by Julia Kent
“Persephone,” he says, lips twitching, eyes smoky and full of promise. “Give me something good to taste before I go on camera.”
Being in close proximity to someone who has had his face between your legs is heady when he says that.
It's intoxicating, really, because unlike an emerging relationship where the possibility of all-things-new lets your imagination run wild and your heart and clit dance the samba, when you've already been with a masterful lover, there's nothing imaginary about what you know they can do with tongue, hands, lips, and... ahem.
Attention.
Being someone from Parker's past is hard. Being someone who is not part of his future is even harder.
So how do I handle right here, right now–the present? I'm present with him.
But I'm not present with him.
All the selves inside me–Past Persephone, Present Perky, Future Perky, and Horny Perky (hey, she's very real) are colliding, slipping and sliding against each other in a mud bath. I'm propping myself up on Past Persephone, who is bent on hands and knees to help out her sisters. But Future Perky wants desperately to stand on tippy toes, using Present Perky's scalp as a footstool.
And all of that is happening inside me as Parker Campbell looks me dead in the eye and says, “Make the mouthfeel perfect.”
My eyes drop to his crotch. So do his, the decline of his head slight but noticeable.
The grin's even more obvious.
I turn away and start a shot for him, the grind of the grounds bringing me back to center.
“Ah, Persephone. You have not changed one bit.”
I load the espresso and pull. “I've changed plenty.”
“Really? How?”
“I no longer let guys I sleep with take naked pictures of me.”
His jaw tightens. Did those deep speckled eyes just turn green? Aha. I've hit a nerve.
“Good policy,” he grinds out.
“How about you? Your change log must be huge–” I jerk my eyes to his crotch at that word, then back up to his face, "–by now.”
“I'm not going to talk about my sex life with you.”
Handing him a tiny white espresso cup, I don't bother with the saucer I'd use for a regular customer. “Why not? Your sex life with me was made public by you, Parker. I would think you'd be less prudish after blasting my boobs all over the planet.”
He downs the shot fast and easy. I've never wanted to be coffee so badly.
“We've been over this countless times.” Placing the cup on the counter, he leans in.
“I'm not over it, though. It's not the kind of thing you just get over.”
“Every conflict can be resolved,” he whispers until I shiver.
I force myself to snort. “This isn't a committee meeting. I'm not a bill you're trying to convince people to vote for.”
“No. You're more like pork.”
“Did you just call me fat? A fat pig?”
The way he takes in my curves makes it clear he appreciates what he sees.
“Pork. As in politics. When we put a funding provision into a bill for a pet project that benefits a tiny group of people.”
“I'm your pet project?”
“You're a project I'd fight hard to get.”
“Because you'd directly benefit?”
A flash of energy lights up his eyes. “You could always do that.”
“Do what?”
“Get my point in an instant and unabashedly call me out on my ulterior motives.”
“If you're being ulterior in your pursuit of me, Parker, you're failing miserably.”
“The ulterior part, yes. The pursuit part?” Questioning eyes meet mine.
“Failure.” My mouth says that.
My clit screams, She's lying!
“Didn’t seem to fail when you came in my arms after a few minutes of making out like frenzied high school students the other day,” he whispers, oh, so casually.
“Congressman Campbell,” Saoirse says, inserting herself between us like a razor blade on a callus. “They're ready for you.”
He nods at me, but leans in. “I can't talk to you like this.”
Saoirse smirks.
“We'll finish this conversation later. Over dinner?” he adds.
Mouth firmly set, Saoirse's eyes go dead.
I nod.
He turns away, walking slowly to the podium, standing next to it as Congressman Ouemann begins the presser.
And I die a little.
I should have known when Ouemann’s staffers called to ask for the event. I should have put two and two together, knowing Parker’s interest in fair trade.
But I didn’t.
And here I am now, blindsided.
Crowds are my thing. I know it's popular to be a geeky introvert who hates other humans, but I've never been popular. The energy of too many people in a small space, all focused on the same thing, is divine. Almost indescribable, it's a palpable sense of potential that spills over into action and emotion.
In other words, it's a bucketload of feels.
All the feels.
Add caffeine–the truly good stuff, hand crafted to make each shot a work of art–and you have my idea of nirvana.
Minus the Barbie doll newscaster.
And Parker's mom, aka Dolores Umbridge.
Congressman Ouemann talks my lingo, with Thiago and Raul taking turns being recognized as community leaders, immigrants who created jobs on the North Shore of Boston, people forming a moral core in the community. Ouemann branches out, using fair trade and labor policy as a cornerstone of freedom, and soon the swelling crowd has me filled with a sense of purpose.
This.
This is why I protest.
This is why I donate.
This is why I travel to coffee plantations in Central America.
This is why I work here.
This.
“And now I'd like to present my co-sponsor, the newest member of Congress and an all-around incredible man, whose dedication to improving the lives of others is reflected in everything he does. Let's give a round of applause to Congressman Parker Campbell...”
The rest of the introduction is drowned out by cheers.
