Hard As Stone (Beautiful Betrayal Book 1)

by Alex Elliott

  Leveled, I’m imbued by a slice of clear thinking and see how screwed up this is if I take this woman in public. If she realizes who I am and talks, stirs up trouble—it isn’t me who’d come after her. The Saint takes care of any threat he perceives. It isn’t like I can offer her protection 24/7 from The Cleaner. I can walk away, and what could she say? We shared a kiss. That’s not exactly headline news. Nothing that would put her life in jeopardy.

  The tendons knot in my neck and shoulders. Even with the news of another bombing, I’m a selfish prick. If I don’t say something incredibly asinine, I’m going to back her up into the corner, and that’s it. I’ll take her until she screams and comes all over my cock.

  I use verbal ammunition by insinuating this is a mistake. Inwardly I curse myself. She’s upset—probably hurt—and I want to reach out, smooth away what she feels. Get her naked, feed my hunger, and then take care of her. Hold her until the first rays of dawn burst apart the darkness in my soul, and then do it all over again.

  Instead, I watch her turn on her lovely heel, and walk away. My entire existence should be centered on taking down PanCorp and outgunning The Saint, not chasing a piece of ass.

  Yet that rings hollow.

  The vacuum is replaced by best mistake I ever let go. I repeat it as if it’s a mantra.

  Not that it’s helpful.

  I’m not a heartless bastard, just the unnamed running mate in the Veepstakes. Either I catapult into the spot as vice president of the United States before the end of the month, or I’ll be on my uncle’s hit list.

  Chapter 10

  X.S.~ Invisible Ewe

  AT THE CURB, I park and check my nose. A couple of splatter drops are on my top, but I can’t do anything about them. So far so good. I pop the lid on the ‘script of mega-iron, down a horse pill with a gulp of water, crossing my mental fingers. Please, no more torrential bleeding.

  I get out of my car, whistling and waving to Jon exiting South Station and then crap, I feel a tiny drip. What the heck is happening? Better not be the umpteenth time in less than two weeks. Grabbing a tissue from my pocket, I dab at my nose.

  “What happened?” Jon asks suspiciously. He reminds me of an American Alex Pettyfer who up and decided to go gay.

  “Nothing.” I toss him my keys. “Let’s go. We’re running late.” We’re headed to Nantucket. A three-hour drive-n-ferry ride to my grandparents’ final summer cookout before they close up their home and head back to Manhattan.

  I hope they aren’t upset about the arbitration. More stress I do not need and blame these idiot nosebleeds on anxiety. At the first ER visit I’d marked ‘unknown’ on the form asking if anyone in my family has hemophilia. The second time at Boston General, the ER doctor sternly informed me I needed to pursue a rigorous set of pathology evaluations. Blood tests to determine why I’m so low on iron. I told my mom in an email. So far, I haven’t gotten a reply other than a FedEx box that contained a syringe of Quadferon and a bottle of colloidal minerals. And if she’s too busy to care, it’s not as if I can chase her down. She flies by the seat of her pants.

  Behind closed doors, my grandmother calls Mom ‘reckless.’ After graduating from college, my mother bolted to Europe. A trip abroad and tah-dah. She crash-landed back in Boston with a baby. For years, I was Gran’s little hobby. Like my mom, I’ve kept my intimate details on lockdown, akin to a miser of minutiae. I’ve learned to be greedy with personal factoids out of necessity. And what’s the saying? Necessity is the mother of invention. That rings loud and true, especially in my family. I’m what you might call the invisible sheep. I’m expected to walk softly. Do what’s proposed.

  It isn’t the year 1602, last time I checked—not that my grandparents would care. I’ve skirted their rules. Easier when I had a rock-solid marriage on the horizon and they weren’t in freak-out status. Until last week. Check failure on that front, thank you not, Spencer Donovan.

  As I go to move past Jon, he grabs me and crushes me within his arms. “Not too late for a hug.”

  “Never too late,” I squeal and thump him on the back, scrunching my eyes shut at missing him so much. “You’re a nut.”

  “I miss you, Phoenix. Terribly. Even with a Kleenex stuffed in your nostril.”

