The Sound and the Fury

By Nomi

God, how I want him.

He's everything I'm not - young, still fresh, still unspoiled by the vagaries of politics. And gorgeous. Drop-dead gorgeous.

And single. Which I am decidedly not.

He's yelling at Josh again. There's another place he's got me beat. When I'm pissed off, I sound like a middle-aged, married, Jewish guy from Brooklyn. When he's pissed off, he sounds like the wrath of Zeus is coming down. He's got the fire of youth in him.

I want it in me. I want him in me. Not that it would ever, ever happen.

"Toby?"

I jump, having not heard anyone come up behind me.

"Yeah, Leo?"

"Can't you do something about him? He's your deputy."

"Sam?" I ask, stupidly, still half caught up in my thoughts.

"No, Prince Bandar. Of course Sam. Do you have any other deputy I'm supposed to know about?"

"No, Leo."

"I can't have them sniping constantly at each other like this. I know they've been on the go for months, but we're all in the same situation. And you don't see CJ flying off the handle, do you?"

I refrain from commenting on the close to knock-down-drag-out fight CJ and Leo had the previous day; I'm going to have to work with the man for at least the next four years, God willing, and starting off on his bad side would be sub-optimal.

"I'll take care of it, Leo."

"See that you do." Former secretary McGarry's the brains of this operation, even more than the candidate sometimes. Most of the time, honestly. I very rarely cross him. And only for really, really good reasons.

"Sam? Follow me please?" I bellow to be heard above the fray.

"Coming, Toby." With a final scathing look at Josh, Sam heads toward me.

"My office," I say. 'Office' is something of an overstatement. It's a glorified closet, like all the 'offices' in every storefront we've called home in every goddamned state.

We walk back toward my closet, and the minute I close the door behind us, Sam's off and running.

"I can't believe him! How am I supposed to craft a message for this candidate if no one is willing to take a goddamned position on any goddamned issue?"

"What are you, four?" I ask. "Fine, you're pissed that you're not getting anything to write about. I'm just as pissed. I'm not saying don't yell at him. That would be like telling Yankees fans not to hate Red Sox fans. But you can't be yelling like that in public. Take Josh aside to yell at him, OK?"

"But Toby," Sam starts.

"No 'buts,'" I say, getting in Sam's face. I've backed him up against the closet door, so close I'm brushed by his sleeve when he gesticulates.

"Toby..."

"Shut up, Sam," I say, leaning in. We're too close, too spun up for me to resist. I kiss him quickly and then back off, expecting him to shove me and bolt.

Instead, he grabs the back of my pants and pulls me close again. "God," he moans right before claiming my lips again. And this time, he means business.

And, damn, can he kiss. Rough and brutal one minute, then gentling to light sips, then deep and harsh again. I'm so off balance I don't notice he's unbuttoned my shirt until I feel his smooth hand against my bare chest.

"Damn him. Damn you. Damn all of this goddamned election," Sam mutters. He turns us so that I'm now the one trapped between warm body and hard wall. He's moving now, undulating, and, oh, God, there. Oh...damn. Yeah, just like that. I'm moaning it, repeating it like a mantra, and I can't tell if Sam's hearing me or just instinctively following his own rhythm, but then *bam,* and I'm done. I feel even more the middle-aged Jewish guy from Brooklyn, unable to keep up with this young guy, until he's gasping and coming just seconds after I've finished.

He backs up finally.

"That was..." he says.

"Unacceptable," I say firmly. I'm married, and rumor has it he's engaged.

"Unacceptable," he repeats. "But oh, so good." And with that, he shoots me a cocky grin, straightens his clothing - which, amazingly, is all still intact - and leaves my closet.

"And no more yelling at Josh in public," I call after him.

Because that, at least, I understand.

---END---