Vetting The Senator

by Alex Elliott

  “Is that going to be a problem?”

  “Not really, unless I broadcast my new status to everyone I meet. Actually, it’s kinda cool. Having access to the office around the clock. And now that you brought up my new status, may I take advantage of flextime? I called Nora earlier and asked. She said to question you.”

  So, whatever’s bothering my taciturn and stubborn little sub is unrelated to work—but influenced by her schedule. I ponder her request, and how we can utilize ‘flextime’ to our advantage. I push aside my aversion to utilizing the seedy paces of manipulation, but X drives me to gain each and every advantage. Two birds. More of her at work along the truth of what’s bothering her, and I go for it.

  Leaning my head back, I watch her condo windows, hoping to catch sight of her. “That depends. I’m asking as your Dom, tell me specifically what’s troubling you.”

  “Are you using flextime as a bargaining chip? That’s rich, Ben.”

  I inhale sharply at her obstinacy—and the fact that she just nailed my ass, calling me on being a calculating prick. I snap. “Fuck, X. Answer the goddamn question. Or do you want me to turn this into a lesson on obedience?” Smooth Ben. God, I’m a regular master of non -negotiation with this woman.

  “You’re over the top. A regular Machiavelli,” she replies.

  Incensed, I shoot right back, “I wouldn’t have to be a world class dick, if you’d talk to me.” Dammit, I resolve to get a grip and try again. “Baby, tell me what’s bothering you.”

  In lieu of a flippant reply, she exhales. “You’re right, I’m stressed, but it has nothing to do with work. My roommate isn’t feeling well. It’s just hard...I wish I-I-I could make her better.”

  Hearing her stammer, I clench my jaw, raking my fingers through my hair as I wonder about women. Christ, if a friend of mine was sick...had the flu or some shit, I’d call him when he was better, not crowd him. But that’s not what happens between chicks. Knowing X, yeah she’d worry if someone she cared about was ill.

  “What’s going on with your roommate? Does she need a doctor, or a trip to the ER? I could be there in seconds.”

  “Whoa, Captain Crusader. Slow down.”

  If she only knew how far out on a limb I was about her.

  “X. I can help. If you let me.”

  “Bennett, thanks for worrying. She’ll be fine. It’s just intense right now, and she needs someone to watch over her. Her family isn’t super supportive—emotionally.”

  “Do you need to take time off to help her out?” As I watch her windows, a dark shadow flits across the wall to the side of the terrace doors, and then finally, I see her blond hair. Lifting the binoculars, I watch her. Stalk the woman I can’t seem to disconnect from.

  “Thanks but no. I made dinner, and I’m just cleaning up.”

  “You cook?” I lower the binoculars for a second, then raise them back to my eyes. “As in meals?”

  She laughs, and I watch her twirl a lock of golden silk around her fingers as she stands, gazing out from her terrace doors. “Yep. I actually love cooking. It relaxes me.”

  Damn, I want to get out of my car and prowl closer. I’ll do anything to keep her on the line, talking with me, letting me into her world, and just listening to her laugh. Should I tell her, I’m waiting for her? “And you’re sure that you’re fine? Your roommate is fine?”

  I’m met with a wall of silence, and I stare at her through the binoculars as she closes her eyes for a second. Is she tired of my questions? Then she smiles, pressing her forehead to the glass door, seeming to study the night sky.

  “Fine enough for now. What about you, Senator? How’d the talks go? World economy. Not idle chitchat. Pretty intense yourself. Yeah?”

  “That idiocy,” I straighten, staring up at her. Relishing the sight of her standing there dressed in a pair of shorts and a tiny shirt. I sharpen the focus on the binoculars as I ogle her tits. “Most of it is... showboating at best. But I’m pleased. We forged some uneven terrain. Addressed deeper issues... that have prevented trust.”

  “Score one for the home team!” She laughs and I’m spellbound by her expression.

  She’s got this way of smiling like a siren, and in turn, I want more of what she’s giving me. This petal-soft part of her—opening to me. This feels real. This feels normal—outside the fact that I’m a creeper.

  “The president sent me an email. Congratulating my team. That includes you, Xavia.”

