tonight, and I’m proud of that. Even sitting here in Vance’s tear-soaked suit, I wouldn’t change what I said to BJ. It was true. It was how I felt. I needed to stand up for myself and stand up for my beliefs, instead of being used as a doormat.

  But that doesn’t change the fact that right now, I feel like a mess of used garbage. In a way, I caused our break up, and it sucks. I don’t care that I deserve better. I know I deserve better than BJ, but right now, I’m in shock.

  I shift my eyes around the room. It’s the same living room, but it feels different already. I stand up and walk to the front door and stare at it for a moment. Maybe BJ will walk back through the door. Maybe this is just a bad dream.

  My phone buzzes. It shakes me out of my gloomy thoughts. It’s a text from Vance. Got drinks with Pete and friends. You know, he’s actually not that bad! It’s amazing how much can change in four years. See you soon, XO.

  Chance’s words roll in my head. It’s amazing how much can change in ten minutes, much less four years. The sobs come again, and it’s ugly crying, with strangled gasps for air and dying wheezes.

  After a while, I get up and head to the bathroom upstairs. Once there, I wash my face for what feels like an hour, brush my teeth, and walk out. I head straight for my bedroom and close the door. I peel the blue suit off me. I don’t feel sharp or handsome anymore. I just feel… come to think of it, I don’t know what I’m feeling.

  Am I sad? The tear-soaked bedspread tells me yes. Am I mad? Of course. BJ called me a nobody and a drama queen. He said messed-up things I don’t even want to think about. To do so would just get me riled up, and I have no more energy.

  I throw some pajamas on and then flop into bed, letting my mind wander as I catch my breath and my heartbeat settles from the fight.

  Maybe BJ is right. Maybe I am nobody. Maybe I’m nothing without him. But if I’m nobody, would I really have become somebody if I’d stayed with BJ? He’s charming and good-looking, but aren’t there plenty of charming, good-looking guys in the world?

  With a sigh, I roll over and bury my head in a pillow. I guess this was bound to happen. We were probably going to break up sooner or later, given the rocky path we were on. My heart was going to be broken, but I wish I’d had a warning. I wish I’d had a fairy godmother, or an angel, or anyone to come just before storms like these and say, Here’s a raincoat for the weather ahead.

  I look at my alarm clock. It’s two in the morning. I don’t feel the least bit tired. Shit. Instead, I need a cold compress. I feel like I could even use another drink. Still, there’s another emotion mixed in with my sadness and anger and it’s strangely comforting. Weirdly, I feel calm.

  Maybe this is for the better. After all, this is the natural result of standing up to BJ. I gave him a piece of my mind, for better or worse, and now that the eye of the storm has passed, I feel like I can breathe again. But will I ever meet someone new? Someone exciting and amazing, who will offer me the world? Immediately, my mind turns to the mysterious man at the fundraiser. I didn’t get his name, but surely, there has to be a way to find him. After all, I’m a reporter, and I sleuth for a living. I’ll find him, somehow. The only question is, will he want to see me?

  5

  Chase

  It’s a beautiful day, so I decide to walk to work this morning. I could use some exercise and the scenery is gorgeous. Plus, if I were taking public transit, people might wonder why I’m wearing my sunglasses inside. But it’s necessary because I need to deflect attention from my swollen face.

  After last night, I feel like an over-stuffed puffer fish that has to march around the office like everything is perfectly normal. I thought last night hurt, but I stand corrected. The day after a big cryfest is the absolute worst. Puffiness is the devil’s curse on mankind.

  I have to dress modestly for work because I never know when I’ll have to listen in on a court proceeding or meet with law enforcement. I’m always dressed head to toe like a dowdy, young professional, but overall, I don’t mind it. However, my standard outfit feels more like a straitjacket today than a suit. Not only is my entire face puffed up, but my entire body has gone into bloat mode. I feel like I can’t lift my arms or else I’ll rip them clean off. My pants are choking my legs, and I’m praying I can be on my f
eet most of today. Good thing I don’t have any meetings or interviews today. And the coffeemaker has my name written all over it.

  As I walk across the street from Stead Park, I catch sight of a group of guys in a game of pick-up basketball. They’re driven, focused, energetic, and even youthful, despite some of them being much older than me. They’re taking care of themselves before they head out and conquer the day. I bet they make their girlfriends and wives proud.

