Chapter 13
thirteen
Alex
The ballroom of the Washington Hilton is like a Costco crossed with Bloomingdale’s, in that it’s filled with people in fancy clothes scanning for what they want. I get a lot of second takes from the more than 2,000 greedy eyes surrounding me, as if I’m a good deal on GoGurt or something. Fortunately, the Secret Service keeps most people from approaching my round table.
There are 10 place settings at the table, all already occupied by the time my entourage sweeps into the room. Cindy is far across the table from me—I should have been more specific about her seat—but I suppose it’s for the best that no one will mistake her for my date. The last time I brought a date to an event, it was a ball for the second inauguration and her name is still linked to mine in every magazine or feature piece about me. I haven’t talked to Chelsea since she gave an interview in which she called me “a little stiff.”
At least if Cindy gave that quote, she’d be blushing while she said it .
Smiling at everyone as I sit down, I give her a nod of polite acknowledgement. She’s wearing black, her hair is up and she’s wearing bright red lipstick again. Her dress has long sleeves and a deep V in the back. She’s crisp and collected and delicious, like an elegant apple. I want to rub her against my shirt before I bite into her. Great, now who’s blushing.
I turn my attention to the raised platform at the front of the room, where Tim and Anita are both sitting. Tim is required to give a speech before the actual entertainer of the evening, and his sense of comedic timing is not his best quality. The presidential campaign staff worried so much about him bombing the year of the last election, they managed to get him out of giving the speech by “donating” the time to charity.
Tim can let the dad jokes fly for the rest of his presidency, though. I’m not sure whether I’m looking forward to it or bracing myself not to cringe in front of the cameras.
I wish I could tell Cindy the full context. Lean in and whisper it into her neck. She meets my eyes over the rim of her glass, her head tilted toward that damn movie star, Ryder, on her right. Doesn’t that guy live in California? He keeps popping up at everything this weekend.
Keeping her gaze, I lean over to the governor of Florida, who is seated next to me. “Didn’t you bring the sunshine with you, Melody? It’s chilly tonight.”
She smiles. “Tell me about it, Mr. Vice President. I’m freezing.” She shivers and pulls her silk shawl thing closer around her neck.
“You let me know if you need my jacket,” I tell her, earning a smile from the women within earshot. I need to remember to thank my sisters for teaching me this amazing shortcut to every woman’s heart: Warmth.
“Ever the charmer,” murmurs the senior White House correspondent on my left side .
“I should have brought a case of slippers,” I whisper back. “Could’ve won some votes for life.”
“Hell, I’d swoon if I could wear something besides these new shoes,” the man replies.
I laugh and clap him on the back like we’re friends. The last time this guy caught up to me walking down the White House driveway toward EEOB, he’d asked if I thought the party should invest more in other leadership options. “Your poll numbers indicate only half the country knows who you are,” he’d said. I hate how two-faced this job is, sometimes.
Tim gives his speech, getting mostly polite laughs until he makes his crack at my expense about how “unlike my VP, I’m not literally married to this country.”
The whole room bursts into laughter and some light applause. Heads swivel toward me as I try to keep a mildly self-deprecating expression on my face. Can’t appear too surprised; don’t want to start any rumors about friction between me and the president.
“Bet that doesn’t keep you warm at night,” is the hearty response from the asshole on my left, getting a few more chuckles from our table.
Sipping my water, I don’t respond. My lips are curved, like I don’t mind being the butt of everyone’s joke. Cindy gazes back at me, pressing her lips together. At least she didn’t laugh. The lights in the ballroom catch in her eyes, obscuring her expression, but I can tell she wants to say something. I wish, again, we were next to each other. Maybe she’d even rest her knee against mine.
I straighten to ensure I’m not touching either of the people who are next to me in reality. She smiles, like she knows what I’m thinking, and turns back to the front of the room. I want to trace my fingers down the spine of her bare back. From this angle, she could be naked, sitting in a sea of silks and sequins. I want to rest my chin in the crook of her neck and whisper into her ear, watch the shiver travel across her skin.
