CHAPTER FIVE
Brooke
I’ve always been one to overprepare. To obsess. To find something I wanted and go for it with gusto. I’d told myself that when I started my first real job out of college, I’d get a good night’s sleep. I’d eat a light dinner the night before, lay out the clothes I was going to wear, practice my firm handshake, and go to bed at a reasonable hour so that I could arrive bright-eyed and bushy-tailed for the day.
But when the alarm went off the morning after my foray into The Black Room, I had no idea where I was or how I’d gotten there. I couldn’t even tell you my own name.
In fact, I didn’t even hear the alarm going off for forty-five minutes.
When I did, I pounded my iPhone, feeling like I’d died as I blindly searched my surroundings with my hands. All familiar. Thank god, my own bed. I couldn’t remember much that happened after I’d gotten out of the…
I groaned. The club.
Oh, god.
I tore open one eye and sought out the screen of my phone. It was so bright, it made my eyes hurt. I couldn’t do it.
I’d had precisely one hour and forty-five minutes of sleep, and the worst hangover known to man.
Not that I’d had a lot to drink. In fact, last night had been tame as far as drinking went. What had been off-the-charts wild was… well, just about everything else.
Memories started leaking in, drawing me from the lull of sleep. That smoky club, littered with naked bodies. I rolled over, a sharp pain hitting me right between the eyes, and the muscles in my back and upper arms aching worse than they did after a tough sparring workout. When I swung one leg and then the other over the side of the bed, the tendons of my inner thighs screamed.
Ouch.
Falling out of bed, I landed naked in the pile of clothes I’d dropped there at four in the morning — my red underwear, the pink cashmere sweater, and too-tight pencil skirt. One of my heels must’ve been under there, too, because its hard edge dug into my backside. I pulled the sweater out from under my butt, brought it to my nose, and sniffed.
It smelled like smoke, sure, like sex. But it also smelled, just a little, like him.
SHE IS ALL MINE. That’s what he’d written on the door. Cameron Brice had wanted me all to himself.
And I couldn’t deny that I wanted him too.
I shuddered at the memory of him between my legs, of his commanding tongue. It brought me back to a magazine article I’d once seen about him somewhere, where he’d been dubbed The Man with the Silver Tongue. They’d meant he could say no wrong, but last night I’d learned just what kind of superpowers his tongue possessed. It could do no wrong too. I’d never had a man I hardly knew go down on me, so maybe I should’ve been embarrassed. But I was far from that.
And I was hungry for more.
Maybe that was why I was shuddering. I mean, I hated Cameron Brice. Kiera didn’t refer to him by name. She called him The Douche, and I’d always just agreed. He was cold, unfeeling, and had done absolutely nothing as a politician that I agreed with. He’d single-handedly doomed an entire species of toads essential to our fragile ecosystem… and he’d smiled about it, saying that, “Sacrifices had to be made in the name of progress.” What kind of heartless jerk did that?
The kind of heartless jerk, it appeared, that had made me come in record time last night. The kind that could make me feel things I never had.
I looked down at myself. I had bruises on my wrists and ankles. Fantastic. With the goosebumps popping up everywhere, I looked like a Butterball getting ready to go in the oven.
But hell. I hadn’t pegged myself as the kinky type. But being tied up?
I’d flat-out loved it.
The bluish tinge in my skin wasn’t helped by the fact that my apartment was like ice — the climate control was on the fritz again, one of the few things that bothered me about it. It was a block or so from Temple campus, in a cruddy neighborhood as most of Temple was. It was small and crumbling, but the rent was cheap. Best of all, my roommates had all moved out after college, but I could still afford it. Technically, I should’ve surrendered it after graduation because it was a “campus apartment,” but I’d managed to keep it, partly with a promise that I might attend grad school, and partly with Owen Blakely’s help since it was only a short walk to Brice’s campaign headquarters.
Crawling to my feet, I stumbled across the room in search of Excedrin. I found some in the medicine cabinet in the bathroom and downed two with handfuls of water from the drippy faucet. Then I closed the cabinet, and my eyesight sharper now, looked at myself in the mirror.
Holy hell.
My eyes were bloodshot, with mascara caked in every one of the creases under my eyes. My skin was a sallow, jaundiced color, and my hair was dark with grease. I could only hope I’d looked a little better last night.
By the time I got done gawking at the atrocity that was me, I ventured another look at my phone.
