Hard As Stone (Beautiful Betrayal Book 1) (12 page)

“Okay Einstein, why would one of the hottest senators want me on his team? He’s a front-runner, and probably has scads of interns—
cough—
chicks, lined up to do his bidding. This seems like a
mistake
.” The word pulsates inside my mouth and I recall what it was like to kiss Stone, pushed up against a wall with his fingers fisting my hair. Silently, I swoon.

Jon shakes his head. “The good senator isn’t like that. Look beyond the PR hype. It’s hyperbole to jumpstart search engine algorithms. He’s strictly business. So much, he just sent his team packing to get back on the Hill and prepare for an important announcement he’s going to make next week. This player is the real deal. Not only is he killer in the looks department, he’s a Harvard grad, and the lowdown is the White House is fast tracking him. And you have connections from working on the
Gazette
that he can use. You two are alike. Stone was a little bit of a rebel rouser and stepped on some toes during law school.”

“And Mr. Pretty Face needs my help?” I narrow my eyes at Jon.

“Absolutely. Independents straddling the fence are prime targets. A Harvard camp you’ve got an in with, and one I put out feelers to—they’re also waiting for your call. All you need to do is set the wheels in motion. Get him a student talk on campus.”

“You mean like what Bill Winston pulled off? Are you on medication?” It was true that I had a cache of connects from an internship I’d done at Harvard, writing a column for the
Gazette
. But as Jon already pointed out, I wasn’t into politics and my connections in that department were slim. “What’s so special about Stone—aside from being gorgeous, popular, privileged?”

“That pretty face has got presidential candidate written all over his political agenda. And not just his. There’s talk coming from the Vice President’s office. Her running mate pulled out after Boone’s pact tweeted dirt on the man’s wife. Ryan is on the hunt for her own Veep. She’s gotta name one before heading to the GOP convention, and there’s a huge betting pool at the
Post
that Stone will be named.”

So the man with panty-dropping looks a male model would kill for is more than a pretty face
.
I scan the internet, skimming the title of numerous articles and click the one from
Time
. His motto is ‘
Get committed
.’ It sounds like a double entendre. As I stare at the senator’s face, the skin over my body tightens. So much, a flash of heat doesn’t just creep up my neck—it flares.
Stop acting ridiculous.

Refocusing, I finish the article and revisit the senate intern application. On the back page, I skim the possible staff positions available on the subcommittees Stone chairs. There are a slew. Everything from war reform to the environment, foreign affairs, and foreign relations. During my last year at BC, I put in the hours, doing my stint of résumé padding internships. “Another tuck-n-roll, and for Mr. Popularity. I don’t know. You do realize I’ve graduated from school.”

“But not from life. You’ll get real-world experience. Who says you have to work for Stone forever. Just get your foot in the door. Show you can do the job and transfer. It’s how things are done. And in case you forgot, it’s never too late to tack on a minor to your BC degree. Not too shabby and given you’re aversion to politics, if you knocked out an internship on the Hill, it’d help pave the way to a position on the
Post
.”

“You’re rambling.”

He laughs—not the pleasant kind. “Need I remind you for the umpteenth time, it’s time to cut bait and run? Grace and Michael Silver are just waiting to get their hooks in you. Are you going to let them?”

“Not if I can help it!”

“So find your own power source. One month is what that judge ordered. True or false?”

“True.” He’s right. How could I forget? “Beggars can’t be losers. Is that what you’re saying.” Over the last semester, Jon has talked nonstop about getting me to D.C. as a Capitol Hill climbing fool.

“Only because if you don’t have a plan in place, the Silvers will turn you into Monica and Janice. Is that what you want?”

“My cousins are halfwits.” I shake my head, thinking about my family’s ability to put a stranglehold on my finances. Translation: career choices. Being connected to Silvers is a full-time task in warding them off. The alternative is unthinkable: ending up like my two cousins currently ensconced in Midtown banking.

It wasn’t that Janice and Monica were vapid. They were brainiacs for all their suck-up ways. But categorically, they lacked spine to chart their own course by falling into the fold. That fold being my grandmother’s archaic view of life as the Silver matriarch along with her ability to meddle 24/7. My cousins are junior execs on Fifth Avenue with a choke collar around their necks. The vision of Spencer in a studded leather collar has bile creeping up my throat. I still had no solid proof that he or I was set up.

