A Capitol Affair
A Ravenous Romance™ Modern Romance™ Original Publication
By Jamaica Lane
A Ravenous Romance™ Modern Romance™ Original Publication
A Capitol Affair
Copyright © 2009 by Jamaica Layne
Ravenous Romance™
100 Cummings Center
Suite 125G
Beverly, MA 01915
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in whole or in part without written permission from the publisher, except by reviewers who may quote brief excerpts in connection with a review.
ISBN-13: 978-1-60777-106-7
This book is a work of fiction, and any resemblance to persons living or dead is purely coincidental.
Chapter One
“Shit, shit, shit.”
I stared at the rolling news ticker on my computer screen in disbelief. Sen. Howard Grayle, the conservative Republican senior senator from North Dakota—and my boss—had just been caught with his pants down.
Literally.
Apparently, Sen. Grayle—one of the most right-wing members of the Senate and an avid critic of gay rights—spent the evening prior sampling the pleasures of cheap male hustlers who worked the hiking trails at Rock Creek Park. Conservative, stuffed-shirt (and married) gay-rights-hater or not, it seemed Sen. Grayle liked his blowjobs to come from greasy, desperate heroin addicts at 3 a.m.
Only problem was, the greasy, desperate heroin addict the senator hired the night before was an undercover cop with a film crew. Grainy footage of the senator in a decidedly non-“family values” position was all over the news media.
Take a super-right-wing senator, add in some illicit gay sex, and sprinkle liberally with a slow newsday and America’s appetite for sex-soaked tabloid journalism----it all added up to a public relations disaster.
Shit.
After 10 years in the business, there was hardly a public-relations disaster in Washington I couldn’t clean up with a well-written press release and a few hot sound bites. That was why Sen. Grayle hired me away from Rep. Dwight Harrison’s office in the first place. I had saved Rep. Harrison’s political career when he got caught cheating on his second wife with his 20-year-old stepdaughter. Just a few vague terrorist-threat stories in the media, and voila! The networks spent enough time trying to chase down the questionable leads I’d dug up on the Internet that the public forgot all about Rep. Harrison’s little indiscretion. He won re-election soon after.
The only ethic a Washington public-relations professional has to worry about sticking to these days is doing everything possible to make and keep her employer famous rather than infamous.
…And I do mean everything.
In my tenure, I’ve penned fake press releases, telephoned radio and TV call-in shows pretending to be a “concerned citizen” in order to name-drop my employers on the air; and bribed newspaper and magazine editors with boxes of Beluga caviar and expensive champagne in exchange for favorable headlines. I even gave the media coordinator at PBS’ “Washington Week” full use of my car one weekend in the hopes he’d give Sen. Grayle 15 minutes of airtime to discuss his proposed Grayle-Rileman bill legalizing gambling nationwide. The media coordinator wrecked my car, then canceled Sen. Grayle’s spot at the last minute. The bill failed.
My efforts to generate press attention for bosses didn’t always work; but they worked often enough for me to keep trying. The seriousness of Sen. Grayle’s latest public gaffe was calling for some very extreme PR measures indeed—even by my standards.
The one line I hadn’t yet crossed in my PR career was using sex as a weapon in the fight for positive media attention. But I knew I just might have to cross that threshold very soon. Sen. Grayle had made such a public ass of himself that going horizontal with at least one powerful Washington news editor might be the only way for me to keep my job.
If that didn’t work, there was always Starbucks. They had plenty of openings for eight-dollar-an-hour baristas.
“I should probably just go kill myself now,” I muttered.
Rebecca, my cubicle mate in Sen. Grayle’s office, looked up from her game of computer solitaire. “Why?”
“You obviously haven’t heard.”
Rebecca cracked her gum and booted up another solitaire match. “Heard what?”
“Our boss got caught buying blowjobs from boys in Rock Creek Park last night.”
Rebecca stopped mid-chew. “What?”
“You heard me. Turn on the TV. They’re having a field day with this.”
Rebecca flipped on the office plasma screen, which we kept perpetually tuned to CNN. Sen. Grayle’s chiseled, aging WASP face and silver crew cut were all over it. The screen flipped back and forth between footage of the senator pulling it out and his mugshot. He was arrested for solicitation.
