Dirty Work (10 page)

A
n ear-piercing
boom has me covering my ears before the brightest flash of white fills my eyes. I’m momentarily blinded, and my ears are ringing while I’m frozen to the ground.

A scorching gust of wind, filled with dust and debris, strikes my face, causing me to choke. I’m gasping for air, trying to focus my watering eyes.

As if I’m waking from a nightmare, the wailing of those around me slowly comes into existence, growing louder with each passing second.

Their blood-curdling cries bring me back from the shock and root me in the moment. I have no pain, there are no screams coming from my mouth—I’m unharmed.

The adrenaline in my system has my senses on hyperdrive, and the rapid pace of my heartbeat works it through my system in the blink of an eye.

It’s my duty to save my brothers. I’m the only one still standing that I can see through the haze of smoke and dirt floating through the air. Stepping over their bodies as they grab on to my legs and beg for my help, I head straight for the only window in the room.

The moonless night gives nothing away as I kneel down next to the window and attach the monocular night vision on the scope of my M16 rifle.

My mind is racing uncontrollably, but my hands are unbelievably steady as the night vision slides into place. There were only supposed to be ten insurgents in this area, with only basic weaponry. Something wasn’t right. The intel had been wrong, and all the men inside this room had suffered because of it.

It didn’t matter who fucked up; it was all on my shoulders to pick them off one by one or suffer—and to get my brothers out of here.

Lifting my rifle to the glassless window, I don’t dare look back and get distracted. Any moment now, armed men could burst through the door and finish what they started. Gunfire in the distance catches my attention as I maneuver the rifle in that direction, peering through the scope for any movement, and I begin to fire as soon as someone comes into view.

“Jude,” a voice calls out from behind me, but I ignore them—I have to.

Tiny fragments of dried mud are flying away from the building, bullets ricocheting only inches from my head.

“Jude,” a soft, sweet voice whispers. “Jude, wake up.”

“Fuckers!” I yell and keep firing. My attention’s on the bodies dropping as the bullets strike them and not on the voice trying to distract me. “Die!”

My eyes fly open, and I’m disoriented for a second.

Reagan’s above me, her face veiled in shadows. “Jude!” She slides her hands against my cheeks and cups my face. “Jude, are you okay?”

My heart’s pounding, and my body is covered in sweat. Tiny pools of teardrops are gathering on my cheeks where her hands scorch my skin. “Reagan,” I whisper, and I think maybe she’s the dream. I reach up and grab her arms roughly because I’m scared she’ll vanish before my eyes.

“I’m here.” She smiles down at me, moving her fingertips against my skin and wiping my tears away. “You’re safe,” she whispers.

Trying to clear my nightmare from my thoughts, I close my eyes and take a few deep, shaky breaths.

The bed dips as she scoots closer, but she stays leaning over my body. “What were you dreaming about?”

“I can’t,” I tell her. It’s impossible to explain what I’ve experienced unless it’s lived. No movie or book could ever prepare someone for the sounds, smells, and sights of war.

“Shh. It’s okay, Jude. You don’t have to tell me.”

I want to tell her, but I can’t burden her with my memories. My hands fall to her waist, and I tug her forward. “Don’t leave,” I whisper because my voice is too shaken to speak any louder.

She doesn’t fight me when I pull her across my body, letting our skin rub against each other. She curls into my side, tucked nicely into the curve of my arms, and peers up at me with her big, beautiful eyes. “I don’t know—”

“I can’t be alone,” I say, cutting her off before she can protest any further. “I’m sorry, Reagan.”

She snakes her hand across my chest and grips my side just under my rib cage. “For what?”

I nuzzle my lips against her forehead and relish in her scent and softness, holding her against me tightly. “For earlier.”

Her bottom lip trembles as she stares across my body toward the empty wall. “It doesn’t matter.”

“Hey.” My fingertips find her chin and force her to look up at me through the darkness. “It does. I don’t want to win an election by ruining you or your family, Reagan. If I win, I want it to be because I’m worthy.”

