Dignity (Determination Trilogy 1), page 17
* * * *
I’ve shaved and am down to trying to get my tie knotted right when Christopher appears in the doorway behind me. I catch his eye in the mirror. This is one of the new suits, and Christopher ordered me to wear the blue glasses. He stands there without a shirt, leaning against the doorframe and watching me with hunger in his eyes.
I don’t understand why, though, because he fucked me during our shower and wouldn’t let me come. I’ll be allowed to come once I’m home.
He walks in and reaches around me, lightly swatting my hands away so he can unknot and then retie my necktie.
“There.” He meets my gaze in the mirror from over my shoulder. “You’re fucking hot, baby.”
The styles of suits he picked for me aren’t flashy. They weren’t even super-expensive. They aren’t Armani or Brioni. But they’re excellently tailored and actually give me a shape the ones the network provided for me did not, despite those also being tailored.
“I don’t understand the suits,” I say. “Why these look so much better on me.”
“That shop provides suits for a lot of agents. They’re used to fine-tuning not just to a body, but to hide gun prints, or body armor profile.” He smiles. “They have it down to a science.”
“Ah.”
He hands me my blazer. I put it on, button it, and shoot the cuffs.
He’s right—I look good.
He wraps his arms around me from behind, his chin on my shoulder again. “No alcohol tonight,” he quietly says. “Let Shae do most of the talking and listen close for Calvin Mattis. He’ll be seated at the table right behind you and Shae. He’s a braggart, and he runs his mouth when he shouldn’t and usually gives shit away. You should be able to hear him.”
“Calvin Mattis as in Pacific Trench Oil and Gas?”
“Yeah. He’s going to want to throw money at Shae in exchange for favorable views on offshore drilling and explorations. But he nearly always gives other shit away. That’s what you want to listen for. Because knowing the stupid shit about him is what will get you what you want with him.”
I turn in his arms and look into his eyes. “How do you know this?”
“Because what do Secret Service agents do?”
I have no idea what answer he wants. “Uh, meat shields?”
He gooses my ass. “What else?”
“I don’t know, Chris. I’m too nervous for guessing games.”
“We stand there, blend in, observe, and listen.”
“Oh.”
#duh
“Oh.” He smiles. “He’s probably going to try to schmooze his way into a post appointment, even though he’s a DINO. Still, it’s the info you want from him.”
“Thanks.”
“How do we know each other?”
He’s grilled this into me all last night and today. It probably won’t come up, but in case it does, we need to have our stories straight. “We met in college through friends, fell out of touch, and bumped into each other in Florida a couple of weeks ago when you were doing research for Senator Samuels for her new house.” I’m trying to get myself into the habit of calling her Senator because I need the formality with others right now. We can’t afford for people to start sniffing around us.
“And how did you end up going to work for Senator Samuels?”
“You mentioned to her I was one of her new neighbors, and she asked to speak with me. You brought her to my house, we talked, she hired me.”
He nods. “Good. Stick to the script.”
“Is she on the same script?”
“Yep.”
He kisses me, and for a moment I want to say fuck everything, including working for ShaeLynn Samuels, and beg Chris to marry me and move me into his place to be his happy little househusband.
He ends the kiss and pats me on the ass. “You’re sooo getting fucked in that suit when you get home, by the way.”
He leans in to nibble on my earlobe. He’s been careful not to mark me on the neck other than the one hickey he put on me that’s long since faded. “I’m going to use your neckties on you for bondage,” he says. “That way, no matter what you’re wearing for work, you can look down, see your tie, and remember how it pulled against your ankle while I fucked you. Or how it felt wrapped around your wrists behind your back while you blew me.”
Jesusfuck, I’m glad he let me wear briefs tonight. I’d have multiple wet spots on my slacks already if he didn’t.
That was another purchase of his—I now have briefs and boxers in different colors and materials than only plain white.
He walks me downstairs when the doorbell rings.
“Mr. Markos?” the driver asks when Chris opens the door.
He points. “Him.”
I grab my overcoat and pull it on. “Wish me luck.” Chris steps back when I step in to kiss him, and I immediately realize my mistake.
He winks at me, though, so I know I’m forgiven the slip this time.
We don’t know who might talk, and I need to practice this.
If we’re not alone behind a closed door—or even if we are, if it’s a place we might be under surveillance—we’re nothing more than friends.
Chris has promised he’ll work up a set of silent cues for us. But as the driver ferries me to Shae’s to pick her up, I know my biggest task tonight will be trying not to imagine what Chris’ O-face looks like when he fucks her.
Or imagining how I can drive a wedge between them so I can have him all to myself.
Chapter Twenty-One
ShaeLynn Samuels lives in a townhouse in a better neighborhood than Lauren and I live. When we pull up in front of her place, I tell the driver to stay there, and I go up personally to fetch her.
This is due to my instructions from Chris. He said the senator has already been briefed by him, so I’m going to go with what I’ve been told.
I ring the bell and she answers the door herself a moment later. She’s already wearing a sweeping overcoat that hits her mid-calf over an ankle-length royal blue dress and matching heels. Tonight, her hair is swept up into a chic twist, and she’s wearing contacts.
