by Layne Harper
Here goes nothing … “Aiden is black. He thought I didn’t want to be seen with a black man. That’s not true at all. It was his career choice that I didn’t think was good for me. You see, I already knew that Senator Jones was going to run for President. I knew that I was going to be his Chief of Staff if he won, and I was going to help run his campaign. I didn’t think I would be taken seriously if I was photographed hanging out with a Hollywood crowd.”
I remember that I haven’t shared exactly who Colin is, and the timeframe of this relationship. “Let me backtrack for a second. Do you know who Colin McKinney is?”
“Who doesn’t? I wanted to be him when I was in middle school and high school,” Graham replies, and I’m once again reminded of our age gap.
“Well, Colin McKinney is Caroline’s husband, and Aiden’s best friend, and he was Aiden’s biggest client at this time. Colin’s face was everywhere. He was the media golden boy during this point in the story.”
“Ahh … Makes sense,” Graham says as he kisses my forehead. His stomach muscles ripple under my touch. I place my hand on his lower abdomen longing to feel the sensation again.
After a few deep breaths on my part, I continue. “Aiden got very serious, very quickly. He wanted our story to work out like Caroline and Colin’s had. He asked me to move to L.A. I refused. My career was red-hot. I couldn’t be the Chief of Staff in California. His reasoning was sound; I’ll give him credit for that. Government jobs don’t pay anything like the private sector. He was making four times what I was. He made all the arguments … Move to L.A. and I wouldn’t have to work. Move to L.A. so we could start our life together. Move to L.A. and use my business degree to help him expand his firm.” I pause my story and push myself tighter against Graham, as if I’m trying to fuse our bodies together.
“I tried explaining to him that my career was not about money. I was honest, and said that I didn’t want children or to be married. I was already married to Senator Jones and his dream to be president. I don’t know if Aidan thought he could change me or convince me that I wanted the same things as him. I’m not sure. I felt we were two people speaking different languages.”
Graham’s body flinches when I mention marriage and children. I decide to not dwell on why, and plow on before I lose my nerve.
“He’d proposed before, but not in a serious way. It would come up in conversation, like ‘When we get married, you’re going to have to get better at sharing’—those kinds of things. My response was always something like, ‘That’s why I’m never getting married.’ I knew where his head was at.” I suck in a breath. “I found out that he was surprising me with a visit on Valentine’s Day. I knew that a formal marriage proposal was coming, so instead of meeting him and breaking up with him before he could propose, I blew him off. I accepted a date with another guy.”
I’ve never shared the details of this day with anyone. I’m embarrassed at my actions, and I cringe when I think about how I treated one of the best men that I’ve known.
“He called me and asked to see me. I made him seem like the bad guy for surprising me.” I pause and lean up against Graham’s chest, looking into his deep blue eyes so I can make him understand who the girl was in my story. “Graham, you have to understand,” I plead. “I hurt him. I purposely inflicted pain on him so he would get the point that I didn’t want to marry him, or move to L.A., or have his children. I was terrible. He left the stupid diamond engagement ring in a wilted tulip plant outside my front door.”
The tears start falling again, splashing against his chest. For years, I longed for a way to go back in time and handle that day differently. I would have still declined his proposal, but I would have given us the proper breakup that we deserved.
The room is silent, except for the sound of Graham breathing and my sniffles. I lie back on his chest, and he wraps his arm around my ribs. I long for Graham to say something—anything—to acknowledge my terrible behavior. His heartbeat remains unchanged, and there’s a stillness about him that completely confuses me. Finally, he says, “I don’t understand why you told me that story. Why did your actions years ago make you upset after what we just experienced downstairs?”
I had hoped that he could read between the lines, but I’m going to have to say it out loud. I take a deep breath, and spill my soul. “Because for the first time since Aiden and I ended our relationship which was a long, long time ago, I knocked the cobwebs off of my stone-cold heart and made love instead of having sex or fucking. And that scares me to death.” The words feel like they’re poisonous venom being extracted from my body. It was excruciating having them spill out of my mouth, but once they’re gone I instantly feel better.
