Grace
"God, could this night get any better?" Vi stands in front of me in a private room in the event building with a needle and thread in her hand, sewing the straps back onto my dress. Fortunately for me, Vi has always had a penchant for fashion design and carries a sewing kit in her purse "for fashion emergencies." Her skill with a needle and thread has come in handy on more than one occasion, and the girl can work magic with a little duct tape.
"Are you insane? Better? What on Earth could make this night worse?"
"I don't know. Let's see… assassination attempt? Someone chokes on their steak at dinner? Car accident? Poisoning? You lean over a candle and your hair catches fire?"
"That was a rhetorical question. You're a little morbid tonight."
"It's a gift." Vi shrugs. "Oh, here's another one."
"Another cause of death?"
"Of course not. Another thing that could make this night worse."
I exhale heavily. "What?"
"If it hadn't been Noah Ashby that had ripped your dress off and touched your ta-tas. If it had been Senator Richards, that would have been infinitely worse…"
I nearly choke. Senator Richards is approaching eighty and has a reputation for being rather handsy. He's an equal-opportunity groper, too, crossing party lines and earning him the disgust of pretty much every woman on the Hill. "That's disgusting, Vi."
"You had Noah Ashby's hands on your boobs. By default, that makes this the opposite of a bad night."
Heat rushes through me when I think about Noah Ashby's hands. His very large hands, calloused and rough, warm against my skin. The entire thing – my dress tearing, flashing the world, falling against Noah's massive chest… and getting groped by Noah Ashby… was unexpected, to say the least.
So was my physical reaction to his touch, the arousal that coursed through my body like electricity. I tell myself that it was just a physical reaction, pure instinct, and occurring solely because it's been a long time since a man put his hands on my breasts. That’s what I told myself as I watched him take off out of the building after the guy who took the salacious photos, and that’s what I reassured myself again as I walked back to this room, the throbbing between my legs insistent.
It was purely a physical response that had nothing to do with Noah Ashby. The man was unlikeable in every way, a gruff, arrogant caveman who called me “sweetheart” like I needed a pat on the head. He was a stereotypical cocky professional athlete.
Of course, he did donate his ranch to the charity for the summer.
I refuse to cut him any slack for that. Professional athletes are always doing stuff like that just to get good press.
I clear my throat. "Not by choice," I tell her primly.
Vi clucks her tongue. "I'd let him touch my boobs anytime. He's delicious." A look of annoyance must flicker across my face because Vi laughs. "Relax, girl. I'm not going to go after your hot neighbor."
"What?" I ask, confused. "What does my neighbor have to do with Noah Ashby?"
"Noah Ashby is your neighbor! I told you, I looked up who bought the house. It wasn't exactly public record, but I was curious, so I asked this guy that I used to date - anyway, how I found out is beside the point. I tried to tell you before you went over there, but you weren't having any of it. You've already seen him naked and now he's grabbed your boobs. You might as well get it over with and get his throbbing rod inside you already."
I ignore Vi's crude euphemism because I'm preoccupied with the whole neighbor thing. "But I didn't see Noah Ashby naked. He's not my neighbor."
She looks at me skeptically. "Are you sure? You did have wine that night. You know how you get after two glasses of wine. You have the lowest alcohol tolerance of anyone I've ever met."
That much is true. You'd think with all of the dinners and events I've had to attend, I wouldn't be such a lightweight, but that's definitely not the case. In fact, I'd be a terrible spy – three glasses of wine and I'd be spilling state secrets like crazy.
I bring my attention back to Vi. "Yes, I'm sure. I was tipsy, not blind. And the neighbor is definitely not Noah Ashby."
"So you've gotten to second base with Noah Ashby and you got a private nudie show from another hot guy in the last few days? And you're asking how things could get any worse? You should be thanking the universe for dropping two hot guys in your lap – especially after the long drought you've had."
"It was not a nudie show," I correct. "At least, not for me. Brooks and Davis saw more of my neighbor than I did."
