by Mia Villano
“I’m back for a while. Not permanently just yet, but I’m working on it.” Heat crawls up my neck and I nervously pull the collar of my shirt away with my finger.
“What brings you back this time?”
“I’m trying to get into George Washington to finish up my residency. It’s been my dream to work there.”
“That’s right, I remember you talking about it.”
“Yes, I want to get home and be closer to my family. It’s hard being so far away, now that my brothers are married and having kids.”
As if my whole world lit up at that moment, a jolt of adrenaline coursed through my veins. She’s going to be staying close by, at least for a little while. I’m handed a drink by someone on my staff and I swallow the amber liquid, savoring the taste and burn.
Standing motionless, I drink in her scent and beauty for what little time I have with her.
“Did you hear the song they played a few minutes ago?”
Startled eyes gaze at me. “Yes, I heard it. I’ve never forgotten that song. You love Sam Cooke. Are you still playing your guitar?”
A foolish obsession of mine, since I was eight years old, and begged to take lessons. While attending Harvard, we put together a band called Product of the Environment. We were just a group of college roommates, playing gigs occasionally to blow off steam or attract more women. Now, the guitar is my refuge from the storms pounding me at every angle. Alone at night, I play to quiet my head and relax. No longer playing classic rock, my guitar plays Sam Cooke and B.B. King. Their music brings me pleasure, comfort, and pain, allowing me to vent my feelings and console my shattered heart. I’m surprised she remembers.
“I am. As a matter of fact, I may be going on a late-night show to play. They think it will help my campaign.”
“I’m sure it will. Are you going to play ‘Go all the Way’?” That is her favorite song and I would play the riff all the time for her.
“Now that you mention it, I think I will. I’m thinking of using it as my campaign song and change the words around a little.” That song by the Raspberries is older than she is, but she loves it, and I remember her singing it all the time.
Putting her hand to her mouth, she yawns, then laughs.
“Am I that boring?” I ask with a grin.
She laughs again. “No, not at all. I’m exhausted. I’m still on Paris time.” Kissing her right now runs through my mind.
“I understand. Most nights, I don’t even know where I’m at. Are you still dancing?” I toss back the rest of my drink, and the server is nearby to hand me another, but I shake my head. I’m not a big drinker; however, drinking helps me to loosen up and push down the lump in my throat. One more and I will not be able to see straight. I let my eyes trail down her throat to those perfect perky breasts. I instinctively lick my lips as I picture a black lace bra and thong under her dress. She notices and blushes.
“Not lately. I mean, I try, but being a psychiatrist, it’s a little much. I’m mentally exhausted when I get home, and weekends, I would like to explore the city, or sleep. Maybe now that I’m home, I can concentrate on dancing again.”
“Does Garrison bother you all the time?”
“He can be needy at times and requires reassurance quite a bit. Other than that, I haven’t seen him much. I didn’t know he would be here tonight.”
“I spent much of my life reassuring him about everything.” I shift my weight from one leg to the other. The fucker and his needs. Everything is always about his needs.
She laughs. “He’s just, I don’t know, demanding of my attention when he’s around. Sometimes, it’s all the energy I have at the end of the day, just to shower and lie down, and he wants to go out or have me come over and see a painting.” My heart sinks to hear her say that. She used to be so full of life and energy. I couldn’t keep up with her.
“Yeah, Garrison can suck the life out of you. Do you see that woman there?”
I point to a very old woman walking around with a walker. “She used to be Garrison’s best friend in college. I think she’s thirty. See what will happen to you?”
She roars loudly, making me laugh at my own joke. Standing in front of her, I couldn’t be happier.
“Do you want me to talk to him? Or better yet, do you want me to have him knocked off? I probably could and make his death look like an accident once I got into office. Committing murder for personal gain or to shut someone up is done all the time and covered up, I’ve heard.” I’m only half-joking.
She tries to stop her giggle, but she can’t and bursts out laughing again.