This is worse than sitting at the United Nations, pretending to understand anything that’s said before the translation catches up in my ear. Watching Cindy Wight and acting like I don’t want to touch her is torture.
Cindy
Oh my god, we’re going to have to have the Sex Talk.
While the president mercifully finishes his speech, I remain tense. As though people can see that I’m inappropriately fantasizing. The tension between me and the vice president is already thick enough that I’m worried the whole table can read it in the air between us. I didn’t expect this. I planned to focus on my goals, my career, on being a powerful, independent woman who doesn’t need any VP dick. Then I saw him in his suit.
Now I’m imagining sex with him and the terms under which I’d have it. He might not feel the same, but I have to know. Immediately . The urgency sings in my overheated veins.
Powerful, independent women can have sex on their terms, right? Of course, we can. A man invented the idea of abstinence granting power.
The comedian giving the keynote speech launches with a joke about all the “nerds” in the room, which is an easy laugh in this crowd. He keeps going, keeping it uncontroversial: “Have you ever noticed there’s no such thing as a wonk anywhere outside Washington. There are no Hollywood wonks. You don’t say ‘I’m a huge Marvel wonk.’”
The crowd laughs more.
I’m not sure I’m going to make it another minute of this inane speech, with the vice president’s eyes on my bare back and the need starting to build between my legs. But I know leaving the vice president’s table during the program would cause a fuss, so I grit my teeth and try to look like I’m completely focused on the front of the room.
It’s was before I ran for office, the last time I had sex. It’s a huge risk given my job and the rampant sexism that would make me notorious if certain facts became public. That means any potential relationship requires a level of fierce trust early on, something that seems nearly impossible to find.
For that reason, I’ve chosen my reputation over sex—not such a huge loss, when most of the sex in my life has been unfulfilling. I was in my late 30s by the time I allowed myself to admit that I’d never directed my negotiation skills toward what I wanted in bed. I’d spent the last few years beating myself up for not speaking up, not following my own values, when it comes to intimacy.
Now I have to speak up, and I have to do it with the vice president. Because it feels like if I don't at least try to sleep with him, I might regret it for the rest of my life.
And now that I’ve determined to raise the subject, it’s all I can do not to stand up in the middle of this crowded ballroom and start shouting: Sex! Now! Yes?
Almost on cue, the comedian takes a shot at Alex: “The safest person in the United States to handle the nuclear codes is Vice President Drake, who we all know is the model of abstinence.” The room laughs again, too heartily.
Alex’s reputation can’t be true. I’ve never heard more than a whisper about the vice president’s sex life—and then it was that he doesn’t have one. In a town like Washington, where those kind of secrets are usually open, he may have less sex than I do. Which is honestly a travesty against the United States, considering the tabloid shot I once saw of him back home in California with his shirt off. I suspect plenty of voters have that photo saved, even printed out and taped somewhere near their beds.
Zack leans over to me and murmurs, “Now we know why no one trusts me with the nuclear codes.”
I offer a single, soft laugh in response. I’m not sure if he’s flirting with me or flirting in general. The only people more obsessed with image than politicians are movie stars, so I doubt his interest is real. But I’m starting to like Zack and he’s a good distraction. I smile at him.
My bare back tingles. I’ve felt the vice president’s eyes on me all night, but now his gaze burns. I resist the desire to check over my shoulder again. Someone is going to notice the hunger in my eyes when they’re on the vice president.
The rest of the speech is excruciating, and not just because jokes about Washington by an outsider are hard to get right.
I imagine launching the conversation I want to have. Do I call him and bring it up while any member of his staff or security might be listening? Can I ask for a private meeting? Not if he won’t be alone with me. The aloneness is something else we have to negotiate, a clear issue of trust on his end. He must trust me a little; why else would he have let me into the backseat of his SUV last night? We’d gotten lucky—the rumor mill was too busy with other gossip for anyone to notice I’d left with him. But he’d taken a risk, and Alex doesn’t seem like a risk-taker.