  “Me? I didn’t do anything.” She straightens, then pivots as she responds, and I’m back to gritting my teeth. X recedes from view and silently, I’m calling her back.

  Lowering the binoculars, I knock my head against the neck rest, and say in a hoarse voice, “More than you know.”

  “Does this mean a senatorial photo montage with the press?”

  “Might. Did you see the media spread from Ryan’s garden lunch?”

  “Less than what I expected. The Veep’s PR team must be going with a conservative laying of the foundation. I wasn’t appalled by the photographs, or the minor details that were mentioned. It was pretty tame, considering how far they could have extrapolated the point of us together on a Sunday afternoon.”

  “Not appalled? We’re a long way from thrilled, I take it.”

  “Tell me something I don’t know.” She laughs.

  Scanning the street, I search for the right words. Search for what I can say to convey that I need more of her—of us—like this. The hell with the press, the vice president. Or anyone who comes between us.

  And that’s when I see him. Colin Stillman. At least I think it’s him—that cocksucker cousin of hers. I lift my binoculars and focus on him and shit. He looks just like that fucker from the aisle at Harvard—the same useless parasite featured in the report Archer sent me along with a cryptic message. I watch him as he stops in front of her apartment. He’s smoking a cigarette, and I wait to see what the hell he’s up to. The jackwad pulls out a cell and makes a call. Talks and laughs, but makes no move to go inside, even after he’s tossed his cigarette butt into the street. It looks like he snaps a few photographs with his cell, and then glances around the street as though he’s trying to get his bearings. He doesn’t go inside the lobby, but retraces his steps to where I first noticed him. He’s a leech and a link to Grace and Stan Stillman.

  “I miss you. A lot,” I tell her, my pulse drumming in my veins. Asshole Colin digs his hand into his pocket as he crosses the sidewalk to the street, and around a car. The lights flash and he opens the door, sliding inside.

  “Good. ‘Cause I miss you too,” she whispers. “Bennett, I better go and check on Brooke. I guess I won’t see you tomorrow.”

  “What do you mean?” I’ve got a second to decide as he starts the engine to his car if I should tail him. Why not? I fire up my own ignition. When he pulls away, driving past me, I do a U-turn in the middle of the street. It’s a risk if Xavia is looking out her window. A possibility she’ll see my car.

  If my ride wasn’t so easy to spot, I wouldn’t worry, but not everyone feels the need for speed like I do. Me, trolling around in a GTO probably isn’t the slickest of moves in the world of stealth, but luckily Ferrari has a showroom in D.C. If she notices, I can deny it. Hide behind the truth that I’m not the only idiot driving one of these monsters.

  “Your schedule is booked all day tomorrow. You’re in the office in the afternoon. Some appointments regarding your upcoming trip. Unless that changes.”

  “Look, I’m going to call you. Okay?” I clutch, shifting into third.

  “Yep. That sounds like a plan.”

  We hang up and I’m reeling from just talking with her. For a block, I stay fifteen or so yards behind him. With my cell in hand, I text Archer to get me all the info he can lay his hands on about this dumb fuck, and what he’s up to, and to explain his last message. I floor the gas, snap a photo of his license plate—forward that to Archer and get a confirmation he’s on it.

  For the next twenty minutes, I follow Sti
llman across D.C. until he turns onto Virginia Street, and then disappears within the underground parking of the Watergate condos.

  “Son of bitch!” I screech to a stop, and idle for a couple of seconds until a car toots its horn in back of me. I roll down the block, pitting X’s anger (if she discovers I’m digging into her family) against my heavy-handed hunger to uncover everything about her. My pulse pounds stronger as I tell myself to refrain from acting like a possessive prick. Moments unfurl and this knifing need for an answer drums into me until it feels like the veins in my temples are going to explode. One message hijacks my brain. Find out what in the hell Stillman is up to.

  Grabbing my cell, I dial one number. “Archer,” I bark when he answers. “Fuck! Finally!”

  “Dude, you’ve got a way with words. Anyone ever tell you?”

  Chapter 10

  I.O.U.

  TIPTOEING AWAY from Brooke’s door, I make it to the end of the hall before I exhale. Finally, she’s sleeping and Jon is on his way up.

