Seduced By The Senator Page 3

  Jon shakes his head. “The good senator isn’t like that. Stone is strictly business. So much, he just sent his team packing. This player is the real deal. Not only is he killer in the looks department, he’s a Harvard graduate, and the lowdown is the White House is fast-tracking him. And you have connections from working on the Gazette that he can use. You two are alike. Stone was a little bit of a rebel rouser and stepped on some toes prior to law school.”

  “And Mr. Pretty Face needs my help?” I narrow my eyes at him.

  “Absolutely! Independents straddling the fence are prime targets. A Harvard camp you’ve got an in with, and one I put out feelers to—they’re also waiting for your call. All you need to do is set the wheels in motion. Get him a student talk on campus.”

  “You mean like what Clinton pulled off? Are you on medication?” It was true that I had a cache of connects from an internship I’d done at Harvard, writing a column for the Gazette, but I wasn’t into politics. “What’s so special about him—aside from being gorgeous, popular, privileged?”

  “That pretty face has got presidential candidate written all over his political agenda. And not just his. There’s talk coming from the Vice President’s office. She’s running next year. Looking for her own Veep, and there’s a huge betting pool at the Post that Stone will be her running mate.”

  So the man with panty-dropping looks any male model would kill for is more than a pretty face. I scan the application with his photograph and motto. ‘Get committed.’ Whoa, that sounds like a double entendre. As I stare at the senator’s face, the skin over my body tightens. So much, a flash of heat doesn’t just creep up my neck—it flares. Stop acting ridiculous.

  Refocusing, I read the possible staff positions available on the subcommittees Stone chairs. A slew. Everything from war reform to the environment, education, and foreign trade. Jon has talked about getting me to D.C. as a Capitol Hill climbing fool, nonstop during the summer. My last year at Boston College, and I’ve done my stint of resume padding internships already. “Another tuck-n-roll, and for Mr. Popularity. I don’t know. You do realize I’m still in school.”

  “Shut your pie hole. You’ve got enough credits to graduate and this will help you. Get your feet wet and then you can pick and choose where you want to be, come graduation. Need I remind you for the umpteenth time, it’s time to cut bait and run? Grace and Stan Stillman are just waiting to get their hooks in you. Are you going to let them?”

  “Fuck that noise! I’m not accepting my grandparents’ help. How can you even kid about that shit?”

  “Because if you don’t have a plan in place, they’ll turn you into Monica and Janice. Is that what you want?”

  “My cousins are idiots.” I shake my head, thinking about my family’s ability to put a strangle hold on my career choices. Being connected to the Kennedys and Stillmans is a fulltime task of warding them off. Overbearing brutes have nothing on Gran and Pops in how they try to commandeer everyone’s future. After entering Boston College, I’d sidestepped their entrapping attempt to tell me what to do and when to do it.

  Unlike my two cousins currently ensconced in Midtown banking. It wasn’t that Janice and Monica were vapid—they were brainiacs for all their suck-up ways. But categorically, they lacked spine to chart their own course by falling into the fold. That fold being my grandmother’s archaic view of life as the Stillman matriarch along with her ability to meddle 24/7, and now my cousins were junior execs on Fifth Avenue with a choke collar around their necks.

  I shake the envelope like it’s the enemy. “And how is this any different? Instead of Gran’s meddling, I’ll be beholden to yours.”

  “Shush. I listen to what you say, when you talk about hightailing it out of here when you’re done with school. Someplace fun and exciting—someplace happening. You can’t argue that D.C. isn’t just up your alley. I get nothing in return except you being near me.”

  “Christ on a cracker,” I declare. “I’m not a political junkie like you!”

  “XS, c’mon.” He softens his voice. “You pretend not to like politics because of your grandparents but you do have an opinion. Why not learn what the hell goes on behind the scenes—isn’t that your thing? Don’t let your pride get in the way.”

  He’s playing dirty. Using my obsolete nickname: X or worse ‘XS’ short for Xavia Stillman. A reminder I don’t need, tagging back to some of my high-flying days where I was one hot mess of excess. Rebellious with a razor sharp ‘R’ before graduating high school and I’d been close to stumbling into several dens of iniquity and catastrophe. Without asking, my grandparents stepped in, twisted a few arms, and had me accepted to Boston College, nixing my dream to attend UCLA. Far, far away from here.