  “Oops. I forgot.” And laugh, pulling it out of my nose. “Then why do you stay away so long? A train ride. Not too tough.”

  “Girl, that rail runs in both directions,” he mocks me. “You need to come to D.C. I’ve got a job. You’re the freewheeling student.”

  “Student as in past tense. Freewheeling—not even close,” I retort, escaping from his grasp as I take shotgun.

  Jon flips me off as he stalks around the hood of my car, humming under his breath. Once inside, he opens his messenger bag, and laughs devilishly. “Then help me, help you.”

  “What have you done that you can’t explain over the phone?” I ask, eyeing him playfully. My second best friend has a propensity to believe in the impossible and does the outlandish at the drop of a hat.

  “You’re welcome, Ms. O’Malley.” He hands me a manila envelope. “There are three copies, and a telephone number. Your contact is Nora Swan. Call her tomorrow morning for directions. When it comes to A.D. Stone, it’s all about being ready to roll at the drop of a hat.”

  “A.D. Stone? Is that a nickname for one of the congressional buildings?” I shift my glance from him to the envelope, knitting my brow.

  “Senator Atticus Damian Stone. Hello?” he snorts. “For an O’Malley and a journalist, you are the most apolitical person I know.”

  “It’s a psychosis or something. The man’s name is Atticus? As in To Kill A Mocking Bird. That Atticus?”

  “Kinda.”

  “Oh brother. Is he an uptight Bible thumping hardliner?”

  Jon scoffs, “There’s no oh-brother about the man. Think Gregory Peck and sure. He is Atticus Finch done modern.”

  “Well then, I’m down for playing Scout,” I toss back. “So this job is for the good senator. I’ve got a contact but not an exact time for an interview? What kind of job is this? I thought it was working in the Hill cog.”

  “Hah! I wouldn’t do that to you. This spot is primo, frontline. The kind you’re going to owe me for, big time. Follow through on this one and you’ll thank me. Damn, will you thank me.”

  “Clearly, we see the world differently,” I mutter, opening the envelope and removing a stack of neatly stapled documents. Stamped with an official Capitol ‘received’ in red ink on the original. “You already completed a U.S. Senate internship application for me? How?”

  “Button your lip and read,” he instructs as he puts the car into gear.

  I hate driving and when Jon comes to visit, he’s behind the wheel; but, I’m rethinking that one. I want to do anything besides read whatever he spewed in an application and then forged my name. Short on time doesn’t supersede that I’m tired of all the lies and secrets. I want this to be a fresh start. Not another version of someone’s good intentions, suggestions, connections. Everyone collectively is strangling me, regardless of how well-meant.

  “First, I have to say, I’m peeved that you presumed to fill out my application. I can’t go to D.C. on a carpet ride fueled and constructed by misinformation. Especially not to the part near the Capitol. There are enough lies mushrooming on the Hill. Maybe this was a mistake,” I sigh. It’s enough to have to deal with the political leeches we’ll soon see at Gran’s.

  “This is no mistake. And have a little faith. I’m not mopping the floors at the Post, in case you’re wondering.”

  “Fine. I’ll read it and get back to you,” I snip then commence reading without pausing. From miffed, I’m moved, and the smile on my face gets wider and wider.

  “Well?” he demands.

  “Well, you’ve been on a mission. And did good. Thanks!” Chuckling, I squeeze Jon’s arm.

  “Thank me by getting the hell out of Dodge. Officially, this is ‘mission ge
t your ass in gear.’ After that moron Spencer showed his true colors, you owe no one but yourself. You’re drowning here and besides, I’ve got it going on. Just need my wingman.”

  “Correction. That’s wingwoman. I’ve got a vagina to prove it.”

  “Love bug, I’m not the one who needs to be reminded of that fact. Another of the myriad of issues we’ll address. One-by-one. I’ve got you in my sights. Nora is expecting your call. She’s crazy, on the verge of bridge jumping with her boss. Stone is a taskmaster like no other.”

  “I can handle the pressure.” I pat the application like it’s my newest friend. “And I promise. I’ll call Nora first thing.”

  “And if you need any more motivation, feast your eyes on your new boss.” He holds up his cell and winks.

