Breaking Through
Breaking Through
Book Three: A Carried Away Novel
A. M. Hartnett
Copyright
Mischief
An imprint of HarperCollinsPublishers
77–85 Fulham Palace Road,
Hammersmith, London W6 8JB
www.mischiefbooks.com
An eBook Original 2014
Copyright © A. M. Hartnett 2014
A. M. Hartnett asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of this work.
A catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library.
This novel is entirely a work of fiction. The names, characters and incidents portrayed in it are the work of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or localities is entirely coincidental.
All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the non-exclusive, non-transferable right to access and read the text of this e-book on-screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, down-loaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of HarperCollins.
Ebook Edition © 2014 ISBN: 9780007587858
Version: 2014-10-07
Contents
Cover
Title Page
Copyright
Prologue
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Epilogue
More from Mischief
About Mischief
About the Publisher
Prologue
The last thing Miranda Hayes expected to find as she popped into the ladies’ room after her shift was a man, let alone a man with his cock in some woman’s mouth.
At first, she simply stood there looking into the mirror with her hands frozen over the taps and stared at the pornographic scene behind her. She’d seen him before in the building. Never here on her floor of Keyes Tower, where she worked fielding calls for an American insurance company, but she’d stood behind him a time or two while waiting in line at the café on the lower level.
Double espresso, she remembered, as she watched him raise his hips off the toilet seat and go deeper into the woman’s mouth, with a carrot and pumpkin-seed muffin, no butter.
She’d always imagined that the tall, blond man drove into the city in an SUV that had plastic toys hidden under the seats and a stick-family decal on the rear windshield. He probably worked in finance and dealt with things like securities or trusts or some other matters Miranda knew nothing about. While he only put in eight hours at the office, he probably told his wife he had to stay late so he could get his dick wet with whatever student intern he’d managed to sweet talk that day. Something to recapture his youth, to ignore the lines deepening on his face and the way his midsection was getting soft.
Whatever his deal was, it was obviously working for him.
With a low moan, he pressed his free hand on the top of the woman’s head. The soles of his shoes squeaked against the floor and the toilet seat rattled as he moved in tune with the roll of the woman’s shoulders.
Miranda was running late. After sitting for two hours straight in her cubicle she really needed to pee, but if the lovers hadn’t noticed her yet she wasn’t about to draw attention to herself.
She hitched her bag onto her shoulder and turned, and her stomach flopped as her gaze connected with his.
The heat of embarrassment made her knees weak. She couldn’t look away, and the man seemed unperturbed. In fact, a smirk crooked at the corner of his mouth.
He raised his brows. It was a smug, wordless question: did she like what she saw? As her humiliation burned clean into rage, the man raised his leg and pushed the stall door closed.
Miranda didn’t try to make a quiet exit. She stamped her feet upon the tiles and slapped her hand against the bathroom door. As it whispered shut behind her she cursed it for not at least having squeaky hinges to make more of a statement.
She went to the empty ladies’ room on the floor below. As she washed her hands afterwards, she was seething. If she weren’t in such a shitty mood to begin with, that sordid performance probably wouldn’t have irked her so much. She’d seen worse in her first job, working security at the mall – for some reason P3 had been a popular cruising area – and if she had simply been able to slip out of the bathroom unseen it would have just been something to chuckle about later when her sister asked her about her day.
It was that grin and that sleazy acknowledgement that had gotten deep under her skin.
As she waited for the elevator, Miranda shot a text to her sister asking her to toss a beer in the fridge-freezer so it would be cold when she got home.
You’re turning into an old woman, she told herself as she watched the buttons above the elevator light up with its descent.
6 … 5 … 4 …
Every evening when she logged out, Miranda’s thoughts were consumed with the mundane. She wanted to flop down on the sofa, wriggle out of her bra and just turn into a vegetable in front of the TV.
She’d just received an ‘OK’ from Juliet when the elevator doors slid open.
It was like he’d performed a magic trick. His gaze was on her as soon as he was revealed to her, and that smirk was still on his face.
Miranda pressed her lips together and took a deep breath through her nose. She wanted to be snotty and say she’d wait for the next one, but she was too stubborn. She was in danger of missing her bus, and besides, she had every right to that elevator.
Miranda stepped forward as the doors began to shut. He leaned over and held them open, his expression as patient as it was smug.
‘Thank you,’ she told him in a tone that conveyed no gratitude as she stepped inside. She stared at the number panel, the lobby button already lit up, and could feel his amusement radiating throughout the car.
One floor later, the man spoke.
‘I’m sorry if I embarrassed you.’
Miranda snorted. ‘I’ve got nothing to be embarrassed about. I’m not the one who was getting my dick sucked in the toilet.’
He laughed, and Miranda’s temper cranked up another notch. She twisted her fingers around the strap of her bag and swore that if she missed the bus, she would still take her damn bra off – and strangle him with it.
