by Alice Ward
“I see I’ve rendered you speechless,” she said, obviously proud of the fact.
“You’ve been having me followed?” I said, scratching on my jaw, which was now covered with quite a bit more stubble than I usually showed in public.
“I figured I could use a little ammunition of my own.” She lifted a shoulder, looking at those damn nails again. “Just in case you failed to hold up your end of the bargain that our parents arranged.”
I could say nothing.
“I don’t get it, Cameron. Together, you and I, we’d rule. We’d be the most powerful family in this country.” She looked at the photos in my lap and smiled, almost benevolently.
Absolute power… I was too tired, drunk, and beaten to complete the thought. I lifted my glass and downed it, stared at it. “You don’t get the fact that I fucking detest you?”
The smile didn’t falter even a millimeter. She knew it all too well, and she didn’t care. She leaned forward, picked up her napkin, and settled it on her lap. “You can keep your cheap whore if she means that much to you. But you will make me a Brice first.”
I scowled at her, my eyes fire. I’d had enough of people telling me what to do. And no one fucking disrespected Cassandra like that. Despite everything she’d done, she was still worth a million Bernadettes. No, she didn’t have the breeding, but she had so much more. I drilled the glass into the table, feeling it crack under the pressure of my palm. “Like hell I will.”
She simply laughed at me. “Well, now that Cameron Brice is known to not be so capable with financial matters, I’m sure the public will be thrilled to know that he counts fucking random women at sex clubs among his favorite extracurricular activities.” Her leg brushed up against mine under the table, and I flinched away. “How will you explain that away at the debate, Mr. Silver Tongue?”
“I’ll drop out of the race.”
Bernadette just kept grinning. “Fine. But a little birdie told me that your whore was keen on joining the FBI.” She waved her hand toward the photos. “Mission impossible, I’d say. Unless they hire her on as a honey pot. Isn’t that what they call them, darling? Female spies who fuck then fuck over their targets? Like she did you?”
The waiter arrived for our order. I shook my head and told him I wasn’t hungry. I reached into the bread basket and tore a piece from the loaf, ripping it to shreds, which was actually what I wished I could do to her neck. Bernadette studied the menu and ordered the duck, the most expensive thing on the menu, as I quietly watched her. Hating her. Never having hated anyone as much as I did her, right then.
Mrs. Bernadette Dryden-Brice.
I played the name over in my head as I looked down at the pictures in my lap. In one of them, from our most recent lovemaking session, Cassandra was sitting at the edge of the center island, her legs spread, feet resting on my back as I feasted on her pussy. Her back was arched, tits on full display and her head was tossed back in abandon, in the throes of orgasm.
That settled it. I’d said long before I wanted to be the only one to ever see that look on Cassandra’s face. I couldn’t open her to this kind of scrutiny.
These pictures of Cassandra and me together... not only were they painfully graphic, but even if the sentiment behind them hadn’t been real, the photos contained quite possibly some of the best moments of my life. In a life with Bernadette, I’d never see moments like that again. I needed to keep them, keep her, sacred, safe. And I’d be damned if I let these pictures get out. She’d have to kill me first.
I let the options play and replay in my mind, even as Bernadette’s duck arrived, and she began to eat like she was starving. I searched for a way out. A way to protect Cassandra. As angry as I was at her for screwing me over, I couldn’t allow these pictures to get out.
Finally, I made my decision, and did the only thing I could. Sinking low in the chair, I reached into my soggy blazer and took the tiny blue box out. I pushed it across the table to her.
Bernadette gasped as if it was entirely unexpected, looking for all the world as if I’d just dropped to one knee in the most perfect proposal ever.
“I’ll take that as a ‘Will you marry me?’” she said, opening the box, her eyes glittering as she beheld the massive diamond inside. She took it out, slipped it on to her finger, and held her hand out to admire it as it glinted in the candlelight. Then she smiled at me, oblivious to the daggers I’d been shooting from my eyes. “The answer is yes.”