Things were not looking good for his re-election campaign. At this rate, I thought, I can forget about Starbucks, too.
I turned up the volume on the TV as the news announcer said Sen. Grayle was still waiting in jail for someone to bail him out, his wife refusing to come to his aid.
“You know that means he’ll be calling one of us to bail him out,” Rebecca quipped. She would know. As Sen. Grayle’s personal secretary, she’d suffered such indignities as scraping the senator’s vomit off the floor of a limousine when he got drunk on Tequila at President Bush’s second inauguration party; and running telephone interference between Mrs. Grayle and the senator’s three known mistresses.
Rebecca poured herself a cup of strong coffee and sighed. “Having worked her for almost six years,” she said, “I can say with total sincerity that the man is a sex fiend. But this is the first I’ve heard about him having a thing for boys.”
“It’s always the ones you least expect,” I said.
“I guess so.” Rebecca shut down her solitaire game and pulled up Sen. Grayle’s online media directory for me. “I guess this means you’re going to want to start damage control with the press right away, Jasmine,” she said.
I sighed and bit my lip. “Of course. Not that it’s going to do any good.”
I scanned Sen. Grayle’s directory of media contacts, which he and a whole series of PR reps before me spent years cultivating. Grayle had been in Washington more than 30 years, after all; and I’d spent the past two working to refine his image with his existing stable of press contacts, not trying to build up new ones. A mistake, I realized then. Grayle was going to need all the friends he could get in the media; and the fact was, he didn’t have enough. It would only be a matter of time before almost every editor, journalist and broadcaster in Grayle’s tried-and-true directory would abandon him—or at best, make him their latest punch line.
There was only one name in that press directory I could possibly count on in a crisis like this.
Rodney Doyle, editor-in-chief of the Beltway Times.
Rodney Doyle was king barracuda in Washington’s veritable sea of razor-toothed press predators. His paper was the lead rag when it came to hyping up right-wing politics and tearing down liberals. A rich wiz kid from an old New England family, Doyle founded the paper right out of college by cashing in his trust fund in the early 1990s. He built the Beltway Times into the highest-selling conservative political paper nationwide within five years. No Republican could get elected to anything—not even to his local wastewater-treatment department—without the Beltway Times’ endorsement.
Doyle was also a fiery political commentator who appeared frequently on television and had his own high-rated syndicated radio program and two dozen national bestsellers to his credit. Doyle’s huge media presence, magnetic personality, and red-hot political rhetoric could turn the tide of public opinion any way he wanted.
And Rodney Doyle wasn’t afraid of weaving his own personal brand of fantasy into a very stretched-out version of the truth if that’s what got him the results he was looking for. The Democrats could thank Rodney Doyle and the Beltway Times for being shut out of the White House for eight years, among other things.
There was no level too low for the paper to stoop. The Beltway Times was America’s closest counterpart to an old-school British tabloid; it seemed no scandal was too sordid for the paper’s pages as long as it had at least something to do with Washington’s elected officials. The paper used scandal (preferably sexual) whenever and wherever it could to manipulate the nation’s political winds in whatever direction Rodney Doyle wanted them to go.
His spinmeister skills were so sharp, in fact, he even managed to make over Monica Lewinsky from sleazy tramp into glorious political savior during the Clinton impeachment scandal.
It went without saying Rodney Doyle was a brilliant, slimy bastard.
Or so I’d heard, anyway. I’d never actually met the man in person before. Senator Grayle had never needed more than a routine endorsement from the Beltway Times until now. Sen. Grayle was suddenly up to his wrinkled, old-man balls in the biggest sex scandal to hit Washington in years. His career was in deep shit. And if I couldn’t help him, so was mine.
The very thought of meeting Rodney Doyle face-to-face made little beads of sweat start creeping out on my forehead. It wasn’t just because the guy was a slick, sleazy, power-broking bastard. There was another side of Rodney Doyle that intimidated the hell out of me: I’d seen Rodney Doyle on television enough times to know the man was drop-dead gorgeous. He had quite the reputation as a ladies’ man; with a special affinity for young, attractive Congressional aides.
