by Alex Elliott
Well, that shut Stone up. I bet not too many people stand up to him. Not on the super ego trip he’s on. Hired a powerful PR team—the one Obama used. I read plenty on the senator, besides Jon giving me a dossier to study. Stone not only went to law school at Harvard, he double majored in law and poly-sci. Served as an editor for Law Review and graduated second in his class. Played soccer—goalie. Worked in the D.A.’s office; and then, he must’ve gotten the seven-year itch and went private—a top firm. He specialized in white-collar crime but offered pro bono to some high profile cases, giving him access to courting the press. And court he did. Youngest senator elected. He’s from Atlanta. His father is from an old Southern family with bloodlines that extend for generations—like mine—and like me, he didn’t fall in line. Bennett Stone marches to his own drum—then and now.
I’m jarred out of my mental ramblings, when he replies, “I didn’t mean any disrespect.”
We stare at each other for a protracted beat, the muscle along his jaw pulsing and his voice is low, hoarse, and makes me think of more mind-blowing sex. Or how he’d speak when he’s close to coming. All my instincts don’t just whisper, they scream ‘back the fuck away.’ This dude isn’t anything but trouble. He’s a wolf in political trappings and the type of man a girl can’t forget. And after one kiss, this girl hasn’t.
We gaze at one another and I can’t shake my impression of Stone. So blistering and far reaching, it’s just like the research indicates—first impressions instantly formed, are hard to shake, and mine of him were galvanized the first time I opened my eyes and laid eyes on him. Now, seated next to him, this raw sexual chemistry he unleashes inside me expands and expands.
If I’m not careful, he’s going to see that I’m nothing but a fan girl, someone he kissed, and solidify his impression of me as a mistake and a ditz. Never mind D.C., I won’t make it one night if I don’t get serious and fast.
“None taken,” I reply coolly. My head is back in the game.
“I don’t recall getting your resume,” he replies with a cutting stare.
He’s over-the-top, I remind myself but at the moment, he’s also the doorway to career connections independent of my family. It isn’t immoral to be turned on by the man. Hell, he’s walking sin, sex, and decadence. As long as I recognize the potential danger, then I can reel in my attraction, stow it, and do what needs to be done.
With my newfound sense of competence in place, I reply, “No? Well, I have a copy right here.” I smile, bring my case to my lap, and flick the locks, noticing Stone’s focus is directed to my fingers.
“‘X-S-K.’ Isn’t it supposed to be X-K-S...What’s the ‘X’ stand for?” His question actually floors me.
XS. The initials are a play on excess. Should I admit my nickname after he’s chastised me on being the anti-Christ of steadfast? Worse, after he’s already had his fingers caressing down the cheeks of my ass and crushing his cock in between as I almost begged him to fuck me in a dark hallway.
“Generally, yes. But this was a gift,” I say. “My given name is Xavia.” Considering Stone, I rub my tongue piercing, a small nude ball against the roof of my mouth. Nope, better not relay the truth. He doesn’t need to know my past preoccupation with partying hard.
Fumbling with my computer bag, I open it and remove a neatly stapled packet. Thank you obsessive-compulsive tendencies—something both Jon and I share. I have three complete copies of my Capitol Hill intern application, resume, and writing sample ready to go. Handing him one, I observe him from under my lashes as he reads over my answers, noting aloud with a smirk that my G.P.A. is 3.99. He rapidly scans the application, then switches to my resume and from what he remarks on, I follow where his interest detours. He comments on my running track and being president of the thespian club; but I can’t tell if he thinks those are noteworthy or not. I feel like I’m sitting in front of my family, having my life picked apart.
“You act? On stage?”
“I’ve done my share of plays.” I’m three snaps away from slapping that smug smile off his arresting face as he dissects me. The less he knows about me personally, the better. The man isn’t just panty-dropping gorgeous, he’s so over-the-top confident, and then there’s his goddamn arrogance that could choke a rhinoceros. Not helping when all I want to do is climb onto his lap, bind him with his tie, and tell him to just be quiet.