Two hot guys. My heart skips a beat thinking about her words. Two hot muscled guys who were shamelessly flirting with me. Well, one of them was, anyway. Noah wasn't flirting. The only reason I was inclined to believe that he wasn’t purposely groping me was that he seemed more irritated about touching my boobs than anything else. That fact alone makes my physical response to him all the more pathetic. My "long drought", as Vi put it, clearly has made me desperate.
Vi's laughter interrupts my thoughts. "Oh wow. You have the hots for both of them."
My brow furrows. "I do not."
"Oh, please. I saw that look on your face. How long have I known you? As if I don't know what that look means."
"It means nothing because there was no look. I spent exactly one minute with Noah Ashby, and I think he’s the most obnoxious person I’ve ever met,” I protest. “He’s almost as bad as my neighbor. Anyway, Noah is just a donor, and I’m going to go out there and thank him for his donation and never see him again. And we’re both going to pretend that he never saw my boobs.”
"Technically, he's only felt them, since you were facing the opposite direction."
"I'm sure he'll see them on the camera, if he can get the photos from the reporter. And if not, he'll see them on the cover of a tabloid, just like everyone else in America. I can already picture the headlines now: "‘First Boobs! President Sullivan's Daughter Bares All! Singlehandedly Destroys Father’s Chances of Re-election!’”
"'Star-Spangled Tits,'" Vi chimes in.
"Oh, God, what if Noah is getting hold of the photos so he can sell them?" I ask, panic rising in my chest.
“Why didn’t you just send Brooks and Davis after the guy?”
“They can’t go take down a reporter. That would make things worse. My Secret Service detail suppressing a reporter’s First Amendment rights in order to get photos of my boobs back? That would make a great article.” The prick of a needle stings my skin. "Ouch! Watch where you're pointing that thing, Vi!"
"Maybe if you'd hold still for a second, I wouldn't be stabbing you with a needle," Vi admonishes, yanking on the strap in her hands for emphasis.
"Maybe if you'd hurry up, we could go see whether I need to have a full-fledged panic attack because I'm going to be half-naked on the cover of magazines across the country - or whether photos of my boobs are going to be passed around the locker room of the football team like some kind of joke - before my dad gets here."
"Holy shit, your dad will have an absolute meltdown. Do you think he'll have Noah murdered?" she jokes.
"Even worse. He'll do that thing he does." I mimic my father's voice. "'Grace Monroe Sullivan, I'm profoundly disappointed by the fact that you've caused the spotlight to be focused on you and not on the re-election campaign.’”
Vi snorts. "Oh, please. Family values, my ass. If that photo of you and Noah polled well, your dad would make it his freaking campaign poster."
I wrinkle my nose. "Can we not talk about my father and a topless photo of me and a football player in the same sentence again?"
"Fine. Let's go find these incriminating photos. Just so you know, I'm totally going to look at them, by the way, since I missed all of the excitement earlier."
I slap her lightly on the arm. "I forbid you to look at the photos. And I’d like to point out that you wouldn't have missed anything if you hadn't been putting the moves on that tech billionaire."
"What can I say? Stanford Jones is hot in a rich, nerdy way. Beside,
it's not like I have two gorgeous men throwing themselves at me."
"No one is throwing themselves at anyone," I remind her as we step out of the room.
Standing just outside the room in the hallway, Brooks is talking into her earpiece. "Ma'am, your father is en route."
I groan. So much for tracking Noah down and finding out whether he got the photos. "So soon?"
"Yes, ma'am."
"Did the football player get the camera?" I whisper the question to Brooks, even though we're the only ones back in these rooms, which have already been cleared and secured by the Secret Service in preparation for my father's arrival.
She doesn't have time to answer before I hear my father's voice booming down the hall. "Grace Monroe Sullivan, why on Earth are you back here instead of soliciting donations?"