  One call and my applications to UCLA, along with a slew of other schools were denied or waitlisted. Without a choice, I stayed in New England and vowed never again. Since entering BC, I got serious, taming my partying ways with one goal of graduating and leaving Bean Town. Yet going polar into the library stacks during grad school has been a trip into the land of oh-so-boring, and it’s the end of summer.

  The end of my little freelance grind at the Globe as a reporter, and I’m so cagey that I’m actually looking forward to the start of classes next month. But a backstage pass, a ticket to the behind the scenes...I’m not convinced. Skeptically, I shrug. “I don’t know. You’re really over-the-top on this one.”

  “Precisely. And it’s a good thing. What have you got to lose?” He looks over at me, quirking his eyebrow, and then abruptly ruffles my hair.

  Besides my mind—but, he’s got a point.

  Groaning, I roll my eyes at him and exhale. “Fine. I’ll think about it. Operative word: think.” I read through the application and yeah, Jon’s recreated my college experience, and then I read the references he’s listed. Grace and Stan Stillman. Patrick Kennedy. “Name drop much? You’re nuts to put them down. What if Stone’s office calls my grandmother?”

  “It’s not crazy to mention your family. Besides, look at the telephone numbers.”

  I read the numbers and although I don’t recall my stepfather, Patrick’s number off the top of my head, the one listed for my grandparents is— “You listed your telephone number. Are you insane?”

  “Not in the least. I’m leveling the playing field. If Nora calls, I’ve got you covered and your family will be none the wiser.”

  “And for Pat? Whose number is this?”

  “Roderick’s. He’s ready.”

  “Your brother is going to pretend to be Patrick Kennedy?” His brother was a Marine and just returned from active duty with a case of PTSD so bad he was in rehab.

  “He’s good with it. Right now, Rod’s doing his program, so he’s got the time. It’ll give him something to do other than sit around the V.A., smoke pot, and do group therapy.”

  “This smells of all kinds of crazy,” I say, shoving the application back into the envelope.

  “And? Point?”

  “So it’s worked in your favor. I’m a little leery about mine. Luck I mean.”

  “An opportunity has nothing to do with luck! It’s about working your connections. You’ve got an untapped skill.”

  “Oh yeah and what’s that?”

  “Charisma. When you choose to use it. God, do you know how many people would kill to have your looks, your connections, and that elegant charm that you were born with?”

  I inhale. “It feels more like a curse, if you want to know the truth.”

  “Fuck, Xavia. Don’t squander what you’ve got. I work my tail off to get where I am. We could be closer and I wouldn’t have to keep coming back here to check up on you!”

  “I hear what you’re saying.” I grimace, looking at the one person who’s always been there when I needed him, but this is a dilemma and obviously, he doesn’t know how bad.

  Down in D.C., Jon has worked a gig for the last few years as a hotshot journalist. And it’s true, he’d be free of babysitting me—able to devote more time to
his career. Yet unconvinced that I can dive headfirst into a Bennett Stone internship, I open the browser on my cell. Since I’m not about to tell Jon my secret, I’ll need some ammunition to argue my case, and start to google the senator with hot rough lips and demanding hands.

  During the drive to the island, Jon and I discuss D.C., Hill internships, his experiences being in close quarters with congress... Everything except what I’m not telling him—that I basically let the good senator feel me up against a wall.

  Exasperated and not able to out argue Jon, I ask, “How often would I have to see him?”

  He presses his fingers to his forehead. “I don’t know. Depends on if you’re in his inner circle. Given this is a short gig, I doubt much. When Stone calls a meeting, but there are scads of interns plus all his senate staff. I wouldn’t sweat it. Besides, you of all people have years of hanging with powerful men. What’s running through your head?”

  “Nothing!” I train my focus forward, wondering what the hell he’s about to drag me into as we pull up in front of my grandparents’ home.