Seven forty-five a.m.
That made me gasp… late.
For the first time ever, I was going to be late.
Shit.
I turned around and reached over the tub, cursing myself because I didn’t do late. I’d wanted this too much, and I’d always been the teacher’s pet, the girl who did everything right. In school, I relished being the goody-two-shoes. After a few moments of playing with the faucet, trying to get the water to run, it only came out as a trickle. I banged on the pipe with the heel of my hand, but it didn’t help.
Forget it. I turned to the sink and scrubbed my face and armpits, trying to get the odor of smoke from my pores. I still felt like I smelled, so I doused myself in body mist. I took a whiff of my hair. It smelled like cigarette smoke, so I tied it up into a tight bun, sprayed more mist on my head, and raced into my bedroom.
It’s okay, I told myself. For this assignment, you are definitely not going to look your best.
I hadn’t laid out the clothes I wanted to wear as I’d planned, but I knew where to find them — in a garbage bag under my bed. I’d gotten them from the Goodwill shop on the corner the moment Blakely called me about the job. I pulled them on, trying to ignore that they smelled like mothballs. The cardigan was in a red, home-knitted chevron pattern my grandmother wouldn’t have been caught dead in, and the Easy Spirit Mary Jane shoes, though comfortable, gave me something like clown feet. I needed a strategically placed safety pin at the waist to hold up the shapeless denim prairie skirt that hung down to my calves. It all served very nicely to cover up the bruises my “new employer” had given me the previous night.
I threw my oily bun into a wig cap and fastened a mousy brown wig with obnoxious bangs over my head. Then I shoved a pair of giant horn-rimmed spectacles on my face. When I peered in the full-length mirror behind my door, I hardly recognized myself. I looked like the quiet, unassuming librarian, the type of person nobody noticed.
Perfect.
On instinct, I reached for my Michael Kors purse but stopped when I remembered the camera still weighing it down. As a clerk, I didn’t think I’d get very close to Cameron Brice, but I couldn’t take a chance of him remembering it. Plus, it didn’t really go with the disguise. Quickly, I switched the essentials into my school backpack, grabbed a water bottle from the fridge, and headed out the door.
As I ran, I fished my phone out of my pocket to check my messages. There were twelve texts from Kiera, the first asking what I was up to, the remaining eleven asking why I wasn’t responding with increasing urgency. The last one screamed, We are not best friends anymore! There were at least a billion exclamation points climbing down the screen.
That was Kiera, my dear drama queen. As far as friendships went, ours was pretty new. I met her last summer while interning for her father, setting up his campaign office in Radnor, across town. We quickly hit it off, even though she was all about partying and I was the straitlaced one. We spent most of the summer holed up in that cramped office, making photocopies of campaign flyers and telling each other our life stories. She was UPenn all the way, like her father. Now, she was attending UPenn Law, also like her father, but it was kind of a joke because I knew she’d give up her career aspirations in a second if she found a boyfriend who’d give her a ring.
As I ran, I texted back, Sorry, I’m alive, narrowly avoiding a wayward overturned garbage can on the sidewalk. Tell you about it later. On my way to Ground Zero.
I added a little nervous emoticon to convey the butterflies swimming in my stomach.
Biting my lip, I wondered if I’d see him, then decided I probably wouldn’t. After all, I was just a clerk, so I’d probably have no interaction with him whatsoever. From what I understood, candidates rarely stopped into their campaign headquarters. I’d only seen Owen at his headquarters a handful of times.
Certain I had nothing to worry about, I picked up the pace, glad for the comfort of those Easy Spirits.
After a short dash down Susquehanna, I stopped at an unassuming brick row home. Kiera told me that the Republican Party decided to base their operations in this rundown part of Philly in an effort to appeal more to the “common man,” but it clearly hadn’t helped. Despite his Ivy League education and inherent wealth, Kiera’s dad was down-to-earth — he wore Dockers everywhere, never flaunted his money, and staunchly campaigned for expanding welfare to those less fortunate. If Brice wanted to appeal to the people in that neighborhood, he could’ve tried not wearing a three-piece suit everywhere he went.
There used to be a sign outside that announced the home as the Republican campaign’s headquarters, but it was gone now. It had been defaced with a giant penis a week ago. I knew as much because I’d cased the place out even before I got the assignment. They’d also removed all the FUCK BRICE graffiti from the brick facade. Now, it appeared they were going incognito, which was probably a smart move.
