Beast (12 page)

Chess pulls out a chair for me and I sink into the plush, tufted seat. The lighting is dim and the furnishings are quaint at the Fork Road Country Club.

I glance around at the patrons sitting at the tables and I immediately feel out of place. They all look like old money and deep pockets.

I’m not entirely sure that the coral capris and off-white cable knit sweater that I’m wearing are appropriate for brunch with Chess’s parents. And truth be told, I’m hot as fuck even with the air conditioning.

A server with neatly styled hair cropped close to his head and a starched white apron around his waist appears at our table. “Good morning,” he chirps politely.

“Hi,” I say as Chess gives him a curt nod and a smile.

“Are you ready to order?” he inquires.

I glance over at Chess. “What are you having, Jasmine?”

“Oh, uh. I thought we were going to wait for your parents.”

“No, my father just texted to say that my mother has a headache – meaning she’s hung over from yesterday afternoon’s cocktails with her lady friends – and my father will be late – meaning he probably went in to the office to get some work done even though it’s Saturday morning.”

I nod politely although I feel a small surge of disappointment rise in me. I’d been looking forward to meeting Mr. and Mrs. Davidson. Maybe all that fussing over my outfit was futile after all.

I shift my eyes to our waiter. “I’d like a bagel with cream cheese and a black coffee, please.”

The waiter makes a note of that in his pad before turning to Chess. “And for you, Senator?”

Chess’s eyes are peeled to the menu in front of him. “I’ll have the buckwheat crepes with a sprinkle of nutmeg and the steel-cut oats with a dash of unsweetened almond milk as well as the freshly-squeezed orange juice, no pulp. And bring me an espresso with stevia and soy milk on the side.”

I give him a curious look as the server walks away.

He’s handsome, smart, personable. I can see why he’s leading in all the polls. But I’m beginning to wonder if there’s another side of Chess Davidson, a side that the media doesn’t get to see.

He peers over at me as he snaps his linen napkin open and tucks it into the collar of his shirt. “What?” he asks innocently.

“I just wasn’t expecting the diva-order, that’s all.” I try to bite down my smile.

He looks at me self-consciously. “Gluten and dairy intolerance,” he offers embarrassedly.

I nod in understanding as I spread my napkin across my lap and suddenly I feel like a bit of an asshole for judging him.

He doesn’t seem upset though. He changes the conversation completely and says, “So, how was work this week?”

I shrug. “Nothing special happened. Negotiated a few deals. Drafted a few contracts. Had a few client consultations. Nothing as exciting as being on the road campaigning, I’m sure.”

Excitement lights his eyes as he tells me about a visit to a children’s hospital in Albuquerque. I can’t help but laugh along as he shares the stories of those brave, funny, spirited kids. The waiter serves us our brunch and we chat animatedly as we eat.

When we’re done with the meal and the dirty dishes are cleared, Chess’s expression goes serious. “Can I ask you a question? A hypothetical question?” He pulls his napkin out of his shirt and adjusts the crew neck sweater draped over his shoulders.

I eye him skeptically, “I guess.”

“Hypothetically – what would you say if I asked you to marry me?”

I tilt my face, looking at him out of the side of my eye. “E-excuse me?”

He holds out his hands defensively. “It’s just a question.”

I shake my head. “I don’t even know how to answer that.”

He scrolls across his phone and taps at the screen a few times before handing it to me. “It’s just that, my campaign manager, Campbell Cross, she did some focus groups and polls and whatever else it is that she’s so good at, and my relationship with you would poll
really
well. Especially among Latinos and women aged 18 to 35. I’m lagging behind in those demographics.”

“I can’t even believe that we’re having this conversation,” I say angrily as I snatch the napkin out of my lap and slam it onto the table. The silverware clatters loudly, drawing the attention of the older men dining nearby.

“Come on, come on, Jasmine. Wait,” he says diplomatically as his hand covers mine. “Please, I didn’t mean to upset you. I just had to ask.”

I pull my hand away from him and fold my arms across my chest. “You just had to ask if I’d be your political wife?”