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
Brooke
With no job, no boyfriend, and an overwhelming sense of guilt for bringing down the top Republican candidate for state Senate, I did what any normal person would do. I spent the entire week in bed, crying. I left the curtains drawn, didn’t shower, didn’t eat, and didn’t even go out to fetch the mail from my box at the front of the building. When the phone rang, I just let it ring, and when texts came through, I didn’t even look at them.
So when the doorbell rang the following Tuesday, I’d planned not to open it.
But then it rang and rang, and Kiera’s voice started shouting, “I’m going to call 9-1-1 if you don’t answer because I’m going to assume you’re dead in there!”
I finally relented and practically crawled to the door. When I opened it, I hung on it, hardly able to see because my eyes were so puffy from crying.
She was standing there with a giant fluffy teddy bear and a balloon bouquet. I looked up as they bounced gently on the top of the doorjamb. One of them said, “Congratulations.” I definitely did not feel like there was anything to congratulate me for.
“What?” I asked, rubbing my eyes. “Shouldn’t that say ‘I’m sorry for stabbing you in the back?’”
Her face fell. “What?”
I looked at her, incredulous. “I asked you not to give those papers to your father, but you did it the very same day.”
She shook her head. “No, I didn’t.” She dug through her bag and pulled them out. “They’re right here.”
I stared at them, then remembered Jack telling me that they’d be given to the press either way. I pressed the heel of my hand in my eye, trying to understand.
Keira stared at me in horror as I moved aside to let her in. “Oh, my god. Were you bitten by a vampire? It’s hot as hell in here. And it smells.”
I shrugged and plopped down on the couch, still trying to work through the puzzle.
She leaned forward and took a sniff. “You smell.”
“Thanks.” I pointed at the balloons. “Who are those for?”
She stared at me like I was insane. “You, dummy.” She stopped. “Wait. When was the last time you checked your phone? Or your mail?”
I shook my head. It wasn’t an answer because I couldn’t actually remember.
She dropped the teddy bear on the couch beside me, then ran out into the hallway. When she came back, she was holding a large flat envelope from FedEx. It said PRIORITY LETTER. She ripped it open, pulled out a slip of paper, and inspected it. She smiled, then deposited it in my lap.
Dear Brooke Ellis,
Congratulations on your acceptance into the Federal Bureau of Investigation…
I froze.
“I made it,” I said hoarsely, but mostly because this was something I’d always dreamed of, and in my dreams, that’s what I’d always said. But truthfully, I was just frozen, my mind too numb to process.
Kiera leaned over and hugged me quickly, because yes, I smelled. “Congrats, girl. My dad said he put it through last week.”
I forced a smile. My voice was weak. “Thanks. But why?”
Her eyes narrowed. “He said you came though.”
I didn’t understand. Had Jack turned them over in my name? Why?
Then I knew… someone wanted to make certain I looked guilty.
So Cameron would hate me.
Mission accomplished.
Keira studied me with pity. I guessed Cameron’s name was still etched all over me, like a tattoo. “I saw the engagement announcement in the I
nquirer. He’s marrying her.”
I nodded. I hadn’t seen that, but I knew it was just a matter of time before it became official. “And his candidacy?”
She shrugged. “He’s still running. Turns out that dirt you brought in bounced right off the legendary Brice suit of armor. I swear, some families are so wealthy, they can do no wrong. He could probably be a serial killer, and they’d be okay with it. I guess it would take another Shadygate to bring down the Brice juggernaut.”
So it had all been for nothing. I’d exposed him and ruined my chances with him for nothing. No, not nothing, I reminded myself, studying the paper in my hand. This is my dream.
Was my dream.
At least he still had his career. I hadn’t permanently damaged that. I was glad. It meant that no matter what, District One would be sending a senator who might not be perfect but who gave a damn to Harrisburg in the following year. “What about the debate?”
“It’s tonight,” she said.