It occurred to me I was probably taking my life in my own hands just working there, so after checking to make sure no one had followed me, I quickly ran up the crumbling brick steps and threw open the door.
Inside, I was greeted by a small staircase, and off to the left, there was a makeshift office. It was just as rundown inside as it was outside, cramped, and smelling of someone’s burnt toast breakfast. There were a bunch of people huddled over their desks, looking extremely serious, and well, Republican. All heads swung to look at me, frowning like they knew I was infiltrating their domain. I found it quite ironic how the morning sun slashed through the blinds in the front windows, painting prison bars on their faces.
“Uh, hi—” I stopped abruptly and jumped forward as the door actually swung back and hit me in the ass because I hadn’t stepped far enough inside.
I’m a total moron.
“Hi,” I started again, speaking to no one in particular, moving to swipe a mousy brown lock of hair off my face, but stopping when I remembered it was a hastily donned wig and I might push it off my head at any moment. I tried to think of the alias I’d given during the interview, but only Cassandra came to mind. Shit.
An older man with a graying mustache stared at me. “Are you Violet?”
Violet. Yes. Yes! That was the name I’d given them during the screening. I tilted my head forward in a shy gesture and spoke haltingly, like I could barely get the words past my introvertedness. I knew that changing my bearing would go a long way in disguising myself, more so than even the wig and hideous clothes. “Yes. Violet Wilkes. I, uh, start work here today.”
He came around his desk and shook my hand, smiling. “Welcome. I’m Bob Simmons, Cameron Brice’s campaign and finance manager. We spoke on the phone.”
“Oh, yes. Hi!” I said again stupidly, just happy to see a smiling face.
He motioned me into the room and showed me to a tiny and uncomfortable-looking metal desk in the corner. “This’ll be your new home until we get our boy elected this November. You can set your things here. Can I get you some coffee?”
I placed my backpack and bottle of water down on the seat and shook my head, relaxing.
“We’re super glad to have the extra hand,” he said, though everyone there looked more curious about me than glad. One girl, who was probably my age, eyed my Easy Spirits like they were piranha attached to my feet… as if her petal-pink blouse with the bow in the front was any better. “Lots of work to be done to get our man a seat in Harrisburg.”
I smiled, keeping my thoughts firmly clamped behind my teeth. Hell, no. Cameron Brice should not be allowed anywhere near Pennsylvania’s state capital. But Simmons seemed nice, even if he had been drinking the Brice Kool-Aid.
He introduced me to the remaining team members, whose names I quickly forgot. They all seemed fine, nice even, despite the first impression and their obviously faulty political beliefs.
Then he gave me a quick tour of the place, which was cramped and had obviously once been someone’s house before it was converted to headquarters. There was the main room in the front with five desks, which must have once been a living room. It was covered with photos of the elder Brice, who was standing in front of the White House with a bunch of suited people I couldn’t name on sight. Before him, the then-president was giving a speech behind a podium with the presidential seal. Other than that, the headquarters contained a meeting room with a giant American flag on the wall, a kitchen with two vending machines and an avocado-colored fridge from the seventies, and in the back, two offices. One for Cameron, and one for his father. As I predicted, and much to my relief, Cameron was nowhere to be found. The doors to both offices were closed, and the frosted window in each door revealed only darkness beyond.
The rest of the morning was spent stapling in absolute silence except for the soft stylings coming from some easy-listening station on the radio on top of the filing cabinet. I couldn’t exaggerate the monotony. I must have stapled together five-thousand packets while listening to every Barry Manilow song known to man. Every single cover page said, The Man For The Job: Elect Cameron Brice for Senate, and had Cameron’s smiling face on the front. I tried to concentrate on getting the staple perfectly in the corner, because each time my eyes wandered down to Cameron’s intense gaze, his chiseled jaw, his smiling mouth, I thought about the way his tongue had felt on my core, and I shivered visibly.
He’d clearly been the man for that job.
Dammit.
Meanwhile, people milled about, constantly in my business. They all had to pass by my desk to get to the kitchen and were constantly looking over my shoulder while they fetched cups of coffee. I didn’t see how in such close quarters I’d be able to complete my real job, which was digging for dirt.
