#feat. chelsea dalton

[thehill-rpg]

Episode 2: Whispers on The Hill Part: 1/??

The quiet shuffle of bare feet on the gravel courtyard fills the air, accompanied by the faint squeak of a rusty pool gate reluctantly opening. With a pair of composed steps, a slender figure, tall yet delicate, makes her way towards an ageing pool chair. As she reclines on its worn surface, the chair emits a soft groan of protest, bearing witness to both its own well-worn years and the age of its current resting place: Palm’s Motor Hotel. Donning a pair of Ray Bans, she settles in, clad in a casual ensemble of a Washington Nationals' tank top and a worn pair of denim short shorts. In her hand, she opens a well-read copy of Cosmo, its pages gently fluttering in the breeze. Tucked between them is a torn clipping from yesterday’s issue of The Hill, resting over an article titled ‘The Secret to Finding Your Soulmate: Date Your Alter Ego.’ A good article, offering the kind of advice you could only get out of a drunk best friend, yet not the one currently capturing her attention.

Chelsea Dalton reclines beside a pool that seems questionably operational (was that the smell of an impending bacteria infection?), her gaze fixed on the familiar words. She reads it again, for what feels like the hundredth time, each word etched into her memory. She knows every line by heart. It’s beautiful.

It’s also months of dedication, collaboration, and hopefully, justice. Sure, it’s a departure from her usual flair, and while, yes, she’d normally sell her soul for this kind of traffic on her blog, she knew there was no way her posting this story would get it the attention it deserved. Hence, her email to Violet Shard, almost three months ago. She’d been hesitant at first. Sure, she was a fan, but this was something that needed to be handled with care. She was too close to her own source. She couldn’t risk being named. However, Violet had assured her of anonymity and a series of follow-ups that wouldn’t brush any pertinent details under the proverbial rug of Washington D.C. political justice. That's why she had agreed, and why she now found herself just outside the District, technically in Maryland, waiting for said blonde journalist. 

Where was she?

As she waited for Violet’s late arrival (had her trusty Saab finally coughed its last puff of exhaust?), she let her thoughts drift over to Gray, and the party she would have been at if the news she’d just leaked to The Hill, hadn’t implicated his father. She’d probably have been in some uncomfortable sundress right now, watching as Gray loosened a tie, only for his mother to promptly tighten it again, while she discreetly passed another crab puff to Mac. Of course, she hated every second of it, but even without her mom’s urging, she hadn’t missed one since she’d moved in next door to his family at six. What could she say? She had a thing for fish paste covered Hors d'Oeuvres. And tortured artists… She’d let the last one remain unsaid, stubbornly resisting even her subconscious attempts to divert her down that worn-out, oh so familiar road. Not today, Bucko! 

Just as she was attempting to shift her focus, fate intervened with the unceremonious thud of a bottle of sunscreen hitting her thigh, yanking her back to the realm of the living—or, more accurately, a realm that didn't revolve around pining over her best-friend of twenty-seven years. “Slip, slop, slap…” She glared over her glasses at a man holding a faded beach towel and a copy of The Hill. 

While quick judgments were usually her forte, she decided to withhold hers until he extended his hands to offer assistance. She leaned towards labelling him as the "concerned dad" type rather than a creepy motel lifer. "Uh, thanks, but— Is that the latest copy of The Hill?" She hadn’t been able to pick up a copy before she’d left her house in order to get here in time and she was keen to see how Violet had followed up. “Sure, kiddo. It’s yours.” She dropped her guard, leaning over to take the paper from his outstretched hand, “Are you moving in?” She’d have answered if the headline story hadn’t caught her attention. Violet Shard, facing charges of defamation and harassment, for her latest story on Congressman Whitman and Harris. “Uh, sorry, do you mind if I–” She was already up, picking up her copy of cosmo and hurrying out of the pool area and back towards her day room and her burner. FUCK. Voicemail. “Violet, call me. I— What can I do?” 

Well, she knew one thing she could do��  

She hastily opened her laptop, disregarding the unread emails clamouring for her attention with their requests for her usual freelance work. Instead, she navigated to her blog and swiftly crafted a new post.

Ms. Whisper here, emerging from the shadows with a scoop hotter than the Capitol's political inferno. It appears our esteemed journalist, Violet Shard, finds herself in the clutches of controversy. But this isn't your run-of-the-mill scandal, my darlings—oh no, it's a tale of truth-telling and the ruthless consequences that follow. Violet dared to shine a light on the dark dealings of Congressman Whitlock and Harris, revealing their insidious involvement in the war-torn realm of Matamba. Yet, instead of accolades, she's met with handcuffs and accusations of defamation and harassment. But fear not, dear readers, for Ms. Whisper is always on the case, ready to peel back the layers of deception and hold the powerful to account. In this cutthroat world of political intrigue, even the bravest truth-seekers like Violet Shard aren't safe from the claws of injustice. So, keep your ears to the ground and your eyes peeled, because when it comes to unravelling the truth, there's no hiding from the relentless pursuit of Ms. Whisper. #StandWithViolet

Her phone buzzed—an SOS. She shot a text back that she’d be there soon. Though even with her foot planted to the floor of her beemer she knew she’d never break an hour. Hastily rummaging through her overnight bag, she retrieved a somewhat acceptable dress (she didn’t own many); though the party might've been cancelled, she was certain Gray's mom wouldn't want the reminder. Hastily, she made her way over to the shower, and tried her best to find the password to get the hot water working longer than two seconds.