I’m forming quite a lengthy mental list of obstacles, each one increasing the yawning hole in my stomach. My dinner is swirling around with everything else and I’m off-balance. Borderline nauseated.
The comedian finally ends with “and that’s why, next year, I’ve decided to register to vote.” The crowd claps, and a few people stand for an ovation, prompting others to rise. I admire the complete lack of reaction on Tim and Anita Meyer’s faces, standing on the platform, clapping for the man who roasted them.
When I turn back to the table—reluctantly, given that I’m afraid my own expression is easier to read—the vice president is getting up.
“Leaving so soon?” Zack asks.
“I need a quick break before the next round of hand-shakes,” he says without looking directly at Zack. I’m getting the impression the vice president is not a fan. “Please excuse me,” he says to the table. He nods at me and leaves, his security team with him.
After a count of 10, I murmur: “Excuse me, I need to run to the restroom myself.”
I walk away from the table in another direction, but circle the room to follow the vice president’s detail. This is a risk and I’m being an insane person, but at the moment I don’t care. I’m obsessed. I need him, or at least to know if I can’t have him.
We head toward the back of the hotel, away from the crowds, to a bathroom that’s guarded. The vice president goes in as I hesitantly keep walking toward his entourage, afraid of being tackled from behind, until at almost the last second a Secret Service agent comes out of nowhere to block my way.
I’m not sure if I’m about to be arrested or possibly faceplanted into the floor—this was such a bad idea—but the Secret Service agent nods at me politely and says, “One moment, congresswoman.” Like he expected me.
We stand in silence for a full minute, waiting for a signal invisible to me. Then he nods and turns to the side to let me keep walking. I slowly approach the closed door and one agent opens it for me, so I go into the bathroom. I catch sight of the vice president in the full-length mirrors across from the door as I enter. He’s fixing a cuff on his sleeve. The gold cufflink flashes in the light.
He stands between the wide counter with a gold sink and the wood-slatted privacy stall. Waiting for me.
“I’m so sorry, this is such a bad idea,” I blurt out, hesitating as the door closes behind me.
The vice president smiles as he walks toward me. “I like when you’re impulsive,” he says. Then he pushes me up against the mirrors and kisses me.
I gasp, because the glass is cold against my bare back. His tongue meets mine. He tastes like the amazing chocolate cake served for dessert. My nipples go hard and my panties are instantly wet. It doesn’t last long enough before he yanks back and looks down at me with concern. “This is what you wanted, isn’t it?”
“Yes, of course. Always. Yes.” I’m having trouble regaining the thoughts that were circling in my head a few minutes ago. “I just thought there’d be more talking.”
“Oh.” He lets me go, brushing the fabric of my dress back down my sides. “I’m sorry. Of course, we should talk.”
“No, don’t be sorry,” I say quickly. My lips feel chapped. Still spread for him, my thighs pull at the sides of my dress. My skin cools without his touch and calls out for more. “I want this.” I scramble to find my words again. “Um. Did you know I was following you?”
“Not until they told me.” He flicks his head at the door, which is opening.
“Did you want us to stay outside?” the agent who stopped me in the hall asks, poking his head through the doorway.
“Yes,” the vice president says. “Thank you. We’re fine.”
I vaguely acknowledge that he’s willing to be alone with me—a good sign for getting what I want. But my brain is on holiday after that kiss.
“They didn’t stop me,” I say.
He smiles. “I told them you have access. Obviously, there are times and places you can’t go, but in general,” he pauses. A line creases his forehead— this is serious —as he finishes, “You have access to me.”
I’m glad I’m still propped up against the wall when he says that, because it makes me a little wobbly. “Are you sure you want to be alone with me?” I manage.
He laughs. “I want nothing more than to be alone with you, but believe me, we’re not really alone. Is that what you wanted to talk about?”
“Yes. That and, well, a few other things.” I straighten up and put my arms around myself, holding my elbows.
