Stories From The 6 Train 2(135)

I sit there in silence, my hands balled into fists. Once again, my mother has pulled me into her political schemes. And, once again, I have no choice but to do her bidding.

One last job then.





Parker





It's been four days since I announced my bid for the U.S. Senate and my phone's been ringing non-stop. My inbox is so full, I could spend the next ten years answering every fucking message, and I still probably wouldn't get through it all.

And you know what? I couldn't be happier.

Needless to say, people are pretty fucking excited about my announcement.

And this evening, I'm celebrating at Cipriani's where the liquor choices are large, and the jumbo shrimp cocktails are even larger.

I walk over to the bar and motion to the bartender for a drink.

"What can I get for you sir?" And before I can even answer, a smile of recognition spreads across his face. "Wait a minute, you're the guy I saw on TV the other day—the 'Just Ask Trask' guy. You're Parker Trask, aren't you?"

"That's me," I say, reaching over to shake his hand. "It's nice to meet you."

"The pleasure's mine—now about that drink," he smiles. "What can I get for you?"

"I'll take an Old Fashioned," I reply.

"Sure thing—but I've gotta say, you're anything but Old Fashioned. The way you've whipped this city into shape, and brought it all together, is nothing short of a miracle. I've never seen that from any other mayor, and I've been in this city my whole life."

"I appreciate that," I reply. I think about segueing his accolades into my new bid for Senator, but then I decide that'll come across as shameless self-promotion, so I hold back and simply keep it at a thank you and nod my head.

I watch as he makes my drink—muddling the sugar and bitters, pouring the whiskey, and topping it with a twist of orange and a cherry. The ritual of it all is somehow comforting. He slides it over to me.

"Perfection," I say, and he seems pleased.

I reach down to grab the glass and before I can bring it to my lips, a woman catches my eyes. She grabs the empty seat next to me, and casually looks at the bar's menu.

I'm trying not to stare, but fuck, this is some woman.

Did I just say that my drink was perfection? Because I was clearly wrong. This woman sitting next to me is perfection incarnate.

I look around, hardly believing that she could be sitting here, alone. There's probably a boyfriend—or husband—about to walk up any minute. I'm bracing myself for the disappointment. I'm expecting it.

When I steal another look at her face, I notice that she seems familiar somehow.

Do I know her from somewhere? I'm wracking my brain for an answer when she speaks up.

"Can I really ask you anything, Trask?" she says, a smile forming on her lips.

Wait … that smile. Now I know why she looks so familiar. She looks so much like her mother.

"Amy?" I ask.

"I was wondering when you'd recognize me," she laughs.

"You look—"

She cuts me off. "Older?"

"You look good," I say.

"I'm not the frizzy-haired, braces-wearing 18-year-old kid you remember, right?" she continues, laughing.

If I'm honest, she's the opposite of that description in every possible way. Fuck, the woman sitting next to me is stunning. A halo of blonde hair frames her face. She's wearing a form-fitting, but classy black dress that shows off her every curve. She has an ass to die for; I'll tell you that much. I can picture myself squeezing it, a full cheek in each fist.

What?

Don’t look at me like that. Sure, she’s my stepdaughter. But that fucking dress. It’s wrapped to her body like wet tissue paper.

Its almost impossible to not be able to tell what she looks like fucking naked.

No, she's definitely not a kid anymore. I can't help but gaze at her perfect, round tits, and the way that they seem to be popping out of her dress—almost fighting with the fabric—and she catches me in the act of staring.

"I'm up here," she smiles.

I quickly look up, and act as if I don't know what she's talking about.

"Jesus," I say. "I just can't believe how grown up you are."

It's as if the surrounding people—the noise, the commotion, the bar, and everything has melted away and the only thing I can see and hear is Amy.

She smiles and seems to recognize the magnetic hold she has on me right now. She now has a drink in her left hand, and as she brings it to her lips, I quickly scan her finger for a ring, trying not to be too obvious about it. I don't see one.

"No husband?" I ask.

"I haven't found anyone worth marrying," she grins.

"That's a shame," I say.

"And why's that?" she asks, one eyebrow arching. "Maybe I don't want to be married."