Total pages in book: 53
Estimated words: 50620 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 253(@200wpm)___ 202(@250wpm)___ 169(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 50620 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 253(@200wpm)___ 202(@250wpm)___ 169(@300wpm)
He pointed his finger across the lobby. “That looks like Ted Fairchild.”
I followed his finger, eyes wide in shock. “Holy shit! He was the Chief of Staff for Senator Banks until he ran for Senate.”
He lowered his arm to his side and looked at me. “The woman he’s with looks like a pro.”
Will was right.
“Of course, you would know that.”
He shook his head. “I’ve never paid for sex. But I’ve had enough offers to know when I see a pro.”
“I know her. Well, sort of. She lives on the twelfth floor. I’ve ridden the elevator with her and the men she brings home.”
I hid behind a pole and held up my phone. Focused on Ted and the hooker, I snapped a few pictures of them locking lips. Will joined in. He removed his phone from his shorts pocket to take a few pictures.
As a political correspondent, a story this big could have made my career. Ted Fairchild was as high profile as they came. He was always in the news because of his political connections in town. The man was a giant asshole, but he had a lot of sway and a lot of friends.
I wonder how they will feel about him now…
Not that it was uncommon to find a politician caught in a sex scandal. This politician was a jerk and deserved to have his campaign shot to hell. We were a few months from the election, and he was ahead in the polls.
“Ted is a sleazeball,” he added as he pocketed his phone.
“Do you know him?”
He nodded. “I met him through Duke Baldwin at a Caps game. He’s Duke’s wife’s ex-husband. They have a kid together.”
“Thank you. This story could… It could…”
Overcome by a mixture of emotions, I struggled to find the right words, so I kissed him. Sliding my hands up his chest, I wrapped my arms around his neck. Will just saved my ass. My boss had rejected the story I’d been working on for weeks for lack of proof. And now, Will found the jackpot of all political scandals.
I kissed him so hard and fast we fell backward into the wall, and he hooked his arms around my middle. He smelled and tasted like sweat, not my favorite combination, but I could not get enough of him. We kissed until we were both breathless. After a while, I stole my lips from his.
“If I knew politics turned you on this much,” he muttered, “I would run for the mayor of Philly.”
“Shut up,” I groaned and shoved a hand at his chest.
He grabbed my hip and pulled me to him, planting soft kisses along my neck. I moaned and squirmed in his arms, though I didn’t move away from him.
“You lost the bet,” he informed me.
I stared into his pretty blue eyes. “No, I didn’t. You kissed me.”
“Nah, babe.” He ran a hand through his sweaty blond hair. “That kiss was all you.”
I sighed. “Whatever. Maybe I did. So what?”
Then his lips crashed into mine.
After our steamy kiss in the lobby, Will and I didn’t speak another word. I took a cold shower to calm down and headed to the office. Work was my number one priority. Having Will around would not deter me from my goal to one day be as successful as my father. To write a story worth winning the Pulitzer Prize for Investigative Reporting, or the Edgar A. Poe Award. He won both by the time he was my age.
Not that it was a race or a competition, but success was the only way to capture my father’s attention. They say success is an addiction, and my father was proof of that. He only attached himself to winners. Daddy dearest dined with everyone from presidents and heads of state to Wall Street titans. Power ruled his world, a world in which I’d never felt as if I fit.
The elevator doors opened, and I stepped onto my floor at The Washington Post. Coffee wafted through the air. I followed the sweet smell down the hall, hoping to grab a cup before the staff meeting.
I waved and said good morning to a few of my co-workers and made a beeline down the hall toward the conference room. Tired from the run with Will, I swapped out my usual heels for flats, skirt for pants.
“Clarke,” Mark Tremmel said from the entrance to the conference room. He leaned his back against the door, holding it open. “You’re late.”
Guess I’m not grabbing a coffee…
I’d busted my ass back in Philly to get this job. But lately, I felt like I was on thin ice with my boss.
I checked my watch. It was three minutes to nine, but that was late by Mark’s standards.
“Sorry,” I said as I stepped into the room. “It won’t happen again.”
He slammed the door behind me, causing me to jump.