SEDUCED BY THE STRANGER (Dirty Little Secrets, #1) Read Free Page B

overrides my common sense. Crazy doesn’t begin to describe the level of intoxication running rampant in my veins from watching the blond bombshell. “I’m heading out,” I say, downing my drink.
    “What the fuck, Ben?” Noah replies. “You just got here!”
    “Jax has other plans tonight. Don’t you?” I query my friend, knowing full well he’s contracted two subs and he’s got a private jet on standby to take him back to D.C. Back to our club for the night.
    “Let the pussy go,” Jax follows up. “He’s got to get his beauty sleep. Can’t have the prettiest of the senators with dark circles under his eyes.”
    “Actually, I’m going to go find a girl and fuck her up against a wall if you three pricks don’t mind.”
    They all laugh, believing I’m pulling their chains.
    “Better than your self-imposed celibacy!” Jax snorts, eyeing me critically. He doesn’t say anything else—no one does. What can they say? I got royally fucked, and now, I’m taking a break—trying to figure out my future. I had a sub who nearly threw me under the bus and why I’m on a hiatus from offering up my services at our club.
    “Are we good?” I ask, looking between them. I still take part in the running of our club and tonight is the first time in a long time that I feel the itch to do more than paperwork.
    Ethan leans back and looks around, looks toward the dance floor, and suddenly I feel a twinge knife my chest. I don’t want his eyes or anyone’s eyes on that girl. He squints but doesn’t do more than lift a brow as he swings his attention back to me. “Yeah. This place is happening. No doubt, it’s classy. So, do we accept Congressman Lowe or not?”
    Jax nods as does Noah. I stall as if I’m on the proverbial fence. “I’d like to scope out what’s happening at the bar. Listen in on what’s being said. Ask a few questions. Lowe’s got to agree no more action in his onsite dungeon. If he shuts that door, and there’s nothing being talked about, I’ve got no problems with him.”
    “Good fucking idea,” Noah says. He was a D.A. before becoming a senator. Cynical as shit and what a ballbuster.
    “Enjoy.” I stand and loosen my tie, then reach into my pocket and remove a pair of tickets. “Happy Birthday, cocksucker.”
    Jax has a thing for jazz. Good jazz, and he smiles. “Fuck you, boy,” he says, his voice brimming with a Texas twang, and I laugh.
    “Later,” I say in parting.
    In D.C. we’re the face of Congress. Three others are missing tonight. No biggie. Together, we’re classified as the ‘poster boys.’ A photographer captured and posted a series of us online during a joint session that turned into a Whitehouse PR blitz that caught fire. From magazine covers to rallies, we’re featured around the nation in a campaign to reinvigorate or popularize politics. PR bullshit gone wild!
    Tagged as the gang of seven—the other one. We don’t crawl up anyone’s ass. We’re too busy covering our own. We’re the ones you elect and with any luck, you never contact. Yeah, screw any idea that we want to hear from you if you think that writing a check gives you power. Shut up but pay up is my unwritten motto. Not everyone’s. There’s only one type of contact we appreciate and it’s silent; contributions with no strings. Make a deposit. Send a check. Hell, cash works.
    And sure, there are those constituents who really care. Voters who aren’t interested in owning our souls and trying to turn us into political marionettes.
    Those people, step right up. I, like my other esteemed congressmen seated here, have plenty of staffers and interns to deal with voters—their questions, calls, emails. And the ton of letters that arrive each and every day. For one moment—one night I’m putting aside that political B.S.
    Walking away from the table, I see the girl move to the side of the dance floor. Fuck me flying! Is she leaving...? I lengthen my strides comparable to how I’m lengthening in my