I was a female Congressional aide, but that was where the similarities between me and Rodney Doyle’s infamous string of Washington conquests ended. At 34, I was not exactly young; and as a plump Size 14 with mousy brown hair and freckled skin, certainly not what he’d consider attractive. The chance of Rodney Doyle finding me good-looking enough to exchange sexual favors so I could save my boss’ career was roughly equivalent to the Canadian Army’s chance of conquering the world by force of arms.
Still, the very notion of seeing Rodney Doyle in the flesh already had my panties in a pretzel. The fact I hadn’t had sex in the two years I worked 80-hour weeks for Senator Grayle certainly wasn’t helping matters.
Oh, God.
Rebecca tapped me on the shoulder. “Jasmine, are you okay?”
“What?”
“You look a little red in the face. Do you need an Aspirin or something?” Rebecca rooted around in her bottom desk drawer, where I knew she stored samples of every over-the-counter drug from Advil to Zyban.
“I’m fine,” I panted. “Just, you know, a little stressed out.”
And a little turned on.
Rebecca didn’t look convinced. She went to the water cooler and drew me an icy-cold cup. “Take this,” she said, handing me two Advil. “I know you’ll probably be pulling an all-nighter on this one.”
“And then some.” I scanned my packed Outlook calendar for the day and canceled all my appointments. There was only one place I needed to go in a crisis like this. “Rebecca,” I said, “do me a favor?”
“Sure thing.”
I printed out Rodney Doyle’s contact information and handed the sheet to her.
“Rebecca, I want you to use all your sweet-talking telephone skills to get me a private appointment with Rodney Doyle over at the Beltway Times. Preferably for this afternoon. Think you can do that?”
Rebecca’s eyebrows rose. “Rodney Doyle? The meanest, toughest editor in town? The king barracuda himself? Are you really gonna go to him for help with this mess? Are you sure that’s a good idea, Jasmine?” Rebecca looked worried. “His newspaper is so sleazy—”
“Look, we’re basically out of options as far as the press is concerned. Doyle’s the only guy left in town who can even possibly help us at this point. And since I’m sure you enjoy having a job as much as I do, I think we should at least give him a try. Will you make the call or not?”
Rebecca’s expression softened. “Sure, I can make the call. But I thought you preferred to set up all your press meetings yourself.”
More sweat beads broke out on my forehead. “True. But this is sort of a special situation. I need someone with a softer touch on the phone than I can manage.” A lie, of course. I couldn’t exactly tell Rebecca I might have an orgasm on the phone if I tried calling Rodney Doyle myself.
I stood up. “Rebecca, um, excuse me for a moment. Let me know if you can make that appointment with Mr. Doyle.”
I headed for the ladies’ room in serious need of release.
I went into the handicapped stall—plenty of room to maneuver—and locked the door behind me. My right hand went straight to ground zero, already slick and sweet. My left hand pulled down my stockings and skirt and then went straight for my boobs, which I expertly popped out of their underwire 38D cups and began to stroke. My nipples were already rock-hard. I ran my middle finger back and forth over my clit, sending that little bundle of nerves over the edge in no time at all.
“Oh, God, yeah,” I cried, not at all worried about who might hear me. I came almost immediately, shaking and vibrating and kicking the stall door. But I didn’t stop there. I rubbed all my creases and crevices, spreading my juices as far and wide as they would go. I came again almost without effort. It still wasn’t enough.
I needed something big and hard to ram itself right up inside me. Unfortunately, the closest thing available was my right middle finger. My vibrator was at home in my bedside drawer, loaded with dead batteries and collecting dust. I just hadn’t had the time or desire to use it in more than a year. Dejected, I rearranged my clothing and traipsed out of the stall to wash my hands. I ran directly into Rebecca. She looked a bit afraid.
“Jasmine,” she said in a hushed voice, “pardon me for asking, but what on Earth were you doing in there?”
“Um, nothing,” I lied. “Just, um, freshening up.”
“Riiiiight,” Jasmine chuckled. “I just came in here to tell you I was able to set something up with Rodney Doyle. He’s very busy, and would only agree to see you if you go to his office right now. You need to get there no later than two o’clock or you’ll miss him.”
I glanced at my watch: 1:45 p.m. Doyle’s office was on K Street—almost three miles away, and a good 20-minute drive in slow afternoon traffic. Getting there by 2 p.m. would be an impossible task. I was sure Rodney Doyle knew this full well when he made the appointment. “Call Rodney Doyle back and tell him I’m on my way,” I said, running out of the bathroom and to my cubicle to grab my coat and purse.