  Brooke and I were awake all night, talking, crying, and looking at the collection of photo albums she manically updates, depicting her life since she was born. I guess because her mom started the albums, they’re her legacy, and how she keeps in touch with a sorely missed parent who left behind a scared and sad daughter. I blink away the stinging in my eyes, upset that I’m teary—emotionally fragile. Showing up on the Hill without a suit of armor is utter stupidity. I’m just tired and need a jolt of caffeine.

  Inside the kitchen, I down a cup of espresso and study the silvery tendrils of light, creeping upward along the sky. I figure if I go into work now, while it’s still early, and skip lunch, I can get back by midafternoon today and I’ll do the same tomorrow. I still need to figure out who else I can wrangle in to help with Brooke duty.

  A light rap at the front door, and I launch out of the kitchen, across the living room, and when my heels hit the smooth foyer floor, I begin to slide. I grab hold of the doorknob, praying that Jon doesn’t begin to impatiently pound out his frustration.

  Flinging open the door, I pull him inside, and whisper, “Thanks for coming on short notice. I owe you.”

  “We’ll call it even if you can get me some face time with Senator Stone.” He stares at me and then snaps, “What in the fuck is wrong? You’ve been crying!”

  “My allergies are acting up,” I mumble as the bottom of my stomach drops. “What happened with Carter?”

  “Not enough—I’ve got a lead. But the dude works nonstop. I’m casting my net in a wider circle. It’s all about talking, digging, schmoozing. I don’t have to explain it to you.”

  My cheeks start to heat. “I’ll find out about Stone. But give me a few days. I’m a regular nobody over there.”

  “Hardly, love bug. You were over at the Veep’s—were you not last Sunday?”

  I stiffen. “Stone’s media coordinator is out on maternity leave. I was just filling in. I promise you, it was the same thing as visiting my grandparents.”

  Oddly, Jon doesn’t act surprised or ask for details. “I’ll stay here until nine, but then I’ve got my own Hill intern shtick to attend to,” he says flat out and louder than necessary.

  “Shush! Brooke’s sleeping.” I cover his mouth with my hand, and when he nods, I release my chokehold on him. “That’s perfect.”

  “Should I stand guard at the door, or can I sit down in the living room?”

  “Cute.” I link arms with him and tug him forward.

  “What’s going on? Or should I ask, how bad is she this time?” he asks, in a less than sympathetic tone.

  That’s the big question and how much can I say? He and Brooke aren’t exactly tight—they’re quasi buddies. We hang out together, and sometimes I get the feeling that my over-the-top man friend is a little jealous of Brooke. Collectively, as a trio we’ve known each other since high school. At fifteen, Jon’s off-the-wall personality and unquestionably gay and gorgeous good looks got him noticed. When Brooke decided he was socially suitable, from then on, she included him on her invitee list for wild parties.

  On the fringe as teenagers, he and I connected. We did more than party together—we forged a friendship that includes sharing the nitty-gritty details of our lives. He knows about my secrets, and I know about his—which aren’t many. Not really. His parents are still married, both are teachers, and he went to prep school on a scholarship. He’s worked ever since I met him, and is my anchor, grounding me.

  Maybe because he’s not on her ‘top five’ list, he feels the pinch.

  Hell, sometimes I do, in how Brooke blazes through people, but I get her. She goes around with a rock-hard exterior for a reason. It’s not that she’s stuck up or has got so much money that she’s oblivious to other people and their issues—she’s just in mourning and ineffective in dealing with her grief. Her life spun out of control when her mom died and her dad went off the deep end, and has yet to stabilize. Her equilibrium is questionable—very, very questionable. She doesn’t let everyone in and I can’t tell her secrets.

  Sighing, I glance over at Jon and smile tightly without saying why I’ve called him. Called in a favor while promising him more.

  “Are you using telepathy to answer my questions?” he asks.

  I roll my eyes, and go with a vague response. “Remember that time I gave you the keys to Mom’s condo in Vail? Consider that favor paid in full. Plus, if you come by tomorrow, I’ll owe you another week on the slopes.”

  He stops walking and frowns. “Jesus Christ. What’s wrong with her?”

  “Jon,” I scoff. “It’s complicated.”