But at lunchtime, to my astonishment, the place cleared out. First, a young girl in the bow blouse — I thought her name was Alicia — pulled her blazer on, grabbed her phone, and went out the front door. Then, the two other men, who could’ve been twins —one was Harvey, maybe— stopped typing at their computers, nodded at each other, and followed. That left Bob, who gave me a smile and said, “Half hour for lunch.” Then he disappeared too.
I exhaled deeply and finally dug my fingers under my wig to scratch my scalp, which had been screaming for attention since approximately nine in the morning. I checked my phone, which had only one message from my mother. You up for a protest on the 25th? I’ll get the picket signs!
I typed half-heartedly. Always.
My mother was an environmental attorney, my father, an immigration attorney, and they were always picketing for some good cause or another. With our busy schedules, despite the fact that they only lived outside the city in Bensalem, protests were usually the only time we had a chance to bond.
Then I stood up and used the bathroom, checking to make sure my disguise was still in order before heading to the lunchroom where I got coffee and Cheetos out of a vending machine. Not the best lunch, but I had things to do.
I went back to the main office and wandered about, trying to determine a plan of attack. I went to a filing cabinet with the letter “A” on the front. Pulling a squeaking drawer open, I paged through it, finding nothing but old campaign posters and newspaper clippings.
Well, Cameron Brice was no idiot, obviously. He wouldn’t leave anything damning in an unlocked file cabinet, where anyone could find it.
I paced the office, wandering down the hallway, contemplating. Where would I be if I were something Cameron Brice wanted to hide? When I came upon his office door, I knew the answer was obvious. I had to get inside.
A quick glance toward the front of the building, and I placed my hand on the door. I tried to twist the knob, but it didn’t budge.
Locked, of course.
But that was it. My fingers twitched, my spine straightened. That was the Holy Grail.
Then I heard noises in the front reception area.
Sighing, I walked back to the front of the office to see Bob Simmons standing at his desk, looking at me. Already back. Fuck. “How goes it?”
I shrugged. “Fine. I finished all those packets.”
“Good deal. We’ll get you doing more meaty stuff this afternoon.”
I didn’t know why, but “meaty” sounded dirty to me. My mind wandered back to Brice. I thought of his hard cock pressed against my abdomen and heat stirred inside me. My eyes trailed to my bruised wrists, and a pang of desire hit me low in the belly. I wished I could be back there, under his command. I quickly squelched that thought and massaged the bruise. If I was going to make this whole “employment” thing work, I had to stop thinking about kinky sex during it.
Damn, why had I even gone out last night? I’d wanted to get a leg up on my assignment, but I’d only served to make a hard job even harder.
Bob eyed me curiously, and I realized I’d gotten sidetracked from our conversation. “I’m happy to do whatever you need,” I answered him. “Did you go out to lunch?”
He lifted a shoulder. “Nah. I never usually go out. Just went to the corner for something quick.”
“Oh.”
Shit.
Bob surveyed the Cheetos on my desk and frowned. “You can’t be eating just that,” he said. He held a bag out to me from Philly Pretzel Factory. “Have one. They’re still warm.”
“Oh, no, I’m—”
“Come on,” he said, shaking the bag to tempt me. “You young girls. My daughter is about your age, and she doesn’t know how to feed herself. You’ll waste away.”
I smiled. It was no wonder he seemed so fatherly. I got the feeling I might even like him… if I didn’t already know his political leanings were so ass-backward. I wasn’t sure a soft pretzel was better nutritionally than a bag of Cheetos, but I took it anyway. “Thanks.”
“So, how do you like it here?” he asked. “You said in your application that you had an interest in politics.”
I nodded. Not really, just an interest in bringing down political foes. “I may want to go into the field,” I said vaguely as I tore a hunk of pretzel off and popped it into my mouth.
He didn’t question me further, so I didn’t have to come up with any more lies. During the afternoon, I did get to do “meatier” things. Bob had me combing Twitter for any mentions of Cameron, good or bad. I screenshot and filed them in a massive report to be handed to the candidate so that he could gauge public opinion.
I didn’t need to go far to gauge exactly what public opinion in Pennsylvania was about Cameron Brice. There was, overwhelmingly, more bad than good. I’d thought Kiera was the only person who called him a douche, but the exercise proved to me that I was apparently mistaken. In fact, each tweet I uncovered was more scathing than the next. They insulted everything from his intellect to his haircut. It was almost enough to make me feel sorry for him.