I'm not sure if he's talking about soliciting donations for the foundation or for his campaign. Actually, scratch that. I'm positive he'd pick his campaign over needy kids. That statement sounds bitter, but it's not. I came to terms with my father's single-mindedness a long time ago. It's not that he doesn't care about other people; he does, and he's done great things as President that have helped a lot of people. That's why his approval rating is so high. Well, that and my father is immensely charismatic.
But he does have priorities, and priority number one is getting elected to a second term. At this point, that's really considered to be in the bag. But that won't stop my father from campaigning to win until he's certain the election is entirely locked down. It's what he does, part of who he is.
Beside me, Vi snickers. "Grace Monroe Sullivan," she says softly, her voice low in an imitation of my father's.
"Hello to you too, Dad," I call as my parents approach, flanked by their Secret Service personnel. "And Mom."
"How many times have I told you not to refer to me as 'Mom'?" Katherine Sullivan stops short of me, her eyes scanning down the length of my body. I know what she's doing without her even having to say a word. She's evaluating me, deciding which part of my attire or presentation should be changed. It's what she's always done for as long as I can remember. It hasn't stopped, even though I'm an adult. Actually, I think it's gotten worse over the years. "You know that I can't stand that casual language. I've always been 'Mother' and that hasn't changed in the month since I last saw you."
Standing beside her, my father rolls his eyes, but she doesn't catch it. Or more likely, she caught it and ignored it. "Katherine, leave the girl alone. At least she still calls us Mom and Dad, and not Kathy and Art."
I giggle at the thought, even as my mother visibly recoils, her face contorted in an expression of horror. My mother has never been the casual type. Even when my parents campaigned in the mid-west and my mother tried to dress "like a regular person”, she still looked out of place. She's one of those women who belong in another decade. The magazines call her this century's Jackie O, and my mother couldn't be more pleased with the comparison. She's always been more “afternoon tea and country club” than “jeans and shopping at Target”. "Honestly, Arthur, you shouldn't even joke like that. It's unseemly." Her eyes linger on my shoulders and she narrows them slightly. "Is your dress torn?"
"Not anymore," Vi says. "I stitched the straps back into place."
"Well, you simply can't wear that dress, Grace. Where's your backup gown?"
"I don't have a backup gown."
"How many years have you been attending events like this, Grace? You didn’t bring a backup gown?"
"It doesn’t look torn," my father interjects. "It looks fine to me."
"Well, you would be wearing plaid ties if I didn't dress you," my mother says stiffly.
"I like plaid ties. They're distinctive."
"They're not Presidential."
"They could be your trademark, part of your brand," Vi suggests. "The President in Plaid."
"Am I a brand?" my father asks.
"Of course you're a brand," my mother sniffs.
"Aren't we all," Vi adds wistfully.
"No, we're not all brands," I protest, more out of discomfort with the notion than in disagreement. If my parents had their way, I'd be wearing campaign attire twenty-four hours a day. As it is, I'm enough of a walking advertisement for my father just by being his daughter.
"Don't be obtuse," my mother says, sighing. "Well, at least you're wearing red, Grace. Thank God for small mercies. Red doesn't wash you out nearly as much as some other colors."
I clear my throat, anxious to get my mother to direct her attention away from her critique of me and my wardrobe choices. "Should we go?"
"Sure thing, kiddo," my father says. He puts his hand on my shoulder. "Now, what am I talking about tonight?"
I groan. "Dad, it's the foundation fundraiser. You already know "
"I'm kidding, Gracie. Of course I know it’s the foundation fundraiser.”
I exhale heavily. "I'm a little on edge."
"It's because she needs a vacation," Vi chimes in. "Or a good hard –"
"Let's go out there already, Vi," I say, heavily emphasizing her name as I give her a "cut it out" look.
"A good hard what?" my father asks, oblivious to the innuendo behind Vi's words.
"Nothing," I reply, clearing my throat again. "Shall we go?"