“Cold?” he asks, and slides off his jacket without waiting for me to answer. He puts it around my shoulders, a move that never fails to make me want a man. Not that I need another reason with this one.
Holding the jacket around my chest, I smile. His gesture creates a small space where I can think again. “Thank you.” I step toward him to touch my lips to his, very gently, then step back. Do this right, Cindy. “I wondered if you wanted to do this sometime when it’s planned and not in between engagements.”
He nods. “I’d love that.” He eyes me as I’m struggling to find the next words. “What do you mean by ‘this’?”
I internally go over the appropriate options to say—kissing, talking—but all my mind keeps whispering is sex, sex, sex.
“You don’t have to know exactly,” he adds. “But I want to make sure we’re on the same page here.”
Looking down at my hands clutching the lapels of the jacket to try to hide my smile, I tease, “Maybe we could draw up a draft proposal.”
“If you want,” he says, evenly.
I turn my head up and meet his eyes. He’s serious. I like that. “A verbal agreement is fine.” I can’t stop smiling.
“OK,” he nods. He runs a hand through his hair, then pauses to grimace and pulls his hand away. “I’m not supposed to do that when there are so many cameras around.”
Stepping forward, I reach up to put his hair back into place, combing through strands he’s disturbed. “Perfect,” I say, and start to step back, but he grabs the lapels of his jacket around me and keeps me close to his chest.
“I’ll go first,” he says. “I want an exclusive arrangement. For as long as we have one.”
My nipples brush his chest as I nod and it sends a zing up the space between my bare back and his jacket. I have to hold my breath for a moment. “I agree with that.”
He lets go of the jacket and rests his hands on my hips beneath it, his fingers skimming the curve of my breasts as he drops them to my sides. I’m not sure if it’s an accident or on purpose, but my body wants more. But I need to think straight for this conversation, for at least long enough to get to the good part.
“I don’t want this, whatever this is, to be public,” I say. Any hint of a conflict of interest between me and the vice president would sink the cannabis legislation. Who wants to vote for something produced secretly by two scheming lovers?
He nods, like this isn’t a serious caveat. “OK. You understand that I can only meet in secure locations? I can probably never come to your apartment, for instance.”
The idea of the vice president in my tiny studio apartment feels about as real as this conversation does right now. “I can come to your place.”
One of his hands slides around so that his thumb can trace circles on the naked small of my back. My entire body lights up from the sensation and my internal muscles clench involuntarily. Fuck. I want to drop my dress on the floor here and now.
“You like that?” he murmurs, stepping into me a little more. His chin grazes my forehead .
“I’m very sensitive there,” I whisper.
“Good to know,” he replies softly. “Where else?”
I smile a little, afraid to move at all or lose the feeling he’s creating. My core is empty, my internal muscles aching to be stretched. “I like,” I pause to swallow. “This is something else I wanted to bring up. I like…” And then I can’t keep talking. I’m bold; I’m called a crusader. But I’m being bold on behalf of other people. “Never mind. It’s nothing.”
His hand stops moving. He steps back, his hands going back to my hips. “What?”
I meet his eyes, hoping to distract him. “STDs? Anything to worry about?”
“I am happy to have a fresh panel done, although it might take awhile to do in secret. Most of my doctor appointments are on record. But I haven’t been sexually active in a couple of years, so it shouldn’t be a concern.” He answers me, but I can tell he’s still waiting for my response.
“Same here,” I say. “A couple years. I tested clean after.”
He slides his hand up my side until his thumb is under one breast and my breath catches in anticipation. “What else?” he asks, gently.
I silently self-talk the same way I do before a big meeting. Speak up. Trust your instincts. Say what you want.
“When you pushed me against the mirror, I liked that. That’s what I like,” I say, holding his eyes. Come on, Cindy, be specific . But my throat is closing up. I’ve only had this conversation once with a sexual partner, and it didn’t go well. I’m 45 years old, yet suddenly intensely afraid of the vulnerability of telling another human being what makes me feel good intimately. It’s too early!