He angles his face, giving me puppy dog eyes. “I didn’t mean it like that. You know that I like you. I just wanted to know if you’d be open to it…hypothetically.”

“Well no, Chess. I’m not open to it. What the hell!”

He pushes a gust of air past his lips. “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have asked. Let’s not let this ruin our great weekend.”

Chess has a list of fun things planned for us while I’m here in Scarsdale; a night at the theatre, a picnic at Chase Park tomorrow, a trip to the Greenburgh Nature Center.

“Please, Jasmine,” his clear blue eyes beg. “I really didn’t mean to offend you.”

My shoulders relax a little. I really shouldn’t overreact about this. He
did
say it was a hypothetical question. Maybe I should just let it go.

I push a sigh. I have an uneasy feeling in my gut, but I decide to swallow it down. The man sitting across from me is a catch. There’s an army of women that would kill to spend a weekend with him in his hometown. Yes, he made a serious
faux pas
suggesting that I marry him to help with his campaign, but guys – read, Liam Cartwright – have hurt me in worse ways and I’ve found it in me to get over it. I guess that what Chess did isn’t that bad.

“Okay, Chess. I’ll stay. But no more talk of marriage. Got it?”

He flashes that winning smile and suddenly, I’m not so mad at him anymore. “Got it!”

I stick the spoon into the pot and scoop up a thick, sticky glob of unsweetened oatmeal.

I should hire a cook or at least go online and order some damn groceries
, I think to myself as I shovel the tasteless cereal into my mouth.

I finish off the few remaining spoonsful and drop the pot into the sink. The sun shines brightly as a small bluebird comes and sits on my windowsill. I see a group of women jog by on the asphalt outside, laughing and chatting, clad in tiny spandex exercise gear.

Saturday morning.

I roll my eyes as I trudge over to my bed and drop down onto the mattress. People look forward to the weekend. It’s a time to recharge from the exhausting week, spend time with loved ones and make memories. But me, the weekend just reminds me of how alone I am and the only memories that come find me are the ones I’d rather forget.

My mind drifts to Jasmine. She’s out there in Scarsdale with that Pretty Boy Politician and I’m here…alone.

She should be with me. She belongs with me. I wish there was a way to make her mine. But between my night terrors, my drinking problem and my need for the safety of seclusion, not to mention my disfigured face, I’m just no good for her at all.

I turn over in my bed and come face-to-face with the bottle of whiskey I’d pulled out in a moment of weakness last night. It’s sitting next to a bottle of sleeping pills on the table right beside my bed. I’d managed to say ‘no’ then, but now, I’m not too sure I’ll be able to battle my demons sober again this morning.

Fuck – I’m just so
tired
. My crippled body. My crippled soul. I’m less than human. The war has left me less than human. And I don’t have the energy to fight, to pretend that I’m just an everyday Average Joe. I’m way too fucked up.

I toss back two sleeping pills, chasing them down with a swig of scotch.

I can’t pretend that I’m human right now. Not when another man is stealing the only woman I’ve ever cared for and I’m too much of a coward to fight for her.

Jasmine sticks her head past my office door at 11:30 on Monday morning.

“Hey,” she chirps, her eyes beaming. She looks beautiful, her creamy skin glowing, her hair long and silky, falling around her face.

“Hey,” I say struggling to keep my eyes on her face instead of wandering down to the smooth flesh exposed at the neckline of her modest gray shift dress.

Is she more beautiful because I haven’t seen her in two days or did she
actually
get prettier over the weekend?

“Is now a good time?” she asks apprehensively still lingering in the doorway.

I nod and gesture for her to come in.

She grins and approaches my desk, gently placing a plastic container in front of me. “I made you lunch. You always get me lunch, so today’s my turn.”

I feel my pulse thumps wildly. “Wow. Didn’t expect that.” I tear the lid off of the container and the aroma of herbs and tomato sauce fills my office.

“Spaghetti and meatballs,” she says apologetically. “I’m not too great in the kitchen but I can manage the basics.”

