True North (Compass series Book 4) (35 page)

I take a hard swallow and then start to talk. “We interrupt your regularly scheduled programming for…well, I don’t know exactly what this is. Let’s call it an act of contrition. Sprite, this is for you. Kindle, hit it.”

There’s a click, and then the opening electronic twangs sound across the room. I don’t want to make an ass out of myself because I suck instead of this whole thing being inherently embarrassing, so I start to sing. At first, I’m stiff as a board, clutching the microphone so hard it might crack between my fingers, my eyes closed just as tightly.

I might not be Adam Levine, but the thing is, I’ve got a decent voice. I was in the church choir all growing up, and if I hadn’t been so focused on academics in college, I would’ve tried out for one of the acapella groups. In truth, not much relaxes me more than a good sing in the car or the shower. Well, a few things. So I let the music take me, closing my eyes against the lights and the stares and allow my body to move to the rhythm. The straightforward pop melody and the easy-to-follow beat make it effortless. It’s honestly easier to rock my hips and roll my shoulders than it is to stay still.

As the words come out of my mouth, they get louder because I’m singing to her. The bubblegum lyrics begging for her sweetness and her love feel right. Yes, I want the sophisticated elegance of political operator Pressly, but I also want the girl perched in the chair in that hot-as-fuck, fun-as-hell outfit just as much.

My voice bursts into a rusty falsetto for the chorus, but I push through to hit the note, clenching my fist against my chest because that’s where I want her. I thank god for the club’s incredibly strict policy against any kind of recording device, including cell phones, because if a video of this ever got out, I’d be the laughing stock of the District. As it is, I fully expect to have people humming under their breath at me whenever I come into the club for the rest of my natural given life. That’s penance I’m willing to do for making Pressly feel like I didn’t want every single ounce of her.

Singing about the sugar I want from her, I hope she realizes it’s not just sex. And when I say I’ve got to be a man, I know it’s true.
Fake it till you make it, Lewis, and in the meantime no one will know the difference.
Be so convincing Press won’t know I haven’t totally made it yet. If I act like I’m worthy of her, maybe I will be. I’ll never stop trying.

My performance is garnering catcalls and scattered clapping, but I’ve got only got ears for sounds I don’t hear. Pressly’s windchime laugh; a whoop of delight; her terrible, terrible attempt at whistling because the girl can’t whistle if her life depended on it. But nothing.

As the song winds down, I give it my all, belting it out and breaking into my best moves. I’m not exactly Magic Mike, but if I put my mind to it, I’m serviceable. A body roll here, a hip thrust there…this is actually fun. In a completely mortifying way, of course. How lucky am I that Press finds being humiliated hot? Because this…this is not my jam. I mimic Adam’s last cool laugh, and then it’s over and the room erupts into applause. At least someone enjoyed this.

I shade my eyes against the glare and look to the table where Rey sat down, and yeah, she’s there, a fruity virgin cocktail clutched in her fingers. She looks shell-shocked, like a cracked candy coating.

I hand off the mic to Kindle, and they gratuitously ask for a round of applause because most of the audience is on their feet. I take a second to enjoy the standing ovation, but then I’m scrambling off the stage, trying not to trip and embarrass myself, and wading through a crowd I didn’t think was that big. And then I’m there, standing in front of Pressly, who’s still frozen in her chair. With an exceeding amount of care because these pants are so fucking tight I wouldn’t be surprised if they burst, I get down on one knee in front of her.

She cracks a smile. “What are you doing?”

“Humiliating myself. For you.”

“Why?”

“Because I want you. Not just want. Need. I’m a fucking mess without you.”

She purses her pretty mouth like she doesn’t quite believe me. “You got your bill. Without my help, I might add. You don’t need a pretty political wife.”

