Vetting The Senator

by Alex Elliott

  How’d we get so off base? One shitty dinner, and my precarious universe has shattered apart.

  I enter my office along with a headache the size of Montana. The fireworks going off in the form of stabbing zigzags on the right side of my skull refuse to be ignored. “Welcome to the Capitol, Mr. Migraine,” I whisper, reaching for the bottle of ibuprofen inside my desk drawer. I toss back two capsules. No water. I’m tough.

  Crap! Bad mistake. I must be dehydrated because my mouth is drier than the Mojave. I can’t manufacture enough spit to swallow the pills stuck at the back of my throat. I cough, sounding like a cat chucking up a hairball. A line of tears flood my eyes and I scurry to the small kitchenette where the coffee pot and office refrigerator are located. I grab a bottle of water, cracking open the cap, and down it so fast, I dribble droplets down my chin. When I’m finished, I wipe my mouth on the back of my hand. Real ladylike there, X.

  I cover my mouth as I burp, so I’m not a total loser. Not yet. How far have I come? A question without an answer. At least I can finish the end-of-month report and make copies of it and be done. There’s not that much in my office that I can’t pack up and write my resignation letter, leave today, and never ever return.

  There’s an empty cardboard box in the corner, and I pick it up, returning to my office. Soon the reporters will release their stories. I can foresee the headlines. Enough to put the press into a feeding frenzy. Doesn’t matter if what’s reported is a huge mistake, a scandal will rock the Capitol, even if it’s false. The level of crap that will hit the Hill crystalizes in my head, and my stomach swoops in apprehension.

  My phone is buzzing on my desk and I lift it up. It’s Bennett, and I close my eyes, praying for strength. Same as before, I’m not going to answer.

  But when I read his text, “Are you coming tonight?”

  Something inside me snaps!

  Is he for fucking real? From apathetic, I’m on fire and text back, “Are you insane! No I’m not joining you at the House after last night. Deranged much?”

  Rapid-fire, he returns a text, “Baby, please. I know I’ve said this too many times, but we need to sit down and iron out what’s transpired. Running away...didn’t we get past that, X?”

  I shake my head, staring at the screen, then text him. “Not far enough. Don’t call me. Don’t text me. I’m not part of some game you’re playing. I’m not your puppet. Not anyone’s!!!”

  Dammit! I sink down into my chair, holding my phone and feel it buzz. But it’s not Ben—it’s Brooke. I answer with a short, “Hey.”

  “Girl, what in the hell happened? You’re all over the news. Fuck, X. I’m so sorry.”

  “It’s nothing,” I huff.

  “This is career crushing shit. You’re taking a fall because of me. Derek’s livid. We’re not leaving. Where are you?”

  “At the office. But don’t you dare put off your plans. Look, I’m going to be fine.”

  “What’s in print and online is totally bogus, and I can’t believe Jon is in back of this mess.”

  Jon? “What’s he got to do with it?”

  “Got to do with it? Xavia, he’s the reporter who broke the story. He’s on camera, being interviewed, and it’s gone to YouTube! We went to school with the asshole and everyone believes him.”

  I stand, needing to do something besides hide. Crap... Jon. He’s up to his neck...“He’s a reporter. I bet he just got nabbed. You know how it is.”

  “You’ve always been blind where he’s concerned. I promise you, he’s the one who released the story and he told everyone that you were at the clinic. He’s talking up this thing, spilling all sorts of intimate shit. Saying how he can’t believe Stone would treat you like this. Says he’s got the inside scoop...that you called him this morning, and said you were going to a clinic. The fucker recorded you. Did you say that?”

  My sense of reality fulminates. My knees buckle. Jon is behind this. Holy, holy...HOLY FUCK! “I did—as a cover. Call me stupid.”

  “I will not. We trusted him, and he is so fucked if he thinks this will fly. I’m going to find him, and he’s gonna get the message. This calls for a complete retraction. Plus libel. A defamation claim—shit. We’ll have him and the Post in court come Monday. Don’t you worry for a goddamn second. I’ve got your back.”