Almost. After all, he was the one who’d signed up for this run.
And, if you don’t want to be called a douche, don’t act like one. Period.
When I finished, I read over the report. Over two-hundred mentions of the word “idiot.” Forty-five “liar.” Twelve “douches.” Three “charlatans.”
A partridge in a pear tree.
What else? Out of touch. Aloof. Ineffectual. Deplorable. And of course, my favorite: Right-wing scumbag with too much hair product and too little concern for his fellow man.
At close to quitting time, the rest of the employees filed out. I looked at Bob. I thought he’d asked me to email the report directly to Cameron’s email address, then realized it was probably one of the last things he’d want his boss to see. Cameron Brice couldn’t have wanted to read this utterly scathing shit about what an asshole he was. I mean, sure, it was true, but Brice didn’t strike me as the type of person to care about public opinion, especially since much of it was from enraged Twitter users who had a combined total of twenty followers. I hovered my mouse over send and then said, “Um, Bob?”
He looked at me over his bifocals.
“I’m done with the report. Where did you want me to—”
He leaned back, confused. “Didn’t I give you the email? It’s C-B—”
“Oh, you did,” I said to him, looking over the open email message. I’d hoped for more of a buffer between Cameron Brice and me. “You really want me to send this directly to Ca… I mean, Mr. Brice?”
He nodded. “Mr. Brice insists. You can introduce yourself as the new clerk so he knows who you are. Show a little personality, if you’d like.”
Personality? I stared at the screen. Taking a deep breath, I began to type. Hello, Mr. Brice. I’m your new clerk. I like rainy days, piña coladas, and walks on the beach.
Then I erased it.
Personality. I typed a couple more lines, erasing all of them. I wasn’t sure I wanted to show him my personality because I’d shown him enough of myself already. I imagined writing: Hello, Mr. Brice. Remember me? Because I sure remember you. And your tongue.
Finally, I just wrote: Good evening, Mr. Brice, I’m attaching your daily social media report. Thank you.
Screw personality.
And I signed my name Brooke Ellis.
Then I remembered. Shit.
I quickly backspaced over the name and signed Violet Wilkes, Clerk, Cameron Brice for Senate.
I read it over and over to make sure I wasn’t making any more catastrophic mistakes, closed my eyes, and clicked send. I was going to fail FBI training if I didn’t get better at handling stress than this.
When I looked up, Bob was studying me curiously. I explained, “I didn’t realize I’d actually have a chance to interact with Mr. Brice as a clerk.”
“Oh. Well, of course you will. Mr. Brice comes in here fairly regularly since it’s convenient for him. He’s not as scary a guy as the liberal media makes him out to be, though, so don’t be alarmed.”
I swallowed. Just the thought of seeing him again and my nipples hardened. Thank god for chunky cardigans.
When I next looked at Bob, he was pulling on a windbreaker. He shut off his laptop and said, “If you’re the last one here, all you have to do is set the alarm and lock the doors.” He demonstrated the procedure to me — three times. “Got it?”
I nodded.
Then he left.
And I was alone.
Alone! Score!
After I’d finished my lunch, I began yawning incessantly, feeling the previous night’s lack of sleep catching up with me. But now, I sat up straight, wide awake. I spun around in my chair, hardly believing this luck. Grabbing my coffee mug from my desk, I walked into the kitchenette, determined to get the energy to do my “overtime.”
I got another bag from the vending machine, Doritos this time since Bob wasn’t there to berate me, and I’d really been on a roll with the healthy eating. I promised myself I’d bring in a salad tomorrow, and do an extra-long sparring workout this weekend. I poured myself a coffee and added the creamer, wondering if I could find something to jimmy the lock on Cameron’s office door. I was just heading over to my desk with the full mug, thinking a paper clip would do the trick, when I ran straight into a solid, six-foot-something wall of muscle.
My mug sloshed between me and the giant barrier, and while recognition had begun to dawn, it wasn’t enough. I couldn’t stop myself in time. As hot coffee sloshed on my knuckles, I screamed, “Shit!” in surprise and dropped my coffee and bag of chips on the floor. The mug, shaped like a little Santa Claus head, shattered into pieces as I instinctively got into a boxing stance, covering my face with my closed fists, the way I’d been taught in class.
Before I could throw my first punch, I looked up into the face of Cameron Brice.