“No. I don’t need you for my career. If that’s what you think, that that’s the only reason I want you, I don’t ever want you coming to a Capitol Hill cocktail party with me again. I’d like you to, sure, because you’re a master at those things. I love watching you work a room, and I’d be glad for the help. But if I need anything, it’s the rest of you. Your intelligence, your optimism, your kindness. I want you singing pop music in the shower and trailing glitter all over the house. I want to open your pickle jars again. I want your wild outfits hanging in our closet next to your cashmere twin sets. And you know who else I need?”

“Who?”

I stand and, grabbing her hands in mine, tug her to her feet. Stepping into her, I wrap an arm around her waist and pull her tight against me. As her vinyl corset presses into my chest through the skin-tight stretch of my shirt, I slip a hand into her hair at the nape of her neck and pull, just a little. She yields, her body soft and pliant against mine, and she blinks up at me with those big blue eyes as her pink-slicked lips part.

“I need the filthy little slut who begs me for my cock, who likes nothing better than to lick my shoes and get fucked seven ways to Sunday. I want you to crawl to me, and I want tears on your face when you do. I want all of you.”

“Are you sure?” Her hands rest against my chest, her fingers spread wide over the thin cotton, poised to push me away. I don’t want her to push me away, but I’ve got to tell her the truth.

“I can’t say I’m 100-percent comfortable with it yet. I’m going to fuck up and say stupid shit, but you have my full permission to smack me upside the head when I do. Letting you go the first time was the stupidest thing I’ve ever done, but I only pushed you away because I didn’t want to hurt you. And now that I know I won’t… I might be a moron, but I’m not dumb enough to let you walk away again. Especially not now.” A tightness forms around her eyes as she glares at me, and her mouth opens to interrupt. “Not because of the baby. But because I can’t imagine someone more perfect than you are. I love you. Always have. And I promise to do my best to get this stick out of my ass. You just…you have to promise to be patient with me. I’m kind of a mess.”

She goes even higher on her toes than she already is in those boots, her hands pressed against my chest, her fingernails scratching lightly against my pecs. A heat spreads from them around my heart. I think she’s going to kiss me, and I can’t wait for the feel of her lips against mine.

Instead, she cuffs me upside the head, and a surprised “ow” tumbles out of my mouth before I can stop it. But it rapidly turns into a grin because she’s smiling and her eyes are bright with hope and happiness.

“You better mean it because I’m going to hold you to that.”

“I do. With everything I have. I’d go around the earth for you.”

That’s when she kisses me. Throws her arms around my neck. I hold her tight, so tight, as our lips meet, and the taste of her, god, I’ll never get enough. And I never have to. She’s going to be mine again, all mine.

Our make-up make-out session is interrupted by an exaggerated clearing of a throat. We pull apart, and that’s when I remember exactly how public our private moment is. Everyone is staring at us with sappy, love-struck expressions. Except Rey, who’s regarding us with a wry curl of his mouth. That self-satisfied motherfucker.

“As much as I’m enjoying this, perhaps you’d like to save it for later? I was rather looking forward to Tangent’s singletail demo.”

Press and I regard each other sheepishly, a blush crawling into our cheeks.

“Yeah, no problem,” I volunteer, steering Press to her seat and tucking it under the table once she’s sat down. Rey takes the chair to one side of her, and I eye the last empty one.

“Can you even sit down in those pants?”

Saucy-fresh Press is back, and even her teasing makes me happy, swells my heart so full it crowds my ribs.

“That remains to be seen.”

Luckily my on-stage gyrations seem to have loosened them, but I still take it slow, lest the seams start to give. I manage to get my ass in the chair without the leather splitting wide open. A good thing, because it’s not like there was room for underwear in this medieval torture device masquerading as pants.

When I’ve settled, I reach under the table to weave my fingers through Pressly’s, and god do I love the feel of it, the feel of her. And as Tangent leads a collared and leashed Scooter onto the stage, an intimidating whip in his other hand, I lean over to say, “What are you going to tell Clay?”

“Nothing.”