  Leaning on the corner of my desk, I smile weakly. “I never doubted for a second.”

  “Can we come to the office?”

  I stare at the wall. “I don’t know if I can get visitors’ passes on the weekend.”

  “Then finish up and come back to the apartment. You’re my first client and we need to work on our case.”

  “Uh, you haven’t passed the bar yet.”

  “Minor detail. I’ve got enough attorneys on retainer and trust me, we’ve got the legal firepower to deal with this. I’ll have Jon’s story pulled by tonight, and an apology in place. I owe you, X. For more than you’ll ever know!”

  Chapter 21

  MARK ME

  RED CONSUMES me. It’s the color I see as I limp out onto my balcony. Fiery flames torch my senses. I feel rage. I feel alone. The world stops revolving. Effectively my universe has folded in on itself like a supernova’s final explosion. The level of anger shredding my thoughts is to the point of pure fury. Only outdone by my chest being ripped open. I’m staring at my cell screen. At the underlying message...the same one X thundered last night before she bolted and texted a few minutes ago.

  “I’m not part of some game you’re playing. I’m not your puppet. Not anyone’s!!!”

  The moment Gabriel North asked her to dance, I should’ve whisked Xavia out of the tent and far away from the White House. It’s no mystery that cocksucker is the biggest SOB on the planet. The element of self-indulgence he has in play has always been a blaring sign, he’s got one person’s back—his own. Yet I can’t truly point a finger. I should’ve admitted to X the suspicions I have about her grandparents...even though I don’t have anything solid. Really there’s only one person to blame—it’s me. Coulda. Shoulda. Woulda. All bullshit.

  Tightening my fingers on the terrace railing, the haze settling over D.C. from the summer heat mirrors the fog of frustration choking me. Late afternoon and X’s condo is right over there. A twenty minute run—not that I could with my ankle mangled from last night—or a five minute car ride if there’s no traffic. I press her contact number on my cell, then tap ‘call,’ and listen to the droning ring. I send another text. And then another. After one mini-rant, she sure as shit isn’t responding to my calls or texts. This is one of those days when the insanity inside myself—the level of lunacy locked down—wins out.

  Fuck it. Hobbling inside, and then by the entry table, I grab my keys and my official ‘senator’ phone. Equipped with two cells and a set of ironclad balls, I’m ready to do whatever it takes to get X to understand. Games...I’m not playing games with her. I’m playing for keeps. I love her. The revelation hits me. Standing in front of my door, I struggle to breathe. Am I the world’s biggest jackass?

  Possibly, but I’m also irrevocably in love with Xavia. So much, I’m coming unraveled. I just need to get her to understand—she’s the first woman I’ve ever loved—ever needed.

  If there’s a regret, it’s not going to be that the one woman I can’t live without, is going to get away. I yank open my door, not stopping until I’m seated behind the wheel of my car. Inside the garage, my thoughts wrench with one focal point: finding her. My phone chirps and when I look down, I see it’s the Veep. I silence the buzzing. If I speak with Virginia, I’ll unleash on her, pushing the endpoint by telling her to go to hell. My life is fucked over, and she has her hand in this chaos. My phone chimes that she’s left a message. As I peel out of the garage, I pick up my cell.

  “EMERGENCY. WE NEED TO MEET. OFFICIAL W.H. BUSINESS.”

  Yeah, well it sucks to be her. At the red light, I scroll down my messages on my business phone. The usual load of staffer updates, and then I see Jax’s message. “Bett
er look at the news.”

  More scrolling.

  There’s a text from Noah, two from Ethan. Lower there’s one from Tory. Fuck, and even Wes sent me a text. Five of the Doms from the House, sending neutral appearing messages. All directing me to the news.

  But it’s the text from Archer that snags my attention. “Call me. I was right about the cousin.”

  More questions. Colin Stillman has done something monstrous—and it has to do with news. What the fuck is about to rain down?

  A car honks and I shift into first, looking for a place to pull over and figure out what’s in spin. Pressing the ‘news’ icon on my phone, I don’t have to look too hard before I see my name...Xavia’s name and a photograph, then the term... ABORTION.

