I have heard a few stray rumors that while she wasn’t in a “relationship,”she has a guy or two on-call, so to speak.
As that thought slams home, I now wonder if one of the men I’ve heard rumors about is Christopher.
I realize Christopher hasn’t answered me. Instead, he crosses the room and now looms over me. “Say yes.” His gaze remains on his phone.
“I… I don’t think I can. I’m not the best person for this. Just because I know a lot about politics doesn’t mean I’mqualified to do what she’s asking of me.”
He holds his phone up so I can see the screen, and now his gaze firmly fixes on me. “Sayyes.”
His tone isn’t one of a friendly request, either.
My throat dries up as I finally focus on his phone and reallyseeit. It’s a picture of me, staring up at him, andthatweek slams back into my memory in a way it hasn’t before.
I remember the smile on hisface as he took pictures of me.
How I naively believed him when he said he deleted them.
This picture is me on my knees, his cock down my throat, my nose buried all the way in his pubes. I’m identifiable, because of the small mole on my left temple.
I can’t claim that’s not me.
Before I fully process that, he takes his phone back, swipes to another picture, and shows it to me.
Another.
And another.
I’m identifiable in all of them, and he isn’t.
And in every picture, what I’m doing—or what is being done to me—is obvious.
He finally slips his phone into an inside pocket of his blazer. As he does, I glimpse the concealed holster he’s wearing, along with the badge that’s clipped to his belt.
The stray thought hits me that I wonder if it’s the same badge and gun I sawthatweek.
He drops his voice even more. “Youwillsay yes to the senator. Youwilltake the job.”
“Or?”
One eyebrow slides skyward. “Don’t make me go there, Kev. Because I will.”
I’m still trying to process the emotional avalanche surging through me.
Outrage that he betrayed me by keeping those pictures.
More than a little wishful thinking over what it means that he kept them.
Indignant that I’m beingextorted to take this job.
Hopeful that he’s taking such a personal interest in this.
“Does she know you have those?” I finally ask, although from the way the outer corners of his eyes crinkle, I damn well know she does. That’s why they’re here, after all.
“She who?” he asks.
“The senator.”
A dangerous smile barely curls the corners of his mouth. “Does the senator know I have what? By theway, youwillbe campaign manager, and then chief of staff, once the campaign ends and the transition begins. Forget press secretary. I want you next to her.”