Tonight. After tonight, the entire state would love him the way I did. It was inevitable. Because while Owen had done a good job as a state senator, he wasn’t Cameron. Cameron may have looked like a buttoned-up, inhuman douche, but once you heard him talk and speak what was on his mind, you couldn’t help but fall. I had no doubt of that.
“Are you going to go to support your father?”
She shook her head. “You know he never wants me with him. He gets too nervous.” She looked around. “Hey, I have an idea. Do you want to watch it together on television? Make it a girls’ night in? If you have any liquor, we’ll make it a drinking game.”
I nodded and smiled at her, thinking that I’d need to be drunk to watch Cameron and his Silver Tongue thrashing Owen Blakely. “That sounds really good.”
“Good. You have any Tito’s?” she asked, reaching into the kitchen cabinet where I kept my liquor. She smiled as she pulled down the vodka bottle and two shot glasses, then looked at me. “And please take a shower.”
I did a pit sniff and winced. “Okay. Deal.”
I stumbled into the shower as Kiera went around, opening windows and trying to air the place out. It was early June, and right now, while I stood under the spray, I knew Cameron was busy preparing for his television debut. I wondered if he was nervous. I wondered if he was happy about marrying Bernadette. I wondered if he ever thought about me.
As much as I wished I could keep him out of my head, I wondered so much, I stayed in the shower until the water ran cold.
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
Cameron
As I sat in the green room, waiting for the debate to begin, I took a deep breath.
In another twenty minutes, I’d be live in front of the greater Philadelphia area, some six million people, on ABC 7. Snippets and news bytes from the debate would be played across the region throughout the evening, and the debate in its entirety would be available online.
I was so prepared, I could’ve done this debate in my sleep. I’d practiced every answer a thousand times, every gesture, every facial expression. Though everything had been rehearsed, I’d practiced ways to not look so rehearsed, to look more natural. I had it down pat. My father could not fault me for a thing.
And yet, something just felt off.
I wasn’t worried about my competition. Owen might bring up the campaign contribution snafu, but I had an answer for that. I knew, without a doubt, that I would outperform the older man. Blakely was a good debater, but in all the polls and statistics, I’d been coming out ahead. I was younger, more attractive, and a better all-around speaker. Even the Democrats had to give me that. Even Owen had to give me that, which was likely why he’d hired Cassandra.
I clenched my fists and closed my eyes. No matter how many times I told myself I wouldn’t think of her, I always did.
I imagined that fifty years from now, I’d be lying on my deathbed, thinking of her.
I poured myself a glass of water as Owen Blakely strode into the room, hand extended for a handshake. I grasped it firmly as he clapped me on the back. “Good to see you,” he said, that smile of his never reaching his eyes. Like hell. “I hear congratulations are in order.”
I stared at him blankly.
“You’re engaged?”
I nodded. “Yes, yes. Thank you.”
“When’s the big day?”
“Sometime before November,” I answered.
Of course, that was what had to happen, since “voters preferred married candidates three to one.” I nearly gagged at the statistic.
I thought of Bernadette and the way I’d left her before I’d come into the back of the studio. She’d been the image of poise and perfection in her smart red suit and would be sitting in the front row during the debate, my “support.” It was such bullshit. Over the past week, whenever I looked at her, I couldn’t summon any emotion other than pure hatred. When I thought of her, I imagined the days of wedded hell, stretching into eternity. I thought of the thousands of torturous nights, sleeping beside her in bed, of occasionally fucking her so we could produce our heir and spare, all while I dreamed of Cassandra.
Beside Bernadette in the front row, would be my father. He would be even less encouraging, ticking off any time I made even the smallest misstep.
“Well,” Owen said jovially since there was nothing else we had in common to discuss. “May the best man win, huh?”
The best man. I nearly laughed in his face. I’d thought about calling him out for siccing Cassandra on me. My father’d had me meet with that private investigator, and though there’d been dirt, I’d told him to can it. Even if Blakely had sunk to that level, it didn’t give me the license to. Maybe that’s how wars like this were won, but if so, I didn’t want to fight them.
