Tied: A Crown and Anchor Novella

by Kerri Ann

  Stepping up to the crowd as I make my way to the bar, I listen on, disgusted. The man cajoling about a young woman in his employ, Governor Jack Devoy of Nevada, quiets for a moment as I push past.

  “Chris,” he sings, drawing out the syllables. “So glad you could make it.” His tone is condescending. His smile is as fake as a three dollar bill, and his greeting is not without spite. As the host of this meeting, he’d tried to lose my invitation in the mail.

  We have a history.

  “So glad to see you again, Jack. I hope your wife is well?” I say as I take his hand, giving it a strong shake. If I tightened it up a bit too much, he never let on, but I’m almost positive I heard cracking as it crunched under my grip.

  He grimaces. “She’s great. Just great. And Elaine? How’s she?”

  Releasing his hand, I enjoy how he cradles it. “Fantastic. She’s at her own convention in Peru. Unfortunately, she couldn’t attend this soiree. Next time though, we’ll have to get the ladies together for a dinner. I believe Tish and Elaine are still in contact. I’m sure they can arrange something between them.”

  He attends less with his wife than I do. But his interns and PR manager, Fiona, attend these “soirees” quite frequently. Just another man using his power over others to garner control over their bodies and their careers. I may flirt with disaster, coming close to showing off my proclivities in a tight arena like politics, but I’d never use power over anyone to get what I want.

  Turning to the bartender, I give Jack my back. “What do you have in scotch?” I ask.

  “Glenfiddich, Speyside, and Bushmills, sir.”

  I lay a twenty on the table. “Double of Bushmills, neat,” I say with a tight smile. I might make it a quad shot to get over wanting to give Jack a good thumping.

  As the bartender moves off to grab my drink, I try to ignore the continuing conversation from Jack and his old boys club. I simply don’t fit in. These governors have had two or more consecutive terms and are also the sons of powerful political families. Me? I gained my position through the proper channels. I was elected by the people, not by the powerful few of the state. I guess that’s why I take it seriously. Well, the job, that is. The pompous meetings I deal with less admirably if I’m being honest.

  As their conversation drifts off to other less important bullshit, I down the warm liquid quickly. The burn feels fantastic as it coats my throat. I’d rather it was a sweet concoction, which makes me wish I could ditch this dick swinging affair quickly. I could use the sweet relief of a Cosmo or Manhattan. Sadly, the only way I think that will happen is if a fire alarm sounds in the next few hours.

  Laying the now empty glass back on the table, I request a refill. Laying a second twenty on the counter, the young man tops it up quickly. His smile speaks volumes as he runs his tongue along his teeth. He’s checking me out. He’s pretty in all the ways that affect me usually, but it’s not the time or the place. To keep my persona and status quiet, I need to get through this, then I’ll feign some major issue after lunch and run out to find a release.

  Turning from the bar with my freshened drink, I look for a familiar face and a friendly place to sit. Thankfully, seeing Bullet Kane, I know where to head. His real name is Beauford, a true Texan all the way. He’s so pro NRA that you’d think he invented the association.

  “Chris,” he calls out as I wander close.

  Bypassing a few other faces I know, each acknowledge me as I pass down the rows of chairs with winks, nods, and hellos. The odd one grumbles or remarks crassly, to which I ignore. These conventions are where we feign moments of tepid frenemies. Most of these men despise each other, and the few women that attend congregate away from the cigar loving, loud burping, rancid farting competitive moments.

  “Bullet,” I greet him as I walk up.

  Pulling out the seat beside him and tapping the cushion, he motions for me to take a seat. “Glad to see you made it out, son.”

  “Glad isn’t the word I’d use for this, but I’m here.”

  “Donna working out for you?” he asks as I take the offered seat.

  “She’s thorough, I’ll give her that.” Donna is my newest intern. Bullet felt she would fill the void after losing Carli. She has to be the oldest intern in the pools, but Donna does a great job. She just isn’t Carli. We don’t have a relationship other than that of boss and employee, and she doesn’t know about my family life. Work is all we confer on.

  As I settle in, I’m introduced to the other men at our table. Fester Colins from Alabama, Galen Kerr from Oklahoma, Steven Preacher from Alaska, and Colby Morgan from Missouri. Other than Fester and Bullet, each of us are new governors.

