The thing about having a past is that it comes back in waves like water against the shore, regardless if it is a good or bad past. Stormy or tranquil, it always rolls right back in to touch the place it doesn’t belong. Unfortunately for me, my waves of good are interspersed with the bad and they all center on one woman—one unforgettable woman who has an uncanny ability to make me feel whole, then obliterate me in the very next breath. Like the damned waves that roll forward touching dry land where they don’t belong, memories of her roll forward kissing my heart where she doesn’t belong—where she shouldn’t belong.
I could fight back against thoughts of her. God knows I’ve trademarked the craft of suppressing memories pertaining to her, but today I choose to not fight it. I’ll let all memories, confusion, and emotions anchored to her wash over me and I’ll embrace it all. I have to because if I am going to have to face her again, I must have my game face on and be fully acclimated to the feelings she stirs in me. Better to do this in private, in one of my favorite places, on my boat, and on my terms. Facing her again for the first time in years unprepared would be a mistake, and it would only screw up my plans. She made one big promise that I fully intend on making sure she follows through on. At the very least I will confront Miss High And Mighty given the opportunity. I’m not delusional enough to think she’d even consider honoring her promise to me, but she can at least explain herself. She owes me and I’m in the collecting mood. I’ve waited years, and now my waiting is over.
Chapter 2
Raegan
“So is this considered fraternizing with the enemy?” Preston’s lips move against my skin as he murmurs, his mouth coaxing against my bare shoulder blade. “Because if it is then consider me a bona fide traitor. Heavens, you’re amazin’,” he praises. I’m lying beside him, wrapped only in luxuriously soft sheets and the afterglow of mutually fulfilling sex. His fingertips run feather soft up and down my spine, winning a sigh of satiation. Apparently it sounds all too sexual because Preston growls playfully and nips at my earlobe, making me instinctively jerk away. It disrupts my reprieve. With my head turned away from him, fine sheets cocooning my body, the effect of endorphins coursing through me, I was peaceful enough to not worry or think about… anything.
Not work. Not the Senator’s campaign. Not the travel schedule. Not the wedding I’m expected to attend. Not my hometown. Not the deal I had made. Not him.
“I need to get going,” I say, feeling suddenly suffocated. I take a deep breath and begin peeling myself out of Preston’s bed when his hands reach for me, tugging me back down. He rolls on top of me, his chest presses heavily against mine. I clench my jaw and stare unflinching into his dark blue eyes. “Off.” My demand is damn concise, but my knee to his ball will be more so if he doesn’t get his ass off me. He hesitates with a pouty look that only further extinguishes the afterglow I had been enjoying. He releases me and I stand, taking his sheet with me as I zigzag through his space, collecting my discarded clothing like little prizes.
“Why don’t you just stay the night, darlin?” His eyes hold a glimmer of playfulness that radiates the implied promise of multiple romps through the night. For a moment I am tempted, because Preston is a good lay, and given that he’s twelve years older than me, not entirely surprising. Most men in their twenties are still discovering how to pick a woman’s lock, so to speak, and I have zero interest in being their practice dummy and even less time. But his grabby hands coupled with the use of the word darlin’ is ice water on my desire to dwell here a moment longer than it will take to slip back into my designer pencil skirt, silk blouse, and Louboutin heels.
“Another time,” I say coyly, allowing my façade to take over.
Never again.
“All right then, but I am going to hold you to it, darlin’,” he drawls.
Yuck.
His Tennessee accent drips heavily from every syllable when he’s attempting to flirt, which I suppose is a tact meant to make women swoon and throb for the next orgasm. Me? Not so much. His sugary, drawled words make my anxiety ratchet up and my walls draw closer, tighter. I can’t handle this. “Oh, and—uh—this,” he says motioning one pointed finger between us, “… is between us, right darlin’?”
That’s not insulting at all, is it?
I cock my head at him with a genuine smile, drawing my lips back to reveal my straight, TV-ready, white teeth. “Preston, if I wanted your dirty little secrets or even Senator Holiday’s, I would already have them. Perhaps I already do,” I purr with a wink as I slip my foot down into one heel, then the other with a muted foomp! “And this,” I mimic his motion, waving my pointed finger between the two of us, “… is just sex. Simple as that. Not all women in this town fuck men to gain a thing beyond an orgasm, and even that’s iffy.” I faux-grimace and wiggle my flattened hand side to side like a plane caught in turbulence. “Last I checked, I’m the highest-paid campaign manager out there right now and I did it without fucking anyone for gain.” To his credit, Preston gets up on his elbows and narrows his eyes at me. The campaign manager in him is now officially on the scene. Gone is the heavy accent and flirtatious crap, replaced by shrewdly assessing eyes. I can practically see the cogs in his brain grinding on, considering if he should prepare to run damage control. I know the drill. I smile at the sight of his narrowed eyes and flattened lips.
That’s much better.
Politics seemed to be my predetermined destiny, having been born to an American politics and history junkie like my mother. She named all three of her children—myself included after American political history icons. The Centrist she is, she hand chose the names of the icons she revered most not caring much for party lines. It’s one of the several reasons I admire her. I have disregarded party lines, too, by screwing around with Preston. Not the savviest move, but I have it all in hand.
We’ve only slept together twice, and he has turned all syrupy-sweet while attempting to make this a thing between us so I don’t anticipate seeing him again, anyway. I much prefer enemy version of Preston than the southern drawl, sugar-coated compliment machine version of him. This city is dog-eat-dog. This industry rewards ruthless manipulation for personal and professional gain. The news cycles are twenty-four hours a day and the material never changes. It’s always political stunts and sensational headlines because that’s what sells. These people are about trading and bargaining for dirt. They cut deals with demons and devils in suits with a little American Flag pinned to their lapel and faux-patriotism oozing from the speeches they didn’t bother to write themselves. These things all fall under my job hazard column. Most don’t have the stomach for this, but I do. In fact, this is perfect for me. My job requires me to be the way I am. All of this I can handle. This is what I do. This is my safe place. These are familiar, predictable monsters. This is Washington, D.C. These monsters are my pets, and this is my playground.
I wasn’t always this way. I used to be a naïve, vulnerable girl with childish notions about love and life and career. And then life happened. The girl I was had been meted upon by a monster, and I had not been prepared. Now, I am prepared for the monsters because in many ways I am one of them. Get or be gotten is the motto. Ironically, it’s safer for me here with the monsters I know and see coming than it is back home. It’s safer to be this version of me, and it’s just good fortune that my career requires that I be exactly this way.