  Laughing, I lower my gaze to his cell and freeze. Surprise implodes in my chest. A fusillade of shockwaves scatter, seizing-up my diaphragm. Paralyzed, I stare at the photograph of the gorgeous and unforgettable man. “Sweet Jesus,” I hiss.

  “What’s wrong?” Jon glances over at me. “Do you know him?”

  Unless Atticus Stone has a twin, I know the man, or rather his mouth. Don’t forget his hands, his body, and his ability to torment me for the last fifty-eight hours. But who’s counting.

  “Know him?” The shock of the truth hits me full force. Tongue-tied, I can’t find the words to admit this is the hunk from the club. “Is this photograph recent?”

  Last night, I’d told Jon that I met someone. More than met, that I’d made up for lost time in a dim hallway. Jon hadn’t crucified me—we commiserated. But if he finds out that the hot piece was—is—a congressman… That Senator Stone is the world’s most incredible kisser… What will my friend think? He’s gone to all this trouble.

  “You’re whiter than normal. Spill, Phoenix O’Malley. Stat,” he demands, lowering the music.

  Steeling my features, I dodge diving back into the pool of my shame at having lost my head in a dark hall. “Stone? No-o-o. Of course, I don’t know him. He’s just so handsome. I need a minute.” And a shot of Jack. It was true. I didn’t actually know him. He was a drive-by suck my lips off kiss. The guy I had the craziest, hottest sex with in my life. Minus the sex.

  Instead of coming out with my dirty little secret, I seal my lips, refusing to divulge the truth. I was clueless about that wolf from the club, but so what. I’m no longer clueless and what I need is a plan. How can I hoodwink a wolf? That would be just desserts.

  “No argument, the man’s stunning. And going places. Take a look.” Jon fishes out a magazine from his bag as he drives.

  It now makes sense why Stone seemed so familiar. I stare at him on the cover and murmur, “He’s that politician featured by Rolling Stone.”

  “The very same brilliant hottie. If I’d just graduated, I’d go intern for him in a heartbeat.”

  “Okay Einstein, why would one of the hottest senators want me on his team? He’s a front-runner, and probably has scads of interns—cough—chicks, lined up to do his bidding. This seems like a mistake.” The word pulsates inside my mouth and I recall what it was like to kiss Stone, pushed up against a wall with his fingers fisting my hair. Silently, I swoon.

  Jon shakes his head. “The good senator isn’t like that. Look beyond the PR hype. It’s hyperbole to jumpstart search engine algorithms. He’s strictly business. So much, he just sent his team packing to get back on the Hill and prepare for an important announcement he’s going to make next week. This player is the real deal. Not only is he killer in the looks department, he’s a Harvard grad, and the lowdown is the White House is fast tracking him. And you have connections from working on the Gazette that he can use. You two are alike. Stone was a little bit of a rebel rouser and stepped on some toes during law school.”

  “And Mr. Pretty Face needs my help?” I narrow my eyes at Jon.

  “Absolutely. Independents straddling the fence are prime targets. A Harvard camp you’ve got an in with, and one I put out feelers to—they’re also waiting for your call. All you need to do is set the wheels in motion. Get him a student talk on campus.”

  “You mean like what Bill Winston pulled off? Are you on medication?” It was true that I had a cache of connects from an internship I’d done at Harvard, writing a column for the Gazette. But as Jon already pointed out, I wasn’t into politics and my connections in that department were slim. “What’s so special about Stone—aside from being gorgeous, popular, privileged?”

  “That pretty face has got presidential candidate written all over his political agenda. And not just his. There’s talk coming from the Vice President’s office. Her running mate pulled out after Boone’s pact tweeted dirt on the man’s wife. Ryan is on the hunt for her own Veep. She’s gotta name one before heading to the GOP convention, and there’s a huge betting pool at the Post that Stone will be named.”

  So the man with panty-dropping looks a male model would kill for is more than a pretty face. I scan the internet, skimming the title of numerous articles and click the one from Time. His motto is ‘Get committed.’ It sounds like a double entendre. As I stare at the senator’s face, the skin over my body tightens. So much, a flash of heat doesn’t just creep up my neck—it flares. Stop acting ridiculous.