“Oh God, no. No, I think things will die down once I’m here and he stays there. I think he has a girlfriend now, so that takes off some of the pressure.”
“A girlfriend? Jesus Christ, not again. How’s he doing, other than that?” There’s only one thing Garrison is good at, and that’s being a complete pain in the ass at all times.
“You mean his drug use?” I nod. “He’s doing good. A couple of slip-ups here and there, but nothing he can’t get through. I think his new rehab program has helped him immensely.” Her voice shakes.
“Out of all the apartments in Paris, how did you end up living next door to my brother?”
She shrugs. “It’s a small world... or maybe it’s fate, Sebastian.” Her voice is a whisper as her big gray eyes look up at me, melting my insides.
At that very moment, I realize that my want for her is stronger than wanting to become president. I eye her up and down, letting my eyes worship every inch of her. My stomach knots when I’m standing this close to her, and I swear I feel the heat come off her body. The emotional bond we shared for the time we were together all comes flooding back to me. The lust-filled nights, the tender moments we would spend all night talking in bed, and the love I felt for her fills me with a calmness. Memories of her on top of me on those long nights, when we stole away to my room, flash through my head. Having her whisper in my ear, “I’m coming” is one of my greatest achievements in life. I think back to how accepting and eager she was the first time we had sex.
My phone vibrates in my pants pocket. Pulling it out, I read a text from Vick-
Vick: Don’t Move. Stay there.
Shit. What now? Before I even get the chance to reply, I see him racing up to me like a crazed lunatic, with my security detail, Frank and Mark, beside him.
“Sebastian, we have a problem. Come now.”
“What the fuck is going on?” Before I know it, I’m being dragged off the balcony by Frank, Mark, and a group of Secret Service agents.
I turn to look back at Daria, but I’m pushed out the door into an emergency exit.
“Not now. Come on!” Frank and Vick are hollering at me. I look up, and my team is in a mad dash to get out of the room. Security swarms around me, and some are whisking people and my family out. I don’t have time to see where Daria is before I’m led to a waiting car. My driver, Cameron, is in the front seat, and Secret Service is surrounding the car on all sides. Vick’s in the backseat, on his laptop with a cell phone pressed to each ear immediately.
Someone better start talking, and fast. Whatever is going on had better be life threatening. The car pulls out at lightning speed. Secret Service escort us from the front with their blacked-out SUV’s.
“Are we under a terrorist attack I should know about?” Mark, Frank, and Vick are squeezed in the SUV. and my heart is pounding in my chest.
Vick starts speaking, “They found an email delivered to the local news. Someone was planning to shoot you tonight at the dinner. It is a credible threat because they described the ballroom, and other things that sent up red flags. We don’t know who made the threat on your life; however, we have sources everywhere trying to figure it out.”
I surge forward in my seat. “Shoot me? Who the fuck wants to shoot me?”
“That’s what we’re trying to find out, Sebastian. We don’t know. Our priority is to get you out of there, and to a secure location immediately.�
�
It doesn’t register right away that someone wants me dead. “What about my mom and Annalise?” The color drains from my face. Daria. If anyone hurt her, I would rage an all-out holy hell war.
“Relax. We got them out as well.”
“Is this a foreign or domestic? It’s those fucking Russians I pissed off last week in my speech, isn't it?”
“We know nothing yet. Only that your life has been threatened by an email. They have guys on the case, trying to figure out where the email came from. We’re taking you to a secured location.”
The shock at hearing someone wants me dead is surreal. I know a death threat can happen, but I didn’t think it would be so soon. Someone hands me a bottle of water, and in one gulp, I finish it. Breathing is difficult and I loosen my tie, unbuttoning the first button of my shirt. Sweat has dampened my hair, making it even more wavy. I grab the phone out of my pants pocket to call my mother.
“Sir, don’t use that phone,” Frank yells. As we fly down the highway, I see a gun in his hand. This shit is real and too much to take. The sad truth that someone wants me dead drains all the strength out of me.