Either, I get with the program or merrily, blindly hand over the reins to my grandparents. Shut up or put up?
But what to do about Senator Hot Lips?
I shake the envelope as if it’s my adversary. “And how is working for Stone any different? Instead of Gran’s meddling, I’ll be beholden to yours.”

“Zip it! That isn’t a parallel. I listen to what you say when you talk about hightailing it out of here when you’re done with school. You can’t argue. D.C. is just your cup of tea. Someplace fun and exciting—someplace happening. I get nothing in return except you being near me.”

“Christ on a cracker,” I huff. “By tomorrow, I can’t suddenly become a political pundit junkie like you.”

“
XS
, c’mon,” Jon softens his tone. “You pretend not to like politics because of your grandparents, but you do have an opinion. Why not learn what goes on behind the scenes—isn’t that your thing? Don’t let your pride get in the way.”

He’s playing dirty. Using my obsolete nickname: ‘XS’ short for Phoenix Silver. A reminder I barely recall, tagging back to some of my high-flying days where I was one hot mess of
excess.
Rebellious with a razor-sharp ‘R’ before graduating high school. And afterwards, I’d had a few close calls of stumbling into dens of iniquity and catastrophe. A reason why when I met Spencer, his hipster ways didn’t come off as fake or boring. He’d anchored me when I’d toyed with risky temptation.

Without asking, my grandparents had stepped in, twisted a few arms, and voilà. I was accepted to BC, nixing my dream to attend UCLA. Far, far away from here. One call and my college applications to UCLA and a host of other schools were denied or waitlisted. Without a choice, I stayed in New England and after the Spencer awakening, I vowed never again.

But a backstage pass, a ticket to the behind the scenes with a man who will take one look at me and show me the door, it might not be me who needs convincing. What can I do to hide in plain sight when I meet Senator Stone?
When in doubt, go blonder
. Skeptically, I shrug. “I don’t know. You’re really over-the-top on this one.”

“Precisely. And it’s a good thing. What have you got to lose?” He looks over at me, quirking his eyebrow, and then abruptly ruffles my hair.

Besides my mind? But, he’s got a point.

“
Jonnn
.” After groaning his name, I ask, “Just for kicks, let’s say Nora gives me a thumbs up, what am I supposed to wear?”

“Think conservative. Classy. You’ve got the DNA. Just let it show.”

I’m in need of a makeover but going Nantucket pearls and pastels is in no way what I envision. Flipping down the visor, I stare into the vanity mirror, winding my hair in a prim bun. With a pair of thick black frames, platinum hair, and stark conservative apparel what are the chances that Stone will put two and two together?
It’ll be my New York chic done modern
. “I’m not doing pearls,” I snip.

“Ah, but you’d look like a million bucks. What about the engagement ring?”

My jaw drops open. “Newsflash. I’m not engaged!”

“So what. It looks good. Speaks about stability.”

“It’s a lie and no.” I read through the application and yeah, Jon’s recreated my college experience, and then I read the references he’s listed. Grace and Michael Silver. Richard O’Malley—my godfather. “Name drop much? You’re nuts to put them down. What if Stone’s office calls my grandmother?”

“It’s not crazy to mention your family. Besides, look at the telephone numbers.”

I glance at the numbers and although I don’t recall my godfather’s number off the top of my head, the one listed for my grandparents is— “You used your telephone number. Are you insane?”

“Not in the least. I’m leveling the playing field. If Nora calls, I’ve got you covered and your family will be none the wiser.”

“And for Richard? Whose number is this?”

“Jeremy’s. He’s on standby.”

“Your brother is going to pretend to be Richard O’Malley?” Jon’s brother was a Marine and had just returned from active duty with a case of PTSD so bad he was in rehab.

“He’s good with it. Jeremy’s doing his program, so he’s got the time. It’ll give him something to do other than sit around the V.A., smoke dope, and do group therapy.”

“This smells of all kinds of crazy,” I mutter, shoving the application back into the envelope.

Jon looks over at me like I’m crazy. “And! Point?”

“So it’s worked in your favor. I’m a little leery about mine. Luck, I mean.”

“An opportunity has nothing to do with luck. It’s about working your connections. You’ve got an untapped skill.”

