His Pawn

by Emily Snow

  When he words it like that, my explanation just sounds pathetic. “Forgive me for sounding like a dick, but you’re still feeding me a load of bull. Tell me the real reason,” he says.

  But I won’t divulge that because, in spite of his public image and the last hour we’ve spent together, he’s a mystery. Graham is simply a handsome face and nothing more. His Wikipedia profile isn’t enough to tell him about my father cutting me off. I can’t tell him how my brother’s love life doesn’t match my father’s beliefs or his platform, or that Dad has convinced himself I’m supporting Zach just to break whatever’s left of his heart and trash his flawless image.

  My nostrils flare because just thinking about his embarrassing tirade during Thanksgiving dinner a couple weeks ago boils my blood. Glancing down at the table, I realize I’ve twisted the napkin to pieces.

  “Must be one hell of a—” Graham clears his throat. “—journalism assignment to bring out that kind of reaction.”

  I open my hands and let the shreds tumble to the table. “Believe whatever you want,” I respond coldly, narrowing my eyes, “I’ve told you all you need to know.”

  “You’re really something when you’re pissed, did you know that?”

  “Who said I’m pissed? I only answered your question.”

  “Oh, I heard you. My balls are still thawing from all the ice you dripped all over them.”

  I swallow hard. Does he have to bring up his ... gear so blatantly? “So what about you? Why are you a senator?”

  He rubs his thumb over his lips, luring my attention to his mouth. He’s doing it on purpose, trying to make me want to kiss him. And he’s succeeding. I have an intense desire to reach across the table, dig my hands into dark hair that’s still disheveled from the wind, and pull his face to mine. He has to be a good kisser. With the way he makes me feel just from words and looks, there’s no way he can’t be.

  “World peace,” he finally says. “That’s why I’m a senator.”

  I scowl. “That’s not something you joke about.”

  “Maybe if I were heir to an arms dynasty it might be a joke, but I promise I’m being sincere.” A seductive glint creeps into his brown eyes, and I hold my breath in anticipation of what he’s about to say next. “So, now that you’ve been given the boot at 202, what next for your ... ‘journalism project’?” He does air quotes. Senator Sexy-Ass actually does air quotes to mock me.

  And here comes the fun part of telling a lie—following through. Even if he knows my story is a crock of shit, I’m not going to give him the satisfaction or the fuel to gloat. “I guess I’ll find something else for next semester.” As our waiter walks by, I wave to him, pointing at my drink. “May I please have another?”

  Graham said the tab is on him, so I might as well drown my misery with one more since he’s decided to interrogate me.

  “No problem, beautiful.” He grabs my glass and then looks expectantly at Graham. He lifts a hand and moves his head from side to side.

  “Just the check.” Once he’s gone, Graham slides forward on his side of the booth and rests his forearms on the table. His rolled-up sleeves ride up and give me a front-row peek of sculpted muscle. “I bet your dad has some connections and might be able to get you an interview at some place like Monroe’s,” he says, mentioning a reservation-only restaurant that’s only a couple steps from Capitol Hill. It’s one of my parents’ favorites, which means it’s out of the question.

  “No!” It’s almost a shout, causing Graham to raise a thick, dark brow. “I mean, I don’t do that. I don’t like using who he is to get me ahead. It just seems ... wrong.”

  He relaxes his expression, and there’s now approval in his striking eyes. It sends a strange wave of pleasure through me. “Good girl,” he says.

  When the waiter brings my cocktail and the receipt, I drink in silence. The song has changed—now the pianist is playing “Dress You Up”—and it’s the perfect background to the unapologetic way he studies me. The wavy dark locks hanging around my face. The blue eyes and my lips. My breasts.

  I can’t take it anymore and blurt out, “What are you thinking?”

  “You know this song, too?”

  “Yes. From Glee,” I admit.

  “What the fuck is a Glee?”

  “It’s—” I stop myself, shut my eyes, and shake my head. He doesn’t care about my Netflix queue. “That’s what you’re thinking about? Whether or not I know a Madonna song?”

