by Joya Ryan
What I wanted was to argue, to tell him that wasn’t the case, but the look in his eyes told me it wouldn’t do any good. He’d made up his mind about me. While I couldn’t entirely blame him, it stung that whatever emotions could have grown from that kiss were long gone.
“I want something from you too, Miss Underwood.”
“What could you possibly need from me?”
He grinned, and didn’t bother hiding his insistent gaze as it dropped from my mouth to my cleavage, then back up.
“Several things,” he said. “But I’ll start with the blue-collar vote.”
“You want me to vote for you?”
He scoffed like I was a moron, and I wanted to slap him right in his way too handsome face. The entitled asshole attitude I hated so much was gushing from him like he was a busted faucet. Reminding me again that this was not the man I’d met last week.
“I’m up for reelection in November. My team has been running a good campaign, but with my background, the blue-collar vote is always a struggle. Polls show that it is lower than last election, and the race between my opponent and me is tight. That’s where you come in.”
I sat there, my hands in my lap, completely lost. “I don’t know what you think I can do, but politics aren’t my thing. I have no desire—”
“I disagree. In fact, if memory serves correctly…” he ran two fingers along his jaw, “you have quite a desire for politics. Or perhaps just politicians?”
My skin couldn’t have been hotter if it had actually been on fire. There was a flicker in those dark eyes that reminded me of the honesty from that night. How his mouth had worked mine, and all that strength wrapped around me. But the flicker disappeared quickly.
“Your mother is a school teacher, your father an Army vet turned electrician, and your only sister died of a drug overdose her senior year of high school.” He spoke as if he were reading a dossier on my life, which he probably had. Because this kind of information took a bit of digging. “You were brought up in a solid middle-class family and now work for a nonprofit nobly providing the lower class with addiction rehabilitation programs.”
That’s when it hit me. It was the truth, just as he’d promised a week ago. But the truth hurt.
“You want to use me to boost your numbers, your reputation,” I breathed.
“The arrangement I propose isn’t just to benefit me.”
“What arrangement would that be?” I snapped, hating everything about this moment. Tonight was supposed to be so different. Roman was supposed to be different.
“A relationship arrangement,” he said.
My throat closed up a little. “You can’t be serious.”
He nodded. “You want that rehab built and your little Midwest name all over it, and I want the blue-collar vote. You on my arm at various events will elicit that. Show I am a man of the people.”
“But you’re not,” I grated between my teeth.
Something dark flashed in his eyes. “Don’t assume you know who I am or what has molded me. I understand more than you think, Miss Underwood.”
There! A glimmer of the man I’d seen last week—sadness and darkness behind his eyes showing just a hint of vulnerability. But it was washed away with his next rough words.
“I can put your project on the budget proposal, and you can be with me for the next two months. When I win the election, I’ll launch an anti-drug campaign with New Beginnings as the spearhead organization.”
“You mean, if you win.”
His jaw tightened. “All the more incentive for you to help me do so. Because if I don’t, then I guarantee no other governor, or any other state official, will push to get funding or exposure for your little center.”
Remembering how House Representative Miller had treated me at the gala made the rough truth of Roman’s words sting. Breathing was nothing more than a wish at this point. Every time I tried, air just stuck to the inside of my mouth, refusing to come out. His offer was a good one, in theory, but an arrangement all the same. The kind that is surface based, breaks hearts, and uses others. Could I really put myself through that again? This time knowingly?
“After the election,” he continued, “we go our separate ways, with the residual benefits to be had by both parties involved.”
“Why me?” I asked, grasping at any loophole in this scheme. “There are other women with spotless backgrounds who I’m sure you can call on.”
He nodded. “Yes. But you have an innocence.”
The words cut me deep. It wasn’t a compliment, it was the recognition of a trait. Something that he, like Warren, could exploit. It didn’t matter that I felt used, discarded, and about as far removed from innocent as possible. Innocence was what he perceived.
“Besides,” he shrugged. “You fooled me. If you can do that, you should have no problem fooling the people of New York.”
I shook my head. In his mind, I was trapped somewhere between ingenue and liar.
“I won’t sleep with you,” I stated.
“Rest assured, sweetheart, that if you and I end up in bed, we’ll be fucking, not sleeping.” He tugged at his cuffs. “But this is not a sexual arrangement.” His penetrating gaze slid over me. “Unless you want it to be.”
He paused to flash a megawatt smile that nearly made me lose my mind and my panties in one swoop. Gritting my teeth, I internally cursed my body for responding to him. “To the world beyond us, we will appear as a couple. This is an upfront, honest exchange of services. We’re using our strengths to gain better access to what we want. Sex isn’t part of this agreement. That is a situation that, should it happen, will be because you want it to, and it will have no bearing on this disposition.”
Tingling warmth shot up my back. There was something about Roman that had me so off-kilter. Just the thought of sex with him made part of me tremble, wondering what it’d be like. Wanting to find out. The other part of me didn’t give too much weight to this notion, because in the end, he assumed I was using him.