Chapter Two
I got lucky for once. The first cab I hailed was driven by a man who knew how to beat the worst D.C. traffic. He swooped around other cars, jumped curbs, ran stop signs, and less than five minutes later dropped me off in front of the looming Beltway Times building on K Street.
I checked my watch: 1:52 p.m. I had exactly eight minutes to get inside, take the elevator to the penthouse office suite, and convince Rodney Doyle to save my boss’ career.
I tipped the cabbie a fiver for his efforts and swept into the building’s swank marble lobby. A grouchy-looking security guard blocked the door. “Do you have an appointment?” he growled at me, looking official and rude at more than 200 pounds of muscle.
“I’m here to see Rodney Doyle. My appointment’s at two.”
The huge security guard looked me up and down, frowned, and rested his left hand on his gun while he used his right to check his register book. “Says here that Rodney Doyle don’t have no two o’clock appointment.”
“He does now. My secretary just set it up.” I checked my watch again and tapped my foot incessantly. I was running out of time.
The guard punched an extension into his security phone with his thick, meaty fingers. He hung up after a quick conversation and grunted.
“You’re clear,” he said. “Sign the register and take this badge. Go up to the eighteenth floor, show the badge, and they’ll let you in.”
“Thank you.” By now I was sweating buckets, and my panties were swimming in my own juices. I didn’t know what had me turned on more: the huge hulk of a man behind the security desk, or the fact I was about to meet Rodney Doyle.
“Ma’am,” the guard said, “you better get going. Mr. Doyle don’t like to be kept waiting.”
I walked to the elevator, passed my electronic security badge over the scanner, and was off.
I did a quick mirror-check on the elevator doors and discovered I looked quite the tramp. My blouse and skirt were rumpled and creased from my solo romp in the bathroom stall. My mascara had run a bit, giving me little raccoon eyes. And the apples of my cheeks were covered with a textbook sex flush. Ack. I was about to beg the most powerful newspaper editor in Washington for a break, and I was going to do it looking like a mousy, pudgy, horny tramp. But it was too late for me to freshen up. I smoothed the creases of my blouse and skirt as best I could with my sweaty palms, rubbed at the mascara smudges with my fingers, and hoped for the best.
The elevator doors slid open to reveal a huge penthouse office suite. The far wall was floor-to-ceiling smoked glass, the middle of which held a door that read “RODNEY DOYLE: PRIVATE”. Across from me behind a large gleaming desk sat a very glamorous receptionist.
“You must be Jasmine Rand,” she cooed, looking me up and down with noticeable distaste. She couldn’t have been older than 20. Her Size 0 frame was poured into a tight-fitting Prada suit; meaning she was either grossly overpaid, or had a major sugar-daddy. “Mr. Doyle is expecting you. Right this way.”
I followed the tiny woman to Rodney Doyle’s imposing glass door. “Good luck,” she chirped, opening the door slowly while looking me up and down again. She turned on her kitten heel and went back to her perch.
A booming voice called tome from the seemingly empty office. “What are you waiting for, Kingdom Fucking Come?”
Kingdom Fucking Come? Interesting choice of words.
I stepped gingerly into the office, looked around, and saw no one.
“Funny,” the voice boomed again. “I would have expected you to come groveling on your hands and knees, Ms. Rand. But I suppose that’s not your style. I bet you prefer to do things standing up. Come. Come, please.”
The number of double entendres in that statement was ridiculous.
Who talks like this in real life? I wondered.
“Excuse me,” I said to the empty air, “but where are you?”
“Over here.” One of the mirrors turned. Out of nowhere popped Rodney Doyle—or rather, a dozen Rodney Doyles. He was reflected 12 times over in a wall of mirrors. I couldn’t tell which one was real.
“What the hell is this, a joke?” I asked.
I felt a light tap on my shoulder and spun around. The flesh-and-blood Rodney Doyle stood just behind me, even more gorgeous in the flesh than he was on television or reflected in a dozen creepy mirrors. He was a veritable Greek god. Six-foot-four, hazel eyes, sandy blonde hair, chiseled features; a barrel-like chest, and biceps so thick they nearly burst out the sleeves of his custom-tailored shirt. Rodney smelled of musk and expensive aftershave. His face was spread wide in a glistening, perfect smile.
