Just a King: A Secret Romance, page 2
I stop in my tracks.
Richard Garland.
The incumbent Senator of Nevada, a former General in the United States Marine Corps, and frequent pain in my family’s ass.
The old man throws an arm around her lithe shoulders as if to show her off to the others surrounding them — notably the men.
“And this is my baby girl, Fiona!” he announces, prompting a wave of swoons from the crowd that make her practically giggle with delight. “Get used to this face right now! You can expect to see her with me on the campaign trail next year and all the way to the White House in ‘92!”
They erupt in applause while she plants a kiss on his old, wrinkled cheek.
Fiona.
Fiona Garland?
I scoff and make my way toward the hotel bar instead.
Never mind.
2
Fiona
Smile.
Smile.
Smile some more.
When you think you’re done smiling, smile just a little bit longer.
No matter how much you hate it.
I could back in the Stanford library with my nose stuck in a book. I could be studying abroad in Italy and spending my Friday night lounging on the beach with some hunk named Raphael. I could be a lot of things but this.
But that wouldn’t secure a few more votes, now would it?
I scan the crowd in front of us. They’re always the same at each stop on the campaign trail but these blurred faces are important, or so my father says.
They’re the ones with deep pockets.
So, I smile. I wave. I wink when prompted. I knock a few more swing voters off the fence in Daddy’s direction like a good girl.
I wonder what Raphael would say.
When my father finally announces that it’s time to leave, we begin the slow trek through the crowd toward the golden doors. Mildred stays by my other side and I’m eternally grateful for the buffer between some random stranger’s pinching fingers and my rear end.
The night air is warm and inviting but its comfort doesn’t last as I’m shuffled into a town car waiting for us on the street outside.
Another smile. Another wink. I disappear into the depths of the backseat with Mildred and we wait for my father to stop shaking hands.
As soon as he does, he takes his seat, slams the door closed behind him, and groans.
“Contemptible people,” he grumbles, officially dropping his smile.
Botsfords, he means. Ever since I was a little girl, my father has hated them, though I’m not sure why. Their rivalry dates back to his and Beau’s time together at Pryce Academy, long before mine or my brothers’ existence.
But he plays nice. He attends their little parties and provides sizable donations when necessary, all in the name of a long con plan to become President and regulate their business into the ground.
Good luck, Daddy.
I get the feeling the Botsford boys aren’t as vulnerable as he thinks.
I glance up through my window, catching sight of the golden B at the top of the tower. It felt good to be up there, on top of this world, even if only for a little bit.
And the boy.
Kingston.
He was not what I expected.
“What’s that smell?”
My father glowers at me with his nose upturned. Mildred shifts beside me, pretending not to hear.
“What smell?” I ask.
He furrows his wrinkled brow. “Have you been smoking?”
“No,” I answer. “Must have just caught some cigar smoke in my hair, I guess.”
“Crack a window,” he says, sinking into his seat as the car pulls forward.
“Yes, Daddy,” I say.
I reach for the handle on the door and turn it counterclockwise until the window slides down a few inches.
“And wash it out as soon as we get back to the house.”
I nod. I smile.
Lather, rinse, repeat.
“Yes, Daddy.”
3
Kingston
One Year Later
Some things never change.
That’s what they say, right?
Old dogs, new tricks. Whatever cliche makes you feel better and helps you sleep at night rather than face your own inadequacy.
I have never believed that. Change is possible. Change is necessary. Change is difficult, though sometimes the key to easy change falls right into your lap when you least expect it.
Or, in my case, right onto my roof.
I look up from my paperwork, taking a moment to breathe and stretch and sip on my rum and coke. The hotel bar buzzes a little louder than usual tonight with my father’s annual autumn party once again in full swing out in the lobby. Suit jackets and colorful cocktail gowns pass by my table. I nod at those who bother to stop and chit-chat before going right back into my work.
Since I took over the Las Vegas location, reservations are up twenty-seven percent, a sudden interruption from the decade of steady decline already on the books from my brother’s era as building manager. It wasn’t difficult to find all the places where he cut corners. After a few months of fixing his messes, the real work began.
A round of applause echoes from above the bar. I glance at the television mounted there. It’s tuned to the evening news with coverage of some campaign rally recorded earlier today in Reno.
Senator Richard Garland gives the same scripted speech as always and the crowd laps it up. He’s the clear front runner according to every poll, but it’s not his old mug getting all the coverage this election cycle.
He pulls her up onto the stage with him and the applause gets louder.
Fiona.
Nevada’s girl next door.
There’s another man on stage with them this time. Tall with a black suit and trimmed blond hair. He slinks his arm around hers. He whispers something in her ear. She smiles. Must be her boyfriend.
I turn back to my paperwork. I get a refill on my rum and coke. I ignore my brother’s laughter as he makes his way through the lobby. My lobby.
His is halfway across the country.
No, I’m not still bitter about that.
“Can I borrow a smoke?”
