I don’t want to commit to anything right now. “Can I look at these before I decide?”
“Of course.” Darlington nods. “Like I said, take some or all of them out for a test drive. They’re all locked and ready, but I have to warn you, if you can’t move quickly, I’m going to approach the next candidate I have in mind.”
“I understand, Governor.”
The idea of being tied down makes my head hurt. My father was a serial philanderer, and I saw how it affected my mother. Faithfulness is not in my DNA. I decided a long time ago that it would be safer not to marry. At least the tabloids can’t call me a douchebag. I much prefer to be a playboy or one of San Francisco’s most eligible bachelors. Not a shithead who cheats.
After a long round of golf, I part ways with the governor and his entourage. I know I won’t have a lot of time to make a decision.
I’m so close to the brass ring. My father wanted this and couldn’t move beyond a city supervisor position. But he loved civic responsibility and instilled it in me.
It isn’t until after I get home and relax in my favorite chair with my feet up, a glass of forty-year-old scotch in hand, that I open the file and look through these women.
Jesus. There are candid photos, posed portraits of the women in lingerie, and bios. I know and have dated one of them, and it lists her kink as light BDSM. That’s new. She was pretty dull—laid on her back while I did all the work—when we went out.
My cellphone pings.
Marcella: The FBI has just stopped by Elena’s. It’s Sunday! I thought you were going to talk to Miguel???
Marcella Peterson. Now that’s a fine woman. She’s built for sex, with a brain and unfortunately a strong opinion on everything. She’s got fantastic tits, a tiny waist, and an ass that I’d bet has just the right amount of jiggle to it when you pound her from behind. I wonder what her nipples look like these days. I hadn’t felt comfortable going down on a woman when I was fifteen, but I wouldn’t mind knowing what she tastes like now.
Me: What do you expect? She continues to destroy her stock options as she fights with her head of engineering on Chirp.
I hit send and see those little dots rotate. If I’m not careful, she’ll be knocking on my door.
Marcella: I’m at your door. Please open up.
I roll my eyes. I should have just told her I was calling Miguel to ask the FBI to step back. But no, I had to remind her what a stupid shit her client is.
Me: I’m not home.
Take that.
Marcella: Stop being a petulant child and open the fucking door.
I stand and debate. I don’t want a fight and certainly don’t need a scene.
Marcella: Now, you fucking twat.
I sigh. If anyone else talked to me the way she does, I’d call the police. She’s going to cause a giant scene with the Marshals Service, who are outside my home 24/7. I walk out and swing the front door open. I don’t have to invite her in; she just pushes right past me.
“Look, I know my client needs to hash out her personal life in private. I promise you, I’m working on that. But having the FBI harass her doesn’t help. She’s already emotional enough.” She puts her hands together as if she’s ready to pray. “I’m begging you. Please get them to back off, and I’ll get her off Chirp.”
I take in her Sunday outfit—black leggings and a top that’s tight across the bust but flows out. Before I can answer, she marches into my sitting room, and I’m left to follow her.
“Please, Marcella, come on in. Let’s have a drink and discuss this like civilized people.”
“Like you’re ever civilized. I bet you don’t know how to eat with silverware.”
She’s beginning to piss me off. I have a lot to think about, and instead I’m dealing with her shit.
She sees the open folder of dossiers the governor gave me. I close my eyes, angry at myself, and brace for the verbal abuse.
“What is this?” she asks.
“Prospective dates. Any of them strike your fancy?”
She scrutinizes them, breaking away to look at me, confused. “What the hell? This one likes golden showers? Ewww. You’ve truly changed. I can see how that’s going to go over for your political career once it gets out, and we all know it will.”
She’s right. If these dicks know my kinks—and it isn’t golden showers—that’s political leverage, and that’s a problem.
I push the papers back into the file and tuck it away on a shelf behind the bar. “Scotch?”
“Sure. Neat, please,” she says.
“The scotch opens up when you drink it over ice.”
“Neat’s fine.”
I close my eyes and count to five. I hate arguing with her. If I said the sky was blue, she’d argue it was black. It’s always been like that with us. It’s too hard. It’s all push and pull with her. It’s exhausting.
Her phone rings, and she looks at me. “I have to take this.” She takes a deep breath. “Hello, Elena.”
She paces back and forth, and I don’t see any panty lines. I wonder if she’s going commando. Then I wonder if she’s au naturale, smooth as a baby’s bottom, trimmed, or with a landing strip.
“Yes, Elena. I’m trying to work on that now with the US Attorney’s office. But you’ve got to stop fighting with Joshua over Chirp. Your stock is going to tank tomorrow.”
I can hear Elena crying on the other end of the phone. How does she put up with that shit? I hand her a glass, and she looks at me and mouths, “Thank you.”
I sit back in my chair and just watch her for the next twenty minutes. She talks Elena off the ledge and explains that the FBI will leave her alone if she closes her Chirp account and stops chirping. Elena’s chirped over a hundred times today already. How does she have a life?
Watching Marcella work is like foreplay, and it really does something to me, but she’s not interested in the least. Too bad. That would be a blast. And then an idea begins to form… We have known each other forever.
When she finally hangs up, she looks at me. “I got her to close her Chirp account. Can you please ask the FBI to relax?”
I take a deep breath. “How many favors have you asked of me since I became US Attorney?”
She crosses her arms, puts all her weight on one foot, and takes an aggressive stance. “Several, but not nearly enough.”
I cough.” When will it end?”
“Please call off the FBI.” She stares me down. “Elena will write you a big check for your campaign.”
I shake my head. “I like people owing me favors like you owe me.”
“Fine. I’ll write you a big check, too.”
I don’t want a check from her; I want much more, and now I’m wondering if I could get it. I stand and walk around her. She smells divine—cinnamon and citrus. Her hair is up in a little ponytail, and I want to pull it out and run my fingers through her curls while she deep throats my rod.
It takes a moment, but I gather my composure. “I don’t want your money. Let’s go to lunch on Wednesday, as we promised your mother last night, and we’ll discuss payback.”