I stab my fork into a meatball and stick the whole thing in my mouth. “Tastes really good,” I say on the heels of a groan.

She drops into the chair across from me, pulling her bowl into her lap. “So, how was your weekend?” she says casually. “…I missed you.”

I think my heart stopped, just hearing her say that. To think that I crossed her mind over the weekend. While she was out with the Pretty Boy Politician, she was thinking about me, the beast.

I clear my throat. “It was fine.”

She looks at me, probably waiting for me to elaborate. But there’s no way I’m admitting that I spent the weekend drinking and popping sleeping pills until I fell into a nightmare-riddled sleep only to wake up after a few torturous minutes and jerk off to the faint scent of her skin still lingering on my sheets.

So, instead I say. “Tell me about your weekend. What did you do with Pretty Boy Politician?”

She crinkles her nose at me. “Pretty Boy Politician?”

I smirk at her but don’t apologize.

She rolls her eyes before she proceeds to give me a rundown of the weekend. Brunch at the country club. A picnic at some park. A play at the theatre. My insides twist with jealousy.

Then she laughs nervously, her brow frowning with worry as if she’s anxious to see my reaction. “And would you believe that he asked me to marry him?”

My hand twitches and the meatball falls off of my fork onto my blue tie and down into my lap.

“Shit! Liam!” She jumps out of her chair and rounds my desk with a sheet of paper towel in hand. “He was only joking,” she says defensively as she snatches the water bottle on my desk and dampens the towel.

She’s in my space, blotting away at the tomato sauce on the soiled fabric. She seems oblivious to the effect that she’s having on me. She continues to fuss over the stain and all the blood in my body rushes to my center. My dick is getting hard as concrete. It takes everything in me to keep from grabbing her by the waist, pulling her into my lap and kissing her so hard that she’ll never ever think of that asshole again.

And just then, as if on fucking cue, there’s a quick tap at my office door before it swings wide open. Both of us snap our attention in the direction of the door and are met by a wide-eyed Senator Fucking Chester Davidson.

“Ch-Chess,” Jasmine stutters, dropping the paper towel into my lap and jumping back as if she’s just been electrocuted.

“Jasmine.” His gaze volleys from Jasmine to me and back again. After standing frozen for a moment, she launches into action, making introductions. “Chess – this is Liam Cartwright, managing partner of the firm.” Her eyes come to me. “Liam – um, Mr. Cartwright – this is Chester Davidson, the next president of the United States.”

The asshole gives her a wink before stepping forward and extending his hand to me. “It’s a pleasure to meet you, Liam.” I ease out of my chair at an angle to hide the hard-on struggling to burst the seams of my pants. Without a word, I give him a firm, quick shake then pull away.

For someone running for president, he sure has a lot of free time on his hands
, I think exceedingly annoyed.

Jasmine’s attention is focused on Chester – who the fuck calls their kid ‘Chester’, by the way? “What are you doing here?” she asks still somewhat breathless.

“I’m on my way to the airport. Back on the campaign trail today. The secretaries in the hallway told me you were in here. Just wanted to say goodbye.”

She smiles at him. “Aww. It was really nice of you to drop by,” she says sweetly. “Have a safe trip.”

He braces her by the shoulders and an awkward moment passes where the both of them try to determine the appropriate salutation. But then he glances at me with something wicked in his eyes. He attention snaps back to Jasmine and he plants his lips on hers. She just stands there, eyes wide, shoulders tense until he pulls away.

I’m two seconds away from leaping over this desk and yanking every strand of his perfectly gelled hair out of his scalp in one fell swoop. I’m angry enough to toss him off the side of cliff for stealing my girl away from me. I grip onto the lip of my desk to restrain myself.

He leans back and grins at her. “Walk me out?”

She finally sucks in a breath. “Yeah. Sure.”

She leads the way out the door and Pretty Boy Politician glances back at me. “Was great to meet you, Liam,” he repeats “And I hope I have your vote this November.”

I just growl in response.