I nearly flinch at the familiar, velvety voice over my head. The dress catches my eyes first, a similar style to the one she wore last year, though this one’s a light salmon color. My eyes ride her curves upward to her face. I smile at her sultry smirk.
“Sorry,” I answer. “I quit.”
She purses in disappointment. “What a pity. So did I.” Her expression rises again. “Kingston Botsford,” she says, greeting me.
I nod. “Fiona Garland.”
“Ahh, you figured me out,” she says, amused.
“Hard not to,” I say, glancing around her at the television.
She angles to peek over her shoulder and her eyes roll at the campaign coverage. “Yes, well...” She sits down on the chair across from me. “It’ll all be over soon.”
I gather my scattered folders and stack them out of the way on the right of the table.
Fiona eyes them with curiosity before taking my drink and bringing it to her mouth. “Keeping busy?” she asks as she sips.
“Always,” I answer, buzzing on the inside as I watch her cherry lips part behind the glass.
“Aren’t you missing your party?”
She sets the glass down between us, lipstick stain and all. I smile as I reach for it. Seems familiar.
“It’s my father’s party,” I say. “Not mine.”
She nods. “I know the feeling.”
“And where is the senator?” I ask, scanning the lobby entrance. “Can’t say I’ve heard the sound of a hundred lips puckering against his ass yet tonight.”
Fiona chuckles. “He sends his regards from Reno. There’s a very important fundraiser tonight.”
“And you skipped it?”
“I go where I’m needed,” she says with a shrug. “Someone needs to represent the Garland family at a Botsford shindig. Might as well be me.”
“And he won’t mind you slacking off in the bar with the likes of me?”
She waves a hand. “My father’s feud with your father is exactly that. Their feud. I don’t see why we can’t be friends.”
I consider it, bobbing my chin. “Agreed.”
“Also...” her smile grows, “I wanted to trek back here and see the new amenities I’d heard so much about for myself.”
I take another sip of our drink and set it back in its place between us. “Oh, yeah?”
She picks up the glass and swirls the ice around. “Color me surprised when I stopped by the fitness center and found weights I could actually lift,” she says.
I nod. “We filled some holes in our collection.”
“Not only that, I spied with my little eyes a shelf of yoga mats.”
“They seemed a good investment.”
“And... I heard a rumor that you were converting a bit of your east wing into a day spa.”
I raise a brow. “Where’d you hear that?”
“Why, is it true?”
“Yes, it’s true, but it’s not public knowledge yet.”
“Oh... I suppose the rooftop pool coming next year isn’t public knowledge yet either?”
I blink. “No, it is not.”
“Hmm…”
She raises our glass to her lips and offers no further explanation. Her secrets are her secrets. Along with everyone else’s, apparently.
A leak like that would surely bother me... if I heard it from anyone else. For some reason, I don’t care that this woman knows my business. Hell, I’m genuinely interested in what her opinion of it is.
“Also…” She sets the glass down and subtly wipes the corner of her mouth. “I spoke with your girl at the front desk,” she says, her eyes soft on me. “Did you know she’s the first person in her family to go to college?”
“Yes, I did.”
Fiona smiles, her eyes flashing with the sort of pride I’ve longed to see on my father’s face. He looked me in the eyes and said that he thought the work-study program I created was a waste of time and money. It’ll be canceled within a year, he said. Just as soon as I discovered the missing money and stolen toiletries.
I’ve honestly never met harder workers than the students I’ve hired from the local colleges.
So, I guess we’ll see, Dad.
“How long will you be staying with us?” I ask her.
“Until Sunday morning,” Fiona answers. “My father will be here tomorrow, then we have a few appearances to make in the area. Heading to D.C. after that.”
I nod. “Well, I hope you enjoy your stay, Ms. Garland.”
She takes the final sip from the glass and smiles as she licks it off her lips. “Fiona,” she corrects. “Ms. Garland is for the press. And people I despise.”
I smirk. “I guess I made the cut.”
“Don’t over-think it, Mr. Botsford. You’re just my dealer.”
I laugh as she pushes the empty glass and it slides across the table at me.
I grab it before it gets too close to the edge. “Looks like I need another refill,” I say.
“Grab two.” She folds her arms on the table, settling in.
I stand, taking the glass with me as I go. “Kingston,” I correct.
She presses her lips together, denying me a response other than a subtle pink hue on her cheeks.
As I make my way toward the bar, I glance through the tables into the lobby. A few familiar faces stand out, notably my father and brother and various others who have come far and wide to rub shoulders with the Botsfords. Not me, though. I’m still young and green and nonexistent to them, but we’ll see who’s who this time next year.
If I ever plan on getting out of Vegas, then I’ll have to work for it.
Bring it on.
I set my empty glass on the bar and Marv turns around to face me, having seen me coming through the mirror on the wall.
“Two more of these, please,” I tell him.
He nods and takes the glass, quickly replacing it with two fresh ones.