“Carl has other plans,” she mumbles, her fingernail raking down my side.

My gut twists. “He’s not my boss. He does what I tell him to. I promise you this—I’ll never let your name be dragged through the mud. Your secrets are safe with me.”

“What are we doing, Jude?” she asks on a sigh. My skin breaks out in goose bumps when her fingers trace the curve of my ribs to my chest, stealing my breath.

“I don’t know,” I admit softly against her forehead and stroke the line down her spine with my thumb. “I know we shouldn’t be here right now, I shouldn’t want you the way I do, but I can’t stop myself from being drawn to you.”

There’s a pull I can’t stop—my body and soul gravitating toward her without my control. She’s like the sun, shining warmth and comfort all around me, and I’m stuck in her orbit, unable to escape.

“We can’t keep doing this.” Her words don’t match her actions when she moves closer, melting into my side before yawning.

“Let’s make a pact.” I’m grasping at straws because I know she’s right, but I can’t imagine not having another stolen moment.

“Okay,” she whispers against my chest, her breath skidding across my skin.

My eyes close as I brace myself for an argument. “Just give me tonight. Stay with me, and tomorrow we’ll decide what we’re going to do. I’m too tired to think, and I’m too comfortable to move. Stay here in my arms.”

Her tiny hand splays across my chest right above my heart. “I’ll stay,” she yawns.

I wait for more, but she’s quiet suddenly, and her breathing has changed. Pushing my head into the pillow, I peer down at her moonlit face. Her lips are parted, eyes closed, and tiny snores echo throughout the room.

Chuckling to myself, I realize I didn’t even have to ask—she wasn’t going anywhere tonight.

* * *

W
hen I wake
in the morning, she’s pressed flush against me—her back to my front. I don’t dare move for fear of waking her and losing this moment. My arm’s snaked around her middle, holding her tightly, and our legs are perfectly fitted together without a space between us.

Just like clockwork, my morning hard-on rears its ugly head.
Fuck
. If she wakes now, I’m fucked. It just needs a little time to melt away, forgetting whatever wet dream I probably had about Reagan overnight.

Lying here with her in my arms is the most peace I’ve had in years. When I finally fell asleep, no more nightmares came. It’s like Reagan chases away my demons without even trying.

I study the lines of her profile, memorizing every soft curve and edge while she sleeps. Her dark eyelashes kiss the tops of her cheeks and turn up slightly at the tips. She’s beautiful, heavenly almost with her porcelain skin free of imperfections.

When my eyes dip, following the curve of her neck, a tattoo on her shoulder catches my eye. For a moment, I’m in shock. Etched in cursive is the phrase
Courage is endurance for one moment more…

I’m not sure what stuns me more—the fact that Reagan has a tattoo or that the words could just as easily decorate my skin because I’ve lived them.

Reagan stirs and I hold my breath, not ready for this moment to end. “Jude,” she whispers before she covers her eyes with the back of her hand to block out the sunlight. “What time is it?”

I peer out the window, seeing the sun just inches from the horizon. “It’s around seven.” My grip tightens before she has the chance to pull away.

“Lexi will be coming to my room soon.”

My face dips forward, and I rest my lips against the curve of her neck. She smiles, blinking away the sleep. “I have to shower.”

“You smell wonderful,” I tell her before kissing a trail up to her ear.

She squirms against me, and the hard-on that had finally vanished starts to reemerge. “I smell like you.”

There’s nothing between us but her thin nightie, my boxers, and my hard-as-rock dick. “Would it be so bad to smell like me the entire day?”

She closes her eyes, and pain flashes across her face. She wiggles free from my arms, rubbing just right against my cock, and I try to pull her back down. “Don’t,” she whispers, glancing down at me over her shoulder. “I have to go, Jude, before I can’t—” Her voice trails off.

I know she’s shutting down and already trying to mentally disconnect from me. “You don’t have to leave.” My hand trails a path down her back to avoid breaking contact.