“Sorry if my little mirror trick upset you,” he said. “I’ve been into mirror tricks since I was a kid. My mom rented me a copy of The Lady From Shanghai when I was fourteen and I loved the hall of mirrors scene so much that when I grew up and got rich, I had one built into my office.”
“The Lady From Shanghai?” I asked. “Sorry, I’m not following.”
“It’s an old Orson Welles movie. Orson Welles used a hall of mirrors to subdue Rita Hayworth during a shootout. I find it works well at subduing everyone who comes into my office.”
“Well, it didn’t subdue me. It just freaked me out.”
“One and the same,” Rodney said, motioning for me to sit in one of the massive chairs across from his desk. “So, Ms. Rand, I assume you’re here to beg me to save your ass?”
“I’m not here on my own behalf. I’m here to ask you to help Senator Grayle.”
He laughed. “Senator Grayle is beyond help at this point. His career ended the minute he propositioned those hustlers. I don’t know why you think I can do anything to change that.”
I knew I had to appeal to Rodney’s enormous ego somehow, or I’d be sunk before I even started. “Surely you wouldn’t give up that easily,” I cooed. “After all, you and your paper have the power to turn public opinion any way you want. You even turned Monica Lewinsky into a saint for a while. You’re a media genius, or so everyone says. This ought to be a piece of cake for you.”
More booming laughter. Rodney’s electric blue eyes twinkled. “Flattery will get you nowhere, my dear,” he said. “I think far too highly of myself already.”
I scoffed. “That’s obvious. It’s a miracle that there’s any air left for me to breathe in here, given the size of your head.”
Rodney blinked. “Let me level with you, Ms. Rand. I know that I can help Senator Grayle. But at this point, I don’t see any reason why I should.” He walked over to a massive walnut cabinet and opened its doors, revealing a miniature bar. “Scotch on the rocks?” he asked, pouring himself one.
“I don’t like hard liquor.”
Rodney ignored this and poured me a brimming highball from an expensive-looking bottle. “Ms. Rand, if you want to play with the big boys, the first thing you need to do is to drink with them.”
“Call me Jasmine, please.” I took a tiny sip from the glass. To my surprise, I found the strong liquor to my liking. “This is very good.”
“It should be, for eight hundred bucks a bottle. So tell me, Jasmine, what do you think about Senator Grayle’s latest indiscretion? I know, as I’m sure you do, Senator Grayle is no stranger to indiscretions. But this is the first I’m aware of his open breach of the law.”
I took another sip. The booze made my throat tingle as it went down. Little waves of warmth swam through my blood. I crossed my legs. “It doesn’t matter what I think of it,” I said. “I’m a PR staffer, not a judge. My job is to make the whole thing go away so Senator Grayle can be re-elected.”
Rodney’s eyebrows rose. “Surely you don’t believe that’s possible.”
“I have to believe it. Otherwise, I’m out of a job.”
“Quite a conundrum.” Rodney sat down at his the massive desk. “Ms. Rand—”
“Jasmine, please,” I interrupted.
He ignored me. “Ms. Rand, to be perfectly honest, what happened today is hardly a surprise to me. I often wondered if my paper would have the opportunity to dish on one of Senator Grayle’s, shall we say, unique tastes. But he was far too good at keeping that part of his life under wraps from the press. I knew about it, of course; but nobody at my paper was ever able to catch him in the act. Not that we haven’t tried, believe me.”
My eyes widened; that news surprised even me. From what I understood, the Beltway Times was only interested in making Democrats look bad. “I never knew the Times was interested in trashing die-hard Republicans like Senator Grayle,” I said.
“These days, the Beltway Times is interested in anything that will help sell papers,” Rodney replied. “It’s a very tough business now—much tougher than it used to be. Senator Grayle’s private life was ripe for the picking. It was only a matter of time before he made a mistake like this.” Rodney leaned back in his chair and examined his fingernails. “At some point, I suppose even a connoisseur like Grayle can get bored with the kinkiest, most expensive sex-for-hire Washington has to offer. The only reason I can think of for him taking such a risk is for the thrill of it.”
“What do you mean?”
