Dirty Defiance (Filthy Series Book 3)

by Chelle Bliss

  “How so?”

  “I’d marry a man for whom a life with me and our children was enough.” She sits back against the bench. “A man who didn’t want to be powerful or influential. Who wanted to coach little league and go to ballet recitals.”

  I think back to all the times my mom sat alone in the stands at my sporting events. The parent-teacher conferences she attended by herself. The dinners where there was an empty seat at the table.

  We were often on the go. That was our life, just like my life is now.

  “Tell me about Ben,” I say, trying not to think about how deeply her words are impacting me.

  “Oh.” Her cheeks turn pink as she smiles. “He’s a retired physics professor. He loves sailing and cooking.”

  “Sailing? Have you been sailing with him?”

  “A few times.”

  I nudge her and laugh. “I can’t believe you’ve been holding out on me. A physics professor who sails? Does he have his own sailboat?”

  “He does. He was born into a wealthy family, but teaching has always been his passion.”

  “And do you feel…magic with him?”

  She wraps her arms around herself, and a grin spreads across her face, lighting her up. “I do. For the first time in my life, just being together is enough. When he looks at me, I feel like there’s nothing more in the world he wants at that moment. And I feel the same way about him.”

  I fight back happy tears. “Mom, I’m so thrilled for you. You deserve that kind of love and happiness.”

  Her smile softens. “So do you, Reagan. You know I adore Jude, but sometimes I wonder if the two of you are paying the same price I did. Giving up too much of yourselves in the name of public service.”

  I look down at my lap. It’s like she can read my mind. I’ve been having the same thoughts lately.

  “I don’t mean to overstep.” She puts her hand over mine. “I just want you guys to stop and smell the roses, so to speak. I want you to do better than I did.”

  “I know, Mom. I’m feeling it too. There’s this constant feeling that we aren’t doing enough. That we need to get up earlier to start campaigning, stay out later, add one more event…”

  “It never ends.” She shakes her head. “Even after your father won his Senate seat, the campaigning never ended because he had to keep it. And if Jude becomes governor…that’s an even bigger stage. With more pressure. Seeing the stories in the news about this woman accusing him of harassment…” She sighs heavily. “It’s been hard for me, Reagan. I never want you to go through what I did.”

  “But Jude didn’t touch that woman. I know him.”

  “I don’t believe for a second that he did. But there’ll be more accusations, and then there are the people trying to buy him off. It never ends.”

  I nod, closing my eyes and breathing in the ocean air. “I thought that if it wasn’t me holding office—if it was Jude, whom I believe in with everything I am—that it would be easier.”

  “It’s hard to see someone you love dragged through false accusations. Worked into the ground.”

  “It is. But I love him. And public service is where his heart is.”

  My mom’s eyes flood with emotion. “Just don’t forget that it matters where your heart lies, too. It matters every bit as much.”

  She puts her arm around me, and I lean into her. It’s been a long time since I considered what I really want. I’m part of a “we” instead of a “me” now, and Jude is my whole world.

  But if he’s my world, don’t I have a right to want more of him than I’m getting? To not want to share him with so many people?

  Passionate nights together have become a stolen luxury, but why? I need to find a way to talk to my husband, but there’s a major communications barrier thanks to his security team.

  I want to tell Jude it’s not that I want more, but that I want less. Less of everything that isn’t just him and me. My mom’s cancer scare and our conversation today reminded me that life can be short.

  I never want to look back and wish we’d set aside career goals to focus on the only thing that truly matters—us.

  22

  Jude

  “Jude, did your wife leave you because of the accusations against you?”

  A reporter jams a microphone in my face, and I silently glare at him. His eyes widen as I stare him down.

  “I’m late to a meeting with constituents.” I put my hand on the microphone and ease it away from my face. “Excuse me.”

  “Jessica Culbertson says you tried to pay her off so she’d rescind her allegations against you. Is that true?”