  For the next hour we talk about nothing political, but anything that has to do with war, our favored football and baseball teams, and Hollywood news. I’ve learned that my limited knowledge, or over knowledge, becomes a conversation piece all its own. I watch baseball and football only to check out the players, not to learn the game or figure out scores and stats, and if I start talking about Hollywood news, my fashion forward / gaydar comes out. I sparkle like a movie vampire.

  Leaning in close, Galen whispers, “Did you see who this morning’s speaker is? I hear he’s quite flamboyant.”

  “No, I hadn’t. Who is it?”

  “He’s that guy over there. CEO and an Environmental Specialist something or other for New York Power.” Pointing to a well-dressed, mid-forties, greying blonde man with a bright smile, I take him in. He’s a gorgeous piece of man candy. Hell, he’s beautiful. Simple black slacks—tapered of course—fitted plain snow white button down shirt, black tie with large dark blue dots, paired with a plain black leather belt and an unobtrusive buckle.

  “Really? What’s he going over again?” I ask, trying to feign disinterest. Pulling up the morning schedule, I look it over and find his name—Tyler Marshall, Con Edison CEO.

  “He’s here to give us better ideas for our sustainable resources. What he doesn’t get though, is what works in New York doesn’t work for Oklahoma.” Continuing on, he states a bit louder, “I’d have a better chance pushing the idea of burning farm manure than what these froufrou cities do.” Sipping his bourbon on the rocks, I take in the man beside me. Mid-fifties, wearing a simple ‘my wife bought my outfit.’

  Galen is the standard man’s man. I’m sure when it comes to unconventional lives and unconventional resources, he’s closed-minded. He’s been nice enough so far, but I doubt he’d be the guy to friend me after finding out I enjoy the same sex.

  Deciding not to make enemies of new friends right away, I smile and say, “Well shit is in abundance in this room. Maybe we can harvest it from the full of crap governors that grace us here.”

  “You won’t be hearing a nay from me on that,” Galen states, raising his glass in a toast.

  As the hour passes, I’ve had three more straight scotches amid this nice company. I should slow down or soon my tongue will loosen, my mind will blank, and I’m sure to slip up as I swoon over Mr. Marshall. When I start tossing dollars in the air, yelling ‘I’ll buy whatever you’re selling,’ asking him to take it all off, that’s when I should leave.

  Rising up slightly, I reach the middle of the table and pull the pretzels close. I don’t care if they’re gluten free or not. I’ll fart and burp instead of drawing attention to my man-tasy that’s up on the dais. I can’t seem to take my eyes off Mr. Tyler Marshall. He seems comfortable in his skin, relaxed and poised to command the room. Myself, I’m ready to peel out of here screaming like a queen.

  Do I wish Carli were here? You betcha. She’d keep me in check, and I need a check.

  Thinking on her, I pull out my phone to text.

  Me: I’m here alone. Happy?

  C: When did Versace catch fire?

  Me: Ha. Not funny. I’ve had too many drinks and there’s a sexy man. Hold me back.

  I know she’s laughing as she reads it, which makes it even sadder.

  C: I have the feeling this will be a long night
. Pucker up.

  Me: Witch.

  C: Whore.

  She’s done what I needed: made me lighten up. Now I’m relaxed, slightly inebriated, and ready to make it through the rest of this unnoticed, and unsuspectingly moon over the man on the stage.

  Turning my attention back to the MC, I watch as the lanky, greasy Jack Devoy as he smiling a leery grin that makes my stomach spin. Stepping up to the microphone, tapping it, “Could everyone take their seats, please. We’re about to start.”

  As the room quiets respectfully, some take their seats, while others grab another drink quietly at the bar, or step out of the room with a phone poised at their ears. Our table settles as we all turn our attention to Jack.

  “Thank you for attending this weekend. We’ll get the bullshit out of the way quickly. The symposium portion will only take up the early afternoon as we had a cancellation for the later session. But I’d like to see as many of you as possible tonight for the dinner. We’ve been lucky enough to have it curated by a Michelin five-star chef from right here within this hotel. For those of you that’ve never had it, that means it’s not gator or squirrel on a stick.”

  Prick.

  “Just because I’m from a Southern state doesn’t mean I hunt my meals. Unless it’s dusty Arizonan jackoffs like you,” Fester states rather loudly.