But if we’re going to have sex, and I hope we are, I want it to bring us closer. And he can’t know me if I’m not honest with him .
I see the understanding in his eyes. I’m simultaneously relieved he gets it and terrified that he does.
“You like to be pushed around,” he suggests. “In the bedroom, obviously, not in real life, where you are more than competent at taking care of yourself.”
He says it simply, without judgment.
I still want to step back, away from my fears. Away from the realization of how much I’ve revealed. Away from how much power I’ve given him. “Is that something you can do?” I ask, instead of running away. “That you are comfortable with?”
He presses his fingers into my hips so that I sway toward him, then back onto my heels, like a puppet he’s moving with a light touch. At his mercy . But I like it. I want, desperately, to be naked with him. Right now.
“Do you trust me?” he asks.
Staring into his blue eyes, I consider it. There’s a certain amount of mutual destruction involved in our relationship if anyone finds out we’re together. My adversarial reputation. His spotless one. But I don’t know him that well. I settle on: “I’m starting to. Do you trust me ?”
He gazes down at me without smiling. “I trust you enough to tie you to my bed and fuck you.”
My whole body comes to attention. My nipples ripple the tape holding my breasts up in this dress.
“Without worrying about you taking it directly to the press,” he adds, his voice several degrees lighter than before. The corner of his mouth quirks up.
I smile. “Well, not directly, ” I joke, a bad habit to deflect a significant moment. “I’m sorry, what I meant was I would never do that,” I add, looking him in the eye. “You threw me with that tie-me-up comment.”
“In a good way? ”
I bite the inside of my lip. I make my voice sound like a dare, but it’s difficult when I want to beg. “Show me, and we’ll see.”
He smirks and lets me go. “We’ve got to get back or this agreement will be moot before it’s even started. You go back before me. But first…” He sweeps me off my feet with his hands around my hips and pushes me into the wall hard enough that the mirrors shake, pulling my head back by my hair so he can run his lips up my neck. His jacket falls off with the motion and the cold zips up my spine.
A gutteral noise comes straight from my abdomen. It’s desperate. Needy.
His mouth reaches mine as I run one calf up his side, trying to get my core closer to him. His hand slides up the slit of my dress and I arch as he slides right past my underwear. My body has been waiting for this, maybe forever. One finger slides inside, then two. Sliding easily into my liquid channel. I thrust against him. I want so much more.
He releases me and steps back. I reach out and grab his tie, bringing him back to me. Then I hesitate. What I want is going to take so much longer than we have. His eyes drop to my mouth, then bounce back to meet my gaze.
We stare at each other, absorbing the moment. Are we going to be responsible or…? His jacket slides the rest of the way off my shoulders onto the floor.
“Sorry about your hair,” he says. His voice is breathless.
I reach a hand up to the wisps falling around my neck. My fingers are numb. “You’d better go first,” I say. I need a minute or 10 before I can stand properly.
He reaches down and picks up his jacket. “I suppose I’d better. An agent will stand outside the door until you leave. No rush.” He wraps one arm around my shoulders and pulls me to his chest for a hug. “You’re alright?”
I smile into his chest at the unexpected gesture. His hardness is digging into my hip and I have to swallow before I can talk. “I’m alright. But there’s something you should know about me.”
“Oh?”
I tilt my body back to meet his eyes. “I’m extremely impatient.”
He laughs. “Why does that not surprise me.” He leans down, pressing his forehead against mine, and traces the curve of my breast. “Soon.”
He steps back, throwing the jacket over one shoulder with two fingers in the collar. “I promise.”
I watch him leave, still shaky. I want to yell after him, make him come finish what he started, anything to stop this sense of desperation.
How is it possible I’ve made a sex date with the vice president? Impossible that he could deliver even after I told him what I want. Our surreal moment in this bathroom could be merely that: A moment I’ll remember the rest of my life. Never to be repeated.
My mother always says I’m a doubter. But in this case, I’m willing to be proved very wrong.