  * * *

  GRAN’S ‘COOKOUT’ is anything but hotdogs and hamburgers. Waiters wearing white gloves circulate, carrying trays of champagne splits with plastic funnels, tumblers of what I guess to be Scotch, and margaritas given the sloshing neon liquid and salted rims. Several men in black suits and sunglasses circulate at the perimeter—dead giveaway that guests from the Capitol are probably lurking about.

  Gran comes over, arms raised and I press my cheek to her smooth face, inhaling L'Air du Temps. She takes hold of my arm and steps back, “Xavia, let me look at you. All grown up! Where’s your mother?”

  Ah. Let the games being. An innocent statement, but what she’s really doing is assessing me, acquiring ammunition for later when she quietly addresses a list of concerns I’m so certain she possesses. The list gets longer and longer the closer I am to graduating. She’s ready to launch and all I have to do is acquiesce, let her and my grandfather make a few calls. Not gonna happen.

  “Mom is flying to Seattle. Last minute. But, how are you?” My best line of defense is always to answer her, and pose the next question. Steer the conversation, charting the direction. Journalism 101, baby.

  She releases me and smiles pleasantly. “Oh you know. It’s the end of the season and I always get a little sad. We’re closing the house next week...”And here it comes. The invitation for brunch or lunch. “I’d like you to come down for lunch next week.”

  Bingo! My move. I don’t answer her. “You remember Jon?” I ask on redirect.

  “Hello, Mrs. Stillman. Great party. The clams are delicious,” he replies amicably. Jon’s so smooth and why not. He comes into contact with every type of political and business bigwig. Crud, maybe he’s got a point of getting the hell out of Dodge.

  “Thank you,” Gran replies and pauses, giving him her little stare. She believes that Jon and I are secretly dating, and secrets don’t sit well with my grandmother unless they’re hers. “Still working in D.C. at the Post?” she asks him icily.

  “I am,” he replies. The tension is palpable and I won’t have Gran browbeating my best friend, so I whip out a cutting question. One sure to displease.

  “Where’s Aunt Bridget? I saw her heading upstairs. Is she all right?” I ask to off-balance Gran, knowing full-well that my aunt is inside, more than likely banging the hell out of one of the wait staff as she does every year. Aunt Bridget’s libido is the bane of my grandparents’ Nantucket colony life. Each summer, a huge chunk of change is exchanged along with whispered messages from their attorneys in settling house staff complaints. My aunt stirs up the gossip—I’ll give her that. We’ve all heard Gran preach that Stillmans don’t do scandal. They certainly pay enough to ensure the truth is locked away.

  “Oh you know Bridget, doesn’t like the sun or the heat,” Gran replies, casting a worried look toward the upper balcony.

  “Princess,” Pop calls out, approaching our huddle with a drink in hand as he smiles and waves to the guests around us. The ice from my grandfather’s glass tinkles and he motions to a waiter for a refill. Hugging me, he laughs out a rumble as I’m surrounded by his spicy aftershave and the whiskers of his waxed handlebar mustache, tickling my cheek. I can smell he’s well into his third bourbon and coke. At least. Pulling away from me, he glances over to Gran. “Grace, the Kennedys and the president just arrived.”

  I stiffen at the mention of my stepdad’s family, but Gran’s face lights up and she laughs—or snickers really. Zero is how many shits I could give that the president is here. Well, at least that explains the dark cloud of Secret Service agents. “Stan, I’ll go greet them and pave the way. Please join us in two minutes. Two minutes, my good man,” she repeats her direction.

  “Yes, Commandant.” Pop salutes her and winks at me.

  “Xavia, come find me in a bit. We need to chat.” She gives me her semi-stern grandmother face, then squeezes my arm, and she’s off.

  I exchange looks with Jon as a waiter brings him a beer and mentally roll my eyes as Grans scurries away. Christ, what has she got up her sleeve?

  “Having a good time?” Pop inquires, taking out a handkerchief, then wipes the beads of sweat off his face and down his neck. “It’s hotter than last year. El Niño...am I right?”

  “Yes and yes,” I reply.

  “Mr. Stillman.” Jon smiles as he shakes Pop’s hand. “Get any fishing in this year?”

  My grandfather looks over at Jon thoughtfully and then frowns. “Not a bite. Well, nothing worth remembering.”

  “There’s always next year,” Jon concedes, holding his beer to his lips.