“You’re right on time,” she says with a smile.
“Thank the driver,” I say.
She sets her alarm and locks the door, and I offer her my arm for the walk down to the car, holding the door open for her. Once we’re on our way, she gives me another smile. “Ready for your big debut, Mr. Markos?”
“That’s Kevin, Senator.”
“You can call me Shae.”
“Maybe in private, but not in public, ma’am. We’re going to control the optics from this moment on.”
“Ah.”
“Remember, this is a senate race on steroids with a double heaping of adrenaline rush and a splash of batshit insane. Assume everything is an open mic, assume people can hear your every word, assume you’re always being filmed on a cell phone. Always. One careless sentence can sink a campaign, especially if it’s pulled out of context and retweeted as a sound bite.”
“Duly noted, Kevin.”
“People are going to come gunning for you and try to knock you out before Iowa,” I tell her. “You and I need to sit down this coming week and go through the dark and dirty stuff.”
One eyebrow elegantly arches.
I know what she’s thinking. “The stuff I don’t know about,” I clarify.
“Ah.”
“I need to know everything I might get blindsided with. Because I hate surprises.”
“I think pretty much everything’s been aired out during my previous senate races.”
“Good, but we need to go over it for my sake. I haven’t been an expert on you, but I need to be. I’m also going to need your voting record since your first term. Because I need to know that inside and out.”
“Do you have hiring ideas? This is your show. I’m not going to assume it’s okay to just bring the same people back.”
“That’s a conversation for this week, Senator.” I turn to face her as much as my seat belt will allow. “I want to know who’s worked for you in the past. We may be using some of them, we might not want others. Until I see them, I won’t know. And I have some thoughts on pollsters and IT. We’re going to need a headquarters, and an IT department. Please tell me you already have the website URL?”
“I’ve had that for years.”
“Excellent.” I tick those points off in my head on my rapidly exploding to-do list. Just because I resent the fact that I’m sharing my boyfriend with her doesn’t mean I won’t give my best effort to getting her elected.
In fact, I’m guessing if I can get her elected, that might actually give me more time with my boyfriend, because she’ll be too damn busy running the country to be sneaking around getting some from him.
Of course, I’ll be pretty damned busy helping her run the freaking country, so that could backfire on me, I suppose.
* * * *
Tonight’s event isn’t a political fundraiser, it’s more a see-and-be-seen kind of DC political high-society event. It is a fundraiser for a children’s athletic league organization I’ve heard of but know little about, the kind of feel-good charity that only assholes like my father would have a problem with, so people from both sides of the political spectrum will be in attendance.
Shae told me my father will not be present.
He wasn’t invited.
I think I can safely gloat about that without being called an asshole.
When we arrive at the hotel where the event is being held, I get out first so I can help her out, and stupidly enough, as someone on the rope line snaps our picture, it hits me why Chris was so adamant I couldn’t tell anyone he was my boyfriend.
The senator is single. I am single, and have an ex-wife. I’ve never given anyone a reason to believe I’m gay.
The initial optic is now set into place, especially once people learn who I am to the senator.
Considering how much we’ll be seen together, there’s no honey to dig out of that hive. No whispers that we’re cheating with each other. Let people wonder if we’re doing each other. Who cares? Two consenting, single adults.
I can live with that.
And I owe Chris an apology for getting pissy with him over it. He owes me no explanations. One of the deals I made by agreeing to this was that he’s in charge, he has final word, and if he wants to explain, that’s up to him. I’m to trust.
I need to trust.
She looks up at me with an odd little smile. “What’s going on?” she quietly asks.
I shake my head. I can explain it later—definitely not here and now. Meanwhile, I remember to slow my stride as we walk into the hotel. Lauren hates heels and usually can keep up with me with no trouble, but she’s also a little taller than Shae.
Once we’re inside at our table, I subtly scope out the surrounding tables. Sure enough, right where Chris told me he’d be, I see Calvin Mattis. I’ve never interviewed him before, and something else Chris was correct about was the man’s distinctive, braying voice. I’ll have zero trouble overhearing him.
I feel a hand touch the back of my arm and I turn to find Jorge Gonzalez standing there, one of the current morning FNB anchors on the show the hour before Lauren’s.
“Hello, Kev. So how are you doing, buddy?” From his too-wide grin and his too-perfect hair, I’ve never liked the guy. He’s always rubbed me wrong.
He’s only five five, which is impossible to see when he’s sitting behind a desk in a chair that’s jacked up higher than his other co-anchors, or literally standing on a box so he looks taller.
And he’s a total fucking bitch if you forget his box, or if he’s not sitting higher than his co-anchors.
Or if he’s awake and breathing.
Seriously, he’s a bitch.
And I am most definitely not, and never have been, his “buddy.”
I smile, giving nothing away. “Doing well, Jorge.”
The practiced TV concern comes out, including the appropriate head nod. “We’ve all been sooo worried about you.”
Yeah, riiiiight. I nod back. “Thanks. I appreciate that.”
“Soooo. You doing okay?”
I plaster a commentless smile to my face. “Doing great.” That’s all he’s going to get from me. Shae’s turned away from me, talking with a senator from California, and it’s not obvious that we’re together, unless someone saw us walk in.