“I have to check on my mother and Annalise.”
“You can’t use the phone. They could have a tracer on it. We have them; they’re safe. We’re bringing them with us.”
“Garrison? Does someone have him?” In the confusion, I forget to look for my brother. I’m utterly smitten by Daria, and had forgotten anyone else was even in the room.
Frank nods. “Yeah, he’s with that redhead you were talking to.” I breathe a sigh of relief and close my eyes. Thankfully, everyone is fine and, most importantly, the redhead is okay.
9
Sebastian
The threat on my life turns out to be real. The FBI and Secret Service traced the email to a sixteen-year-old pipsqueak in South Dakota, hours after it was received. When the FBI raided his house, he had no idea what was happening, or why. Seems the would-be assassin hacked into his email address to send this threat. The FBI and Secret Service still don’t know who wants me dead; however, my security team is hell-bent on finding out who the idiot is before the Democratic National Convention.
Since the threat on my life is still an open investigation, I need additional protection. Because I am the primary candidate for the Democratic Party, I’m entitled to protection from Secret Service. We also hire additional security for my mother, Garrison, and Annalise. My brother fights this like the asshole he is. He didn’t want them going back to Paris with him, and refuses to let them inside his home, saying it will deter him from his creativity. I couldn’t care less, and I’m glad he’s far away. I secretly hire a guy to watch over Daria here in D.C., as well as in Paris. No one knows, other than my personal security and me. For my own sanity and for her protection, I need to know she is safe.
Once the FBI raided the sixteen-year-old boy’s parents’ house, my potential demise became a joke on late-night television. Social media makes a joke of it, even though I’m a little frightened as to who wants me dead.
Death threats or not, I’m on the road nonstop now. Between the bus and the plane I’m renting, I haven’t seen my home for months. This campaign is putting my dick in the dirt, and just turning forty seems to cut my stamina in half.
Towards the middle of summer, I host a small dinner party at my house to kick off the upcoming Democratic National Convention. It will also give me the opportunity to get the team revved up going into the final months of the campaign. Even though Annalise will be attending, I instruct my staff to invite Daria, hearing from Garrison she is now back for good, and nobody questions why since she is a former staff member.
Garrison is the first to arrive, and it is obvious by the way he’s moving around and talking nonstop that he’s on something. It’s a sure bet he’s back on drugs and his “I’m a new man” song and dance is bullshit once again. He brought some woman with him that makes my skin crawl. She’s my mother’s age, if not older, overly tanned, scantily dressed, and reeking of alcohol. If the press sees her, they will have a field day. I can’t worry about that right now, though, and hope my brother and his date get bored early and leave.
Though this is a working party, my inhibitions are thrown out the window when I notice Daria walk into the room. I see her sipping a flute of champagne, her hair up and legs exposed in a short dress and nude shoes, talking and looking confident in herself. When dinner is announced, we sit down to a four-course meal. I put Daria at an angle at the table where I can see her every time I look up. Seeing her is the greatest gift of the night so far. Just as we are enjoying our meal, laughing and feeling relaxed, Garrison takes this moment to stand and raise his glass for a toast.
His so-called girlfriend pulls his shirt, trying to get him to sit down. He pushes her hand away angrily, and that can only mean he will make more of a fool of himself. Even my mother attempts to get him to stay quiet, but Garrison is higher than a kite and when he is, his sense of rational thinking goes out the window. I wanted him to leave before we started dinner; however, my mother insisted he stay, and I reluctantly agreed.
Silence fills the vast dining room as I wait for some crazy toast that will make no sense. I laugh at myself, wondering if somewhere my dad is watching, laughing along with me.
“I want to take a second to raise my glass and toast this night. We’re here to celebrate my brother, and we’re also here to celebrate my engagement.” With my campaign staff here, they witness Garrison’s asshole behavior for the first time, live and up close. I look over at Curtis, and, for once, he’s speechless.