I glanced at my lap and refused to think of Warren. How he had used me in this same way, and how little it had mattered—how little I had mattered. At least Roman was upfront with his intentions, instead of blindsiding me. Fooling me into thinking I was more than a convenience.
When I looked up, his gaze was locked on my face, his brows drawn tight, as if trying to read small print along my forehead. I would not make the mistake of taking that to be a look of concern.
I cleared my throat, a burst of pain ricocheting through my chest like a spiked boomerang. This man clearly thought something very specific about me. I just couldn’t figure out if being part of a lie hurt more when it was done behind my back, or face-to-face.
Either way, the pain in my sternum and the thought of losing something with this man before I’d ever gained it hurt more than I liked. But that didn’t matter now. At least I could salvage Paige’s job, my career, and Lauren’s memory.
Emptiness clawed its way up my spine, but I pushed it down. Like I always did. Skyscrapers and open fields didn’t compare to how small I felt sitting before Roman Reese, governor of New York.
Paige had told me that when dealing with any kind of offer, get it on paper. I lifted my chin and with all the courage I had, looked him dead in the eye.
“I’m going to need something in writing.”
He smirked and pulled a pen from his inside jacket pocket. “This,” he said, writing on the white cloth napkin, “is all the documentation you get.”
He tossed it across the table to me. Staring at the cloth, I read the words written in bold black ink:
You consider my interests and I’ll consider yours.
“What happens between us is private. Everything. Always. You breathe a word of our discussion tonight to anyone, I’ll pull my generous offer and crush your request for funding before it even sees the light of day. Do you understand?”
Swallowing hard, I glanced up from the napkin and nodded. It was no secret that politicians played t
heir hands close to the vest, but the warning in Roman’s voice and the fierceness in his eyes hammered home the notion.
“You have twenty-four hours to give me an answer, Miss Underwood.”
Chapter Three
Hi, Mom.” Pressing my cell against my ear, I walked from the bus stop to my office building. Between the fall breeze and the other commuters, it wasn’t an ideal time to talk, but this was the first time my mother had actually answered the phone after five failed attempts I’d made, so I’d take what I could get.
“Hello, Amy.” Her voice was low and kind of soft. It would have been soothing if not for the bitter undertone that always seemed to lace it.
“How are you? I haven’t talked to you in a while.” I wove through the crowd and turned down another street. The brick building that housed New Beginnings was only a few more blocks up. Though the center I wanted to build would be in Arbor Hill, near my home, New Beginnings was located in West Albany.
“I’m alright.”
I nodded, wondering for a moment if the line had gone dead, but a quick check of the phone screen showed that all was fine. It was my mother’s silence that was real.
“I’m good too. On my way to work. Things are really moving along.”
“Did you build that counseling center you’ve been talking about?” My mother always called it a “counseling center.” While yes, there would be counseling and prevention services, she never acknowledged what it would really be—what Lauren had needed—a rehab facility.
“Not yet, but it’s looking really good that I’ll get the funding, and hopefully get it up and running in the near future.”
“What does near future mean? Tomorrow?”
My lungs hurt from both the chilly autumn air and my mother’s even chillier voice. The jostling of the passersby wasn’t helping either. “No, not that soon. These things take time.”
If I’d thought the silence on the line was bad, the exasperated sigh my mother gave was worse. Like nothing I was doing mattered or could make a difference.
“You should have taken her to the hospital, Amy,” she whispered, just loud enough for me to hear despite the bustling.
Every time I talked to my mother, I expected the conversation to somehow bring joy or happiness. But prying warm feelings from her was impossible. Because instead of making an effort to care about anything other than Lauren’s death, she always took time to once again remind me of my fault in the matter.
“You knew she was…” My mother trailed off, unable to say what came next. The truth.
“Using,” I mumbled. “Lauren was using.” Yes, I had known.
That night flashed through my mind. Lauren had been prescription popping for a couple of months. I hadn’t known how bad it was. Our parents were out of town for the weekend when Lauren called me to come get her from a party. I went. And when she begged me to not tell Mom and Dad, I agreed. She was my big sister, the strong one, and I loved her.
“I didn’t know how much she’d taken, Mom. If I had—”
“It doesn’t matter anymore, does it?”
Tears stung my eyes. The last thing I’d gotten to say to my sister was that I loved her, right after putting her into her own bed. She was warm, sleeping. But the next morning, her lips were blue and her skin was cold. While I was busy covering for my sister, she’d died in her sleep of an overdose.
“I’m sorry.” I had lost count how many times I had said it over the years, but it still wasn’t enough. Not for me, and certainly not for my mother.
Another bout of silence on the line was the only response. It was all I needed to know that my debt wasn’t even close to paid off. And probably never would be.
Walking up the steps to my building, I willed the burning behind my eyes to stop. Lauren had been their golden child. She had been special and kind, and you couldn’t help but love her. I knew this because every day I thought of her, and every day I mulled over my mother’s comments until I believed the same thing she did: I could have saved her.