Rodney rolled his eyes, as if I should have known what he meant already. “Maybe this is news to you, Ms. Rand, but your boss is a total sex fiend; though cheap male hustlers in Rock Creek Park is slumming for him. He’s always preferred exclusive private sex clubs and the high-class bondage scene in the past.”
My eyes flew wide. “How do you know all of this?”
Rodney swallowed his drink in one gulp and smirked. “I make it my business to know everything that happens in this town. Plus, Grayle and I run in some of the same, shall we say, circles.”
I felt more blood flowing to my nether parts. “I see.”
“I suppose you’re wondering what it would take for me to help you,” Rodney said. “I don’t generally do anything for anyone unless there’s something in it for me.”
I chuckled. “Right. That makes you just like everyone else in Washington.”
“Not quite. The favors I expect in return for my help are a bit different from the usual wheeling and dealing you see over on Capitol Hill.” Rodney raised his thick eyebrows and lowered his eyelids seductively. “Do you get my meaning?”
My crotch was hot, but I wasn’t about to let him know that. Not yet. “I’m afraid I don’t.”
Rodney checked his watch. “I really must be going. I’m due to make an appearance on MSNBC in twenty minutes.” He got up to leave.
“But—” I stammered. “You haven’t even given me a chance!”
“On the contrary,” he replied. “I gave you five minutes of my time. That’s more than ninety-nine percent of the PR staffers in town get.”
My back was up against the wall. I needed to act fast and hard, or my career was done for. “I’d be willing to discuss favors with you. Privately. Any kind of favors you want.”
Rodney stopped short. “Is that so?”
“That’s so.”
“All right. Meet me tonight at CityZen at the Mandarin Oriental. I’ll make reservations for eight, my treat.” He paused and looked at my outfit with displeasure. “And dress appropriately.”
“I always dress appropriately, I’ll have you know.”
“Not today, you don’t. That suit went out of style three years ago, and it was cheap to begin with. It looks like you slept in it.”
“I beg your pardon—”
He raised his hand. “I could go on and on, but I won’t because I’m a gentleman.”
“Hardly.” I’d had more than enough of this. I stood to leave.
“Don’t go just yet.” Rodney crossed to me, his expression softening a bit. “Please don’t take what I just said the wrong way. I’m afraid I’m not known for my tact.”
“That’s obvious, too.”
Rodney placed a strong hand on my shoulder and squeezed. Heat from his fingers tingled through my body. “You’re a very attractive woman, Jasmine,” he said. “You’re just a little rough around the edges. Truth be told, I like my women a little rough.”
My cheeks flushed. “I really should be getting back to Senator Grayle’s office. Thanks for the dinner invitation, but I think I’ll pass.”
“Wait.” Rodney took my hand, white-hot electricity on my skin. “I don’t mean to offend you, Jasmine. I really don’t. I just find you incredibly attractive, is all. Sometimes I get a bit rude and crude around women who turn me on. It’s a personal vice of mine.”
Oh. My. God, I thought, panicking. Me? A mousy, frizzy-haired, slightly overweight, 34-year-old celibate who hasn’t been laid in two years?
“Pardon me,” I said, “but is that a joke?”
“No joke. I’d really like to take you up on your offer and spend some time with you, Jasmine. Private time. And then, maybe we can see what I can do to help out Senator Grayle. Believe it or not, even I can be convinced to change my mind about certain things from time to time.” He gave me a wink. “Not that it would be a tit-for-tat exchange or anything.”
I chuckled again. “Of course not.”
“I’ll see you at eight then. Wear something nice. I’m partial to red, and strapless.” He gestured to the door. “My assistant Marie will see you out.”
Red. I didn’t own anything red, let alone strapless. A shopping trip was in order. I turned on my heel and left, crotch buzzing.
END OF EXCERPT
Chapter Three
I walked out of the office building and into the brisk afternoon air. I pulled out my cell phone and dialed Rebecca at the office.
She picked up on the first ring. “Hello?”
“Rebecca, it’s Jasmine. I won’t be back in the office today.”
“What? Why?” Rebecca sounded alarmed.
“I just finished meeting with Rodney Doyle, and he wants to have dinner tonight to discuss the Senator Grayle situation. I need to spend the rest of the afternoon getting ready.”