“Which play was your favorite? Looking at your resume, you not only have acting experience, but most of your internships have been in journalistic posts covering the arts.” His question shakes me from my fantasy that is getting hotter and harder to stop imagining him minus his clothes.
From his comment, it’s obvious he actually read my resume. I think, why not. Just be honest—about my acting experience—not my gutter thoughts. “You Can’t Take it With You. I played Alice.”
“Interesting.” He nods with a quirk to his lips.
“You know of it? I mean really.”
“I do. There’s lots going on onstage...all at the same time. Like an orchestra—or jazz dissonance. Purposeful and reminds me of political tag-teaming, on the Senate floor. About a family with hidden agendas and talking nonstop that sounds like buzzing. So, did I nail it?”
“You did,” I say. It’s true. He’s not just agreeing to be amiable. All the actors were on stage, talking all at once. Focused pandemonium. I felt alive.
“What questions do you have? For me?” Something must have shifted. His tone isn’t as antagonistic but still, he’s doing that blistering staring thing.
I’d be stupid to put aside that there’s something highly enigmatic about him that has me melting like a sugar cube in hot water. There’s more to his popularity and dark good looks...yeah, a hell of a lot more than what blazes across the media. A depth to him—or a wound—and it’s that undercurrent within Stone that has me mystified. A paradox I want to solve.
“The war?” I ask. “What are your thoughts on reform?” One of his committees, and I rattle it off hoping to strike pay dirt. I’m against the war but doubt that truth would buy me a vote of his confidence. Not from a politician who has to support it.
“Don’t let the war drag you under,” he says. “That’s off the record, of course. It’s a fiasco and no one is happy about it. But tell that to the oil companies. Make a wave and you’ll be a one-hit wonder at the Capitol. Gone and all too soon forgotten. Oh hell, that’s not what someone with big dreams wants to hear. Is it?”
His candid response more than surprises me. “Believe it or not. Yes. It is,” I say softly, watching how his eyes seem both open and tired. Then all too soon they’re shuttered again.
“The truth has many sides and what you hear from me is one-sided. Perhaps, I’m not the best example of Hill veracity.” And with that said, he lowers his gaze to my legs, and then he closes his eyes, shaking his head.
In this backseat, a second ago, he misplaced his political persona from being up on a pedestal, beyond reproach to very earthy. Sensually provocative. And in that instant, I hunger to let go—and trace the stubble over his jaw. Kiss his full pouty lips. Xavia! Focus!
“I’d like to hear an insider’s perception. Especially yours. I’m here to see what really goes on behind closed doors. What can I do to help?” I ask, refusing to let go of this potent part of him that apparently, he keeps sequestered.
“Depends on what you’re looking for,” he says, leaning his elbow on the door and pressing his fingertips to his temple as our eyes lock and a sharp jolt zings my ribcage.
My breath squeezes in my chest. Funny, I can’t be the only one to see through him. I mean up close, his smooth veneer falls away, and I feel this crazy connection...like we’ve known each other for years.
“Connections,” I say honestly. I’m no fool. He’s got his own agenda and need I remind myself for the hundredth time, I’ve got mine. But for the moment, I sense I can trust him with my deepest, darkest secret, and that’s a doorway that’s dangerous.
I can’t trust him
.
Or anyone.
Not if I’m going to pave my own way!
My thoughts scurry. Tumble. The ones I can’t face myself. The ones that need to be kept cloistered. I should be telling Jon to stop the car. I should open the door, and sprint down the street. Far, far away from this man.
“You’ll find plenty of connections. I’ve learned to pick and choose the committees where I can best be effective.”
“That sounds very—”
“Political?” He laughs, cocking his eyebrow, and leans closer. “Welcome to the big leagues.”
“I’m here to affect change!” I say resolutely—referring to what I need to conquer within myself.
“Change? Is that what you’re after?” He smiles indulgently. “I think I’ve heard that one before.”