  I stop walking, conscious of the cameras filming me. My instinct is to tell this guy to fuck off, but I can’t.

  “No, it’s not true. Beyond the photo taken at a rally with Miss Culbertson that’s been circulating, I’ve never seen or spoken to her.”

  “The photo where you touched her inappropriately?” A female reporter arches her brows at me in challenge.

  “I did no such thing.”

  “What does your wife think about the new photos showing you in a hotel room with another woman?”

  I hide my amusement at the continuing assumption that it’s another woman in those photos. “My wife and I are good. I’ll let her know you guys are concerned about her, though.”

  “Is it true you’re getting advice from your father-in-law, Stan Preston?” a reporter I can’t see barks out.

  “Guys.” Tyson intervenes, putting an arm out to hold back the reporters. “He’s late for a meeting with constituents. Let him through.”

  My meeting is with a group of environmentalists. When I walk into the room, several are already fired up.

  “I’ll vote for Big Bird before this guy,” I hear a guy mutter to someone next to him as I walk by.

  So, it’s not exactly a friendly crowd. But that’s okay. I represent everyone in the state of Illinois, and that means I’ll never stop listening to them.

  “Thanks for coming, guys.” I slide into place behind the lectern and take the bottle of water Tyson passes me. “I figured we could just go right into questions.”

  “Why was the media barred from this meeting?” a woman demands from the front row.

  “Because all their questions are about my personal life, not the environment. Your concerns would get drowned out.”

  She shakes her head. “If there’s no one recording what you say, you can promise us anything, and no one will ever know you said it.”

  Several people in the crowd nod.

  “Look, you guys have known me for more than six years now. I think I’ve proven to be a man of my word. I’m not gonna tell you what you want to hear. Mostly, I came here today to listen. But if you want to record this meeting, I have no problem with that. I just don’t want reporters in here yelling out questions that have nothing to do with what your group is about.”

  The woman takes out her cell phone and points it at me, apparently deciding to record.

  It’s gonna be a long day on the campaign trail.

  I spend my fifteen-minute afternoon break in a small bunk on the campaign bus, the curtain closed around me as I text with Reagan.

  Me: This would be the perfect time for some stress relief. I’m just sayin’…

  She sends back a laughing emoji. What the fuck? Am I the only one dying from lack of sex? I type out another message.

  Me: Any idea when you’ll be back?

  Reagan: Not yet.

  My skin tingles with the same awareness I used to feel in combat situations. Something’s not right. But I can’t come out and say that, because if our conversation is being monitored, something could be misconstrued and used against me.

  But I have to say something.

  Me: You doing okay, babe?

  Reagan: I’m great. Getting a tan and learning to cook some of my mom’s favorite recipes. How about you? Busy?

  She’s campaigned before, and she has access to my schedule. She has to know I’m working m
y ass off. And I selfishly wish she wanted to be here with me.

  Me: Yeah, very busy.

  Reagan: How are the new staffers working out?

  Me: Pretty good overall.

  Reagan: You seem distant. Is everything okay?

  I seem distant? She’s the one working on her tan in Florida and not seeming to miss me at all while I’m lying in a hot, coffin-sized bunk with a raging boner.

  I try to cool my resentment. Reagan deserves a break, and she doesn’t spend enough time with her mom.

  Me: I’m okay. Just tired. And missing you.

  Reagan: I miss you too. There’s so much I want to talk to you about. I’ve had a lot of time for thinking about things here.

  Me: Such as?

  Reagan: Nothing I can say right now.

  Fuck. I’ve had it with not being able to have a real conversation with my wife. Not to mention my frustration over not being able to touch her or even lay eyes on her.

  I’m fighting hard in this race, because I want her sacrifices for me to be worth it. I want her to be proud of me. But I don’t want to do it alone.

  Before I proposed to Reagan, I thought long and hard about spending the rest of my life with her. Would I grow restless? Would I miss the freedom of the unmarried life?

