THIRTY-FIVE
ELLE
A week passes.
Then two.
And every time a reporter questions me, I give them the same response. “I think it’s sad you’re wasting your time covering a story about a consensual relationship between two adults when there are so many other stories that deserve your attention.”
I hold my head high when I return to class, but by then, very few people are thinking of my scandal. And the ones that do have something snarky to say about seeing my name in the news are more interested in talking about my father. Just like the rest of this city. Four other women have come forward with stories about Dad, each account more fucked up than the last, and it’s inevitable there will be more.
That’s the only positive thing that came out of this mess. My father won’t be able to hide behind his money or position any longer, even if he does still have people who support him. But Mom and Zach don’t. I don’t.
And I won’t.
I’m at my laptop working on a paper for my Advanced Reporting course when Blake stumbles into the apartment, chirping happily about her date with the new guy, Travis. The Weeknd lookalike she met while I was in Manhattan over New Year’s. She wrinkles her nose as she tosses her keys on the counter and nods down to the floral arrangement.
“I swear this place is starting to look like a funeral home with all these flowers.” She bends so she can inhale them. She smiles and closes her eyes. “But they’re much prettier than the roses. I’m stealing them for my room, if that’s okay with you.”
“Hmm.” I glance up from my screen and give a half-hearted shrug. I’d tossed the rest in the garbage yesterday morning. Well, most of them. I’d saved the sunflowers, but they’re quickly dying on my dresser. “Go for it. Today’s offering came with tickets to Cinque Terre, too.”
She’s halfway across the living room with the vase of daisies when she stops in her tracks. Slowly, she faces me, mouth wide open. “No way. He sent you tickets to Italy?”
Biting the inside of my cheek, I bob my head. I still don’t know how to verbalize the churning I felt in the pit of my stomach this afternoon when I opened the envelope and the tickets fell out. It was anger, of course, because I haven’t been able to rid myself of that emotion. But there was something else, too. And that sensation was what hurt the most. It was that pressure that made me lose my breath and I sat for a long time, staring at the tickets, a fog swirling around my brain.
Blake sits on the edge of the love seat. She plunks the vase down on the coffee table and shakes her head incredulously. “Between the flowers and the trip to Italy and the car, the guy’s up to what? A hundred grand?”
Probably. Because in Graham Delaney’s world—in the world I was raised in—forgiveness and control are purchased. I won’t lie, though, the car was truly a shock. The delivery man had stopped me on my way out a few days ago. I’d stared at the sleek red Mercedes coupe for an eternity, part of me hating Graham for trying to buy me off and the other part tempted to sign for it. It wouldn’t put a dent in his pocket. Even if he is facing an ethics review after publicly admitting that the photos of me came from his phone and that he was remorseful that someone he cared for was hurt by his stupidity.
Graham Delaney. The politician. The man with all the right moves, the right words, and with all the wrong intentions.
Reluctantly, I told the delivery guy to return the car to its sender. I hated doing it. No matter how angry I was at Graham, it didn’t change the fact I’ve been taking the bus to work and class.
Blake puffs out a breath, blowing up a few wisps of blonde hair out of her face. “You didn’t do what you did to the car, did you? Because I swear I’ll choke you, Elle.”
“No.” The smile I give her makes my cheeks ache. I close my laptop and climb off the couch, legs trembling as I walk toward the hallway and my bedroom. The paper will have to wait, but it wasn’t like I was getting much done. My thoughts are too scattered. “I think I’ll keep those.”
I already know that shit is just going to get worse for my father, and I’m desperate to escape once that happens. The media has left me alone, for the time being, but it’s only a matter of time before I’m dragged back into the scandal.
The dirty daughter of the predatory senator.
I peek at Blake over my shoulder and her features etch into a scowl as she takes in my expression. “I’m going to go out for a bit,” I say.
