Blue Blooded (6 page)

He huffed out a laugh. “Uh, I'm pretty sure Britney Spears doesn't qualify as music.”

She whipped her head toward him. “I like Britney Spears, so sue me.”

“Believe me,” he said, his lips turned up, “if I could sue you for liking Britney Spears, I would.”

Annoyed, she folded her arms, the sudden movement startling Walter awake. He perked up his head, looked around, then put it back down again and resumed his nap. “If you're so particular about what we listen to, why don't you choose the music then?”

Smiling, he leaned forward and turned the dial, stopping on classic rock. Obviously satisfied with his choice, he sat back and tapped his fingers on the steering wheel to the beat.

“Who is this?” she asked.

“The Who.”

“Yeah, who is this?”

He laughed. “The Who. That's the name of the band.”

Weird name for a band, but she liked their sound. “Oh. Never heard of them.”

His brows furrowed as he slid her a look of incredulity. “How could you not know of The Who? Where do you live? Under a rock?”

She chuckled to herself. He wasn't far off. Since going out into the world on her own, she'd tried to learn as much about pop culture as she could, but even now, more than ten years later, she always felt one step behind everyone else. “I didn't really get to listen to popular music until I moved out of my parents' home to go to college.”

Living on campus had been an eye-opening experience for her. From fashion to speech, she'd mimicked the girls around her. No one had ever guessed she'd spent her years growing up in an extremely religious household, covered from head to toe—even in the sweltering heat of summer. In her small community, women popped out baby after baby and were expected to cook and clean while the men worked and attended religious services. Her family and the members of their church were cut off from modern technology like music, computers, and televisions and restricted from reading anything not approved by the church leaders. And since her father was one of those leaders, he expected a model family that adhered to all of his rules.

Within a few months of leaving home, she'd added a couple of notches to her bedpost and drooled over Ryan Gosling, just like her roommates. She'd read classics such as
To Kill a Mockingbird
and
Pride and Prejudice
. She had gotten drunk and smoked pot. Skipped class. Took naps before going out to the bar at ten o'clock on a school night. But she also spent plenty of her time pretending she knew about things like everyone else. Pretending to be someone she wasn't. It had been exhausting. Even now, she kept her past hidden away as if it was a dirty secret.

Confusion remained on Logan's face as if he couldn't understand how anyone could have gone through life without hearing The Who. “Didn't you have a radio in your house?”

She shrugged. “My parents kept an emergency radio in their closet, but it never occurred to me to use it.” Contrary to the way she lived her life now, she'd always followed her parents' rules. She hadn't known any different until that fateful day when she'd learned that ignorance wasn't bliss and knowledge was power. “Other than that, they had a CD player, but they only played classical and religious music. We didn't even have a television.”

But although she'd seen some family programming at other people's houses, the awe of it hadn't permeated until she'd snuck into her cousin's den and caught her uncle watching a report about the fallen Twin Towers. She'd heard about the terrorist attack, of course, but seeing the reality of it and hearing the victims' accounts of what they had gone through had changed her irrevocably.

He turned down the radio's volume. “And now you're a television reporter. What do your parents think of that?”

She recalled her father's angry words and her mother's cries when she told them she was leaving for college to become a journalist. According to her sisters, they still had hopes that she'd leave her career and “return to God.”

Swallowing the lump that had formed in her throat, she put on the brave face she'd worn for ten years and shoved down the feeling of rejection. “My parents don't approve. I speak to a couple of my sisters, but we're not close.” At Logan's frown, she jumped to defend her family and clarify the situation. As sad as it made her to no longer have a place in her family, she couldn't blame them for their beliefs or the way they chose to live their lives. “Don't get me wrong. They're not forbidden to associate with me, and my parents would never refuse to welcome me into their home, but I just can't bring myself to do it.”

It was bad enough that she wore clothes that didn't cover her shoulders, but to choose a career over family was something her parents could never understand. That's why she'd made it easy on them and stayed away. Legally changed her last name and created a public bio that made no mention of the parents who believed by leaving home to have a career she was living her life in sin and would spend an afterlife in hell.

Logan turned and looked at her, his eyes flashing with pity. She hated that look. That's why she'd kept her past hidden. She hadn't suffered tragedies like her friends Kate and Danielle. She'd been loved. Who was she to complain?

“How many sisters do you have?” he asked, surprising her with the question. She would've thought he'd ask why, if she was so brave when looking for a story, she was such a wimp when it came to her family. And she really didn't have the answer.

Relieved he hadn't asked anything more personal, she smiled as if it didn't hurt to think about what she might be missing by choosing to live her life on her own terms. “Five sisters and two brothers. I was the fourth child.” She shifted in her seat, angling her legs toward Logan. His gaze dropped to the exposed skin of her calves before he returned his attention to the road. “What about you? Are you close with your family?”

He coughed, his voice coming out a bit raspy. “Yeah. I've got a big family too. Four older brothers.”

“You're the baby?” She shook her head. “I'm surprised. I figured you for the oldest 'cause you're so bossy.”

He grinned. “You think I'm bossy, you should meet my brothers. They're navy SEALs.”

Five Bradford brothers? Judging by Logan, her hormones would go on overload if she ever found herself in the same room as all of them. Strange that he would go into a different arm of the military from the rest of his brothers. “You were in the army, right? What did you do for them?”

His hands tightened on the wheel. “Intelligence.”

The reporter in her smelled a story, but the woman in her knew better than to piss off the man she was stuck with until they resolved this mess. Still, she couldn't resist asking, “Why did you leave?”