Relieved.
Lighter.
Free.
I wait with bated breath for him to respond. Fortunately, I don’t have to wonder what his reaction will be for long. He positions me on top of his chest and uses his thumbs to wipe the remnants of my tears away. Then, he brings my mouth to his.
If his eyes are the windows to his soul then his lips are the key to his heart. He tenderly makes love to my mouth. Slowly and with great care, his tongue caresses my lips and teeth while his arms hold me to him. For the first time in my life, I let myself hope that this is my forever.
Chapter Ten
After my revelations, I didn’t want Graham to leave, and he didn’t want to go. He walked George and got him settled in for the night while I washed my face and brushed my teeth. My eyes were puffy from my crying, so I put Preparation H, otherwise known as hemorrhoid cream, on my bags. Graham found this hilarious as I explained that it’s one of the tricks of the campaign trail. Because of our late nights and early mornings, we all used it to look fresh for early morning interviews.
Graham asked if he could join me at my Monday morning boxing workout. I had already bared my soul to the man—why not just give every bit of myself away and let him enter my sanctuary? I texted Malik and told him that there would be a plus-one in the morning. I think he might have fainted because there was a long pause before he texted back K. He’s a man of few words.
“Hi Lou,” I sing as I slide in behind Graham in the back of the town car. If he’s shocked at the presence of my overnight guest, he hides it well. But then again, I guess that’s his job.
There isn’t a molecule of air between Graham and me as we make ourselves comfortable in the backseat. When Lou slides into the driver’s seat, I request that he turn on the Sons of Liberty radio program.
“Why are you listening to them?” Graham snaps.
“Why wouldn’t I listen to their show? They apparently have profound influence on an important voting demographic. It’s my job.”
The voices of the Sons of Liberty fill the car.
Graham shifts as if he’s sat on something hard. “These guys have a misogynistic attitude towards women. Don’t you have a staffer that can listen to this and just hit the high points for you in your next meeting?”
I turn towards him, crinkling my forehead. “You’re joking, right? Do you think my delicate personality can’t handle three frat boys who talk politics and about using women? Seriously, Graham …” I let the radio program fill the car.
I appreciate how gentlemanly he is, but come on. I’ve been exposed to far worse than the Sons of Liberty, and I’m still standing.
Solomon says, “In case you didn’t hear, we had an interesting weekend.”
McDougall chimes in. “It was nothing special … You know … Just had our first live television interview on a major Sunday morning political show. Another day at the beach for us …”
Revere says, “But we were second billing. Roan Perez, or as we call him on this show, Captain Caveman, revealed some points that might be in the President’s immigration reform bill.”
Graham breaks my concentrations. “Seriously, Rachael, can’t we just have a nice early-morning car ride to the gym?” He places his hand on my bare knee and draws circles with his pointer finger on my thigh. If he’
s trying to distract me from work, well, it’s working.
I look at him, studying his gorgeous face. It’s not fair that anyone looks this handsome in the morning. “I like your morning stubble.”
“Do you?” He grins.
“It’s damn sexy.” I reach up and run my hand across the tiny hairs, loving the way that they tickle my fingertips. He quietly moans as I caress his face.
My head fall against the cool leather seat and I close my eyes as his finger moves in a circular motion, higher and higher up my bare leg. He begins to whisper the dirty things he wants to do to my body in my ear. I’m flushed with desire by the time we arrive at the gym.
As we slide out of the car, I say quietly to Graham, “You sure know how to make a girl forget about her job.”
The smile he flashes my way can only be described as wickedly sexy.
Malik is waiting for us under the glare of the harsh fluorescent lights. Even after all the years that I’ve been training with him three days a week at five in the morning, the contrast between the dark pre-dawn sky and his bright gym makes me cringe.
“Morning, Rach,” he says with a beaming smile. “You must be Graham.”
The two shake hands as Graham replies, using his southern-boy charm. “It’s a pleasure to meet you.”
