Page 50 of Violent Hearts

Chapter 23

Jared

Button carries herself so well today. The smile on her face looks real, her words are well chosen, her new dress hugs the curves of her sexy frame perfectly, emphasizing all the right spots - and driving me crazy. I can't help but be impressed with her, especially considering how terribly bored I am with this whole campaigning thing.

When I decided to run for Congress, I primarily did it to prove something to myself. I've conquered the business world, and after seeing so many useless idiots running for office, being elected, and then making decisions that benefit no one but themselves, I decided that I had had it. I'm not an idealistic person, mind you. It's power that I'm after, the knowledge that my word carries more weight than those of others. But I also like the idea of having a real influence. I need purpose and a platform to let people know I'm here and ready to leave my mark where it matters.

It's a simple enough thing to run for Congress when you're in my position. I have strong ties in the business world and the wealth needed to support my campaign without months of fundraising. My team is still organizing fundraisers, though, because my campaign needs them to generate grassroots and hands-on support, but I'm less dependent on raising money than any of the other candidates.

But all the money in the world can't buy supporters if a candidate doesn’t have clear positions and schmoozes with the right people. This is especially true for me. I may have the financial advantage, but I lack what my campaign manager calls "character credentials”. The damage done to me years ago still overshadows everything I do. Button knows nothing about it, even though she's closer to uncovering the truth than anybody else. She's never heard the rumors, and while I know she would dismiss them more willingly than anybody else, I still don't want her to know this part of my past.

I don't want her to know about the betrayal inflicted on me by the last person I thought possible of doing such a thing. Elsa Miller. Even recalling her name makes my heart race with furious rage. But it's also a good reminder for me to never let it happen again.

My eyes rest on Button standing next to me, watching as she chats away with another moneybag standing with us. She's dangerous. Too perfect, too damn good at playing her part in every aspect. I can already feel my heart softening for her. It has been slowly happening from the very beginning, but it's only gotten worse since I first fucked her and then she passed out, still throbbing around my cock. She's everything I ever wanted for this endeavor, and so much more. I've been watching myself gradually fall for her, passively allowing it to happen, without ever wanting it.

And the worst thing is: she doesn't feel the same way. Because she is fucking everything I wanted for this job. She never asks to sleep in my bed, she never whispers sweet nothings into my ear, she doesn't write me silly letters, and she hasn't confessed or shown any deeper, growing feelings toward me.

Because she is so damn perfect. Fucking cunning and rational like a machine.

Exactly what I was looking for.

Watching her now and seeing how she performs in front of these clowns, wearing her mask like a professional, reminds me of how careful I have to be around her. It also makes me wonder how raw and natural she really is when I play with her. I don't want to believe that all of it is just a show, but I can't discard the thought completely.

However, I want to believe that the intensity of the intimate part between us is real. The way she struggles, the way she moans, and the way her eyes glaze over when she's on her knees in front of me, the way she shrieks when I spank her, the way her eyes roll back into her head when I choke her until she climaxes. No. There's no way that all of that is just for show. No fucking way.

I catch her smile as she turns around to me. "I'm going to get myself another drink. Can I bring you something, too?"

She places her hand on my upper arm, an intimate touch that's one of the classic trademarks of a long-term couple. Something that we are not, but something we want to make others believe.

"A water, thank you."

"Sure."

She smiles again and excuses herself before leaving our little group. I’m left with three old dudes, all associates of foundations whose support could heavily impact the success of my campaign.

I don't like these guys, not at all. They represent the kind of arrogant old money that stands for stagnation and class division, but if I want to succeed in my run for Congress, having them at my back will make a gigantic difference.

I also don't like two of them. We've met before, but under different circumstances and at a time when I was in a less promising position. They witnessed the damage done to me back then. They've heard the rumors, they may even have helped to spread them, but I wouldn't know by the fake smiles on their faces right now.

"Pretty lady you've got there, Mr. King," one of them says once Button is out of earshot. His gray hair has thinned a lot since I saw him last, and he’s grown another spare tire around his middle. The smug smile accompanying his words tells me they're not purely meant as a compliment.

"She's pretty amazing," I say, speaking the truth.

"Pretty tough cookie, I'm sure," he says, leaving me to guess what he’s insinuating with his choice of words. "Where did you find her?"

We've prepared an answer for this question. Button and I rehearsed it again and again before attending our first public events. It was easy enough because we decided to stick with the truth as far as her former occupation, in case anyone ever decided to look it up. I doubt it will be an issue in the near future, but it's always good to be prepared and raise as little suspicion as possible to begin with.

"She oversaw press coverage for one of my company's fundraising events last year."

"Oh, she’s with the press! She is a journalist?"

"She was. A very good one, and that's how we got to talking, actually. She's a very talented writer and a smart observer."

"I bet she is, I bet she is," the guy says, adding heavy nods to his statement, as if he was agreeing with himself. "I'm wondering, though, did she ever investigate you?"

There you go. I knew this bastard had an agenda. I try to keep my calm and not let it show how much his inquiries agitate me.

"I don't know why she would."

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