She crawls to the other side of the bed and swings her legs over the edge. “We can’t do this again, Jude.” Her eyes are closed and her shoulders slumped, but I don’t believe a word she’s saying.

I resist the urge to reach for her and pull her back into my arms. There’s nothing I want more in this moment. “How can we not? I can’t deny there’s something more than lust between us, Reagan. My soul craves you.”

“Your body does. Don’t get them confused,” she replies, staring down at the carpeting with an unreadable expression.

“I won’t deny that I want you, but there’s more to it,” I admit hesitantly and rub my forehead before pushing myself upright into a sitting position in the middle of the bed.

She shakes her head and blows out a shaky breath. “It doesn’t matter.” Using her arms, she pushes herself off the bed and faces me but keeps her eyes cast downward. “We’re opponents in the biggest political race in the state, Jude. No matter what we feel, what we want…this can’t happen.”

My eyes can’t look anywhere else but her. I’m grief-stricken, memorizing this moment. “If things were different—if I weren’t your opponent, would you
want
to be with me?”

She stops just inside the doorway connecting our rooms. She glances up and faces me, bringing her eyes to mine. “Yes.” She takes a step backward, and I hold out my hand to her.

“Reagan.”

A tear glistens on her cheek, and she wipes it away with the back of her fingers. “Good-bye, Jude,” she says softly and closes the door.

T
he next couple
weeks fly by in a haze. I’m campaigning hard, my bus traveling up and down the state so I can meet with union groups, attend rallies, and try to reach new voters.

From the news coverage I catch up on every morning, I can see that Jude is working at the same pace. He seems to be in the zone, now comfortable answering questions from reporters. Photos show veterans rallying around him and women gazing at him like looks are all they need in their next senator.

I can’t deny I stare at those photos on my phone, remembering the night I slept in his arms. When I’m looking up at the ceiling of whatever hotel I’m in every night, I think of Jude and wonder if he’ll have another nightmare. I wonder if they happen every night. I wonder if anyone is there to comfort him if they do, and I secretly hope not. It’s selfish of me, but I can’t stand the thought of him finding solace in another woman’s arms.

We can’t be together, and yet his texts make my heart pound like nothing else. Whether they’re playful or serious, just seeing his messages on the screen of my phone stirs something in me I’ve never felt before.

I’m at my parents’ house for a rare day off. I’m stretched out on a patio lounger after helping my mom make lunch on the grill and clean up. Full of barbecue chicken and potato salad, I’m about to check out for a nap when my dad comes outside and sits down next to me.

“How’s it going?” he asks.

He means the campaign. My mom steered the conversation away from it during lunch, for which I was grateful. I have nothing else to talk about since the campaign is my life, but it was nice to hear Mom catch me up on what’s going on at home.

“Good,” I say cautiously. I dread these conversations, not knowing when he’ll pounce on my words.

“You’ve been doing outstanding, Reagan. Coming off really strong in interviews. Your poll numbers are solid, but I think we can edge them up some. Overall, I’m pleased, though.”

I pause before answering, waiting to see if he’s going to hit me with criticism. “Thanks, Dad.”

“I know I’m hard on you sometimes, but I want you to know I’m proud of you. Having been through so many campaigns myself, I just want to save you from my missteps. But you may not want that.”

I slide my dark sunglasses up and meet his eyes. “I appreciate the help, Dad. I wouldn’t be here without you. Some days I’m so stressed I feel like I can’t handle one more thing, but it’s not your fault.”

He smiles and crinkles form in the corners of his eyes. “Been there. I’m here if you need me, okay?”

“Thanks. I know you’re busy, too.”

“Never too busy for one of my children. And the offer stands on Tom Harbor. He’s on standby if you decide you need him.”

I sigh softly. “Maybe a consultation with him wouldn’t hurt. We could do a conference call or something.”

“Up to you.”

My mom walks out the French doors that lead to the patio, a tray with a pitcher of lemonade in her hands. She sets it between us and pours us each a glass. When my dad pats her hand as he takes a glass, she smiles at him broadly.