‘Regardless, I’m sorry.’
She rolled her eyes. ‘I highly doubt that. You looked pretty pleased with yourself.’
‘Well, truth be told, I am. It’s been years since I did anything like that. It’s pretty sweet to know I can still –’
‘Excuse me –’ Miranda held her hands up in front of her and turned to him ‘– at what point did I give you the impression I wanted to hear any of this?’
‘I’m just trying to distract you from the mental picture of my hard dick.’
Out of nowhere, his remark struck her funny bone. She turned away quickly before her smile could show, and then scowled so hard to banish it that her eyes crossed.
The elevator reached the lobby, and Miranda hitched her bag onto her shoulder again as the door opened.
‘Jesus, buddy, at least blow your load on the fifth floor next time,’ she said as she scuttled to step out ahead of him.<
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She took one last glance back as she threw open the glass doors leading onto the street. The man was trailing behind her, his smile a mile wide on his face and his shoulders shaking with his laughter.
Chapter One
It’s not that the blowjob he’d gotten the evening before was that memorable, but as Simon Reeve settled down across from Michael Roe it was those lips wrapped around his erection that came to the forefront of his mind.
He recalled a conversation he’d once had while strolling down Bishop Street in Montréal almost twenty years ago. He’d been drunk, as had been his friends Jacques, Ryan and Nathan, and as they walked, Nathan had remarked philosophically that he wished there was a way he could press PAUSE on the best blowjobs.
‘For real, my friend, think about it,’ Ryan had slurred in French while Simon laughed and hoped his bladder held until they made it to the dorm room Ryan and Nathan shared. ‘Think about it: you’ve got a mouth like a Hoover wrapped around your dick, and you’re thinking to yourself, “This girl sucks like if she stops, God will kill a bunny rabbit or some shit.” No, no, listen. Listen. Stop laughing. Imagine if you could just press PAUSE right there and save the blowjob for when you really need it, like the middle of an exam when you need a mini-vacation to clear your head.’
That’s how Simon felt now as Roe ignored him while finishing his telephone conversation.
He was about to get his ass chewed, or at least gnawed. Once he left this office and got on the elevator and called Roe a dirty fucker in his head, he could use the kind of oral attention he’d received the day before.
Vanessa was back in Ottawa, otherwise he’d go for seconds in that waterfront hotel room she’d tried to coax him to the night before. So now all he was left with was his hand and the memory of flooding the communications staffer’s mouth.
Another woman sprang to the forefront of Simon’s thoughts, and he disguised his laugh as a cough into his hand.
The pixie with the foul mouth.
When he’d first caught her watching, he’d entertained the momentary notion that he was about to have a Penthouse moment with two women in the ladies’ room. He’d found their brief exchange afterwards far more entertaining than he should have. In fact, razzing her on the elevator later had been almost as satisfying as the blowjob.
He hoped he ran into her again, even if it was just to give her another pinch and watch her try to stop the corners of her mouth betraying her desire to either laugh or give him hell. These days he needed all the entertainment he could get.
Roe disconnected, and Simon quickly wiped the amusement from his face.
‘Simon,’ Roe said.
His tone was light and airy, but anyone who spent any amount of time with Roe knew better. When Simon had first taken the job, Roe’s speechwriter had warned him that the Member of Parliament for Halifax was like a Komodo dragon. He’d snap and retreat, snap and retreat, waiting for his poison to take effect before he went for the guts.
Simon settled back in his seat and tried to appear free and easy. He wasn’t about to let Roe think otherwise for a single second.
He offered Roe a wide smile that was about as genuine as a dollar-store diamond ring. ‘Nice view, Michael.’
Roe glanced back at the white wall of fog that obscured the harbour view. ‘I draw the goddamn curtains when the sun is shining. I can’t stand looking out at all the kitsch running up and down the waterfront. Goddamn tour buses.’
‘I take it you don’t have your heart set on Minister of State or Heritage.’
‘I won’t need an appointment if you do your job. I’ll be making the appointments.’ Roe folded his hands across his barrel chest.
Michael Roe was a trim man with dark hair that formed a widow’s peak above bold black brows, with a confident face that was made for campaign material. Simon imagined that Roe sometimes stood in front of the mirror and practised it, even in the rear-view at stoplights. He had to; in the time Simon had been acquainted with Roe, he’d become convinced that the man wasn’t capable of smiling naturally.
‘I have to say, you’re not living up to the reputation that preceded you … or maybe you are.’
He watched Simon carefully in the aftermath of his statement.
Snap and retreat.
Simon’s smile widened, even as the toxins began to sting in his veins.
‘I’m on the phone all day.’
‘I could say the same about my teenage daughter. Are you honestly going to sit here and tell me you have nothing on Matthew Murray?’