  “No.” His smile, the politician’s flash of perfect teeth with a hint of secrecy behind it, issues me a warning. “Do you want the filtered version, dove?”

  “Dove,” I repeat and he chuckles, a rough and sexy rumble that jolts my heart.

  “Because you’re the purest thing I’ve ever had the pleasure of meeting. So sweet and soft and—”

  “You don’t know that.” Squaring my shoulders, I don’t think before I say, “No filter, Graham. Do your worst.”

  “I’m thinking about fucking you.” He doesn’t blink. My drink goes down the wrong way, choking me. “Not what you expected to hear?”

  I cough. “Excuse me?”

  This time he goes a little further. “I’m thinking about fucking you with my tongue.”

  Dear Lord, did he really just say that? I scrape my palm across my burning chest. “Why on earth would you tell me that?”

  “Because you asked what I was thinking, and then you told me to do my worst. That wasn’t, by the way—not even close.”

  My mouth drops open, but he continues, “You’re beautiful. And you’re smart and mature enough to handle the thoughts going through my head. I would’ve never come back to 202 if I hadn’t laid eyes on you.” He keeps a straight face as he tells me this like he’s dictating his daily schedule to an assistant and not flat-out propositioning to go down on me.

  “Don’t look so surprised, Elle. I’ve spent the entire night not calling you out like I should just so I could watch your mouth move. Because all I can think about are your lips clamped around my cock and the way your cunt will taste—and I can forgive any shit you give me for images like that.”

  Oh. My. God. Nobody has ever, ever, said anything like this to me. His words instantly affect me. An unexpected heat wave spirals between my thighs. Wide-eyed, I grab my drink. “You could’ve warned me we’d be discussing privates when you asked me out. Isn’t it a little crude for someone in your position to talk like this?”

  “It’s crude for anyone to talk about pussy at the dinner table, but I’m a politician, not a priest.” One side of his lip jerks into a sardonic smile. “In fact, I’m the opposite of a priest.”

  “Believe me, I can tell.” Standing, I tug on my coat, my fingers trembling as I reach for the buttons at the bottom of the navy wool. He regards me skeptically as he reaches into his back pocket for his wallet. Even though the bar is virtually empty, I add in a low voice, “And as you can tell, I’m not interested in your tongue. Thank you for the drinks, Senator.”

  “Don’t lie.” I turn around at his words, as he peels a crisp hundred out of his wallet and tosses it on the receipt. I glance down at the total bill. Just under sixty bucks. My redheaded 202 comrade was wrong—shitty tipper, my ass. He gets up, returns his wallet to his pocket and stares me down like he can see right through me. Given everything he’s said to me tonight, I wouldn’t be surprised.

  Maybe that’s a superpower that comes along with being rich and powerful—X-ray vision. It would explain why my dad always seems to know everything.

  “If you weren’t interested, you wouldn’t still be here, and you sure as hell wouldn’t be moving so goddamn slow to get away.” He bends his head to mine, and I stiffen when his scent washes over me. I bet every female on his staff goes home at night and douses their pillows in his cologne. Eau De Hot Asshole.

  “You’re already wet, and I haven’t touched you yet, dove,” he points out.

  I’m starting to hate that nickname already, and to my humiliation, he’s right. There�
�s an undeniable pressure between my thighs, and it has everything to do with Graham Delaney and his nasty mouth. “I should slap you.”

  “It would only get you wetter.” He straightens his back, and I release the breath I was holding. “You can’t deny being curious.”

  I lift my chin higher and fist my hands. “Just because I’m physically attracted to you doesn’t mean I’m going home with you tonight and jumping in your bed.”

  His fingers graze the small of my back, the friction from his touch sending a jolt through the pit of my stomach. Guiding me toward the bar’s exit, he brushes his lips against my ear. “You misunderstood me. I never said anything about taking you to bed tonight. I only said I was thinking about fucking you. There’s a fine line between wishing and fulfilling.”

  I frown at his teasing expression. “Then what was the point of telling me?”

  “Masturbatory fodder.”