Redemption was impossible, but this center was as close as I could get. My second chance to make it right. Since Lauren had died, my life had been spent with my mother’s sour words ringing in my ears. She’d made it more than clear how she felt—that the wrong child had died that night. And that it was my fault.
“I’ve got to head into work, Mom, but there are some really great things coming.” I thought of Roman’s offer. “Maybe sooner than I expected.”
“Good for you. Bye-bye.” Not an ounce of love could be squeezed from her voice. Yet I still tried.
“I love—” I began, but the line went dead before I could say more.
The burning spread from my face to my chest. Pushing that feeling aside, I opened the glass doors of the building, stuffed my phone into my coat pocket, and tried to focus on what I could control.
Roman’s face came to mind again, and something in my stomach tightened. Would an anti-drug campaign make a difference to the community? Yes. But would it make a difference to my parents? Maybe. Maybe not. My mother had spoken to me more since I’d taken on this project than at any time since Lauren’s funeral. Mostly because whoever headed up the project got to name it. My choice?
Lauren’s House.
That had made my mother’s ears perk. But with no results, the conversations were getting shorter and her tone, shriller.
I felt my phone buzz in my jacket. It was probably another text from Paige or Hazel asking what had happened last night. I’d made it a point to sneak in late and, thankfully, they had both been asleep. Paige and Hazel had early mornings. I was always an hour behind them, so I had successfully avoided the topic of Governor Reese for a good twelve hours now. But that wouldn’t last much longer.
“Heard you bombed with House Rep Miller,” Silas said, just as I hung my coat on the back of my chair and booted up my computer. “Shot you down hard, huh?”
He leaned against the opening of my cubical and smiled his wide, jackass smile, which matched his asshole glare.
“How do you even know about that?” I tried to sound unaffected, but it was a little late for that. It was creepy that he not only knew I’d been at the gala, but that I had “bombed” with Miller.
“You’re not the only one going for the job, Indiana.” He winked.
Ew. I had no idea how his gangly frame supported all that arrogance. Silas was my main competition at New Beginnings. He couldn’t have been more than five-foot-seven and one hundred and fifty pounds, most of which seemed to be attitude.
“I’m aware of that, Silas. But I do seem to be the only one trying to get a new center built for the people of New York, rather than stalking people on the weekend.”
He ran a hand through his light brown hair. “Don’t flatter yourself. I’m trying to get funding for this center too. It’s such a worthy cause, after all.” Sarcasm dripped from every syllable and by God, I wanted to punch him.
Between the call with my mother and this guy encroaching on something that actually mattered to me, my bottled rage was enough to warm me up after my chilly walk.
I had spent my first month at New Beginnings taking calls on the crisis line. Listening to a teenage girl cry and threaten to kill herself because she couldn’t get a fix. Or a boy, who couldn’t be more than sixteen, asking for help, only to start gasping and gargling from the delayed effects of a lethal ingestion of meth he’d taken hours earlier. Just like Lauren. Addiction was heartbreaking. Lauren was gone, but there were kids still out there who needed help.
This new center could provide that. And getting funding for it was the one project I’d personally launched in my time here. It was also, apparently, the quickest way to get the bosses’ attention, which was why Silas had jumped on board the moment our boss, Marcy, had shown genuine enthusiasm.
He didn’t care about helping people; he just wanted the promotion, better pay, and benefits. Then he could be a project lead, sitting behind his desk and telling people what to do, while he did nothi
ng and took the credit—kind of like what he was doing now.
“Project meeting in ten minutes,” Marcy said, weaving through the cubicles, her short red hair bobbing around her face with each step in her sensible heels.
Every Thursday, Marcy gathered her employees to hear what we’d been working on and what progress we’d made. I knew that the other five Level Ones were working on operations and support for New Beginnings’ already-established rehab center, which was overflowing with people who needed help. The wait time for admission to our current center was more than nine months, which was why we needed this new center desperately. And we needed it in Arbor Hill.
Silas and I both had degrees and backgrounds in nonprofit work, and we were the only two taking on the task of acquiring funds and local support for this new center. Marcy had let it slip last month that the available Level Two position would, most likely, come down to either him or me.
“I’m excited to hear about the headway you’ve made, Amy.” She smiled, approaching me and Silas.
Marcy was nice, supportive, and one of the best bosses I could have asked for. She was in her early forties, and had been at New Beginnings for twenty years.
With a nervous smile, I nodded. She was excited to hear about the headway I’d made? A cold sweat broke out on my forehead as I recalled exactly what I had accomplished lately. Did a make out session with the governor of New York, followed by a proposed verbal agreement to play the role of his small-town girlfriend, count as headway?
“Looking squeamish there, Indiana.” Silas smirked. “Something you wanna share?”
“Wait for the meeting,” Marcy said, patting my shoulder before continuing her walk around the office.
Last week, I had made some pretty big promises on the topic of funding for this new center. Of course, that had been when Paige had just told me she’d be able to sneak me in: I’d been riding high on the idea of face time with important people who had a say over the state budget. Speculation was a bitch, and it was about to slap me in the face.