  I’m still upset and sad and hurt, but deep down, I know that I haven’t been happy with BJ recently. He used to be about doing good, but now, he’s obsessed with publicity. He wants to be known, but more like a celebrity than a civil servant. At first, I’d thought it was all necessary. He’s the long shot, new guy who wants to be taken seriously, but lately, he’s been cocky and borderline egomaniacal.

  When I met him, he was sweet on the outside and inside, but over the past few months, I’ve seen the part of him that he doesn’t show his voters. If Travis McCord is any indication, BJ isn’t a politician anymore. He’s a fraud. He’s probably been scheming this whole time, and I just didn’t see it. I’m so mad at myself. Why could I not see it before? Not only am I frustrated with myself, but I feel dumb. At least I enjoy work because otherwise, I’d take a sick day and fly to Bora Bora.

  I turn from 13th Street onto K Street and admire the front side of the Post. The building isn’t opulent or grandiose, but it still fills me with awe. Maybe that feeling will wear off once I’ve been here a while, but I’m going to savor this emotion as long as I can. The twenty-minute walk to the Post from my apartment is one of the most inspiring walks in town.

  I walk through the grand front door to the typical hustle and bustle of the news. We must look like worker ants from far away.

  “Chase!” I hear Lyla squeal from the balcony above me, balancing folders, notepads, and her iced coffee in her arms. I wave but try desperately to hide my face.

  She runs to the top of the stairs and waits impatiently for me to climb them. When I finally reach the top, she winces. “You look terrible! Did you sleep a wink?” she asks with concern.

  “I had a rough night, so sue me. What’s wrong? Is something on fire?” I joke. She looks concerned that there might actually be a fire, the poor girl.

  Lyla is my over-achieving intern. She speaks like she’s on the verge of a nervous breakdown, but somehow, she manages to balance everything. She’s a better intern than I ever was, that’s for sure! Although I don’t think I was ever this frazzled.

  “You’re late,” she says, sipping the last of her coffee and rattling the ice cubes. I sigh.

  “Lyla, it’s nine in the morning. That’s when I always get here,” I remind her.

  She looks at her watch. “No, it’s 9:08 in the morning, and you have a meeting in ten minutes in the Mount Vernon conference room,” she states, shoving a pen and a notepad into my arms.

  “What do you mean? What meeting?” I shuffle my things and pull my phone from my pocket. “There’s nothing in my calendar, Lyla,” I remind her, trying not to sound too high-strung. Is this her idea of a joke?

  “I was told you had a meeting the minute you got in. I’ll be right back,” she calls out as she starts to turn. At the last second, she doubles back, hands me her iced coffee cup, and holds it to my face. “Don’t shoot the messenger, but take this. I had no idea your allergies were so severe!” she consoles me.

  Annoyed, I grab the coffee and continue to rest it against my eye. “Can I at least know who this meeting is with or what it’s about?” I plead.

  “Not a clue. A memo was left on my desk this morning. I do what the ominous sticky notes tell me to do,” she confesses.

  “I see. Well, thanks for the compress,” I say, pointing to the cup. She nods and scurries off.

  Well, this is turning out to be quite an unusually crappy day! Not only do I look grotesque, but now I have to save face in front of god knows whom. I make my way to my desk, set my things down, and switch the cup of ice from my right eye to my left one. It’s just my luck that I have an impromptu meeting the day after my break up. I haven’t even had coffee yet today. Chase, you lead a charmed life, is my huff to myself.

  I grab the notepad and pen and make my way to the Mount Vernon room. Just outside the doors, I throw away the empty iced coffee and pat my face to get rid of any condensation. Still, I must look like a joke. I take a deep breath and open the door.

  The room is brilliant, with beautiful fall sunlight pouring through the windows. Most of our rooms were recently remodeled with state-of-the-art, UV-blocking, one-way windows. We have to protect our stories, and these windows make sure no one can spy on our meetings. The walls of the conference room are solid wood, and the doors are made of an ultra-light alloy. This is the first time I’ve stepped into this particular conference room. Most of my meetings are held in the Bradlee room.

  Standing among the bright light and sleek interior, I fix my gaze on the pair of piercing blue eyes in front of me. Light gleams off of the familiar shock of black hair. Best of all, he’s holding a mug of coffee out to me. Am I still asleep? Is this is my brain’s elaborate way of dreaming?

  “Chase Adams, thank you for joining me,” the handsome stranger says with the most charming grin I’ve ever seen.