He dropped his briefcase and raised a palm to block my punch, ready. “Hey. Hold on.”
I froze, gasping for breath. When I could speak, I still wanted to punch him, but I restrained myself, him being my employer and all.
“Oh my god!” I placed both hands on the sides of my wig, hoping it wasn’t planning on sliding off my head. “You scared the shit out of me!”
“Sorry,” he said, putting a hand on my elbow. He smiled crookedly at me, and I couldn’t see anything that resembled the man in the club. He had a gorgeous, movie star face, one that it almost hurt to look at. Somewhere, underneath all that beauty, was the tongue that had been my undoing last night. There was a dark five-o’clock shadow on his jaw, and his hair, which so often had been perfectly coiffed, was more tousled and unkempt. “Whoa, slugger. I thought I’d wandered into a ring with Muhammed Ali.”
I just goggled at him.
“Violet?”
I couldn’t figure out why he would be naming flowers in my presence. I stared more, stupidly, like a mute.
He held up his phone, which was opened to his email account. “You emailed me?”
“Oh.” I blinked as I remembered my alias and slumped into poor posture, taking my voice a notch lower to timid. “Yes. Right.”
“So, what? Did they leave you all alone here? I’m sorry,” he said, tapping the side of his head like, how could I have forgotten? He held out his hand to me. “Cameron Brice.”
Of course he was. After studying him for so long from afar, and knowing him so intimately last night, it was hard to believe we’d never been formally introduced.
I stared at his hand, not knowing if I should touch it. I was afraid of what might happen, how my body would respond if I made contact with his skin again. Already, I could feel my nipples harden, pushing against my bra, wanting him, making me thankful to the inventor of sweaters. Would I be able to play along and pretend like I was the mousy clerk, Violet Wilkes? Or would I totally lose it, like Cassandra, and give myself away?
“Thanks for the report,” he said, still holding his hand out.
“Oh. You’re welcome.”
I’d put it off long enough. Tentatively, I reached out and shook just the tips of his fingers, and damned if electricity didn’t surge straight up my arm, through my heart, low into my abdomen. Something dangerous stirred between my thighs, and I was in danger of growing wet for him. I snapped my hand away quickly, hoping he didn’t feel it too.
But from the way he was staring at me so intently, I knew he’d felt something. “Have we met before?”
Shit. “No,” I said quickly, too quickly. I licked my lips and tried again. “Don’t think so. I mean, maybe you saw me at one of your rallies? I’ve gone to a lot of them. I’m a big fan.”
God, I couldn’t stop babbling. Please, don’t recognize me! I screamed inside my head, hoping I wouldn’t throw up from sheer nerves and over-gushing.
He considered this. Then he just nodded, much to my relief. He’d bought it.
But the relief dissolved a second later, and I found myself desperately wishing he had recognized me. What if he had? What if he’d taken me into his office, stripped this ridiculous disguise off of me, and I got to experience his miraculous tongue once more?
Screw it.
Now I really was wet. Embarrassed, my eyes trailed to the mess between us. I turned around to seek out some paper towels, but he’d already reached for the rung underneath the cabinets, unfurling a pile of them and ripping them off the roll.
I reached down to pick up the shards. Smiling, broken Santa stared up at us. “Ho-ho-hope this wasn’t anyone’s favorite mug,” I mused to myself.
Or… not to myself. I realized I’d said it out loud when he gave me a quizzical look.
Oh, god, could I be any more of a moron?
Cameron Brice was a typical wooden politician with absolutely no sense of humor. I needed to keep my goofy jokes to myself, and get out of the building, stat.
Then he said, his voice low and oozing a little of that magnetic charm I’d completely fallen for last night, “I guess we’re both on the naughty list now.”
A shot of fear struck my heart. For a moment I thought my cover was blown, and he’d recognized me. “What?”
He pointed at the broken cup. Okay, so he wasn’t talking about last night. Nothing like trading lame Christmas jokes in the middle of May. I let out the breath I’d been holding.
He dropped the paper towels on the mess stretching across the linoleum floor as I heard footsteps behind us. “What are you doing, Cameron?” a voice boomed.
Behind him, in the darkened hallway, I could just make out the outline of the white-haired man that up to now, I’d only seen on television, standing woodenly behind a podium with an official presidential seal. Back then, he’d been smiling winsomely.