Will I ever have what they do? They’ve been together for thirty-four years after being introduced by mutual friends.

My phone buzzes with a text, and I pick it up and slide my finger across the screen. I turn it to make sure only I can see it and pull up a photo of Jude. He’s shirtless and seems to be on a boat on the water, the sun shining brightly on his already bronzed skin. Wearing a White Sox baseball hat and holding a bottle of beer, he looks relaxed. His lazy grin is sexy as hell.

Jude: My current situation.

I smile and write back.

Me: Looks like fun. I’m off today too.

Jude: Oh, I’m not off. This is the CTU president’s boat. We’re spending the day together.

My mouth falls open in horror. That union is backing me. It’s inconceivable they would even give him the time of day. I can’t find the words to text him back when another message appears.

Jude: Kidding, gorgeous. This is my buddy’s boat. I’m off too.

Me: You’re an asshole.

Jude: On occasion. Where’s my pic of you in a bikini?

Me: I’m at my parents’ house.

Jude: Hey, that’s cool. Ask your dad to snap a pic you can send me.

Me: Not even funny.

Jude: You miss me?

Me: Maybe.

Jude: I miss you. Even though you pretty much called me a misogynist the other day in that interview.

I smile, because I was wondering if he’d catch the veiled dig I’d made at him.

Me: The closer we get to Election Day, the dirtier it’ll get, Titan.

Jude: Dirty, huh? I like the sound of that.

“Reagan, do you feel like taking a walk around the neighborhood?” my mom asks me.

“Sure.”

I send out one more text.

Me: Have to go. See you Tuesday night at our debate?

Jude: Yep. Wear your hair up if you want to make me hard. ;)

It’s not just my cheeks that warm as I read and then reread his message, but my entire body. I’m glad I changed his contact name to Jude because it was getting weird having these heated exchanges with Justin Timberlake.

“You okay?” my mom asks. “You look flushed.”

“Oh, I’m fine. Let’s go.”

I leave my phone in my purse so I won’t be tempted to continue the conversation with Jude. It’s ironic he has people on his team looking for my weaknesses when my greatest one seems to be him.

* * *

T
here’s
a palpable energy in the university auditorium in Chicago where Jude and I are about to have our first debate. This is a key moment for both of us. We have to come out strong but not overbearing, appear poised but approachable.

A man adjusts the mic on my collar and gives me a reassuring grin. “Just trying to hide it from the camera,” he says. “You all ready?”

“I am.”

It’s true. I spent fourteen hours yesterday and ten today in debate prep with my team. Lexi called Tom Harbor, and he sent her some good questions for us to anticipate. I answered all of them repeatedly, and my team threw in random, unexpected stuff like, “What makes you cry?” and, “Why don’t you like kittens?” Those questions help me prepare to stay calm when something random is thrown at me.

Lexi walks with me to my lectern on the brightly lit stage. I take the bottle of water she hands me and set it on a shelf inside.

“You’ve got this,” she says, squaring her shoulders. “Just remember you’re good enough, you’re smart enough, and—”

I roll my eyes and laugh at her mention of an old SNL skit we both love. “Thanks. How do I look?”

She looks over my conservative navy dress and nude heels for the dozenth time. “Great. I love your hair in that French knot.”

There’s a buzz in the audience, and we both turn to see what’s going on. Jude just walked out from the other side of the stage. I can’t breathe for a second. He’s striding toward me in a light gray suit and shiny black shoes, wearing a white dress shirt and a bright blue tie. He’s clean-shaven, and his hair is combed back neatly.

I can tell from Lexi’s inhale that it’s not just me who’s taken by Jude’s polished, commanding presence. His gaze stays on me, and I dig deep for my professional side.

“Ms. Preston,” he says, extending a hand toward me, “you look lovely.”

I take his hand and shake it, reminding myself how many eyes are on us right now. I can’t let my feelings show.

“Thank you, Mr. Titan. Good luck to you.”

