Page 5 of Tied

Chris

After an exhausting flight in coach that was supposed to be first class, the ensuing nail-biting yellow cab trip through traffic—that was not what I expected after my limo broke down—and my ‘lost’ reservation at the hotel, I’m ready for a stiff drink or two. Okay, maybe one will be guzzled down faster than it’s poured, but I think I deserve it.

“Carli, you spoiled me,” I say to the vacant elevator.

Without her, I feel that a sex addicts anonymous meeting is in my future.

Walking into the conference center, I find a stout elderly man in a blue plaid shirt and plain white tie siting at the greeting table. “Hello, sir. Your name, please?”

“Chris Rock. Governor of Indiana,” I mutter as I look over his head, searching out the much-needed bar.

Thumbing through the lanyards, looking for mine, he quips, “I bet you get jokes about your famous name all the time.”

Yep, weekly. “He and I met once. It was quite comical,” I say in a bored tone.

He hands me my lanyard. “Well, I’m sure you’re never mistaken as him.”

I give him a saccharine smile instead of poking his eyes out. “No, I’m not.”

“Well, enjoy the conference, Mr. Rock,” he says sweetly.

Nodding, I step around his makeshift desk and head directly across the room to the bar, mumbling, “Drink before you kill an old man, Chris.”

Even stylish old men can be buried for a price, or so I’ve heard.

Approaching the group at the bar, I find it’s busy. Some people are waiting on drinks, but most are socializing around the ‘water cooler’ like tigers waiting on the antelope at the stream.

Hearing a voice I know, I try to ignore him. But he’s loud, so it’s hard. “The last intern I had, oh my God! She had legs that nearly reached her neck. I wanted to fuck her so bad. I’m tellin’ ya, that little piece of ass…” He begins acting like he’s squeezing an imaginary toosh. “Carine’s body was built for sin.” I look his way with a pornographic smile as he continues. “I wouldn’t have worried about being caught, mind you. We’re celebrities of sorts, after all.”

Stepping up to the crowd as I make my way to the bar, I listen on, disgusted. The man cajoling about a young woman in his employ, Governor Jack Devoy of Nevada, quiets for a moment as I push past.

“Chris,” he sings, drawing out the syllables. “So glad you could make it.” His tone is condescending. His smile is as fake as a three dollar bill, and his greeting is not without spite. As the host of this meeting, he’d tried to lose my invitation in the mail.

We have a history.

“So glad to see you again, Jack. I hope your wife is well?” I say as I take his hand, giving it a strong shake. If I tightened it up a bit too much, he never let on, but I’m almost positive I heard cracking as it crunched under my grip.

He grimaces. “She’s great. Just great. And Elaine? How’s she?”

Releasing his hand, I enjoy how he cradles it. “Fantastic. She’s at her own convention in Peru. Unfortunately, she couldn’t attend this soiree. Next time though, we’ll have to get the ladies together for a dinner. I believe Tish and Elaine are still in contact. I’m sure they can arrange something between them.”

He attends less with his wife than I do. But his interns and PR manager, Fiona, attend these “soirees” quite frequently. Just another man using his power over others to garner control over their bodies and their careers. I may flirt with disaster, coming close to showing off my proclivities in a tight arena like politics, but I’d never use power over anyone to get what I want.

Turning to the bartender, I give Jack my back. “What do you have in scotch?” I ask.

“Glenfiddich, Speyside, and Bushmills, sir.”

I lay a twenty on the table. “Double of Bushmills, neat,” I say with a tight smile. I might make it a quad shot to get over wanting to give Jack a good thumping.

As the bartender moves off to grab my drink, I try to ignore the continuing conversation from Jack and his old boys club. I simply don’t fit in. These governors have had two or more consecutive terms and are also the sons of powerful political families. Me? I gained my position through the proper channels. I was elected by the people, not by the powerful few of the state. I guess that’s why I take it seriously. Well, the job, that is. The pompous meetings I deal with less admirably if I’m being honest.

As their conversation drifts off to other less important bullshit, I down the warm liquid quickly. The burn feels fantastic as it coats my throat. I’d rather it was a sweet concoction, which makes me wish I could ditch this dick swinging affair quickly. I could use the sweet relief of a Cosmo or Manhattan. Sadly, the only way I think that will happen is if a fire alarm sounds in the next few hours.

Laying the now empty glass back on the table, I request a refill. Laying a second twenty on the counter, the young man tops it up quickly. His smile speaks volumes as he runs his tongue along his teeth. He’s checking me out. He’s pretty in all the ways that affect me usually, but it’s not the time or the place. To keep my persona and status quiet, I need to get through this, then I’ll feign some major issue after lunch and run out to find a release.

Turning from the bar with my freshened drink, I look for a familiar face and a friendly place to sit. Thankfully, seeing Bullet Kane, I know where to head. His real name is Beauford, a true Texan all the way. He’s so pro NRA that you’d think he invented the association.

“Chris,” he calls out as I wander close.

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