  Pop twirls the ice in his glass. “That there is,” he agrees vaguely and pats my arm. “I’d better get going on my mission. Can’t keep your grandmother waiting. Someone will want to stop and talk as I make my way. You know how it is.” For once, I see a glimmer of dissatisfaction in my grandfather’s eyes. Or maybe it’s just the heat. His skin is red and he’s sweating...profusely.

  “Are you feeling all right?” I ask suddenly.

  “Right as rain. Except for this blasted heatwave.” He tweaks my ear and raises an eyebrow. “Your cousins are here. Go over and talk to them. Let them tell you about their recent moves and wedding bell news. You’re graduating and need to start thinking about a career path as well.”

  My stomach twists as I spot my cousins across the pool. The ones who have fallen in line, earning six figures while working at Citibank. The same two who live in Midtown and Monica is engaged to some hard-hitting CEO with a rock the size of a boulder on her finger.

  Nice, charming, well-ordered lives.

  I could hurl.

  As I scan the crowd, my gaze hits upon another cousin. Not the exact one Pop referred to. Talk about the blackest of sheep. Colin. He’s more leech than sheep.

  “Sure thing,” I say, nodding my head and all the while I’m thinking nope. Midtown plastic cousins or parasitic cousin—they’re all a no-go. I could rock the boat and point that out, but why? I’m ready to dive into the bay beyond the stone seawall. Strip naked and swim so far, so fast as to be free of this charmed and caged life everyone here leads.

  Pop disappears in the throng of vanilla-colored people and I turn to Jon, exasperation souring my tongue. He has his beer tipped back, and empties it. He’s no wisp of a man, standing six foot with a muscular body, tattooed arms that run from his wrists to the edge of his white polo, and plenty of girls around us, give him the eye in that we can tell you’re gay but hot. Like maybe in their bed, he might just decide to bat for the other team.

  “What are you drinking?” He pushes a wayward strand behind my ear as only he can do when I’m steaming, not from the heat but being around my family for more than six minutes.

  “Not enough,” I reply when I snag a waiter. “Pardon me.”

  Jon gives him his order. “Heineken and she’ll have...”

  I look down at the waiter’s tray, surveying my choices. What the
hell? I lift a tumbler and sniff. “This is fine.”

  The waiter bows and Jon shakes his head. “Why do you care what anyone here thinks? Your eyes keep ogling the champagne.”

  “Because,” I say, “I refuse to fit in!” Then I lift my glass, and smile. I’ve never had the pleasure of Scotch before. Plenty of the men are drinking it, so I knock back a gulp...that tastes like lighter fluid in my book. Oh shit! I clasp my hand over my lips. What the hell did I just suck into my mouth? I shiver as the liquor sits idly on my tongue.

  “What’s wrong?” Jon asks, eyeing me with concern. “Are you going to be sick?”

  Okay, either I can spit this shit out or down it. My gaze flashes around the party, all the pretty, pretty people that talk genteelly with their summer whites and boat shoes on. Crap, spitting out the Scotch is a faux-pas to the extreme, and I forcibly make my throat muscles work. But fuck! Swallowing is no better and I gasp, then start to hack as Jon claps me on the back. With tears in my eyes, I follow up with, “No. I’m pretty pissed and want another of those!”

  * * *

  TWO HOURS later, I’m scrounging through my purse, blindly looking for my keys. I’ve done my duty and stayed the perfunctory time period Mom requested, and I as meander, weaving around people without making eye contact, my sandals slap across the patio pavers until I see Jon talking to a tall man, wearing a tight pair of Nantucket Reds.

  “Excuse me,” a Secret Service agent says.

  “Yes,” I reply, looking over his shoulder. Both Jon and the other man laugh, their heads bowed together for a second. I recognize Jon’s companion as one of the executives from Manhattan...some high-powered attorney I believe, and the more my memory starts to reconnect, I also recall said attorney has a wife and kids.

  “The president would like a word with you, Ms. Kennedy.”

  “With me?” I swing my gaze to the agent, wondering what President Gabriel North wants with me. This has to be Gran’s doing. Ten to one, she’s twisting North’s presidential arm, seeking some favor. Ah, yes and oh no!