She did her best to keep her hair from getting wet, as she washed her nervous sweat from under her armpits. Chelsea hadn't seen this coming without a fight, but nabbing a journalist? This wasn't just a hiccup; it was the kind of move that had First Amendment lawyers rubbing their hands with glee.

She gave up trying to tune the shower into submission and let the cold water run down her back, as she wracked her brain for a way to assist Violet beyond mere page views. Nothing. Nothing.

When it came down to taking action, what good was being Ms. Whisper if all she had in her arsenal were a sharp tongue and a quick wit? That certainly didn't grant innocent journalists a Get Out of Jail Free card, did it?

After a quick drying session (as evidenced by her dress clinging to her back and making it a challenge to slide down over her thighs), Chelsea grappled with her wayward curls, victims of the fierce heat akin to the Battle of Waterloo. With her belongings in tow, she checked out of the motel, conceding that, for the time being, there was little she could do for Violet. As for Gray, a sense of obligation stirred within her to mitigate the unintended turmoil she had caused him. Nonetheless, she refrained from assuming full culpability, acknowledging that the root of this mess lay primarily with his father. All she’d done was overhear a phone call, sneak into his office at night, and make a few dozen or so copies of a report that she only wished now had more than just Congressman Harris’ name to it.

Pulling up to Gray’s house, adjacent to her own, Chelsea switched off the ignition and discreetly covered her overnight bag with one of Mac’s car seat covers in the backseat before stepping out and making her way inside. The atmosphere was sullen, with white chairs being shuffled in and out from the patio to a van parked out front. From a distance, Chelsea observed Nora overseeing the operation with an overflowing wine glass in hand. She couldn't shake the feeling of responsibility for the sombre mood, knowing she had played a part in it, at least partially.

Following the faint strumming of a bass, Chelsea ascended the stairs, purposefully bypassing Mr. Whitlock’s study. She had been instructed to call him Brody, but it just didn't sit right with her. Instead, she made her way down to Gray’s room at the end of the second floor. Her fingers brushed against the wooden door as she announced herself before slipping inside.

"So, on a scale from six-pack therapy to a spa retreat in the German highlands, how concerned should I be about you?" She offered a tentative smile. However, the instant she caught the strains of "Darn The Dream" by Ron Carter, being plucked, she realised she was entering yodelling territory.

[thehill-rpg]

Episode 2: Whispers on The Hill Part: 3/??

"Make that a one-way ticket to Tahiti and I might just hit pause on my Gilmore Girls binge for you!"

Chelsea knew he wasn't really in the emotional state for jokes, but if she jumped straight into interrogating him about his mood, he would just evade the topic altogether, and then she would definitely lose her opportunity to get him to open up. No, no, she had to be delicate here. Gray was like a Chinese puzzle box—if you twisted it just a little too much the wrong way, it would seal up forever and you'd never be able to pry it open. Sure, she might've had a few more twists than most, but even she had her limits with him, and she was aware of that.

Hands picked up a record sleeve, "hmm, you know I might just have you saved, what's the correct response to..." she walked over to his desk, shuffling through his drawer, because she was sure she'd remember putting it here-- ah, yes! She waved the familiar box between them, one they had both touched, seen, and hidden so many times they’d lost track. "Just say you love me, Gray." If only…

Opening it, because it would have been disappointing to get all the way down to their usual smoking spot and find they'd run out, Chelsea smirked and picked up a freshly rolled joint they had clearly been saving for better days. "I think we said we'd save this for your next gig, but I don't think you'll mind smoking this one early, right?" It was rhetorical, of course, as she grabbed his hand and slipped the joint into his shirt pocket, then led him out of his room, and passed his father's study. Was his father still in there, trying to put chaos back inside the box? The light under the door seemed to confirm it. "Let's slip out through the kitchen; your mum's still in the backyard."

She was as familiar with Gray's house as she was with her own, just as he was equally familiar with hers. So, she knew the second best way to get down to his boat house was to sneak out through the mudroom attached to the kitchen and hope to God the rabid (technically not really) raccoon that sometimes camped itself on top of Gray's trashcans was not sitting outside ready to fight to the death for one mouldy piece of Gouda. Fortunately, luck was on their side as Chelsea leaned back in and put back the spatula she had briefly borrowed for self-defence. Not today, Rabies Ricky.