  I decided she was worth taking the leap for. Since the moment I laid eyes on her, she’s been the only one for me. And surprisingly, marriage suited me well from the beginning. I’ve never felt restless or in need of space.

  Quite the opposite, actually. I don’t just want my wife with me, I need her. Even if that does make me a selfish asshole. She grounds me and is the only one I can completely let go in front of.

  I type out the words I can’t hold on to anymore.

  Me: I need to see you.

  Reagan: Is everything okay?

  Me: Things are fine, but I need to see you. I’ll fly down there if you don’t want to come here.

  Reagan: It’s not that I don’t want to see you, babe. You know that, right? I’m just trying to get in some quality time with my mom.

  Me: I know. But can you spare one night for me?

  Reagan: Sarcastic much?

  Me: Reagan. When and where? I need a night with my wife.

  Reagan: Okay. Let me ask my mom what her plans are.

  My dick is straining uncomfortably against my fly as I stare at the beige ceiling of the bus. I hate this feeling of not being in control. But my hand isn’t gonna cut it anymore. I need to fuck my wife.

  The three dots that signify she’s writing a text appear on the screen, and I stare at them as I wait.

  Reagan: Saturday night. I can fly home to Chicago. Can you swing a night at our place?

  Me: Yes.

  Reagan: Okay, I’ll text my itinerary so you can pick me up if possible.

  My aggravation grows as I keep reading her messages, which sound the same as what she’d send to any lesser-known acquaintance. My balls look like a fucking Smurf, and she’s cool as a cucumber.

  I fire off a hotheaded message.

  Me: Thanks for the favor. Looking forward to seeing you too.

  Reagan: What’s that supposed to mean?

  Me: You could at least act like you’re excited to see me. It’s been almost two weeks.

  Reagan: Of course, I’m excited to see you. We’re married, though. I didn’t think I had to say that every time I’m going to see you.

  Me: What, married people don’t excite each other anymore?

  Reagan: Jude, you’re being ridiculous.

  Me: And you’re being indifferent.

  Reagan: You’re just looking for a fight.

  Me: No, I’m looking for my wife to give a shit that she hasn’t seen me in two weeks.

  Reagan: You know why I needed to be here. And you’re busy with the campaign.

  Me: Which I thought you wanted to be part of.

  Reagan: I have been part of it. But I’ll be damned if I’ll stand there looking starry-eyed every time you speak just so photographers can take pics of me “standing by my man.”

  Me: Yeah, God forbid.

  Reagan: You’re pissing me off.

  Me: I have to go. I’ve got a thing in 5 min.

  Reagan: Great timing. Sweep in, be a dick, and then sweep out.

  Me: Check my fucking schedule if you think I’m lying.

  Reagan: I’ll talk to you later.

  Me: Thanks for working me into your busy tanning schedule.

  Reagan: Fuck you, Jude.

  I toss my phone onto the thin, lumpy mattress and blow out a breath. I was being a dick, I admit it. But I can only take so much.

  She’s in Florida, apparently not missing me much, and “thinking about things.” I need to lay eyes on her and see that’s she’s still mine in every way.

  Just like I know I married a stubborn hard-ass of a woman, she knows she married a brooding hard ass of a man.

  When I push the curtain aside on the bunk and slide out, I look over and see Tyson and Vanessa sitting at the table.

  Christ. I know I was only texting with Reagan and not talking, but I feel invaded as Vanessa eye-fucks me.

  Campaign life is a grind. The one person I want close is too far away, and everyone else is constantly up my ass.

  Somehow, Vanessa’s managing to appear focused on the strategies she’s reviewing with Tyson and me, but I’m pretty sure it’s her toes tracing along my calf under the table and not Tyson’s.

  “Uh…” I clear my throat and move my leg away. “This looks good except I don’t know about moving criticism of the budget to the top of my messaging. Shouldn’t we stay positive with our main talking points?”