“Where’s Lauren?” Jorge asks.
I hope my smile doesn’t slip. “I don’t know.”
You know, I’m actually enjoying this cat-and-mouse game with him.
His façade cracks just a hair as he realizes he’s going to have to dig deep if he wants any answers. But then Shae turns and touches my arm. “Kevin, I’d like you to meet Senator Catherine Monroe.”
God, I wish I’d had my phone ready to snap a picture of the jaw-gaping shock on Jorge’s face when Shae hooked her arm through mine.
“Oh, hello, Mister…Gonzalez, isn’t it?”
I fight the urge to laugh out loud. That was deliberate on her part, I’d bet money on it. He’s now not only shocked my who I’m obviously there with, he’s crushed she seemed uncertain of his name.
Maybe I can figure out a way not to hate her for fucking my boyfriend.
Except, of course, I guess the converse is true.
She’s been in a relationship with Chris far longer that what I had with him. Here I am, sweeping in and moving in with Chris.
Shit. And she’s not being the slightest bit bitchy or standoffish with me about it, either.
But I leave Jorge standing there with his chin resting on his ugly-ass Ferragamos as Shae naturally leans into my left side and I slide my left arm around her waist. “Senator Monroe, I don’t believe I’ve had the pleasure.” I shake with her.
Out of the corner of my eye, I can see Jorge standing there, speechless.
Okay, tonight was definitely worth it just for this.
We end up taking our seats a few minutes later, and I stick with water. Shae has iced tea, but no alcohol. I don’t know if that’s due to an order by Chris or not.
As I sit there chatting with the others at our table—none of whom have outright asked what the fuck I’m doing there even though their curiosity is killing them—I’m aware of a wave of heads turning to look at me, a wave that likely corresponds with Jorge’s path through the room.
Oooh, I’m really enjoying this now.
Finally, Tom Simone, a GOP operative from Washington State sitting directly across the table from me grows a set and asks it. “Kevin, that was a very…interesting and impassioned statement you gave a few weeks ago. What are your future career plans?”
“He’s my campaign manager,” Shae chimes in with a smile, silencing the table.
I take a sip of water and enjoy the universally widened eyes surrounding us.
“For president?” Tom asks.
Shae is a master of wide-eyed innocence. “Yes?”
I struggle and somehow succeed in not laughing.
We’re saved further entertainment by the master of ceremonies taking the podium on stage. Under the table, I offer her a fist bump, and she returns it.
Maybe this won’t be so bad after all.
* * * *
Thankfully, we’re out of there by ten. I no sooner slide into the back seat next to Shae and shut the door behind me than we exchange a grin and burst out laughing.
“Oh. My. God,” she says. “That was the most fun I’ve had at one of these things in a looong damn time. Did you see the looks on their faces when I first told them you’re my campaign manager?”
“Yep. That was priceless.” I glance at my phone, which has been in do not disturb mode. I have five missed calls, ten text messages, and three voice mails.
None of them from Lauren or Chris.
An extremely unusual and suspiciously high volume of traffic, considering the virtual radio silence of the last week or so once the news cycle spun on without me.
Truthfully?
I really did have a good time. By this time tomorrow, everyone in DC—and more than a few who aren’t—will know I’m now Senator Samuels’ campaign manager.
Likely including my father.
Tomorrow, I’m spending the day with Chris. Monday, I hit the ground running without a chance to ease my way into the campaign process.
That chance would have been about twelve months ago.
We need a basic website no later than end-of-day Monday, I need to get a treasure in place, open bank accounts, start the FEC and IRS paperwork hell death march, and hundreds of things I can’t even think about right now but which are lying in wait for me on my phone’s to-do list.
And campaign phones. I need a work phone.
Shae is going to loan the campaign money to get it off the ground. We should be able to start accepting donations online by the end of next week, and will be able to deposit checks as soon as we’ve got a bank account.
“Tell me what hit you when we got there,” she says in a quiet voice I wasn’t expecting.
“Huh?”
When we arrived and you were helping me out of the car. You had a thought and the head shake told me we’d discuss it later.
Did I? I think about it and remember it.
I start to fudge, to outright lie, and realize no.
None of this works if I lie to her or Chris.
She’s a grown-ass woman who wants to be POTUS, and if I can get her that far, I’ll be her chief of staff. That means having conversations along the way that are infinitely more difficult than this one.
I am aware of the driver, but the radio and heater are on, and he’s got a phone earpiece in his right ear.
I lean in close and drop my voice. “There are certain personal facts I was ordered to keep private last night, and I…voiced my disagreement.”
Up goes the eyebrow. “Bet I can guess how that went,” she mutters, a wry, lopsided grin making me chuff.
“Probably very accurately. And as I helped you out of the car, our pictures were being snapped. I then realized the logical why of the order.”
Her gaze is focused on me. In this dim light, her eyes look nearly midnight instead of grey, and not because of the contacts. They shift and pick up colors and shadows depending on the light. At dinner, with dim lighting and candle centerpieces, gold flecks stood out, sun-warmed granite.