  Refocusing, I finish the article and revisit the senate intern application. On the back page, I skim the possible staff positions available on the subcommittees Stone chairs. There are a slew. Everything from war reform to the environment, foreign affairs, and foreign relations. During my last year at BC, I put in the hours, doing my stint of résumé padding internships. “Another tuck-n-roll, and for Mr. Popularity. I don’t know. You do realize I’ve graduated from school.”

  “But not from life. You’ll get real-world experience. Who says you have to work for Stone forever. Just get your foot in the door. Show you can do the job and transfer. It’s how things are done. And in case you forgot, it’s never too late to tack on a minor to your BC degree. Not too shabby and given you’re aversion to politics, if you knocked out an internship on the Hill, it’d help pave the way to a position on the Post.”

  “You’re rambling.”

  He laughs—not the pleasant kind. “Need I remind you for the umpteenth time, it’s time to cut bait and run? Grace and Michael Silver are just waiting to get their hooks in you. Are you going to let them?”

  “Not if I can help it!”

  “So find your own power source. One month is what that judge ordered. True or false?”

  “True.” He’s right. How could I forget? “Beggars can’t be losers. Is that what you’re saying.” Over the last semester, Jon has talked nonstop about getting me to D.C. as a Capitol Hill climbing fool.

  “Only because if you don’t have a plan in place, the Silvers will turn you into Monica and Janice. Is that what you want?”

  “My cousins are halfwits.” I shake my head, thinking about my family’s ability to put a stranglehold on my finances. Translation: career choices. Being connected to Silvers is a full-time task in warding them off. The alternative is unthinkable: ending up like my two cousins currently ensconced in Midtown banking.

  It wasn’t that Janice and Monica were vapid. They were brainiacs for all their suck-up ways. But categorically, they lacked spine to chart their own course by falling into the fold. That fold being my grandmother’s archaic view of life as the Silver matriarch along with her ability to meddle 24/7. My cousins are junior execs on Fifth Avenue with a choke collar around their necks. The vision of Spencer in a studded leather collar has bile creeping up my throat. I still had no solid proof that he or I was set up.

  Either, I get with the program or merrily, blindly hand over the reins to my grandparents. Shut up or put up? But what to do about Senator Hot Lips? I shake the envelope as if it’s my adversary. “And how is working for Stone any different? Instead of Gran’s meddling, I’ll be beholden to yours.”

  “Zip it! That isn’t a parallel. I listen to what you say
when you talk about hightailing it out of here when you’re done with school. You can’t argue. D.C. is just your cup of tea. Someplace fun and exciting—someplace happening. I get nothing in return except you being near me.”

  “Christ on a cracker,” I huff. “By tomorrow, I can’t suddenly become a political pundit junkie like you.”

  “XS, c’mon,” Jon softens his tone. “You pretend not to like politics because of your grandparents, but you do have an opinion. Why not learn what goes on behind the scenes—isn’t that your thing? Don’t let your pride get in the way.”

  He’s playing dirty. Using my obsolete nickname: ‘XS’ short for Phoenix Silver. A reminder I barely recall, tagging back to some of my high-flying days where I was one hot mess of excess. Rebellious with a razor-sharp ‘R’ before graduating high school. And afterwards, I’d had a few close calls of stumbling into dens of iniquity and catastrophe. A reason why when I met Spencer, his hipster ways didn’t come off as fake or boring. He’d anchored me when I’d toyed with risky temptation.

  Without asking, my grandparents had stepped in, twisted a few arms, and voilà. I was accepted to BC, nixing my dream to attend UCLA. Far, far away from here. One call and my college applications to UCLA and a host of other schools were denied or waitlisted. Without a choice, I stayed in New England and after the Spencer awakening, I vowed never again.

  But a backstage pass, a ticket to the behind the scenes with a man who will take one look at me and show me the door, it might not be me who needs convincing. What can I do to hide in plain sight when I meet Senator Stone? When in doubt, go blonder. Skeptically, I shrug. “I don’t know. You’re really over-the-top on this one.”

  “Precisely. And it’s a good thing. What have you got to lose?” He looks over at me, quirking his eyebrow, and then abruptly ruffles my hair.

  Besides my mind? But, he’s got a point.