  “This is polling as the issue voters are most concerned about,” Vanessa says. “And we can mix in some positive with the negative by talking about fiscal responsibility.”

  I nod. “Okay. Tyson, can we adjust my stump speech before the next stop?”

  “Yeah, we’ve got time.”

  I return to reading the charts in front of me. Within a couple seconds, Vanessa’s bare foot is tracing its way back up my leg.

  “Tyson, can you see if there’s a place nearby to get some highlighters?” she asks. “I meant to pick some up earlier, but I ran out of time.”

  “Uh…” He looks at me, knowing I don’t want him to leave.

  Vanessa looks back and forth between us. “What? Am I missing something?”

  “We’ll be fine without highlighters,” I say. “Let’s finish up.”

  “I don’t see why it’s such a big—”

  I cut her off. “Look, Vanessa. I’m not willing to be left alone with you.”

  She furrows her brow. “Are you serious?”

  I rub my temple. “Yeah. First of all, get your foot off my leg.”

  Her cheeks redden as she slips her foot away.

  “Second of all, I’m a happily married man. If you’re gonna work on my campaign, keep your hands and feet and whatever else to yourself. Understood?”

  Vanessa’s face flushes an even deeper shade of crimson. “I think you misunderstood, Jude.”

  “Were you thinking that was Tyson’s leg, then?”

  She looks away. “I came here to help. I didn’t need this job. I have plenty of others who will hire me in a second.”

  “Leave, then.” I shrug and push away the stack of papers.

  “Is that really what you want?”

  Tyson speaks up. “I think it’s for the best that you go. We’ll pay you the full amount agreed to.”

  Vanessa huffs before sliding out of the booth and leaving without another word. As soon as she’s gone, Tyson and I just look at each other for a few seconds.

  “I’m taking Saturday and Sunday off,” I say.

  He rolls his eyes. “Perfect. We just lost our strategist, the election’s less than a month away, and you’re taking the weekend off.”

  “Yep.” I get up and take a bottle of water from the fridge. “Ready to rewrite my speech?”

  Tyson’s
weary sigh is my only answer.

  23

  Reagan

  As soon as I walk in my front door, it hits me how much I’ve missed home. I breathe in the fresh scent of wood from the recent refinishing of the floors on our main level.

  Much as I’d like to curl up on the couch and relax, I need to get ready for Jude’s arrival later. I took an early flight, and he can’t get here until early evening. That gives me a couple hours to get my hair blown out and have all my overgrown areas waxed.

  Tonight will be a reminder of what I wish we could have all the time. Part of me wants to talk to Jude about my feelings, but I’m not ready yet. He’s in the thick of campaigning, and I don’t want to upset him. Besides, I’m pretty sure he’ll have other things in mind when he gets here.

  Our text fighting won’t lessen his sexual appetite for me. If anything, it’ll heighten his desire to put me in my place the only way he can.

  Just the thought makes my knees weaken slightly. None of the men I was with before Jude hold a candle to him in the bedroom. He’s like a drug I can never get enough of.

  I manage not only a trip to my salon but also a stop at a lingerie store for a sheer red bra and panties that lace up in back with a ribbon. I smile as I slip on yoga pants with a hole in one knee and an old campaign shirt of mine from when I was a state rep with a stain on front.

  I’m going to have some fun with Jude tonight. In more than one way.

  “Hey,” he calls out from the front entrance. “You here, babe?”

  “Hi, yeah.” I greet him as I jog down the stairs.

  I get to the living room, and we just look at each other from about ten feet apart for a few seconds, both of us sizing up whether we’re still mad at each other.

  Finally, I see Jude move in my direction, and I move toward him at the same time. We meet, and he wraps me in his arms.

  I close my eyes and bury my face in his neck as he holds me. God, I’ve missed him. The faint, sporty scent of his body wash smells as much like home to me as our newly sanded floors.

  “Apology accepted,” I murmur.