Malik wastes no time with niceties. He gets Graham’s knuckles taped while I start my warm-up routine. It’s always the same. First I do one hundred jumping jacks. Next, I perform side-to-side lunges. Then, I move on to jump-roping and stretching my arms.
Graham joins me for the end of my warm-up. He’s wearing the pair of athletic shorts and sweatshirt that he wore to my house yesterday. Much to my liking, the gym heats up quickly and he’s forced to shed the sweatshirt. Watching him jump rope could be considered pornography for me. Glistening chest … rippling muscles … the sound of his controlled breathing … Jesus Christ, this is his first and last time to work out with me. He’s too distracting.
Malik quickly evaluates Graham’s boxing abilities and has him hold the pads for me. He has taken MMA before so he knows how to block, dodge my punches and move with me. We dance together inside of the boxing ring while Malik calls out punch combinations.
This is a different way to get to know him. He’s so serious while sparring with me. His eyes are wide, and a concentration crease indents his forehead. He studies my moves as he uses his bent knees to absorb the shock of my force. His breathing technique is one that I’ve heard Colin use when he’s working out, three short breaths out and one long breath in. I land my punch combinations with the precision that Malik demands. There’s no doubt about it. Graham and I are competitive people, with neither one of us wanting to appear weak.
“Stop,” Malik calls. “Take a quick water break.”
Just as easily as we slipped into fierce competitor mode, we’re back on friendly terms. I lead us to our water bottles and towels that I’d placed by the metal folding chairs in the corner. “You don’t realize what a good workout you get just holding the pads,” Graham comments as he slams half of his thermos. His arm and chest muscles are swollen and covered in a thin layer of sweat that shimmers under the florescent glare.
Malik flexes his very large biceps. “How do you think I got these guns?”
I roll my eyes and reply, “Uncle Sam.”
Malik laughs. “Okay, Smarty Pants. I may have earned them in the Marines, but I’ve kept them by boxing.”
I down another gulp of water, and turn to Graham. “Just one more reason that boxing is better than MMA. Ready?”
“Let’s do this,” he replies. Then to Malik, he asks, “What’s Rachael going to do while you hold the pads?”
Malik chuckles and winks at me. “She’s going to hold the pads.”
Graham’s eyes widen, and his face pales. “She can’t hold the pads for me.”
I stop walking and place my hands on my hips. “Excuse me. And why can’t I?”
“Because you’re not bigger than a minute, Rachael. I hit hard. I don’t want to hurt you.” As if to further make his point, he crosses his arms over his chest.
Malik adds, “I think she’ll be fine.”
“See, my boxing coach thinks I can do it. Get in the ring, Jackson.”
He drops his head and shakes it back in forth. “I’m not okay with this. You’re like, maybe a hundred pounds. I’ve got at least ninety-five on you.”
“I’m tougher than I look.” I stomp my foot. Not the most mature move in the world, but he’s really getting on my nerves.
“Baby,” he cajoles. “I don’t have to box. I’ll just go do the speed bag. You work out with Malik.” His eyes shine with sincerity, which just pisses me off.
“Either get in the ring and box with me, or this is the last time you’re invited.” I threaten in my best dragon-lady voice.
As if Graham is wearing cement shoes, he enters the ring, shaking his head. I pick up the pads and get into the proper stance, flashing him a smile and yell, “Hit me.”
Graham picks up his arms and goes into fighter stance, and lands the wimpiest jab ever into my pad. I drop my arms and glare. “You’re wasting my time. Hit me.”
I pick up my arms and adjust the rectangular red strike-target that I’m holding.
He throws another jab with a little bit of weight behind it, but it’s nothing compared to what I know that he can do.
I drop my arms again and turn towards Malik. “He’s wasting my time.”
“Fine. I’ll throw one solid punch, and then I’ll spar with Malik. I’m not fucking hitting my girlfriend.” Girlfriend? I’m his girlfriend? Interesting …
I pick my hands up and get into my stance. “Ready.”