“Oh right,” I nod, swallowing my embarrassment, and realize how naïve I must sound. Quickly, I add, “And forge a path for when I graduate. Isn’t that what all interns are after?”
My stomach twists.
He glances back at my application.
He sees right through me.
I need to get away from him. Stone’s right—he is my worst nightmare...a drug I’d sample and never get free from in this visceral push-n-pull I’ve got going on with him. I shift my attention to Jon and he’s staring at me from the rearview mirror. I grimace, wanting to shout, this is so not happening! But Jon gives me a wink as if sensing I’m about to bolt.
Stone has me coming apart. Okay, c’mon. Get your head together!
I follow up with another question. “So, are you still heading up the action subcommittee on the draft reform or did you relinquish your chair on that?” Obviously, war is controversial and a place he’s got misgivings. Maybe if I focus on talking, my desire to climb onto his lap will dissolve, and I’ll gain some distance. “You took the Hill by storm on that one. Made the cover of Rolling Stone.”
“There’s a difference between actively engaged soldiers and draft reform. The draft was a hot button topic then. That was an eon ago. You’re a Kennedy—aren’t you keeping up with your family’s interests?” His brow furrows and his condescending tone returns, irritating the shit out of me.
“There’s still a war raging!” I retort.
“Ah thanks for the reminder. It’s negotiating peace that we’re focused on now. Rebuilding—our financial black hole. Effectively, the war is over.” He regards me, reminding me again to control my emotions.
“I don’t view it that way.” I feel Jon’s glare and I bet he’s wondering what the heck is up with me. Seconds ago, I had the senator eating out my hand and now I’m butting heads with him.
“Pardon me, but hanging out in a gilded ivory tower, perhaps you’re a little behind in real time politics. Anything and everything smelling of war reform—committees, interest groups, lobbyists—put a fork in them. That subject has got sleeper written all over it. With reelections coming up, there isn’t much law rewritten. You might as well start learning what actually goes on. I hate to pop your idealistic cher—” He pauses and actually rolls his eyes, apparently catching himself and then continues, “Bubble.”
“Oh, you’re not,” I assure him as a heatwave suffuses my cheeks.
“Look, Ms. Kennedy...government has a purpose when it comes to making policy and it’s more often than not thorny and learning how to wheel and deal is where we come in. There’s always someone looking to trade. Hawk. Sell. Take it from me, learn to recognize the signs before you end up doling out a bunch of promises. Otherwise, you won’t last but a term. Forget a one-hit wonder on the Hill—you’ll be forgotten before you get started.”
That admission does it for me. Either I do what needs to be done or get the hell out. I can’t lose my head. Not when he’s a go-getter. Just the type who might teach me a thing or twenty on how to make it on my own. He’s the man I’m going to target—mirror. Isn’t that lesson number one on how to make it? Emulate those in power—those deemed memorable.
But how to get Stone to see me as more than shooting from the hip? That means I’ve got to seriously stow my emotions and be smooth as glass. Cold. Calculating to a fault. No more emotional breaks. No more acting naïve. I’ve got to up the ante. If I don’t, I won’t have a connection worth diddly and all that bullshit talk about making my mark won’t materialize.
“Did you mean this?” he asks, holding up a sticky note.
I’ve got one month to prove I’m capable, dependable, determined... and then my world stops spinning—retrograde is about to take over. Holy crap! He shows me the sticky note Jon wrote as a dirty joke and I forgot about. Jon must have caught a glance and the car swerves on the rode—a sharp lurch.
“Christ,” Stone growls, yet never breaks eye contact with me.
“Err...” I falter, not knowing what to say and sternly remind myself not to shift my focus to Jon.
“Well?” he asks.
“Well,” I parrot back to him as we both stare at each other. Either my imagination has gone over to the dark side or we’re about to fuck each other mindless. Without blinking, I absorb the raw intensity in his eyes and for a second, I can’t respond.