My mother doesn't miss the implication. "You know, I spoke with Eleanor Redding last week. Her son Brandon is attending tonight with her and I told her that you'd be thrilled to connect with him. He graduated tenth in his class at Yale, law review at Harvard Law School, and he's working in international –"
"Thanks, Mother, but this is a charity event." I cut her off before she can say anything else about a lawyer I should be dating. Or a banker I should be dating. Or the billionaire son of billionaire parents who are politically well-connected that she'd love to marry me off to. The last guy she forced me to go out on a date with spent the whole time showing me photos of his yacht. No thanks. "I'd rather focus on the charity, if it's all the same to you."
"Perfect. You can sweet-talk Brandon into donating to the foundation," she says.
Great job, Grace. I walked right into that one. But I'd rather sweet talk Noah. The thought pops into my head, causing my cheeks to heat as we walk to the ballroom. What the hell is wrong with me lately? It's bad enough I can't stop fantasizing about one totally inappropriate guy, but two?
9
Noah
By some kind of miracle, I make it through all five courses of the dinner – or was it six? I endure the man beside me who badgers me for inside information about other players so he can place wagers on next season's games, wink-wink-nudge-nudging me as he downs scotch after scotch and talks about how he understands the game because he played football in college. I even survive the old woman next to me who insists on showing me photos and giving me the phone number of her married granddaughter, despite my protests against it, because "her no-good husband doesn't deserve her and you look like a fine young man".
I don't stab anyone with a fork, which is really commendable, in my opinion. I don't make any scenes. Somehow, I even manage to smile during the meal. All of that is a big deal – after all, my public demeanor has gotten me into hot water before. Apparently, telling reporters to “fuck off” when they’re up your ass trying to interview you after a game is frowned upon.
I blame my tolerance for this bullshit on her – the President’s daughter. I’m distracted by her during the entire dinner, catching glimpses of her from across the room. She's hard to miss in that red dress, although truthfully she could be wearing a paper bag and she'd still be the hottest woman I’ve ever seen. I catch her eyes at one point, and I think I see her blush, an immediate reminder of where my hands were earlier tonight.
I’d give just about anything to put them there again.
The thought of my hands on her breasts makes my cock twitch, and I have to shift in my seat, returning my thoughts to whatever the hell boring bullshit that the guy beside me is talking about, just so that I don't get a boner r
ight here in the middle of this event. And for the President's daughter, no less.
I've got no call getting a hard-on for a girl like that. First of all, she’s out of my league. Even if she weren’t the President’s daughter, every part of the way she carries herself would telegraph that fact loud and clear. She’s classy, practically regal, every inch of her political royalty.
She’s also a rich snob. I remind myself of that fact. A girl like her, born and bred into a family like that is definitely not down-to-earth. That much is true, no matter how hot that girl is. No matter how much the thought of her soft skin and her firm breasts make me want to pick her up and press her hard up against the nearest wall, thrust my cock inside her, and make her moan.
She’s one of the rich and powerful. Hell, she’s the daughter of the most powerful man on earth. People like Aiden and I – poor kids from Colorado who got rich because we play sports – don't get with girls like that, even if we have all the money in the world.
And I wouldn't want to anyway. Rich girls are the exact opposite of my type.
Still, that doesn't stop me from watching the way that silky dress skims over her curves as she walks, or the way she smiles as she tucks an errant strand of hair behind her ear when she talks to someone.
The President makes a speech at the end of the dinner, with Grace standing behind him on the stage with the First Lady. He talks about charitable giving and the foundation and how proud he is of his daughter - and his campaign, of course. This event is obviously a thinly veiled way of drumming up campaign donations, more than it is about supporting his daughter's charity work.
When he mentions his campaign, Grace's face pales, but she smiles and applauds with the rest of the room. Her smile doesn’t quite reach her eyes, though. It rubs me the wrong way that she's standing there behind him like a prop accompanying him on the campaign trail when it's her foundation that should be the focus of the evening.
I'm irritated by it and I don't know why. I shouldn't be, because it's none of my business. I don't even know the first thing about her, or any of them.
Double Team: A Menage Romance Page 5