She grabs the flowers. Takes a hesitant step in my direction and cocks an eyebrow. “Do you want some company? We can hit up a karaoke bar. You love it when I sing ‘50 Ways to Say Goodbye.’”
“Because you’re so bad at it.” My lips spread into a smile because I can vividly picture her playing an imaginary trumpet on stage during the instrumental solos. I shake my head. “But no, not tonight. I think I’ll just go at it alone.”
She pokes out her bottom lip. Toots her hand trumpet sadly. And then sings me all the way into my bedroom.
I don’t know why I end up on the same strip of bars as 202, but that’s where I ask the Uber driver to let me off. My mouth hardens as I walk past the sports bar where I’d worked. Janelle was fired the day after the photos were sent out—Chad had personally called to let me know that, and to apologize for what she did and invite me back to work. From the texts I’ve ignored from Graham, I know that he’s filed charges against her. Still, I don’t think I’ll ever go back inside 202.
In any capacity.
I tug my slouchy black beanie down over my ears. Bundle my coat closer. And keep moving.
I walk for what feels like hours, until my nose feels like it’s about to fall off of my face and my hands are so numb I can’t feel them as I stand outside the piano bar on Pennsylvania Avenue, digging my nails in my palm. Everything is a memory. Everything reminds me of him, but at least this place makes good drinks. So I go inside. Order a blackberry cocktail the second my butt hits the small booth I’m led to. And then I close my eyes. I sit back and listen to the pianist’s rendition of “Don’t Dream It’s Over” and try to pretend the last few weeks were nothing but a bad dream.
When I hear Graham’s name, I’m certain it’s just my mind playing tricks on me. That I’m so fucked that I’m starting to hear him. But then I feel someone hovering over me. I open my eyes, hoping it’s my drink, hoping I can drown him out. And then my heart and stomach and throat—everything—tangles into one giant knot.
He’s wearing boots and jeans and a long sleeve white tee shirt that molds to his muscular chest and arms. His brows knit over his dark eyes and he opens his mouth. Closes it. Parts his lips again and clears his throat.
“I’m going to sit down, Eleanor. We’re going to talk.”
“No.” I start to get up, but he slides into the booth right beside me. I fist my hands and stare straight ahead, at the pianist. He’s playing Hozier. “I’m sure you’re aware of this, but there’s a big shit storm in Congress right now about consent. And since no is the same in several different languages, you can’t say you don’t understand.”
“I’ve called you.” My spine stiffens when his breath fans my face. He’s so close. Too close. “I’ve texted you, I’ve sent flowers and—”
“A car. And tickets to Italy. And more flowers.” I squeeze my lips together as my waitress saunters over with my drink. She gives Graham an appreciative once-over then places the cocktail in front of me. When she meets my gaze, swivels her stare back to him for a second, then widens her eyes, I know she’s probably recognized us from the news.
Graham stops her, touching her wrist before she walks away. He tosses money on the table, and I almost snort. “Your tip starts there.” He points at the hundred dollar bills on the green onyx tabletop. “But I’ll consider it shit service if we’re bothered tonight—in any capacity. Do you understand?”
She eyeballs the money and bobs her head. “Yes, sir. Just let me know if you need anything.”
I focus on the back of her crisp white button-up as she leaves. “Does it make you feel better about yourself to throw money at people?”
“No, but it does make me feel better to know we won’t have cameras jammed in our faces when we leave.”
“There is no we, which is why you should leave.” I exhale sharply when he touches my cheek and turns my stare to his face. He’s unshaved. I hadn’t noticed that before, but a full shadow covers the lower portion of his golden face. It just makes him look sexier. The asshole. “Did you forget how to use a razor, Senator?”
“I’m on leave.” When I jerk back in surprise, he lets go of my face and continues, “I took a leave of absence while the law firms handling my investigation finish.”
“Oh.”
“They’re going to reach out to you at some point, Eleanor.”