  Drawing the attention to our table, the beautiful man on the stage turns his eyes our way. Noting how stunning his eyes are—not Jack’s, Tyler’s—I have a hard time making myself look away.

  “I’m sorry. Did I say something wrong?” Jack calls over the loudspeaker, directing his question to Fester.

  “Not if you sleep with one eye open,” Fester responds, grinning from ear to ear.

  Oh, this shit is going sideways fast.

  Jack straightens to his scrawny six foot frame before offering a rebuttal. “Clearly, you forget we can bury you in the desert where only the coyotes will be your friends.”

  Jumping in lightning quick, Bullet quips, “Don’t piss off the states that can bury you in the mountains, youngin’.” Smiling at Fester, he continues. “And, I might add, that hold more NRA members per capita than your whole cactus lovin’ state combined.”

  Trying my damnedest to stay out of this, I continue to work on the end of my scotch while devouring pretzel after pretzel. This snack of choice is about to cause me hours in the gym, but it’s better than involving myself.

  Almost blue in the face with fury, Jack shouts out, “At least I don’t fuck my livestock!”

  “That’s it. Someone hold my Colt before I shoot something scrawny.” Bullet, placing his gun on the table, turns his chair and stomps off towards the stage.

  “This is going to be good,” Galen clips off. He turns his chair, crossing his feet at the ankles and showcases his pearly whites in a monster grin.

  “Bullet, you know this ain’t right.” Fester clips off, shaking his head and rising out of his chair slowly. The older man looks ready to throw down, and I’m wondering if the rest of us at the table will be needed as security detail to the southern gentlemen.

  Passing our seats, Fester picks up Bullet’s gun. “A Texan never leaves his gun behind.” Cocking the Colt semiautomatic pistol, he then cuffs Galen on the head in passing. “Get off your ass. This is worth the broken nail, Princess.”

  I have a hard time not laughing at the audacity of the older governor and the balls that must be made of hardened steel, as I watch Fester and Bullet tromp across the room still cussing and cursing out Jack.

  CHRIS

  This wasn’t my job anymore, and it sure as shit wasn’t my job today.

  But…

  Here I am, stepping towards the stage before Fester puts a bullet in Jack, and before Bullet has a heart attack. Sitting at our table earlier, I noted how red his face is naturally. His blood pressure must be through the roof. Greasy foods and heavy beers must be the only thing in his diet.

  “Come on, Galen. We can’t let those two take on Jack.” Lifting out of the chair, he pushes it into the table. “Plus, if I go down, you’re about the next biggest thing to take their old asses out of here before the police show up.”

  Rolling his eyes, Galen downs the remainder of his drink and finally joins me as I walk down the aisle. “If you go down, we need more than police. We’ll need a crane.”

  Snickering at the reminder that I’m a big guy, we continue on towards them.

  “Come on, smart-ass. We need to save the old folks from their own destruction.”

  While all this is happening, most of the attendees have scattered, or are watching from a distance with camera phones clicking away. This will be uploaded in moments if things get totally out of hand. Unfortunately for us, Jack is a dumber jackass than I originally thought. Tossing the microphone to the side and leaving the stage, Jack pokes Bullet in the chest. Fester steps up beside Bullet, flanking the skinny idiot.

  Coming up short beside them, “You little cum shot,” Bullet’s seethes. His voice is calm, but there’s a hint of menace. I’m glad he left the gun behind now. “You ain’t nothin’ but one little state, and a shoddy one at best.” Winding his hands tightly together, Bullet is poised and at the ready to slam his wizen fists into Jack’s flawless botoxed face. If it weren’t for Fester holding his arms, it would’ve already happened.

  And I was worried about my possible drunken antics today.

  Striding up, I listen as the two toss insults about the size of the states they control, the best places to lose someone, and what it feels like to pull the trigger to defend their own. Been there, done that. I have the scars to prove it and I don’t want to add to my wounds.

  Normally I’m pretty good at defusing situations, but I’m taking my chances with an armed Southerner. It’s not what I had in mind coming to New York. Hoping I can calm him enough to drag him away without incident, I place my hand on Bullet’s shoulder, “Bullet, man. He’s not worth this.”

  “I’m not backin’ down on this, son. So either get out of the way or I’ll take pot shots at him through your big ol’ black ass. Because this pansy ass,” pointing to Jack, “gay, crossdressing, makeup wearing, botox lovin’, disco dancin’ cockstick is about to get what’s comin’ to him.”