  I stand in a daze. He knows my name. I’d thought he was gone forever, and now, he stands here like a vision.

  “I haven’t had the pleasure of introducing myself. I’m Blake King; I’m the owner of The Washington Post,” he says coolly. I curl my toes and fingers like I’ve just stepped into a warm bath. He moves across the room and closes the door behind me.

  “Would you like to sit?” he asks as he pulls a seat out and gestures toward me. I move slowly, unable to avert my gaze. I sit as quickly as possible, trying not to show that I’m wobbling. He sets the coffee down in front of me and moves around the conference room. When he turns and breaks eye contact, I grab the coffee like it’s the only thing that’s keeping me grounded. He settles into a chair on the opposite side of the table. We face one another head on.

  In daylight, he’s even more attractive than before. I don’t know if it’s the coffee, but suddenly, my whole body feels lit with fire. I want to run at him and pull his body against me.

  “You were at the fundraiser last night,” I accuse him. I don’t mean to sound so gruff, but the words just tumble out of my mouth. His lips curl, pleased with himself, and my hand grips the coffee mug tighter.

  “I’m glad you remember me,” he murmurs.

  “Of course I do. I can’t believe you are the owner of the Post! I’m sitting down with Mr. King right now,” I mumble as my mind scrambles to piece everything together.

  I figured Mr. King was an old man. Is it wrong that since this is a centuries-old publishing house, I assumed the owner would be a centuries-old geezer? Boy, was I off! I thought he’d be an eccentric, bizarre guy who collects Civil War memorabilia and races pigeons. This gorgeous man, by contrast, looks to have the strength and vigor of a Spanish marauder. He’s well-dressed and intense, but not oppressive. He looks trustworthy. At least, I would trust him to do anything for me…and to me.

  “I understand you’re a junior reporter here, correct?” he asks.

  “Yes, you’re right. I cover federal law enforcement,” I reply. He’s done his homework.

  “Tell me, how do you like it?” he asks. I have the craziest mix of emotions. On the one hand, I’m terrified I’ll say the wrong thing and lose my job; he is the boss, after all. On the other hand, his fire seems to stoke mine more and more. I feel weak in my hands and feet. My blood is pumping through my chest and down there.

  “I love it here. I interned here last summer, before I graduated. I’m lucky to have landed a job here so quickly afterwards. I was sure people mistook me for a delivery boy,” at which he laughs. I take a sip of coffee. “I’m sorry, that was a stupid thing to say,” I mumble sheepishly.

  It feels like his eyes are pulling the words out
of me. I want to tell him everything that’s on my mind. Like how I wish he had come closer to me last night. How I want him to come closer now. And touch me. Grab me. He could bend me over this conference table if he wanted. My body tingles at the thought. I release a deep breath.

  “It’s not stupid; it’s funny. You’re clever, you’re determined, and you have style. No wonder the Post hired you,” he growls. Heat warms me from inside.

  “Style? Me? I don’t normally look like that. You can thank my overbearing roommate,” I admit. He really thinks I’m stylish?

  He unbuttons his suit jacket, stands up, and walks around the table. He comes right up to me and asks for one of my hands. I offer it willingly, and he rests it gently in his. I’d thought I was on fire before, but his skin makes me feel like the wick of a candle. I’m hot and melting quickly into his touch.

  His breath wafts heavily over me. “Clothes are just clothes, but last night, I saw a confident man on that stage. The way you walked, you carried yourself like a diplomat. You were self-assured and secure, even more so than BJ Jones, I’m afraid. Clothes can’t do that,” he states. “Plus, it’s all the more impressive since you’re a gay man. A lot of gay guys I know come off as weak or wimpy. You’re not that at all.”

  Oh my god, his words are making me go up in flames. My whole body hardens, and I can’t stand that we’re still dressed. I wish he’d invite me to a hotel room. We could drink champagne, and I would show him everything hiding under what I’m wearing today.

  Then again, am I crazy for thinking this way? He’s a gentleman, and I’m reading too much into a few words. Then again, the most attractive man I’ve ever seen has just complimented me. My skin feels like it’s rippling under drops of hot rain.

  Just then, a young man bursts into the room. Mr. King retreats a few steps and adjusts his jacket while I pull my hand down to my lap.

  “Jimmy,” Mr. King says, annoyed.

  “Mr. King, I’m sorry to interrupt,” Jimmy starts to say. Before Jimmy can say another word, Mr. King marches toward him like an opponent sizing up the competition.