Page 3 of The Senator's Secret

“What?” I squeak on barely more than a whisper.

“At this time,” the mayor’s friend repeats what he just told me, effectively ruining my life, “we just can’t move forward without Senator Chancellor. Get him and you have us.”

“O-okay,” I say woodenly before excusing myself.

I try to rally the rest of the evening, but it’s no use. Nearly everyone gave me the same response. Without Chancellor, no money, no support, essentially killing my project. Shell-shocked, I stagger across the ballroom toward the exit. For whatever reason, I look back toward the bar. The senator is there, still watching me, but this time he winks. It’s the only indication he knows exactly how my evening has gone, and he is loving every minute of it. For years, I have carefully avoided any connections with Jake Chancellor, and he has made careful maneuvers to place himself in my realm as often as possible. He loves the cat-and-mouse game, and I just want off the ride.

Just then, perfectly polished Ashley of the sexy socialites slides up closer to him and wraps her arms around him in that way that clearly suggests she’s ready to find a location with a firm mattress and less clothes involved. I wouldn’t be surprised if they don’t even make it back to someone’s residence. Those two are most likely to make it to a backseat—if they’re lucky.

She’s been after him to put a ring on it for weeks. She’s even gone so far as to tell everyone who would listen that she thinks she’s going to be the one to lock down Jake Chancellor, a man who has been seen with more women than I even knew resided within a tri-state area. And good for her. I hope she manages to snag him. They probably deserve each other. Evil villains always do. But for me? I’m done. I shake my head and turn away from them, leaving behind the ballroom and all the people in it. Maybe things will go better tomorrow.

Then again, maybe they won’t.

“Who Could be the Next Woman to Grace the Senator’s Bed?”

Chapter 2

Cats don’t talk back

The early morning sun is shining brightly through the sheer curtains that hang in my bedroom window. I lazily stretch my arms over my head and let a satisfied smile spread across my face before my eyes even open. Last night went so well. I just know we’re going to make our goal for this project. I just need to push a little harder. I was disappointed last night, but today, I am reinvigorated. I will take on the world.

I almost have the funding and support I need to help Open Arms, a local organization that wants to build an all-service residence for homeless veterans. A place where they can find a safe place to land, find work, and basic medical and mental health resources. It will be a lot like Father Joe’s Villages in San Diego, which help homeless teens finish their education and find work.

I first found Open Arms through Purple Paws, which is an animal rescue that partners with the local animal shelters I volunteer at. Purple Paws rescues dogs from high kill shelters and then trains them to be service dogs for wounded veterans. Both organizations are beyond worthy of the support and money New York’s elite society can provide them. Not to mention the notoriety. And last night, when I was rubbing elbows with the upper crust, they were all too happy to join my cause.

There was just one problem.

Nearly everyone I talked to suggested I reach out to Senator Chancellor to champion my cause, seeing as how he is the glamourous former Navy SEAL who looks as good in a suit and tie supporting the people of New York as he does in his dress white uniform on the lawn of the White House. And I’m not gonna lie—I have seen him in his dress whites for a special occasion, and panties all across the tri-state area and beyond instantly burst into flames, only to be put out by the flood of moisture from all of the pussies they contained. It was…intense. And I am sad to say even I was not completely immune to his big muscles and stupid dimples. I fan my face a little and vow again that I will not fall prey to the sexy senator’s magic penis powers.

I won’t let it happen again. I am strong. I am an independent woman. I will not bend. I will not fall victim to a sexy man with the love of a nation behind him, because that is a recipe for disaster if ever I saw one. Loving a man who has women lining up around the block cannot be good for one’s emotional health and well being.

This makes last night’s turn of events a…slightsetback.

The last few key people I need to secure the funding for Open Arms only want to work with Senator Chancellor. They feel that he will make a great public face for the organization. Even more so, since it falls perfectly in line with several of his campaign promises, where our nation’s veterans are concerned. And it’s true, he would be great. If I could handle being around his flirty smile and those damn dimples.

No matter how many charming smiles or politely worded pleas I sent their way, it wouldn’t get them to budge. I need the king of the alley cats as my partner or no money from the fancy rich people. And we need the fancy, rich people money or else we won’t be able to open the veterans’ center. I will find a way to get it done without the state’s resident manwhore. I swear it. Even if it’s the last thing I do before I die. And I may die. Or my vagina will implode. Same thing.