“Army and I weren't a good fit,” he answered, his line sounding dull and rehearsed. He conveniently ended the conversation by switching the radio to AM and turning up the volume. Yeah, there was definitely more to the story. But they weren't friends. He owed her no more than she owed him.

He stopped on a news station and they listened to the day's top stories. A foiled terror attack on some obscure African country. Another shooting of a minority by a police officer. A debate in the Senate between Senator Hutton, who was calling for additional funding to protect the nation in case of viral warfare, and Senator Byron, who wanted to cut federal spending on homeland security. Rachel should be at her office right now, in the thick of it, reading the Associated Press wire and watching her network's national station.

Walter whimpered in her lap, making little doggie noises in his sleep. Did dogs have nightmares? Patting his head, she jerked at the sound of her name on the radio. “The FBI is unable to comment on that. However, the public should consider them armed and dangerous. I'd like to reiterate that if you see Logan Bradford and/or Rachel Dawson, please do not approach them, but instead, call 911 to report the sighting to the police or call the FBI's Major Case Contact Center. That's all we have for now. We won't be answering any questions at this time.”

Her mind whirled with the knowledge that she no longer reported the story.

She
was
the story.

“It doesn't make sense,” Rachel said as the station switched from the FBI media coordinator to another story. “How did the FBI get jurisdiction over Rinaldi's murder?”

Worry was etched on Logan's face. “I'd assume from the organized crime angle, but there's much more going on here than a couple of agents taking out a multimurdering mobster no one would mourn.” He rubbed his hand over his head. “You know what this means, don't you?”

“Yeah. It means we've just become national fugitives.” She heaved a sigh, soothing the whining Walter. “It means we're fucked.”

S
TARING IN THE
full-length mirror, the Senator straightened his tie and practiced his speech, the words he'd spoken dozens of times before but nevertheless continued to rehearse. There was nothing worse than a man who stumbled over his words. Appearances were everything, which was why men like him could tell a thousand lies and yet no one bothered to question him. He was American royalty, the son and brother of former United States presidents. His family had dirt on every CEO of every major news outlet as well as the most influential politicians on both the federal and state level, from their addictions to underage hookers to their penchant for cross-dressing to rape of senatorial interns. None of them dared speak out against his family for fear of exposure of their dirty little secrets.

Arms circled around him, a naked body pressing against his back and a hard length digging into the crack of his ass. His eyes closed and he suppressed a groan, knowing it would only excite his lover and invite another round. He was still sore from last night.

Everyone had a secret.

Even him.

Especially him.

Hands drifted down his chest over his thickening cock to his balls and squeezed. Hard. Harder. The pain mounted until he couldn't stop the moan from escaping his lips.

The hands released him only to unbuckle his belt and yank his pants to his ankles. Then they returned, rolling his testicles.

“You're nervous about your speech,” said his lover, the admonishment in the tone shaming him. “I've told you, there is no place for fear in politics.”

Since the age of six, he'd been trained to fear nothing. By the time he'd turned ten, the methodical whippings and food deprivation were as commonplace as a wet dream for a thirteen-year-old boy. He didn't fear the rituals or the way his father and brother watched without blinking, their stares as harsh as the tail of the whip cutting into his flesh. He thrived on it. Exulted in it. Embracing the history of his family that would one day take him all the way to the White House. He grew to love the pain that reminded him he was still alive.

When he wasn't in trouble for stuttering in a school speech or trembling from receiving only a B on a history test, he was ignored, his parents too busy campaigning or running the fucking country to care about their son in his room with a 104-degree fever from the flu. His youthful indiscretions brought plenty of wrath from his father's political management team, but nothing got the man's attention like fear.

Their attempt to condition him had somehow warped into a fetish. He craved sexual domination, his only chance to relinquish power for a time and beat the fear that remained with him like a second skin. It wasn't unusual for men in politics to submit to a professional dominatrix, but his sexual desires and his daily life intertwined until he could barely function without a beating. When he was younger, he purposely started fights in order to get the release he needed. Of course, that got his parents' attention once the press caught wind of it. They had paid for professionals to visit him daily, but when one had threatened to go to the media about it and was eliminated by one of his father's cronies, his parents found a permanent solution to his “problem.”

Nails jabbed his balls, forcing him out of his head. “Focus on the pain,” said his lover, the husky timbre of the voice making his dick throb. “What does it mean?”

“I'm weak.” The Senator hissed as the nails pierced his skin. “Fear is for pussies.”

His lover quivered behind him, aroused by his pain. “Are you a pussy?”

He shook his head vehemently. “No.”

“I don't believe you.” The grip on his balls tightened and the nails sunk deeper. Warmth welled and dripped down his testicles, blood he couldn't afford to lose after the amount he'd lost last night. “If you can't convince me, how will you convince the American public?”

“I. Am. Not.” He punched the mirror hard enough to create a fissure in the clear glass. “A. Pussy.” His knuckles stung but he didn't bother to check. Any sign of weakness on his part would prolong his torture. And although he got off on the pain and humiliation, he couldn't be late for his speech. Any form of unprofessionalism was grounds for a beating that would leave him pissing blood for days.

“Much better. I almost believed you this time,” crooned his lover. “Maybe after I fuck you without any lube, you'll sound more convincing. Bend over.”

He trembled as he complied, excitement replacing the fear and erasing all the doubts from his mind. A gag fastened over his mouth, his lips around the red ball in the center. Drool gathered in his mouth almost instantly and his cock hardened, the tip bouncing up to his belly button.

Without warning, his lover thrust inside him.

This is what he needed. To be dominated and forced to surrender. To endure pain so that he could inflict it on others without fear or remorse.

Plenty of heads would roll for fucking up the Rinaldi assassination.

Beginning with Logan Bradford and Rachel Dawson.