  That one word levels all the turmoil streaming within my head. She’s had an abortion. My baby.

  I freeze. I’m stunned. It’s like an annihilating mind warp has taken over my thoughts, unearthing one jarring memory. Our first time fucking and the condom broke. Since then we’ve been skin-on-skin. She said she was on the pill—but Christ. We fuck so hard—if I impregnated a woman, she’d be the one. The way I come at her—yeah, it’s a real possibility if the factors are correct. But she would have said something—not acted out. I open up my browser and flip through photo after photo of her coming out of some private clinic in Virginia earlier today.

  She’s alone. Why isn’t her roommate with her? From attending a State Dinner last night to rushing out and getting an abortion. I can’t get my head wrapped around X doing that.

  My next reaction: this is total manufactured bullshit. Is this North’s way of fucking with us? I’ve got to find Xavia. The feeling of coldness so great, so complete settles over me as my pulse pounds in my head. I remember I’m holding my cell, and like a witness to a car wreck, I can’t look away when I open up the lead story from the Post.

  I read the byline, interested to find out what asswipe is backstabbing us. The reporter is Jon Richter. I read the name again, staring until Richter is burned into my retinas. The journalist covering the story is X’s friend. The man who drove us around Boston. The same one with his arm around her in the photograph she keeps in her wallet. If the reporter were any other person...any other fucking person, no way would I believe this story.

  But him. Jon Richter. His name knifes me each time I mentally repeat it.

  The idea that this is engineered media mudslinging composed of unadulterated lies implodes.

  Why would Richter make this shit up?

  I don’t call Jax. Or any of the congressmen associated with the House. I don’t call the Veep. I switch phones, dialing the only number who can help.

  When Archer snarls, “Talk to me” for a second I’m speechless. He’s been unreachable and now he’s going to give me the truth.

  Finally, I get my shit together. “Got your text.”

  “I caught the news. Private channels,” he answers in a less volatile tone. “Before it hit.”

  “Where in the hell have you been?”

  “You don’t want to know, but I’m back on the grid. What do you want me to do?”

  “Have you got anything solid on Colin Stillman?”

  “Shit. I wasn’t sure, but now, I got the confirmation. The cousin and the reporter. They’re lovers. Didn’t make sense when I first unearthed them together, but fuck. It does now. From the trail I’ve put together, they’ve been going at it for almost a year. They’ve got some side business. Shakedown type of shit—mostly with her family. But last month, they tag-teamed one of the execs from New York. Blackmailed him with the threat of going to his wife. Hardcore photos. The whole nine yards.”

  “And you know this...how?”

  “Cell records. Texts. Emails. Hell, even Tumbler posts link those assholes. They belong to some pretty interesting sites. I figured after seeing the news today, you’d be calling so I made the decision to reach out to my sources on the fringe. I’m still working to find out what else is out there.”

  This shitstorm only gets better. The backstabbers have been closer than either X or I imagined, and now they’re taking out their unparalleled revenge. “Is the Post story true?”

  Archer doesn’t answer me initially. I hear him exhale on the other end. “That wasn’t the purpose of my fact finding mission. I don’t know. Want me to find out? The medical records most likely are stored to an online server. A cloud site. If not, the facility is right outside D.C.”

  “Are you nearby?”

  “I can be there in an hour and a half. What should I do with the cousin? I’m having him tailed.”

  “Pick him up. I want him worked over. Get Richter too.” The violent black side of me I swore would never resurface bursts forth as if fully formed and ready to do the unthinkable.

  “You sure? If you open that door...”

  “Just do it.” I scan the street, searching for options. There are none. It’s my job to protect Xavia, even if it means eradicating those who harm her. So be it. I need to find her right now. Hear from her—not come at X armed with so-called facts. For what? “Hold off from breaching the facility. I’ll be in touch. Soon.”

  When I was four, I was abused, scarred. Damaged. Only with her have I been real. Only with X do I allow the pain from the past to percolate into the present. With her, I’ve let down the shroud of pretense I once wrapped myself within. From being anaesthetized to the world, since meeting her I awoke and am alive. Without X, I’ll go back to twisted. Tortured. Dead.