With lightning-quick speed he lands a combo into my pads of a jab, a cross, and an uppercut. I block and absorb his strikes with ease. He drops his hands. “Happy now?”
“Absolutely.” My chin drops to my chest, and I smile sweetly at him while I bat my eyelashes. “Let’s keep training just like that.”
He shakes his head and shoots me a look that makes me fear for my own safety, but he picks his arms up and gets in a fighter’s stance. Malik calls out punch combinations and coaches both of us as we move around the ring. This is how Malik and I spar. He doesn’t make it easy for me to land my punches. He dances, and I have to anticipate where to throw my strikes.
At first the only sounds that fill the air are Graham’s knuckles connecting with my pad, our heavy breathing, and Malik’s coaching. Soon, Malik’s words stop and it’s just the two of us mentally and physically connecting on a different level inside the ring. The rawness of the sport mixed with the mental conditioning—it’s why I love boxing so much. It is just as much of a dance as the tango is. It’s about reading your opponent’s eyes, focusing on their footwork, and learning their weaknesses. It’s chess in its purest form.
Our rhythm inside the ring is the same one that we share when we’re making love. It’s a physical and mental dance of two souls who recognize each other.
I note how different this boxing training session has been compared to the others. Instead of me fighting my inner demons inside of this ring, I’m lighter on my feet. This session, albeit very intense, has been joyful. I love getting to know Graham this way.
Malik interrupts our silence and calls out, “One more minute.”
His voice breaks my concentration just enough that my hand is able to deflect Graham’s punch but his fist still connects with my cheekbone. I hear the thud before white light clouds my vision as pain electrocutes my body.
Before I can register what’s happening, Graham has me cradled in his arms and is carrying me toward the training table by Malik’s office. He keeps repeating, “I’m so sorry, Rachael. I’m so sorry,” over and over again. The skin on his face is pale and clammy. His eyes are wide with horror.
“It was a glancing blow. You didn’t get me full-on,” I reassure him, but I can tell he either doesn’t believe me or isn’t listening because he keeps repeating
his mantra of “I’m so sorry.”
I’m carefully laid on the table as if I’m a breakable piece of bone china. As I struggle to sit up, Graham places his hand on my chest. “No, Rachael. You might have a concussion. Stay still.” He’s stoic as he begins examining my eye movements and studying the inflamed cheek.
Concussion? Is he serious? Yes, his punch connected with my cheek, but I don’t have a concussion. A bruise? Probably.
Malik places an icepack on my cheek, which Graham holds in place, studying my face to ensure that I’m all right. I look up at these two men. Malik knows I’m fine, and has a know-it-all grin on his face. Graham looks like he just accidentally killed his mother.
Shaking his head, he begins lecturing me. “I let you push me. I shouldn’t have sparred with you, Rachael. I knew better. You’re so petite. It’s not—”
“Enough already,” I cut him off as I struggle against him to sit up.
He cuts his eyes from mine, and mutters, “Damn stubborn woman.”
“Let me up,” I demand in an ice-cold voice. This is such a vulnerable position. I’ll feel more in control if I can at least be upright.
Reluctantly, Graham steps back, as if he’s giving me his blessing, but he’s shaking his head, and the scowl says that he’s not pleased. I sit up without any help and lean against the cold cement-brick wall. I reposition the icepack and hold it against my cheek. I look at both of the men and tartly say, “Shall I tell the press I was hit by my boyfriend?” I really like how that word sounds on my tongue. “Or that I had a gym mishap?”
Graham’s eyes draw together, and he leans forward onto the training table so our faces are no more than a couple of inches apart. “If you’re willing to publically admit that you have a boyfriend instead of just a friend, I’ll go with ‘While you were working out with your boyfriend, you had a gym accident.’” That one eyebrow cocks up and his dimple gleams. Ugh. He owns me, and calls my bluff. God, I like that about him. I try to smile, but grimace instead as my bruised cheek throbs in pain.