What? She’d never seemed that keen on him, and now that she knows I’m all in, what does she still need him for? “But…”

The corner of her mouth pulls into one of those charmingly awkward smiles as she shakes her head. “I broke things off with him weeks ago. If anyone wanted to use me for my connections, it was him. I figured if you and I didn’t work out, this baby would be better off with just me than with parents who’d gotten married solely for political purposes.”

Relief floods through me that Press wouldn’t have sold herself short even if she hadn’t decided to take me back. That she’s come to realize that her needs and wants are important and she should expect happiness from life, not just fulfilling her duties as a cog in the political machine. I’m going to spend the rest of my life trying to give it to her.

“I think that was a good decision.”

“I think so too.”

She smiles again, a real smile, before she dips her head toward me. It reads as a request for affection, so I lean in to kiss her, brushing her hair aside and darting my tongue out to taste the sweet sensitive skin behind her ear. After making her shiver and sigh, I whisper, “Love you, Press.”

The squeeze of her fingers and the stroke of her thumb in my palm tell me without words that she loves me too.

‡

Six months later

I
smile at
Press across the room. She looks divine tonight. I mean, she always looks good to me but maybe even more so now. I feel like some women look fragile when they’re pregnant, but not Press. If anything, she looks more powerful, less like anyone would dare fuck with her, as if anyone would’ve dared before. She owns the room with her perfectly done, twisted-up hair and the empire-waist dress that drapes over her rounded stomach.

There’s a certain glow in her cheeks that causes a pulse of regret in my stomach. I could’ve had this years ago. It dissipates quickly, though, as I picture Rey brushing the weight of my remorse off his shoulders like so much lint from his exquisitely tailored suit.
“How about you don’t waste any more time on that?”

He’s exactly right.

Excusing myself from my conversation with the representative from New York’s 9th Congressional District—one of my favorites because we have the same politics and I find her hardline attitude and fierce conversational style comforting—I head toward the lion’s den. Pressly is schmoozing with Joe Creed, owner of a ridiculously successful aerospace firm who’s angling for some juicy government contracts. He’s a power player in West Virginia state politics.

God love her, she’s trying to nudge me into running for office if and when the political tide turns and I find myself out of a job. I tried to convince her I’d be happy back in the private sector, consulting or going back to my old law firm, but she’d shaken her head. “I don’t think so, Mr. Lewis, but nice try.”

The more I think about it, the more right she might be. I adore her for trying to repair burned bridges and build them where they’ve never been. Maybe with a woman like her by my side I’d actually be capable of pulling it off. Textbook Behind Every Great Man story, though I don’t consider myself all that great. All I’ve really got to do is pretend, though.

Sidling up to my ridiculously attractive wife, I rest a hand at the small of her back and stroke a thumb over the base of her spine. I have to resist thinking about it too much, but I know for a fact she’s got a straining strapless bra, a wisp of rippable panties, a garter belt, and stockings on under her dress.

I kiss her cheek, not having to pretend to be a doting husband because I am. Press turns a pretty shade of pink before she introduces me to Mr. Creed.

“Joe, this is my husband, Slade.” Of course she’s already calling him Joe. Bet all she had to do was look at him and he probably would’ve handed over his very soul. God knows I did.

“We haven’t met, but I know who you are, Mr. Lewis.” Something like satisfaction surges through me as he firmly grips my hand. He knows me and his appraising gaze makes me think that he likes what he’s heard. “I’ve actually got to excuse myself for a moment because Alice Bramwell just walked in and I’ve been waiting for her, but I’d like to speak with you later. Your lovely wife was telling me you might have political aspirations. If that’s true, we have some things to talk about.”

“Absolutely.”

He studies me for a moment longer, and I wonder if he’s picturing me behind a podium making a stump speech with Pressly by my side. Because that’s what I’m thinking of. Flags waving and people clapping as I smile and wave. I could be that charismatic, right? Especially with Press to teach me how. And until I’ve mastered her lessons, I’ll pretend. That’s what I’m best at. It’s what I do. Except with her.