  I turn to Fester. “Help me on this, please?”

  Shaking his head, he gives me a toothy grin that tells me he’s about to side with Bullet. He lifts the deserted semiautomatic, tapping it on side of my shoulder. “Either you’re in the way, or about to get out of it, son.”

  “I can’t let you shoot him.” I look over my shoulder at Jack. “No matter how much he deserves it.”

  “Come on, let’s get another drink,” Galen states, swaying to some nonexistent music.

  “Jesus H. Christ, sit the fuck down. You’re gonna hurt yourself, son,” Fester says calmly, pushing Galen in the chest. It doesn’t take much, as his ass falls into a chair behind him.

  Looking back at the two wizened warriors, I say, “Fester, Bullet, come on. Sooner or later the police will arrive. The last thing you need is an arrest. You can’t want this in the news.” Thinking of all the things I could end up on the news for, this isn’t one of them.

  Bullet reaches back, receiving the offered handgun from Fester. Smiling up to me, he points it with a ‘move, son,’ and clicks the safety off.

  “In for a penny,” Fester states, grinning wide. They really will shoot me to get at Jack. This is crazier than I expected.

  I decide to either do something or end up dead. “Fuck it,” I mumble, reaching for the loaded Colt. Pulling it out of Bullet’s hand fast, I snap the cartridge out, empty the chamber and click the safety back on in the blink of an eye. I hand Bullet back the now secure gun.

  I turn to face Fester. “Don’t make me do it twice.”

  Holstering his own weapon, he raises his hands in defeat. “Chris,” he says seriously.

  “Son, that was fucking fast.” Fester states. I’d almost laugh, but Bullet made me do something I hate to do. I tou
ched a gun. Yeah, I’m not that old, but I swore I wouldn’t do it again after retiring from the military.

  “Can we all agree to disagree?” I train my sights on Jack. “You take a seat, shut up, and get on with your symposium. And you two, go back to the chairs and let’s get through this afternoon affair without arrests or bloodshed.”

  Before looking back at the two elderly men grinning like fools, I find myself shaking my head, exasperated at the whole debacle.

  “I’m going to grab another well-deserved drink. Please sit nicely and listen to the presentation without taking offense to everyone who insults your livestock.”

  CHRIS

  For the rest of the afternoon, Fester festered, Bullet mumbled about his dislike for Arizona as a whole, Galen gawked at a waitress, and the room went back to cordial. Surprisingly, I found the presentation from Tyler Marshall very entertaining, and not in the way I originally assumed. He was informative, well-versed in each state’s unique faults or challenges, and he wasn’t flustered by the whole ‘OK Corral’ moment.

  I guess it wasn’t a shootout at high noon, but it was a ‘whose cock is smaller’ and ‘who is the be the biggest rooster in the room.’ After Mr. Marshall completed his presentation and excessive questions were addressed, we sat down for that curated meal.

  “I’ll give Jack kudos for getting one thing right today.” Burping quite loudly, Bullet wipes the edges of his mouth, sipping another straight bourbon. Most men would already be on the floor, a drooling mess, but Bullet is only buzzed.

  Galen tried to keep up, but exhibit A is the drooling mess. He’ll require an escort to his room. The other governors that were at our table originally, left shortly after the gun hit the table, leaving it just the four of us. I didn’t really care, as I actually had a great time.

  I’m not telling Carli that though. She’ll use it as ammo for the next time I’m being a pussy and wanting to stay home in my One Direction jammies.

  Mr. Marshall stayed through dinner, making rounds through the tables, talking about his unique approach. In all honesty, I’ve eyeballed him the whole time—nonchalantly of course. His style is understated, and the way he carries himself is with a comfort in his own skin. There are days I envy others who can do that. Today is one of those. I’m jealous of his subtlety. I’ve always hid. I’m six-six, an ex-Marine built like a linebacker. I have to tailor all of my clothing to fit my arms and quads, and I have the outward perfected persona of being sexually attracted to women because I have to. Because society still pictures a guy like me as the ‘man’s man.’ Stereotypically slotted as the burping, farting, beer belching and pork rind eating guys who appreciate a woman’s tits, cooch and ass. Oh, I appreciate a lovely ass, but not a woman’s.