I jab my tongue into my cheek and slide it up and down. “Then I’ll tell them the truth. That you took pictures of me that were private and it was very unfortunate that somebody else got ahold of them.” He leans back and cocks his head to one side. I lift my cocktail to my lips and down half of it in one gulp. “What? Did you expect me to admit I was stupid enough to fall for your lies?”
“I. Am. Sorry.”
“You’ve said that already, Graham. I mean, fuck, you even went on national news and gave your bullshit lies about the remorse you felt for hurting the people you care for and—”
“Eleanor,” he grinds out, stopping me. I slam my glass to the table and cut my eyes to his. “No filter?” he rasps.
“Does it matter if I tell you I want the truth? There always seems to be a lie when it comes to you.”
Flaring his nostrils, he shoves his face close to mine. “That wasn’t bullshit. That wasn’t a lie. And I do feel … remorse. I haven’t felt truly guilty in years, not since what happened with Charlotte, but I do when it comes to you. Everything I told the reporters was one hundred percent true.”
I tear my eyes from his. Look at the crushed blackberries at the bottom of my glass. Pretend that my heart isn’t crashing violently. “How did you find me tonight?” I ask at last.
“I didn’t.” At my bitter laugh, he says, “I leave for New York tomorrow morning and needed a drink. Something to take my mind off of it all. I came here, like I’ve done several times since that last night with you. And then I saw you sitting there and couldn’t stay away.”
“Because you couldn’t resist fucking with me some more?”
“Because I can’t resist you. Period.”
We sit in silence, the flames from his stare on the side of my face. My pulse racing. My skin on fire. I wait until after the pianist starts a new song—this time it’s Civil Twilight’s “Human”—to open my mouth. “I can’t hate you. No matter how hard I try, I can’t bring myself to hate you. And that’s wrong of me, isn’t it? Because I won’t even speak to my father but I can’t. Hate. You. I—”
He shushes my broken words with his lips, pinning them to mine. He kisses me like this is the first time, his tongue and mouth agonizingly slow. The fingers he cups my face with feather soft but capable of destruction.
“Weren’t you listening to me?” he demands, resting his forehead to mine. “I told you none of the shit I said on TV was a lie, Elle. That I am sorry. That I do love you.”
My chest clenches because he hadn’t said that to any reporter. That word he said had no room in our arrangement. “I heard you.” God, why does my voice sound so weak? “And it doesn’t change anything. Can you let me up, Graham? I’d like to go now.”
His expression is a stony mask as he slides out of the booth and gestures toward the front of the restaurant. He lets me take two steps—just two—before he says, “You love me, Elle.”
I squeeze my eyes and trace my fingertip over my lips. The heat from his mouth lingers. “Yes.”
“You don’t think that deserves a do-over?”
I spin on my heels and blink up at him. “I-I don’t know.” And I leave him with that. Weight crushing my chest the further I get from him. My legs shaking as I burst out of the bar and onto the sidewalk. I can’t breathe. I can’t fucking breathe, and it’s not fair that he can do this. That he can—
“Play me,” he growls, and I shiver when I realize he’s followed me outside. I turn slowly and hug my arms across my chest. Like that first night, he isn’t wearing a coat. The cold doesn’t bother this man.
“What?”
Hollowing his cheeks, he closes the distance between us. Bodies move around us. The music from the piano bar—and other bars—float into the street. But for a moment, we’re the only bodies and voices that exist on this sidewalk. “Play me, Elle. When I trap your king, we start over. When I trap your king, you. Are. Mine.”
He’s challenging me to chess. He wants me to play him in exchange for a second chance. I cover my hand over my throat. Rub it up and down as if I’m coaxing the words up and out. “And if I win?”
His Adam’s apple drops. “If you win, I’ll let you go.”
But we both know that won’t happen because he’ll beat me.
I don’t even stand a chance.
And that’s why I should walk away. Pretend he never issued the challenge. Act like this night never happened.
But I move my head. Clear my throat. “Okay, Graham.”