While he works, I crane my neck to look over his shoulder at the mirror. I zero in on Fiona sitting in my booth across the bar. The lights are dim in my lonely corner, but I can clearly make out that light dress and even lighter skin in the dark.
My stomach turns. She’s not alone.
A man stands next to the table with his back to me. His suit is neatly pressed but ruined by being a full size too large for his narrow form. He taps one hand on the table between then, accentuating his words, and Fiona merely nods along with a smile on her face.
“All set, boss,” Marv says, bringing my attention back to him.
I pick up both glasses and walk slowly toward the table, trying to pick up a word or two the mystery guy says but he’s careful to keep his voice down.
Fiona sees me and her face turns up. “Roland, this is Kingston,” she says, more than happy to interrupt him. “He’s the manager of the hotel.”
Roland shifts a step back, eying me hard as I set the glasses down on the table and extend my hand.
“It’s nice to meet you,” I say.
I study him as he studies me. I recognize him from the television before with his hooded eyes and stylish blond hair. The man on Fiona’s arm.
He takes my hand and shakes it. Hard.
“You, too,” he says.
“Roland is my father’s campaign manager,” Fiona says, continuing the introduction.
I nod. “You have my condolences, sir.”
Fiona smothers a chuckle.
Roland’s face doesn’t budge. “Richard’s a good man,” he says to me, as tone-deaf as he looks.
“I know.” I pat his shoulder before taking my seat. “Just an attempt at humor.”
“Kingston and I were just discussing his new changes here at the Plaza,” Fiona says, expertly steering the conversation with a flick of her tongue. “Sounds like they’ll be invaluable to the people of Las Vegas. I’m sure my father will appreciate the news.”
Roland nods at her. “I’d love to hear more about it. How’s about we take a walk?”
Well, he’s obviously not happy with her sitting here with me.
“Sure,” she answers, making me cringe deep inside. “Meet me beneath the chandelier. I just need to powder my nose.”
Roland glances at me, his eyes full of distrust and annoyance. “It was nice to meet you,” he adds in my general direction.
I raise my glass. “You, too.”
He turns away, keeping his eyes on us for as long as possible as he heads toward the lobby.
Fiona maintains her smile the entire time. She waits for him to get far, far out of earshot before looking at me with dimples still locked in place.
“Get me the hell out of here.”
“I’m sorry?” I ask, squinting.
“Is there a back way out of this place?” she asks, her smile dipping a little. “Or perhaps a window in the ladies’ room I can shimmy out of?”
I blink in surprise. “You’re serious?”
She leans forward. “That man is insufferable, and I’ll be damned if I’m going to spend my one night off in Las Vegas dodging his stench. Now, is there a discreet exit out of this bar or not?”
I smile as I gather my files in one hand and my drink in the other. “Right this way,” I say.
Fiona follows close behind me with her own drink in hand and her purse clenched at her side, constantly checking over her shoulder as I lead her toward the bar.
Marv turns toward us as we walk behind it but a quick wave from me dispels the confusion on his face. I open the storeroom door and hold it for Fiona.
She strides quickly through it but stops and doubles back to the bottles lined up on the counter top. She snatches a bottle of coconut rum with her free hand and looks at Marv.
“It’s for the boss,” she says to him with a wink before disappearing into the storeroom.
Again, I give Marv a passive nod. He merely smirks at Fiona’s backside and gives me a thumbs up.
4
Fiona
The storeroom smells like vodka, lime, and pure rebellion.
My heart pounds as I pass through the doorway. I’ve never done anything like this before, but I knew desperate measures were to be had the moment Roland showed up at our table.
I didn’t want my conversation with Kingston to end. Roland would surely do everything in his power to end it. Running away seemed like the most obvious and effective option.
And hey, I never got to be a rebellious teenager before. Might as well start at twenty.
Kingston closes the door behind us. I take a breath, glad to be out of sight from every single person out there.
“Thank you,” I say.
He bows and gestures through the shelves of bottles. “Over here,” he says, leading me to another door. “This goes to the offices behind the front desk.”
“Thank you, thank you,” I repeat.
He holds the second door open. I step out into a long hallway of doors. Party sounds echo from the right, a fierce warning to stay far, far away.
We go left.
As we walk, I admire the blue and gold carpet at my feet. It’s not nearly as bright and fluffy as the carpet in the lobby, worn down by years of employees hustling back and forth. My curiosity spikes and I check the signs on all the doors we pass by. Guest Archives. Security.
And finally, Manager.
Kingston opens the door and steps inside, though he doesn’t seem to expect me to follow him. “I’m just going to drop these off really quick...” he says.
I linger in the doorway while he sets his folders down on his desk. I scan the bare walls of his office. Sadly, there’s not much to see other than a few old family pictures and his Stanford degree hanging on the wall. A few file cabinets. An old desk chair.
“Humble,” I say.
Kingston follows my gaze and exhales. “I don’t need much,” he says.
“Could always use a bit of color.” I point to my temple. “Sparks creativity.”