“Oh yeah and what’s that?”

“Charisma. When you choose to use it. Do you have any idea how many people would kill to have your looks, your connections, and that innate elegance you were born with?”

I roll my eyes. “You mean when I picked you up with a Kleenex stuck in my nostril?”

“Don’t get smart.”

“If you want to know the truth, sometimes, it feels more like a curse.”

“Dammit, Phoenix. Don’t squander what you’ve got. I work my tail off to get where I am. We could be closer and I wouldn’t have to keep coming back here to check up on you.”

“I hear what you’re saying.” I grimace, taken aback by Jon’s frown. He’s always been there when I needed him, but this is a dilemma and obviously, he doesn’t know how bad.

Down in D.C., he’s worked a gig for the last few years as a hotshot journalist. And it’s true; he’d be free of babysitting me and able to devote more time to his career. Yet unconvinced that I can successfully dive headfirst into an Atticus Stone internship, I re-open the browser on my cell. I’ll need some ammunition to bolster my makeover. I start to google ways to alter my looks so up-close, the senator with a demanding mouth and capable hands won’t have a clue who I am—outside of being an efficient intern in need of a letter of reference.

One month, I can do it. Good God, if Spencer could do it for six years, I can pull off a faux façade for thirty days.

X.S.~
Champagne Wishes and Pastel Dreams

GRAN’S ‘COOKOUT’ is anything but hotdogs and hamburgers. Their Swain’s Neck compound is packed today. Waiters wearing white gloves circulate, carrying trays of champagne splits with plastic funnels, tumblers of what I guess to be Scotch, and margaritas given the sloshing neon liquid and salted rims. Scads of serious men decked in dark suits, shades, and coiled earpieces circulate at the perimeter—dead giveaway that guests from the Capitol are probably lurking about. I pray none are of the gorgeous senator variation. By reflex, I scan the crowd, and come up empty handed for an Atticus Stone sighting.

Gran spots me and I do a wigglywave with my fingers. She responds with one of her infamous highhanded ‘Grace Silver waves’ revered and often copied, photographed and discussed by the media.
Adroitly, I elbow Jon and under my breath, I whisper. “
Silver
alert. Nine o’clock. Incoming.”

“We’d better go pay homage,” he replies.

“Yep. There’s a lull in the receiving line. Let’s go.” He follows as I steer through the throng. With her arms raised, it’s as if a gong has been struck. On cue, I press my cheek to Gran’s smooth face, inhaling
L’Air du Temps
.

She takes hold of my hands, and steps back. “Phoenix, let me look at you. All grown up, or so you assured everyone in court.”

Code for ‘I dislike losing, but you’ll hate it more.’

I tut, “Don’t be a poor sport, Gran. There isn’t anything disloyal in me wanting to chart my life.”

“After Spencer? You need a moment to reflect and guidance.”

“I appreciate your concern,” I say dryly.

“Where’s your mother?” My grandmother changes tack.

Ding-ding. Silver game playing tactics 2.0 are being field tested—on me. An innocent statement, but what she’s really doing is assessing, acquiring ammunition for later when she quietly addresses a list of concerns I’m so certain she’s compiling. The list gets longer and longer, but the trick is getting Gran to show her hand. Not about to happen, unless I fold. It’s hard to understand how she’s so assertive and doesn’t admire that quality in others. All I have to do is acquiesce, let her and my grandfather make a
few calls
. Roll over, let go, and let her. Definitely, I’m missing a piece of the puzzle.

“Mom is flying to Seattle. Last minute details about an art gallery opening gone awry. It’s metal works this year. Then she spoke about possibly going on to Canada and Alaska. But how are you? Why are you returning to Manhattan early? Is there an emergency?” My best line of defense is always to answer her, and pose the next question. Steer the conversation, navigate the direction. Journalism 101, baby.

She smiles pleasantly. “On the contrary. Merely an opportunity that has arisen. Nothing set in stone concerning New York. And with the heat, it’s just as well. Irrespective of why, I always get a little sad to say
adieu
. We’re closing the house next week.”

“You don’t say?” I choke out. Without meaning to, I side-glance Jon and he doesn’t change his expression at the mention of ‘stone.’ Coincidence? Not much is when it comes to Grace Silver.

“Phoenix, did you finish your minerals?” she asks.