As he moved closer, I saw that now, he was frowning like he’d just met death.
Ron Brice.
Cameron’s father was a typical vice president. Meaning, since he hadn’t run for president, he’d been completely forgotten after his political term. Oh, there had been talk of him running for Top Dog twenty years ago, since he’d been a lot like his son. Gorgeous, young, ambitious, the deadly trifecta. But those aspirations were quickly squashed after Shadygate, when it was found that he spent forty-million taxpayer dollars on a party for some of his supporters at Shady Palms Resort in Palm Beach, Florida. Yes, Forty. Million. Dollars. That was bad enough, but when it was found that there were underage prostitutes on hand and several notable politicians had partaken of their services, all shit hit the fan. The Democratic party had a field day, and speculations and rumors crowded the news outlets for months. Half a dozen congressmen stepped down from their positions in disgrace. And Ron Brice’s political rise to fame hit a cement ceiling.
Thus, all the Brice hopes and dreams had been pinned on Cameron. It had to be a lot of pressure.
Not that I could ever feel sorry for him. Did Cameron feel sorry for the yellow-horned toad?
No, of course not. He was a douche.
“Had a momentary kitchen malfunction,” the younger Brice said smoothly, pointing at the cup. “This here is Violet Wilkes, our new clerk.”
Crouched on the floor, I looked up, up, way up, to the man hovering above me in the doorway. He was just as tall as his son, with similar handsome features, but his hair was the color of snow. He was wearing a tuxedo. Ron Brice, former vice president of the United States, regarded me like a piece of gum stuck to the bottom of his shoe.
Then he scowled at his son. “Well, let the help take care of it. You have somewhere important to be.”
Then he strode away without a word to me.
Cameron quickly straightened and started to walk away. Then, thinking better of it, he came back, grabbed the paper towel, and tossed it in the trash. “I do have to go. Sorry for the scare. And the mess.”
I nodded. “Don’t worry about it,” I started, wondering about the important “somewhere” his father had been talking about. I wondered whether he would deign to tell me, or just regard me as part of the “help,” unworthy of conversation.
It didn’t hurt to try, I decided, when I realized I didn’t want him to leave just yet. I could just be asking as small talk. As he started to walk away, I blurted, “Your father looked nice. So where are you headed?”
He turned, leaning against the doorjamb, a dash of surprise on his face. “Meeting. Then a benefit.” He scratched the back of his neck, suddenly looking tired. “Came here to change.”
To change? He looked only slightly haggard, but the stubble on his jaw and thick, rumpled black hair was sexy, like he’d just stepped off the cover of GQ. “Oh. Well, have fun.”
He snorted, as if the idea of having fun at those things was absurd. “Are you planning on burning the midnight oil?”
I had, up until he arrived. But now, a new idea had been blossoming in my mind, one that sounded infinitely more exciting. “No, actually. Leaving right now. Why?”
He narrowed his eyes, confused. He pointed at my dinner, the bag of Doritos that was still on the floor, splashed with a little coffee. “With the coffee and the chips… looked like you were hanging around for a bit.”
Right. Fuck. I mumbled, “I just remembered I have to take my... um, cat... to the vet.”
He nodded as I cringed. Cat? I hated cats. “Have a good night, then.”
I only realized how hard I was breathing when he’d gone into his office and shut the door. No, I had definitely not had my fill of Cameron Brice for the evening. Quickly, I grabbed my backpack, noting the stretch limo parked outside, waiting for them. I raced back to my apartment, thankful it was so close. Pulling off my wig and dowdy clothes and changing into a sweatshirt and ripped jeans, I took off the ridiculous horn-rimmed glasses that would have made me cool in the 1920s before grabbing my keys, and jumped in my crappy car.
The limo was still idling outside when I returned to headquarters. I pulled into a spot on the corner and waited as Ron Brice stepped outside, followed by Cameron. I leaned forward and let out a dreamy sigh as I scanned his impeccable tuxedo and shiny patent leather shoes. God, in this rundown neighborhood, he was nothing short of an oasis, a vision.
When the limo pulled away, I easily fell in behind it, scratching my scalp, happy to be free of that atrocious wig. I knew he wouldn’t be going to the club, but I told myself this would be worthwhile. Even though I wasn’t sure what trouble he could get into, dressed so well, at barely seven o’clock in the evening, with his father.
More likely, I already wasn’t ready to let him go.