And maybe I wasn’t the best man for this job. But I was still a good man. A man of convictions, who wouldn’t do anything just to come out on top. At least that was the way I had been. Now, with the help of people like Bernadette and my father, I probably wouldn’t be that way for long.
And that was when it hit me — tying myself to Bernadette wasn’t just the death of bachelorhood. It was the death of who I really was. It was saying goodbye to what made me human, and the first step to becoming a political machine.
You’re a man of morals and convictions. You care about others, not just about yourself. That’s rare in politics. Don’t ever change.
I nodded and gave him my politician’s simpering smile. “Yep, see you out there.”
He stepped out of the room, and I paced back and forth, running over my opening remarks for the millionth time. “Hello, thank you all for having me here. My name is Cameron Brice, and I’d like to tell you a little about why I’m up here, asking for your vote. I want to make this world a better place. Not just for me, but for all of us, and for generations to come.”
That was all true, yes. My father’s best speechmaker had written it, and I’d said it so many times that the words failed to have meaning to me anymore. I slowed, going over the words. “My aim is to gain your trust, to prove to you that ‘trustworthy’ and ‘politician’ are not terms that are mutually exclusive. I want to be open and honest with you.”
I stopped, letting the words sink in.
Cassandra was right. I was a fucking liar.
I’d built my campaign on honesty, on my willingness to be open to the public. But did I live that?
Hell, no.
I followed my father’s lead. Went the expected route. Said everything I was supposed to say. I was already the perfect political machine.
But what if I followed my heart instead? What if I said what I felt, instead of what was scripted?
The door opened, and one of the producers poked her head in. “Mr. Brice? We’re about to start.”
I nodded my thanks and clapped my hands together.
Showtime.
I followed the producer down a long, sparse hallway to the wings of the stage. From there, I could see the two podiums posed at either end of the stage, and hear
d the audience murmuring for the beginning of the debate. I smiled calmly at the producer, who busily wired me for sound and explained what I needed to do, and how the debate would run. This wasn’t news. I’d known since the debate was scheduled that we’d have two minutes for opening remarks, then ninety seconds each to answer the questions the moderator posed. Across the stage, I could see Owen being instructed the same by another producer. I smiled at the woman. “Thank you. What’s your name?”
She looked surprised that I’d asked. “Um. Well, Holly, sir.”
“Thanks, Holly.” I reached out and shook her hand, then leaned forward and said, “Between you and me, I think I’m going to need a couple of stiff drinks after this one.”
Her face relaxed and brightened as she smiled. “Good luck, sir.”
A disembodied voice announced, “Here are your candidates for state Senate, first district, Philadelphia, Republican Candidate Cameron Brice, and Democratic Candidate Owen Blakely.”
We both strode out. There was a mark at the center of the stage where we smiled and gave each other the same exact handshake we’d given each other earlier. I said, “Great to see you,” and he said something similar, but I couldn’t hear over the applause.
It was all bullshit, anyway, my first lie of the night.
As I climbed up the podium, I saw the flash of red. I knew Bernadette’s plastic smile was above it, and beside her was my father, waiting for me to recite those same bullshit platitudes.
And I couldn’t fucking stand it.
“We’ll now let each candidate begin with an opening statement,” the moderator said. “Mr. Blakely?”
Owen nodded, then gripped the edge of the podium — a bad move in the debate, as it showed tension — and gave his speech. It wasn’t a terrible speech. But it wasn’t entirely truthful. He talked about how we needed to come together in Harrisburg and how he was the man to make things happen, something he’d been doing a bang-up job of thus far, considering he was one of the reasons why the government shut down until last January. I nodded politely, smiling, and took a sip of my water, waiting until his two minutes dwindled. When the buzzer rang, he was still talking, but he quickly finished his point and conceded the floor to me.