“And to you.” He brushes a thumb across my knuckles before releasing my hand. His eyes are sparkling with warmth and confidence.

Well,
fuck
. So much for hoping he’d have first-time debate jitters. He looks positively presidential right now.

He turns to walk to his lectern, and Lexi mutters, “What was that?” under her breath.

“I’ll see you after,” I say to her.

She takes the cue and leaves the stage. I square my shoulders and wait for the countdown from the television production assistant.

Game face, Reagan. This is crucial. Own it.

The debate is being moderated by two Chicago news anchors who both introduced themselves to me backstage. One of them, Jenna Morrison, opens the debate and asks us to introduce ourselves.

My intro warms me up. The familiarity of the words builds my confidence, reminding me how many times I’ve rehearsed all this. Jude also nails his intro, and I realize he’s been practicing, too.

“Mr. Titan,” Jenna says, “you were recently voted Most Eligible Bachelor by
Chicago Magazine
. How do you feel about that?”

He grins sheepishly. “I’m honored.”

She smiles back at him. For fuck’s sake. What kind of impartial journalist is she?

“Is there someone special in your life?” she asks.

“Right now I’m totally focused on my campaign.”

There’s a chorus of disappointed groans from the audience. I clench the sides of my lectern, forcing myself to look impassive. Secretly, I’d like to kick it over.

“Representative Preston, where do you currently stand on gun control?” Jenna asks me. Apparently, she doesn’t want to giggle over my relationship status as she did with Jude.

“The same place I’ve always stood,” I say. “I’m for it, and here’s why.”

I launch into my prepared answer and fall into a groove, hitting every note I rehearsed. I’m feeling especially good as I refute Jude’s statement that he’s the only one who will look out for our veterans.

“I agree that our veterans need a voice,” I say. “I’ll also be their advocate. And in addition, I’m going to be a voice for other people I meet daily who aren’t being heard. The single mom who needs help to finish college so she can provide for her family. LGBTQ Americans who want and deserve complete equality. The college student who can’t afford rising tuition costs and faces graduating with a mountain of debt. Seniors who deserve to know Social Security and Medicare are safe and not being raided to fund other programs. Our country’s diversity is a tremendous asset, and we need to remember everyone deserves to be represented.”

Jude meets my eyes for a split second before speaking. “Representation is good, but let’s be real here. No one person can represent every voice out there because some of the voices are in direct opposition to each other. I will listen to all of them and then make what I feel is the best decision. That’s leadership. I’ve led before, sometimes in life-or-death situations. I don’t want to go to Congress and do what’s popular. I want to do what’s right. That’s what—”

“Are you saying I won’t do what’s right?” I cut in sharply. My heart is pumping rapid-fire in my chest as I realize he just accused me of just doing what’s popular.

“Your idea of what’s right comes back to who exerts the most pressure on you,” Jude says to me. “And that’s no fault of yours, it’s true of most politicians. I’ve got broad shoulders, and I can say no to the special interests. I don’t cave under pressure.”

“Neither do I.”

“You did when you cast your vote on state pension reform. Our state is broke, Representative Preston. We’re deeply in debt, but you kicked the can down the road instead of making a tough decision because your vote belongs to the teacher’s unions.”

His comment draws light applause.

“I voted my conscience,” I say, turning back to the audience. “Our teachers earned their pensions. I’m not raiding what they earned. I’ve cast votes on tough decisions.”

“During your short tenure as a state representative or while you were a law school student?” Jude asks sharply. “I’ve decided who would be first in line facing insurgents in battle, which means certain death.”

This is my moment. I don’t even think before speaking. “I guess I am nothing like you, Mr. Titan, because as a leader, I’d choose myself.”

“I did.” His voice is strong but laced with emotion. The auditorium falls silent. “I did,” he repeats, looking down at his lectern to compose himself. “I made choices that got men and women killed. Men and women with families. With lives in front of them.”

I swallow hard, not seeing my political opponent anymore. Now I see Jude, the man whose dark, haunted eyes reach straight into my heart.