by Meli Raine
She’s right.
The truth hits me like she sucker-punched me.
She’s one hundred percent right.
And that?
That I can’t fix.
In fact, I’m one of her jailers.
“Jesus,” I say softly, under my breath. “You’re right.”
She looks up sharply. “Huh?”
“You’re right.” The room spins. I’m still in control, but it takes effort. “You are damned if you do, damned if you don’t.”
She just blinks, over and over, as if in a trance. “You’re...agreeing with me?”
“Yes.”
Her eyes narrow. “Is this a trap?”
I sit on the ground next to her, my gun belt digging into my hip. It’s a taunting reminder of the past hours. “No.”
“No one ever agrees with me.”
“I am.”
“Then do something to help me.”
“I am.”
She huffs.
“But I’m also hurting you, and I’m so sorry for that.”
She inhales sharply. “I have no idea what to say to that.”
“Promise me you won’t run away again, okay? Okay, Lindsay?” My turn to plead. “You promise me that, and I’ll promise you this: I’ll help you leave.”
“What?”
It’s the way she says that single syllable that breaks me. It snaps me in half. The word comes out as a tiny gasp of disbelief, a plea, a prayer.
“I mean it,” I say, my voice thick with emotion. I can hear the change between us as much as I feel it. Nothing we’re saying erases my fury about what she did to me or fixes her trust issues, but my perspective has shifted in just these handful of minutes.
I never thought I was part of the problem.
I always assumed I was part of the solution.
Harry and Monica want Lindsay to turn back time and be the good little girl she was four years ago. And if she can’t comply, they’ll bend her like a pipe cleaner and make her into a facsimile of what she once was, just long enough for the cameras to record the perfect family.
The American Dream.
Whether Lindsay wants that or not.
I can’t stop them.
But I can’t let her run away.
Which means I have to rethink everything I thought I knew.
As the first few sunbeams turn to a blinding shard of light, I look at Lindsay.
She’s staring out the window, her eyes washed out by the sun, making them transparent.
They’re the only part of her that is.
Chapter 5
“Make-up! We need more under-eye concealer here! What on earth did you do last night, Lindsay – stay up for thirty-six hours while smearing charcoal under your eyes?”
Close.
Monica is her bright, cheery self as we get ready for the press conference in Sacramento, California’s capital, where Senator Harwell Bosworth will declare his candidacy to run in the primaries for President of the United States.
Lindsay looks about as excited as wet toilet paper.
“Sorry, Mom,” she says, but she doesn’t mean it.
Paulson, Gentian, and twelve other guys on my team are here with me. All but Paulson and Gentian are assigned to watch Monica and Lindsay. We’ve expanded our role.
Harry’s got his own separate team.
Mark, Silas and I have a specific target: we’re watching for any hint of people going after Lindsay. The extra team within a team.
She hasn’t had any new texts from those assholes. Harry’s been briefed on the fingerprint issue with Lindsay’s brake lines. It took a while to explain how someone could set her up like that, but Harry quickly absorbed the information.
And now here we are.
Showtime.
“Senator Bosworth,” Paulson says, nodding to Harry, who stops cold in his tracks. His face splits with an incredulous grin.
“Thornberg! You’re Thornberg’s grandson. You have a different last name, though. Paul?” Given that Harry’s known for remembering faces, this is a bit of a surprise.
“Mark Paulson, sir.”
“Agent Paulson!” Harry snaps his fingers and shakes Mark’s hand vigorously. “You made one hell of a bust with the El Brujo cartel.” He pulls Mark in and says quietly, “Really helped me with this campaign, that whole mess. Having him wiped out boosted confidence in law enforcement and my numbers rode the coattails. Thank you for that.”
Mark nods exactly once. He hates praise.
“What do they have you working on now, Paulson?”
“He’s working for me,” I say, interrupting.
The senator gives us both a half grin. “Good work. You’re done with the DEA?”
Paulson shrugs. “A little time in the private sector never hurt anyone.”
“You’d be a good contender in politics, Paulson. California will have an empty senate seat in two years.”