Parker clears his throat. Instant silence. The man really does grab everyone's attention. He could raise an eyebrow and part the Red Sea.
“Everything Congressman Ouemann said is so important, when we look at our values and how...” The speech is smooth and pitch perfect, exactly what I would expect from Parker. At the edge of the jam-packed room, I spot two familiar heads, one covered in red, curly hair, the other platinum blonde with a new pink streak on the left. Mallory and Fiona wave, the journey across the cafe nearly impossible to make.
It's like Coachella, only with politicians.
But my friends are masters at weaving through drunk leftover hippies and Instagram influencers who don't realize they're irrelevant. In under a minute, they slice through this crowd until they're standing next to me, half behind the counter as I pull shots and smile at them.
Parker's words change, the tone setting my senses on high alert.
“I would also like to talk briefly about another bill I am co-sponsoring in the House.”
Jennifer turns to him, surprised, her expression one of being impressed. Leading the crowd with good optics is smart. It's how Jennifer Tanager Campbell has made it as far as she has in political and philanthropic circles. Never elected to office, she's one of those Old Money people who finds a way to be noticed. She knows how to use expression and body language to hold the emotional and operational frame in any situation.
Parker is a pro as a result.
“In addition to the Fair Trade Literacy and Education Initiative with Representative Ouemann, we're also partnering, along with nine other House members on both sides of the aisle, on important legislation in our technologically advanced, twenty-first century world. I'm the lead on this piece of legislation–”
Jennifer glows so hard, she's a nucl
ear reactor.
“–which we're informally calling the Revenge Media Act.”
Only a subtle twitch of the eyebrow makes it clear she has no idea what Parker's talking about.
Mallory nudges me. “Is media another term for porn?”
“Shhhh.”
“We're all aware of the bigger news stories around this issue, with well-known public figures and CEOs who have dealt with 'sextortion,' in which perpetrators use intimate or sensitive materials against them in an effort to gain some kind of advantage...”
“Oh my God, he is talking about revenge porn!” Fiona hisses.
“... and that is why I am leading a bill that criminalizes these actions with stronger penalties for sextortion, 'deep fakes' that use image alteration to create false images designed to embarrass...”
Everything turns to a buzzing sound, the edges of the room going white.
Parker is talking about making a law that increases the criminal penalties for what he did to me.
“He's either a blazing narcissist or entirely innocent,” Mallory muses.
My stomach seizes. My hands shake. A copper taste fills my mouth.
Because she's right. He's either the biggest, craziest, most self-centered, the-rules-don't-apply-to-me megalomaniac, or–
Or.
Or he didn't do it. He didn't send those pictures of me to anyone else. He really is innocent.
That or.
That damn or.
In the cacophony that comes as the press pins him down, asking question after question, I can't focus on anything. Eyes dart from thing to thing, like I'm filled with hummingbirds.
Then I notice someone else is going through the same thing.
Jennifer.
Our eyes lock.
Normally, she has a veil. A filter. A cover. A wall. It's a forcefield that slides over her, as if nanotechnology had reached that point, something she could involve like moving a muscle, the subconscious kicking in to move the body.
But not now.
Now she's vulnerable and raw, struggling to get her emotions under control.
Why? Why this? What could Parker's announcement invoke in her to make her disassemble enough for me to see turmoil underneath?
“Holy shit,” Fiona says under her breath, the sound peppered with little hitches. “He–Perky. Is it really possible Parker didn't do it? I mean, last night we were speculating, but this is a new level of wondering.”
Mallory hits her, a gentle tap that's as strong as a gut punch. “Don't do this here. Now.”
“I'm sorry.” Fiona touches my shoulder. “Let's get you out of here.”
“No. This is my place. Beanerino is my territory. It's my home. It's what I've poured myself into all these years since he–since–”
Just like that, I can't say it.
I can't.
Because it's truly possible he didn't do it.
And if he didn't do it, who did?
“To be clear: If you knowingly release a sexually intimate photo or video of another person for the purpose of embarrassing them or for blackmail or extortion, your actions are a crime,” Parker concludes, the rhetorical tone in his voice making it clear he's about to end his speech and shift to another mode.
Thunderous applause fills the room, his mother's hands moving slowly, her mask back in place as she beams at him with a tight smile, the kind you use when you agree with someone but the subject is serious.
“He's doing this for you,” Mallory says, her face twisted with something close to wistfulness, but with an edge I don't like. “It's a show.”
“A show?”
“Why else would he come to Beanerino with Congressman Ouemann and make this big announcement?” Mallory is wearing contacts today, so as her eyes narrow with contemplation, she looks even more intense than usual. Younger, too. “He knew you'd be here–wanted you to be here. It's a plea.”
“For what?”
“For you to believe him.”
“Just a minute ago you said he's either a flaming narcissist or he really didn't do it. Which is it, Mal?”
“I don't know.”
“I don't either,” I say, turning toward the door. Fishing through my pocket, I find my nicotine gum. One by one, I pop the pieces in my mouth until Fi stops me.