“This gorgeous woman sitting next to me is going to be my wife. I asked her to marry me in Paris, and she said yes. Am I not the luckiest bastard in the world, or what?” Garrison gave me a hard smile, and my eyes flash to this woman. She has her glass raised and stands up next to Garrison. Diamonds drape her neck, arms, and fingers, and her skintight dress accentuates the fact she is in her sixties. My guests clap and I watch my mother shake her head from side to side in disagreement.
“Congratulations.” Annalise raises her glass first, with a huge smile. Either she’s genuinely happy with the announcement, or is trying to lighten the moment; I can’t tell. The rest of my guests applaud and raise their glasses. This is typical of Garrison and if it’s true, this is his fourth engagement. He stumbles, trying to sit back down, and I look over at my mother whose eyes are daggers going into this woman. Jesus Christ, what is happening? This is turning into a three-ring circus. By my mother’s reaction, I know she will have this stopped before the night is over.
Before dinner, I found out this woman’s name was Dior Fabiola. My mother had Fletcher investigate her quickly. She is a French socialite known for her elaborate parties, vacations, and numerous stints in rehabs herself. She owns several art galleries in Paris, so it's safe to assume, that’s how they met. After their numerous trips to the bathroom, my mother notices Garrison’s behavior worsening, and whisks him and Dior out before my night is ruined. Dior is so drunk she almost has to be carried out to the car. My mother’s driver is instructed to take Garrison to her house. Dior is to be put on her plane back to Paris. Yes, she flew here in her private jet.
Once the excitement calms down, my thoughts and attention go back to Daria. Regretting the fact that I didn’t marry her the very minute I had a chance, and believe me, I had chances. We stole away one time to Turks and Caicos, and I was half-tempted to ask her there. I even bought a ring; it was perfect for her. I had chosen a five-carat emerald cut diamond with a sapphire on each side. The sapphires because we both have September birthdays. I stashed it in my luggage, just in case I found the courage to ask her. But I lost my nerve and couldn’t do it. I attempted to ask again one night, during a very romantic dinner for two at my house. At the time, I thought my career was more important, and figured I would have another chance to ask her later. I hid the ring in my closet until I had a chance again. That chance never came and I still have the ring somewhere
, tucked away safely in a box.
As the night progresses, I can’t stay away from Daria any longer. I must talk to her while she’s here. Last time I saw her seems like a lifetime ago, and I honestly didn’t know when I would see her again. The night of my party, when I was pulled away from her because of some asshole wanting to kill me, was the first time we had a chance to talk. That night, we were both comfortable again and she was opening up to me. I have a few more things to discuss with her that we didn’t get to, and I find a second to steal away when I see her step into my living room.
“Hi, Daria.” She smells incredible, like lavender and spring. I hear Annalise in the distance, laughing with someone. I knew she would be preoccupied for a while.
The sight of Daria is overwhelming. She’s wearing minimal makeup. Her lips are perfect with just a hint of pink. Many nights while I’ve been jacking off alone, I can still feel those lips on my cock. I taste her lips in my dreams. Does she still taste the same as she did years ago? It takes all my inner strength not to devour her right then.
“Hi again.” She giggles, leaving me breathless, and then brushes a few strands of hair out of her face. “Garrison was a bit out of sorts, so they took him out to get him calmed down. Do you know that woman he’s marrying?”
“No, I don’t know her and I’ve never seen her. He must have met her since I’ve been back.”
Her happy demeanor suddenly leaves. “I’m so sorry. I guess he ruined your night.”
“No, he doesn’t ruin my nights anymore. I’ve learned to let it go. I wanted a couple of minutes to talk to you alone. We never got a chance to finish our conversation before I was dragged out of the last party.” Daria looks down again. This time, her beautiful long lashes flutter. I nudge her chin up to look at me. Tears pool in her gorgeous gray eyes, and my heart breaks.
“Tell me what’s wrong,” I demand in a whisper. I notice my mother, looking in from the kitchen, staring at the two of us with her look of disapproval, but I ignore her.