With a firm grip on Gray's wrist, Chelsea pulled him down behind one of his mother's viburnum bushes. She knew the name only because Nora had a habit of pointing it out every time they were in a five mile radius of it. 'Yes, Nora, it's the nicest viburnum bush I've ever seen.'

"Crazed mother at 1 o'clock," Chelsea whispered, then did some exaggerated hand gestures lifted straight from a Nickelodeon show they grew up watching. They had come up with their own secret language for moments like this: '3, 2, 1—when her back is turned, we bolt to the boathouse and don't look back. If someone falls behind, we keep running because they're on their own.' That was how things went with Nora. Chelsea had learned the hard way. The expression on Gray's face the last time she found herself trapped between Nora and an Architectural Digest article on her sitting room—sympathetic, but unwilling to help—was a memory she couldn't shake.

Breaking into a jog—or rather, a sprint—Chelsea's athleticism allowed her to easily leave her best friend behind and reach the boat shed before Nora returned. "Any day now, slowpoke." The brunette stepped further inside, making her way to the end of the dock. She leaned against Gray's father's yacht for balance, then took a seat and tapped the timber beside her. "Now, where did we stash your lighter?"

Her memory had it at the bottom of Gray's old tackle-box. The one his dad got him for Christmas one year, despite the fact he'd asked for sheet music, or was it some John Coltrane record? She couldn't remember exactly, but the point was that it hadn't been used until the day they decided to hide all their contraband inside it.

Spotting it at the corner of the dock, Chelsea kicked out her foot and, with all the strength she had gained from softball, track and God, she managed to drag it over to her. "Bingo!" With a flick of her thumb, she sparked a light and held it up for Gray to bring their joint to. "Now, talk to me. I'm off the record and I'm here to check in."

[thehill-rpg]

Episode 2: Whispers on The Hill Part: 2/??

“It’s the Hill,”

“Can you believe this absurdity?!”

“Blasphemous!”

“Violet Shard is a–”

Loud, but oh so quiet. The ticking of the clock echoed through the room of people staring at their phones: the title screaming to everyone who dared look. Moments prior, the dining room had been buzzing with laughter from gathering family members in preparation for the impending party, while Nora shouted orders at the catering staff, demanding in that perfected, well-spoken tongue. Each articulated word sounded pretty, but daggers laced each and everyone as if Nora Whitlock had poisoned them.

However, when the news of Broderick Whitlock’s indiscretions became public, everything came to a halt. 

A true political mess. 

The instant ringing of phones, hushed staff murmurs, sliding eyes, family staring at his father, a mother's gasp and then…nothing. In the grand dining room, for all its thrills to symbolise warmth, a roaring fireplace twisted the overzealous air con to ice upon their skin.

Suffocating and terrifying: if the rage was silent, it’d embedded itself into Gray Whitlock’s father. A man who was always vocal about anything he could get someone to listen to, couldn’t and now didn’t say a word. He typically used the term "pragmatic" when describing his family. But that was not the case tonight.

Quiet chaos was damaging, and wielded just as much harm as its boisterous counterpart, and his father, for all his accomplishments, was at the epicentre.  

Corruption, fraud, racketeering, embezzlement…how far did this go? How deep? Was it even true? Every question was a dangerous one, and Gray wasn’t sure he wanted answers. Reaching up, he loosened his tie. The room felt like it was closing in on them, and there was a young boy inside him, like all men, hoped his father was a man, cold and hard, maybe, but still a decent human being. 

Broderick was rough around the edges when it came to being a father, but there was far more to the man than met the eye. Charming, almost worryingly so, great at doublespeak, and dominated any room he entered: people either liked him or hated him. But the man behind closed doors was about as cold as Antarctica in the dead of winter. 

“Do you think it’ll amount to anything?” He heard one family member murmur. The rest was under a hushed breath that he couldn’t make out. Gray’s eyes finding his mother and father, talking quietly, animatedly with such vicious gestures he was glad he wasn’t a fly on the wall for that conversation. 

Gray just wanted tonight to be over. Pulling out his phone, he made his way to the far side of the room: as far away from this hell as he could get without leaving. He got all of one minute of doom scrolling before Nora spotted him, her hips swaying exaggeratedly as she offered pleasant but tight smiles to those she passed. He found it surprising that she hadn't smashed the glass by now, given the way she dangled it from her fingers with such carelessness. 

And then she was there, and he was withholding a sigh.

“You’re in the way,” Nora subtly slurred. Oh, was he? Away from everyone. Of fucking course he was. “Do our family a favour and be productive. Standing around won’t help your father” Accusatory, punctuated, and each word a jab. It might’ve seemed like a phrase of a mother trying to get her son away from the mess. 