  “Bullshit. You’re as subtle as a sledgehammer, but won’t just come right out and say why we’re walking around like this is a tomb.”

  I meet his narrowed gaze and shrug. “Brooke’s had better days.”

  “Is she headed for rehab again? You’re not her keeper...you do realize that?” He stares at me unblinking, challenging me.

  “Look who’s talking! News flash: and you’re not mine,” I dish right back.

  “Shut your face. I care about you,” he replies, exhaling in consternation.

  “Then?”

  We stare at one another, and I feel a heatwave scald the skin from my neck to my hairline. For what feels like a year, I refuse to give an inch, glaring at him like my life depends on keeping this confidence. Until he’s the first to fold.

  Rubbing his hand down his face, he shakes his head. “Okay, enough with the face-off. I understand. You two have been through a lot.”

  “Yeah, so then you don’t need to pry. It’s enough to just do a good deed...right?”

  “Not in my world. But fuck, if it’ll get you off my back, then fine.” He holds up his fingers as if he’s some bored boy scout, taking an oath “I promise to watch over her. I’ll pretend she’s you. Feel better?”

  “I do and just say when,” I remind him. “I’ll be at your beck and call.”

  “Oh, don’t you doubt for a second, I won’t. Get me an interview with your boss and we’re square.” He winks and walks into the living room, turning around in a slow circle. “Pretty swanky.”

  “Is this the first time you’ve been here since she redid the place?” I ask.

  “Redid the place?” He trains his focus on me, arching his brow.

  “Yeah. Right before I arrived, she decided on this modern-European-luxe style.” I scrunch my forehead. “Don’t you recall, it was dark before? Deep wine walls. Borderline gothic.”

  “Interesting.” His brow creases. “But no. Officially, this is the first time I’ve been up here. I’m not complaining. Brooke and I travel in different circles. You’re the connecting dot, sweetheart. Always have been.”

  “Never once. Are you certain?” I’m stunned to hear they’ve never hooked up. Both of them live in D.C. He’s been here for a couple of years, and when I’ve visited before, I stayed all over, but surely I was here, and he came over.

  He gives me curt shake of his head. “I’m v
ery certain. Now, scram! I’m not here to debate that issue.”

  “Correct,” I reply, and come at him with an abbreviated hug and instructions to call me before he leaves. “The fridge is stocked. I just made some espresso. You’re the best.”

  I split, heading to the garage, and study my navigation app on my cell, trying to get a feel for the layout of the city.

  * * *

  FIVE DAYS of Xavia in D.C., and my decision is made. I dress, knotting my tie and look out from my closet toward my bedroom. I’ve got a housekeeper who comes in each day, yet aside from the sheets on the bed, nothing is out of place. Only my bedroom is locked. And only since yesterday. I scanned the photographs I took of Xavia in my office, the ones displayed on the top of the bureau to my right, and I’m hard again.

  I jerked off in bed last night, staring at the digital photo frame containing the images of her thighs and ass cheeks spread for me. Alone, I relived thrusting into her soaking wet pussy and how her tight rosette tremored around my fingers as she begged me to fuck her. Then again this morning in the shower I jerked off with more memories of owning her, marking her, and what I plan on doing tomorrow night when I drive my cock fully inside her ass.

  Fuck. I’m ready for another session of manhandling my own cock to loosen the grip she has on my body and mind. I scoop up the hardcopies of the photographs fanned outward in artful disarray.

  Her body is poised, open and eager for me. She’s what I crave, what I need to sample every damn day. Now with the sudden flip-flop on my schedule, I’m ready to tear someone a new one. My plans to skirt in and out of Cuba have evolved into me leading a delegation after yesterday’s roundtable was huge a success. In a couple of weeks, I’ll be speaking for the president, and it’ll be my ass on the line in laying the policy groundwork for foreign aid and re-establishing trade talks with Castro’s cabinet, as well as forming the necessary connections with the embassy in Havana.

  I wouldn’t be surprised if Virginia was the culprit in tossing my name into the ring of who to act as lead legislator. More goddamn exposure for her campaign. I grit my teeth, stacking the photographs and walk to the spare room where I have a locked file cabinet. If the Veep believes for an instant she has me as her new congressional jockey, she’s going to be sorely surprised.