‘That’s exactly what I’m saying,’
Murray, Roe’s rival for the party leadership, might as well have been incubated in a lab and released upon the political world as the baby-faced candidate who was quickly winning hearts across the country. When Murray turned on that dimpled smile, he could change a voter’s colours from blue to red.
Roe looked dubious, and so Simon elaborated.
‘As far as I’ve been able to uncover, he’s been a model citizen his entire life. He was a good student all through school and university. He was consistently active in everything from food drives to young parliament. He’s a champion of the Buy Local movement in his home province, and he gets his hands dirty for more than just photo ops – he spent four days in the muck rounding up livestock that got loose during that big forest fire last summer.’
‘I don’t want to hear about his résumé in community activism,’ Roe snapped, and leaned forward in his seat. His dark eyes glittered and his lip curled. ‘If you haven’t gotten personal already, might I suggest you do so.’
‘This isn’t the Eighties, Michael. It’s not as easy to out someone any more.’
Simon typically found that the best tactic when it came to impatient clients was to let them vent, but he knew Roe was going to come around to Murray’s sexuality and it annoyed him.
In his career as a professional dirt-digger, he’d come across a roster of sexual deviants and general fuckwads, but Matthew Murray was not one of them. Liking dick was barely a scandal when Simon started, let alone these days.
Roe bared his teeth. ‘Don’t give me that shit, and don’t expect me to believe you’ve developed some morals since you were sprung from rehab.’
Snap and retreat.
‘So, he’s got a boyfriend. So what?’ Roe went on. ‘I’ll tell you what: even though it’s been a decade since same-sex marriage became legal in this country, the tolerance for most only extends to ignorance. No one wants to think about what happens behind closed doors. What was that famous statement back in the Trudeau era? Something about government staying out of the nation’s bedrooms?’
‘Actually, it’s “There’s no place for the state in the bedrooms of the nation,”’ Simon interjected, only because it was an opportunity to show that he knew something that Roe didn’t, ‘and yes, I know that there’s still a certain “ick” factor amongst voters even when they say sexual orientation doesn’t matter.’
‘So what’s the problem?’
‘The problem is that unless you want me to drive to Sussex and suck his dick, there’s no way to get any dirt on his sexual practices. What do you expect to do with it anyway? Send out a press release saying that Matthew Murray prefers anal beads over a plug?’
‘Don’t be crass,’ Roe grumbled, and grabbed a pen from the desktop. He tapped it against the surface obnoxiously, and Simon couldn’t tell whether it was to annoy him or just Roe looking for something to do with his hands. ‘I’m talking about the sort of thing that would put people off. If he’s so community minded, doesn’t it stand to reason that he’s active in other communities?’
Simon had to resist the urge to laugh. ‘Like what? BDSM communities? Partner swapping? In covered bridge country?’
‘You’re right, it’s almost as incredible as anonymous sex parties for the wealthy in Tatamagouche.’
Snap and retreat.
Out of Roe’s sight, Simon drummed his fingers on his knee, trying to beat out his annoya
nce over Roe’s reference to parts of Simon’s own life that had come to light recently. ‘Actually, it was closer to Shediac, in New Brunswick. Tatamagouche is in on the Nova Scotia side of the border.’
‘My point, and I’m disappointed that I have to make it to someone with your supposed calibre, is that the filthy details matter. You can sit there with that stupid smile on your face and pretend that you’re not some massive fuck-up with no skills beyond those I’m paying you to use, but the fact remains that I am paying you to destroy Murray’s chances of becoming the next leader of the party.’
If only you were half the candidate, half the man Matthew Murray is …
Simon didn’t lose his poise. He’d never been a hothead in his youth, but he’d rarely censored his sharp tongue until he started this less than illustrious career. In moments like this, when he came across a rotten prick like Michael Roe, he thought it might be easier to bite off his own tongue and swallow it.
‘Murray may have no reason to hide in the closet, but that doesn’t mean it’s empty,’ Roe went on. ‘Open it. Find something I can use against him, even if you do have to suck his cock to get it.’
Simon simmered inside, but he was calm. ‘That’ll cost you extra.’
‘Give me something that will knock the cocky look off of Murray’s face, we’ll talk Christmas bonuses.’
His tone said ‘get out’ but Simon didn’t move. Roe was his boss, but Simon wasn’t one to be dismissed. He waited a moment longer, unnecessarily adjusting the buttons on his cuffs. As rain began to patter against the window pane, he kept his gaze on the man on the other side of the desk.
Then he spoke.
‘There’s another component to the services I offer that you might want to consider.’
Roe barely spared Simon a glance. ‘Such as?’
‘In addition to digging things up, I’m also very good at burying them.’
The second look Roe gave him almost made Simon giddy, until the politician’s mouth twisted into an ugly smile.
‘I assume you’re referring to the late Senator Taureau’s many indiscretions.’
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