I’ve never seen a man look at me like he does and I’m literally swept away by the power he wields. Without a word, he opens a door into his world, offering me a glimpse, and now my whole future hinges on what comes out of my mouth. He very well could be thinking I’m a wacko, looking to hook up after one kiss. I need to let him know that I view this as totally a work relationship and I’m one hundred and fifty percent committed.
“Can we get past trading ‘wells’?” His question doesn’t jar me like the other times—oh no.
It’s as if we’re connecting on a deeper level. I can feel him—or some premonition—or a terrible case of wishful thinking. The adrenaline rush that follows has me ready to catapult and I swallow a stream of gibberish. Obviously, I’d forgotten about the note, and now, I have two seconds to think of something. Anything!
“That’s just a mistake... Nothing to consider.” But of course, it’s all I’m considering. As soon as the words pop out my mouth, everything changes. I’m using his word and I wonder if he’s going to take offense. In a blink, the world around me fades to grey, and there’s only Bennett Stone and me.
He gazes at me, his eyes unwavering, the note in his hand.
In an attempt to gather my wits, I struggle to regain control over the coiling lust about to run wild and wreak havoc on my finely laid plans. For a breath, this aching need tempts me to push aside my purpose, and pull him by his tie until our mouths meet. I roll my bottom lip between my teeth, considering how many shades of delicious he’d feel like with his tongue thrusting in between my lips. One. More. Time.
Then I remember Jon is upfront when he abruptly coughs. Code for GET A GRIP! Right—this is all in my imagination.
Senator Stone might have kissed me, but he isn’t into interns. Confirmed in all my research on the man. He has an immaculate record and the political backing to hit it big in the White House. He’s a rising star and I’m demented if I think he wants to kiss me like he did in that hall.
Instead of thinking in terms of locking lips, I should remember Stone could be a huge connection. Gargantuan to work for someone, who in a few years, might not only rock D.C. but become the fearless leader of the U.S. of A!
This calls for damage control and some groveling. I don’t need reminding that some journalists are being beheaded for wanting to shed light on the truth, not engaging in wishful thinking of what it would be like to kiss the new boss during the interview.
“It’s just, God, I didn’t mean to give it to you...that note has nothing to do with my work ethics or my ability to get the job done! My answers are on the page. Read those ones.” Scooting forward, I reach over and tap the box on the application all the while neither of us breaks eye contact. “I grasp concepts quickly. My lips are sealed. I’m here to learn and reap from my experience. The trip up the ladder begins here. With you, Senato
r Stone, and I’m pretty sure we both can get what we want.”
“I see,” he says.
I pull my hand back and he lets his legs splay open, tapping my resume lightly on his thigh. Slowly, he raises his hand to his chin, and bites the side of one of his long fingers as we continue in this mind-warping face-off.
The silence is deafening, so all-encompassing it feels like the temperature back here just shot way up. My whole body blushes, hotter when he lets his gaze rove down from my face to my chest. Can he see how fast I’m breathing?
I try to swallow, but a brick of anxiety is lodged in my throat. I remind myself to stop fidgeting with the material of my dress at my lap, and still my fingers. Jon slows down, and turns the corner. The coffee house entrance flashes, a line of people are outside, and I struggle to take a breath.
“Well, Ms. Kennedy, then it looks like we’ll be spending time together, close quarters for the next two days. Let’s see if you can keep up.”
“Does that mean I’m on your team?”
“I’ll make a decision on Thursday. You up for a late night? As you know my schedule just got slammed and I need to prep for tomorrow,” he counters and I wonder what in the hell I just bought into. The car stops and he opens the door, climbing out and away before I can respond.
Doesn’t matter. I’ll do whatever it takes to get on the Hill with a VIP pass this man can capably provide. We’ll hang tonight and I’ve got to make certain he understands, I’m no slacker but can handle whatever he throws my way.
I’ll do anything—nothing is too lowly on the internship ladder. It’s one month—four weeks to show him, I’m the real deal, and then I might snag a fall internship. Might actually find my place without needing my family’s help and with a man who might turn out to be more powerful than any one family. President Bennett Stone—he could happen—we could happen—if I get my head out of the clouds.