  We step outside, and I’m relieved the crowd has thinned. Nobody seems to notice when he turns to me on the sidewalk, grinning. What a dick. A horribly sexy dick that’s succeeded in getting me hot and bothered in mere minutes.

  “I’m going to walk you to your car now, Elle. I’m going to leave you with my number, and a few days from now, you’re going to call me because you won’t be able to help yourself.”

  “Well, aren’t you a cocky bastard.”

  “Shockingly enough, my parents were very much married when I was born. And if you keep that shit up, I’ll tell you everything on my mind. Trust me, it only gets more colorful.” He edges closer, narrowing the space between our bodies so we’re touching. Framing my face in his hand, he brushes his thumb over my lips. Tingles burst across my skin. Unintentionally, I lick them away.

  “Three days from now, you. Will. Call. Me,” he says.

  It bothers me that he thinks that. Expects it. “Whatever. Goodnight, Senator.”

  FIVE

  ELLE

  The challenge of finding a new job isn’t enough to take my mind off Graham, not completely. It does help to make him a little less prominent in my thoughts. But over the next couple days, I can’t seem to escape the fact he exists.

  He’s on the news—local and cable—when I’m flipping through channels, his smug smile sexing up my TV screen while he gives a statement on an immigration bill. He’s in my fantasies, too. When I close my eyes at night, the brief moment we shared in the piano bar creeps into my brain, barges into my dreams. Each time that happens, I shudder awake, wanting to tear my pajamas off because my skin is so hot, my heartbeat is so unnatural. And he’s there again, when I grab coffee with a friend after a celebratory lunch Tuesday afternoon. I pass a newspaper rack, flinching because his face stares back at me from an article about student loan forgiveness.

  He’s the most quotable and filmable man in D.C. and it’s a damn shame.

  “What a bunch of bull,” I say under my breath, rolling my eyes at the paper.

  Ruby twists toward me, her mahogany and wheat-colored hair swinging around her shoulders. “Whatever you do, don’t call glorious news bull in front of Mr. Kyler when you start working for him after Christmas.” She wiggles her light brown eyebrows. “He’ll think you’re possessed or something.”

  “My dad shunned one of his reporters for an interview a few years back. He probably already thinks I’m possessed.”

  She wipes the smear of whipped cream from her upper lip then licks it off her finger. “You’re gonna end up hating me for referring you, I can already feel it. Then you’ll never want to hang out with me again because you won’t be able to look at my face without thinking of the Buzz.”

  I highly doubt that will happen. I’ve known Ruby Gardel for years—we attended the same school from kindergarten through twelfth grade. Though she goes to Georgetown and her fiancé, Wes, is close friends with my ex-boyfriend, we stay in touch and usually get together once or twice a month. When I ran into her on Sunday, at the gym, she’d asked if I knew of any journalism friends interested in a job since Wes’s dad’s last assistant quit. I’d never personally met Mitchell Kyler, but his tabloid-centric paper is hot around D.C., so I jumped at the chance to work for him. Because, as much as I hate to admit it, I’m broke.

  Mr. Kyler had hired me on the spot at lunch yesterday, but not before letting me know he thought of my father’s politics as certified assholery. I hadn’t told him that Dad once called him a first class nutjob because I was afraid he’d retract the offer.

  My hourly pay won’t come close to matching the tips I was making at the restaurant, but at least I’ll be earning something to put toward my installment payments. With the money I already made at 202, combined with the meager checking account my dad hasn’t frozen, I have my January tuition covered.

  I’ll figure out the rest before class starts back in a month.

  Taking my holiday-themed gingerbread latte off the counter, I leave a couple dollars in the tip jar and walk with Ruby to the parking lot. She stops in front of her car, resting the backs of her legs against the grille of the white Volvo and warming her hands on her cup.

  “I know you said you’ve got plans over Christmas, but we should all get together when Blake comes back. Unless—” She screws her face into a frown, and I sigh, preparing myself for what’s coming next. It’s inevitable.

  “Go ahead, you can say his name.”

  “Unless you don’t want to be around Alex and his flavor of the week.” She smiles apologetically. “Ugh, sorry, Elle.”