Part of me wonders if that’s really fair. Is it my own selfishness that’s keeping me from asking the senator for his backing? Or is it self-preservation? I just know that if given half the chance, he would discard me like yesterday’s underwear—just like every other woman in the city—and it would gut me. I would be humiliated to be cast aside so casually. And so publicly. And itwould bepublicly, because Jake is a U.S. Senator. He’s not only a U.S. Senator; he is the rockstar of all politicians. Jacob Chancellor is fairly young for a politician at forty-three years old. He comes from an old—as in arrived onthe Mayflowerold—New York family. And he’s gorgeous. With a body still full of muscles and what’s rumored to be fantastic… other parts, he is one of the most sought after celebrities in the city. And let us not forget the fact that the man is a goddamn war hero with more pretty ribbons and shiny medals that he proudly trots out whenever it appeals to him. And why shouldn’t he? He earned them as a freaking Navy SEAL. One would never know by looking at his superior physical form, but he has a scar from a bullet wound on his shoulder and some shrapnel in a hip that occasionally causes a limp when it rains—or so I’ve read in an article in the Post. He is followed everywhere, his every move scrutinized, and I know myself well enough to understand that I cannot handle failure on that public of a stage.

Even if being near him makes my heart beat faster… he makes me angrier than anyone ever has before. The man truly makes my blood boil. He is a boil on the butt of America. A beautiful boil that I need to lance before I fuck it.

“Merow,” my cat Spot calls out from beside me.

I turn to look at him. He’s standing right next to my head, looking at me. It would be creepy to realize there is a cat standing on the side of my bed just staring at me—that is, if I didn’t already have an orange tabby named Subby sleeping on my pillow above my head and gently petting my hair. Somehow, I ended up with the Norman Bates collection of cats, and I don’t even know how, they all just kind of found me, one at a time. But I love every single one of these little weirdos. I let out a frustrated sigh and throw the covers back before climbing from my warm and comfy bed.

“All right, all right,” I say.

It’s clearly feeding time at the zoo—or at least that’s what my dad calls my apartment. I make my way down the short hall to the small eat-in kitchen. I pull a stack of eight small bowls down from an upper cabinet, where I put them last night after I washed them, and set it on the counter with the spoon I pulled from the drawer. My heart pangs a little when I see the ninth bowl that is tucked in the back of the cupboard. It’s been three months and still I miss Pepper, a solid black cat who had been no less than seventeen pounds. But she was old and she was in pain. It was her time. Jamie, my favorite vet tech, sat with me the entire time, and together we said goodbye to my first fur baby.

Pepper and I had been together since I was a young teen, when I brought home a tiny runt who had been abandoned by her mother and begged my mom to let me keep her. I even told my dad that she was “just visiting,” and when he asked how long Pepper would be with us, I had answered him truthfully, that she would be with us forever. Dad laughed at my explanation that “We’re all just visiting this world” and proclaimed me a future lawyer, just like him and my mom.

And if love could have saved Pepper, she would have lived forever.

I grab two big cans of cat food from the pantry and set them next to the bowls. As I begin lining up all of the bowls in front of me, the rest of the circus shows up. You would think the way my little kitty tabernacle choir is singing that they are starving, but they are not. They have a huge feeder of dry food and a freaking water fountain to drink out of whenever they please.

I crack open the first can and divide it into quarters to be evenly distributed amongst the first four bowls, and then I do the same with the second can. My kitty army, all lined up in a row like good little soldiers, waits for me to place their bowls in front of all them before they dive in at once. I wouldn’t believe it myself if I didn’t see it every day. And then I get out of the way.

I open another upper cabinet and pull down my favorite coffee mug. It’s white with gold letters that readsI love Caturday. Even though it’s Sunday, I use it anyway, because it’s my absolute favorite with its little kitty face wearing a flower crown painted underneath the letters. I plop it under the spout of my Keurig and hit the blue button that makes my magic brew flow. While the magic happens, I pull open the door to my fridge and search for the bottle of creamer.