“That's too much.”
“If I could smoke, I'd be chaining them until I turned into a chimney.”
“Don't over-nicotine yourself, Perk. The last time you did that, your family therapist was really close to getting you to the hospital for rectal valium.”
“Don't tempt me, Fi. Having someone shove valium up my ass sounds like a joyride compared to this.” Pointing to Parker, who is surrounded by local news station reporters and cameras, I make a sound of disgust.
At that exact moment, he happens to look at me.
I swallow my gum. All of it.
“Perky! You can't do that!”
“Done. Did it.” The bolus is stuck in my throat, just below my clavicle, and it hurts.
“Gag it up!”
“I can't do that.”
“How many pieces did you eat?”
“Half a pack of Marlboro Light 100 Menthols in a box.”
“That's not too bad.”
I grab my triple espresso and chug it down to push the gum further along.
“Three shots of espresso and half a pack's worth of nicotine inside Perky,” Mallory muses, studying me like I'm a lab rat. Or a bail jumper she's babysitting. “What could go wrong?”
Fiona lets out an exasperated sound and hands me a gluten-free protein bar and a small packet of beef jerky.
“What's this?”
“Your biochemistry will thank me later.”
“He's good, isn't he?” I smell Saoirse before I see her, the odor of on-camera makeup so strong it cuts through the fine-brewed coffee that permeates the air I breathe.
“Yes.”
“I'll take a triple espresso,” she says coolly, looking at me like she's doing me a favor asking for one. I cross my arms over my chest.
“He's really good at working the crowd.” We watch Parker, who is shaking hands and pressing his palm over his heart, then belly, the gestures of earnestness genuine.
Her eyes narrow. “He's good in other ways.” Her smile goes tight. “And he's headed straight for the top. He needs to be careful he's not dragged down by baggage.”
“Like the load you have under your eyes?”
Reflex makes her reach up.
A stone-cold Queen Bitch heart makes her stop before touching.
“It's cute that your friend manipulated Parker into being in her wedding, but your desperation is obvious. It's not going to work,” she whisper-hisses as Thiago gives me looks that say he's close to an emergency-level panic attack.
The house is packed tight.
“Persephone.” Parker's voice makes me cough so hard, the wad of gum almost comes flying up out of my mouth. Instead, it sticks in my throat, a lump of despair and poor willpower.
“Asshole.”
“Excuse me?” That's his mom, horrifyingly condescending to me, her eyes catching Saoirse's, the two communicating nonverbally.
“I said, passable,” I enunciate. “Your bills. Both are going to help so many people in the world who otherwise would be left without justice or recourse.”
A smirk tweaks Parker's lips. He knows damn well what I really said. So does Jennifer, but I'm not giving her the satisfaction of holding the upper hand.
“But if you're co-sponsoring bills that pertain to your life, Parker, why not add in an anti-stalking bill?”
Nostrils flaring, Jennifer turns away from the cameras and hisses, “I knew this was a bad idea, Parker.”
“If I wanted to stalk you, Persephone, I'd have been on your ass for the last five years.”
“You have a really porny definition of the word stalk.”
Jennifer huffs off, Saoirse on her heels. Good. Mission accomplished.
He moves clo
ser and whispers, “Last I remember, you loved it when I got porny.”
“Don't do this, Parker.”
“Why not?” The words come out bold and brash, cocky and so self-assured, as if he knows I'm putting up a front and desperately want him on my ass, indeed.
And the saddest part is that he's right.
But I can't let him know that.
“Because this is neither the time nor the place.”
“You chased my mother off with that dirty mouth of yours. This is a great time to talk about getting dirtier.”
“Congressman Campbell, you are a representative of the people.”
“No. I'm just a man, Persephone. A man who wants you to give me a chance.”
I swallow. Hard.
“One date.”
“No.”
“One double date, then, Persephone. One. Please. Give me a few hours to show you I'm not who you think I am. To make it up to Will and Mallory. To find a way through this with all of you.”
“You know you don't want a double date. You're trying to weasel your way back into my life.”
“Yes.”
His candor doesn’t surprise me.
“Your snow job won't work, but I'll take you up on the offer to watch you squirm trying to explain to my friends what you did.”
“I'd rather watch you squirm under different circumstances.”
“You turn everything into sex.”
“You used to like that about me.”
“You're a congressman! You're supposed to be less vulgar.”
“Have you looked at Congress lately, Persephone?” Laughter rolls out of him like tanks on a mission. Rugged and hot, he makes it hard to think.
So do the two hundred people suddenly jones-ing for caffeine.
“Perky!” Raul calls out. “We need help!”
The hiss of the espresso machines sounds like the rush of an ice-zombie army.
“Fine. One double date.”
He grins.
“Don't look at me like that.”
“Like what?”
“Like you got what you wanted.”
“But I did.”
“No. You got me to relent the tiniest bit.”
“That's how conflict resolution works.”
“We're resolving conflict?”