But nothing was that simple, or that thoughtful in this household. Unless it would implicate them all…Gray’s brows furrowed, but he pushed at the sickly feeling that clenched at his stomach. There was no way this would affect them all, right? Was that selfish to think? That he cared about his own skin, even though he had no part in whatever this was.

But…he did work for his father. Panic settled low in his stomach.

“I’m the one in the way?” Confusion and disbelief washed across his features. Don’t say it, his mind begged, don’t you do it. “Because drinking five glasses of wine before anyone’s even arrived helps him?” The words came out before he could stop them, and regret clouded him only a second later: but when an icy hand slapped against his warm cheek, head snapping to the side—he realised that no matter what he said, his mother would’ve used any reason to lash out. To take the heat off of them. 

It was always the perfect duo: husband and wife. Gray Whitlock? Just completed the perfect image.

No one made a sound, no one even moved, and Broderick’s gaze burned into Gray’s head as he stood there, looking in the direction of where his father stood. 

“Mind your manners, boy.” His father called out, boredom crossing those features. Gray didn’t blame him honestly. He had far more important things to worry about than his child speaking out of turn. And Nora, with her stuffy attitude, was displeased that he didn’t come bounding to the rescue.

A scoff, a turn on expensive heels, and she was storming back towards him.

Of course, his mother needed to direct that vicious anger somewhere. He remembered a time when she’d been kind, when she’d lit up at the sight of her son or husband—when her only love hadn’t been frivolous spending and over priced cocktails with the wives of Brodericks’ business clients whom she vocally detested and told her family around the dinner table any chance she got. Now all he saw was a distant look in already dead eyes. She lived in a constant chalk outline. 

Gray knew he shouldn’t take it personally, that she hadn’t always been this way. But it’d been long forgotten in this household that love existed. 

Taking his cue to leave, with lingering eyes staying on his, he understood that his mother had done exactly what he thought. They now whispered, no doubt, about the disrespect of their son in such trying times. All for show people, and you’re all eating it up like the fucking sheep that you are. He hated this bullshit; the play pretend and smiling for people they disliked. With a snort, sliding out as quietly as he could, he was glad to be free of the bullshit.

The stairs felt as if they took five thousand years, undoing his tie and yanking it off as he went. Finally, closing the door behind him when Gray stepped into his room. The familiar scent of sandalwood and leather had him easing the tight muscles that had wound themselves into his shoulders. Rolling his neck, he let out a disbelieved laugh: what the fuck had just happened? Taking a second, he looked around the place that kept him sane: the only thing that felt like his in this world. 

Something that couldn’t be taken away from him. Or could it be now? If his father truly did this?

The deep green wall, adorned with shelves stacked with vinyls, was a testament to different jazz musicians through the ages. The only time he could get away with his genuine passion being on display. While the other wall, stark white, whispered tales of his family's political legacy. The Whitlocks, in all their fame and glory. A mahogany imperial desk stood in the corner, its surface cluttered with papers and half-filled mugs of coffee and paperwork that he needed to file. 

Gray started towards the mess, his mother's words echoing through his mind. Do something productive. And then he stalled, jaw twitching. Should he do it now? The sigh told him he wanted to do anything else. But he knew something else was calling him. Fingers twitching, as his eyes found his bass: his double hidden away, far from this house in case either of them ever came snooping. 

He needed to destress. Despite the damning news, Gray knew he couldn't abandon his father, not now. But the idea of press conferences, and photo ops and fucking paperwork…it was all just a bit much. Not when it might mean that it took them all down with him. Sometimes he just couldn’t abandon god damn ship. With a grunt, he found himself pulled into Ron Carter, needing that change of pace. Eyes closed, he felt the rhythm in his soul, taking a hold of him. 

Some time had passed when he heard the faint click of his door, eyes glancing up with dulled ocean eyes and sighed—not from annoyance but gratefulness: Chelsea Dalton. Gray Whitlock had a tight circle of friends, but none of the others meant anything close to what she did. There was no one else in the world that could’ve made him feel better in this world besides her. 

“So, on a scale from six-pack therapy to a spa retreat in the German highlands, how concerned should I be about you?”

That smile. Gray couldn’t help but return the gesture, even if it never quite reached his eyes. 

“I was thinking of going on a one man expedition to Antarctica…” his fingers stilling on the strings momentarily. “Would be much more fun with you, though. What d'ya say?” he was sure his joke fell as flat as his tone but he lifted his shoulders into a faux playful shrug. 

Gray knew she could read him like the back of her hand, but it didn’t make it any better. In all honesty, he wanted to get the fuck out of here as soon as possible. His haven, his room, even that was still too close to the nightmare that was undoubtedly unfolding downstairs. “I need to get outta’ here.” Pushing the bass off his lap with ease, as he pushed to stand. “Please…”