  Since Alex messaged me for a pre-vacation booty call only a few days ago, I wasn’t even aware he had a flavor of the week. Sadly, I’m not surprised. That was always his thing before we became an official couple, other girls. And though I can’t confirm it, I’m sure there were others when we were together, too.

  Now, I’m even more grateful that I ignored his messages last week.

  I shrug nonchalantly, hating that the pulse in my chest is so harsh. “We broke up almost six months ago—I think I’ll be okay.” I smile reassuringly. “And I totally agree. We can have a belated New Year’s party at my place. You know Blake is always on board for a good time.”

  I don’t remind her about the last time she hung out with Blake. Ruby had projectile vomited like something straight out of The Exorcist because she couldn’t keep up with my roommate’s double Jager Bomb challenge. I can’t either, but I’ve never attempted it.

  “Perfect.” She grins, pushing off the grille and hitting the unlock button on her keyfob. “Make sure you call me after Christmas and let me know how things with Mr. Kyler are going. And don’t complain too much because I already warned you the man is off his rocker.”

  Backing toward my car, I laugh. “He seemed perfectly sane.”

  If sane translates to him spending the bulk of our lunch meeting yesterday telling me how positive he is that Senator Yeats is the star of the most watched video on SmutBucket.com. Mr. Kyler wasn’t fazed when I softly mentioned that Yeats is 82 and missing a testicle because his source swore the swinging balls in the video were CGI’d.

  “Mitch Kyler sane?” Ruby snorts, tugging my concentration back to her. “Please. He has enough conspiracy theories to give Quantico, Scandal, and Homeland new material for many seasons to come.” Winking, she climbs behind the wheel of her car and lets down the window. “Good luck!”

  Still smiling, I turn to my burgundy Fusion and dig in my pocket for my keys. My pulse quickens when a card comes out and flutters facedown to the ground. I know whose card it is, and even though I should walk right over it—and maybe stomp it into the asphalt, just for good measure—I can’t. Graham Delaney and his dirty mouth have spent too much time occupying the space inside my head since I last saw him.

  And that pain in my ribcage that came with thinking about my ex? Well, now it’s a soft flutter and it’s all thanks to the good senator and the business card he’d given me along with a handful of words that set fire to my blood:

  I’m going to leave you with my number, and a few days
from now, you’re going to call me if you’re still thinking about me.

  When hadn’t I thought about him since he walked me to my car on Friday night? The fact he seems to pop up everywhere has made pretending he’s nobody damn near impossible. Groaning, I pick up the card from the blacktop and climb into my car. For the longest time, I sit in the parking lot, waiting for the inside of the Fusion to warm as I stare down at the number typed along the embossed paper. I give myself a hundred and one reasons why I shouldn’t dial those ten numbers.

  He and my father are in the same line of work—in the same party, for that matter.

  He’s high profile and over ten years older than me.

  He called me a liar, and even though he was right, it was still rude.

  With a mouth like his, he’s probably screwed half the city.

  That mouth. Period.

  And then, I think of the one reason I should call. Why I need to call.

  I honestly haven’t been able to get him out of my head and won’t be able to until I’ve spoken to him and heard his voice.

  Sighing, I slap the card down on my center console. My face pinches a little more with every key I tap, but I exhale and press the dial button. He answers on the third ring. “Elle.” Heat flares down my spine at the confidence behind his deep voice. The sexy growl. “You’re a day late.”

  I turn off my car radio, drowning out Selena Gomez mid-“Fetish” and frown. “I figured you’d be a tad more cautious about how you answer your phone.” I put my car in reverse and, after checking my surroundings, back up. I’m enjoying my ability to drive it while I can. Knowing my dad, it’ll be the next thing he confiscates just because he wants to prove another point.

  “Why should I be more cautious?” Graham demands.

  “I could have been a reporter?” Lord knows they’re drawn to him, considering the number of times I’ve seen him in the news since Friday. His answer to every question could be “go fuck yourself” and they’d still broadcast his face and response because he’s that charming. That irresistible. “Did you stop and think that I might be someone else?”