  Without her, there’s no point.

  I can see that now. Operating on autopilot. A fake. A sham. A political robot. Worse than dead—it’s living in limbo.

  I pull away from the curb. Don’t ask me how I made it, but I’m parked in front of X’s building, and I give zero fucks about the crowd congregating outside. Barreling through the press, I nod to the doorman as he greets me. “Good afternoon, Senator Stone.”

  He glances away. Too quickly, but all I care about is not being stopped. Prevented from accessing the elevator. At least my little sub didn’t give strict instructions barring my entry into her building.

  Up at her apartment, for a second I wait before ringing the doorbell. I listen but there’s nothing to hear. The whole hallway is stridently silent. I ring the bell and wait. My heartbeat jackhammers in my ears, getting louder, faster when nothing happens. No footsteps. No flickering light at the peep hole. Nada.

  I lift the elegant metal bar of the knocker and rap. A few times. Nothing crazy. Nothing like what I feel. Fuck. Still no response and I’m there at the starting block, ready to dive into the deep end of insanity.

  A line of sweat breaks at my forehead. I raise my fist with the weight and force of all the fucked up shit that’s gone down in the last twenty-four hours, and I let loose on the door. I pound what feels like a dozen times until I’m near to howling like a madman out in her hall.

  “Fuck,” I say under my breath and hear a door open a few apartments down.

  “What the hell!” a woman says.

  My mind reels. Speech is not what I’m about, and I force myself to at least make eye-contact.

  “Can I help you?” she asks.

  “No. My girlfriend is sick.”

  “Brooke?” The woman changes her expression from annoyed to concerned.

  “Xavia Kennedy,” I tell her.

  Immediately, she goes back to glaring. “...oh you’re that senator. Stone. I don’t think Xavia wants to see you. Matter of fact, you’d better leave or I’m calling the police. You weren’t even at the clinic. I read how she had to go alone.”

  “Hold up. Don’t believe everything you read. It’s nothing but a pack of lies!” I curl my fists as I struggle to remain in check.

  “Photographs don’t lie, Senator Douchebag.” She disappears back inside her place with a slam of her door.

  Fuuuuck. I can’t stay here bellowing. I need to figure out a better plan. I don’t believe X is inside and it’s easy enough to trace her texts. I dial Archer.<
br />
  “My guys have one of the packages.” He says in a low voice.

  “Stellar. Get me a location on a phone.” I roll my neck and rattle off her number to him.

  “I’m on it. Can you wait?”

  “Actually call me back. I need to exit where I’m at.” I see the rear stairs and take them. At the ground floor, I push out through the fire door and am at the alley. The same one where I kissed X as we talked.

  It’s a short walk to my car. I ignore the media with a stony stare directed to my windshield. There’s a ticket and I snatch it off. Reporters ask about X’s abortion, cameras flash nonstop, and I crumple the ticket in my fist. I’m lit up. Fuck I’m on fire but I hold back from saying a word. When I open my door, I toss the balled up piece of paper onto the passenger seat as my heartbeat thunders.

  My phone rings. It’s Archer and I answer it as I pull away from X’s condo. “What’d you find out?”

  “She’s at the Russell Building. At least that’s where her last message originated from. She had a call from her roommate.”

  “Are you sure she’s there?” Why would X be at work? That makes no sense—or a lot of sense, if the story is what I suspect. Corrupt bullshit.

  “Checked the info. Twice. Phone is registered to Xavia Stillman Kennedy. She’s there at your office. I’ll keep tabs on the line, and if she moves, I’ll contact you.”

  “I owe you.”

  “Yeah. Whatever. I’ll send you my bill.”

  I move between dots on a map and as X once mentioned, garage hop. I pull into another. The one I’ve spent years entering and exiting, yet it’s this moment that counts. I speed inside. Relatively speaking, the garage is empty on the Senate floors, but I do see a car in the spot allocated for my press secretary. It’s a black Range Rover—the same one in the photographs.

  It takes no time for me to limp upstairs, and here I am, facing one more doorway.