“Yes, it will,” Monica says smoothly, appearing at Harry’s elbow. She’s gorgeous, sophisticated and cool in the perfect ice-queen way that First Ladies need to possess, with a switch she can flip to be more down to earth. “And James Thornberg’s grandson would come with built-in political capital.” She takes in Paulson with an evaluative quality I don’t like.
Don’t like it one bit.
“Agent Paulson -- ”
“Please. Just Mark, Mrs. Bosworth.”
“If it’s ‘just Mark,’ then it’s ‘just Monica,’” she jokes, flipping her hair off her shoulder. I can’t tell if she’s flirting, or worse.
“Have you met our daughter, Lindsay?”
Worse.
Lindsay stands up from her makeup chair, white bib around her neck, and grins at Mark with the eyes of an evil clown forced to pretend to be normal.
“Agent Paulson. We met yesterday.” She shakes his hand.
Mark wisely says nothing, barely smiling.
Her hair person combs out the long blond strands, using a fat curling iron here and there to shape her style. Years ago, Lindsay told me all about the beauty rituals that were used for public appearances. The different makeup for studio shows. Yet another kind of makeup for large stage appearances. How weather could ruin photo opportunities.
And how Monica insisted that Lindsay present herself as a perfect vision of the sweet, American Pie senator’s daughter.
“We need to finish in here, Ms. Bosworth,” the makeup person says, leading her back to the chair.
The senator peels Paulson and me off into a small huddle.
“Look, you two. I know there was a commotion at The Grove last night, and I don’t have time for specifics. Your morning report was terse and vague,” he says to me in an accusatory voice.
“But accurate.”
I get a sour face in return. “That’ll do for now, Drew, but after this announcement and the resulting flurry dies down, I need a full, off-the-record report.” He glances around. “I want all the info you aren’t even cleared to give Lindsay’s handlers.”
I nod. “Understood.”
“And if you brought Agent Paulson in on Lindsay’s security detail, it’s clear there’s more than meets the eye. I need to be in the know.”
“And Mrs. Bosworth?”
“She’s on a need-to-know basis.” He smirks. “Monica’s job is to keep up appearances. Leave the depth to me.”
He leaves. Paulson shakes his head slowly. “Different senator, same behavior.”
“What do you mean?”
“My grandfather was the same way.”
“He ever run for president?”
“Nope. Said there was more power in the Senate. ‘The Oval Office is a costume’ was his standard phrase for politics and becoming president.”
“Harry Bosworth clearly thinks otherwise,” I reply.
“Good thing he does. Keeps you in billable hours for your security teams.”
I snort. “This is babysitting.”
“Babysitting with guns and snipers.”
High-stakes babysitting.
“Show time!” Anya announces. She’s dressed in a sedate grey suit designed to make her blend in. Monica’s wearing a tasteful cream-colored suit with a black border at the lapels, mid-heel black shoes designed for climbing stairs without accident, and her hair and face are perfect.
First Lady material.
Lindsay’s in a lovely dress with blue, red, black and cream, designed to coordinate with Harry and his red and blue tie, but not to outshine her mother. Everyone’s smiling and waving. As the senator’s arm goes up, all I can think about is a crazed gunman hitting the armpit.
Hey. It happened in 1981 with Reagan.
The potential for danger is everywhere.
Guns aren’t my biggest worry here, though.
Lindsay is.
“Stage left you’ll enter, with Mrs. Bosworth on the senator’s left, and the daughter on the right.”
Lindsay bristles at “the daughter.” She recovers fast, though.
She’s used to it.
Gentian and Paulson take their places at Stage Right and Stage Left. We’re indoors, thank God, which means my team has less to worry about. Secret Service already swept the building, and private security is checking bags and clearing visitors. We could have a rogue element here, but chances are small.
Other than Stellan, Blaine and John, that is.
I’ve got every text coming in on Lindsay’s phone echoing over to mine, so if they try that shit again, I’ll be on it instantly. All my guys know they’re working on Lindsay and Monica. Harry’s covered by the Secret Service.
As long as each person does their job, stays in their zone, and doesn’t turn into a cowboy, we’re good today.
I’ll deal with the unpredictable triad later.
I walk next to Paulson, steering clear of Lindsay, knowing my presence will just add to the massive case of nerves she clearly has. If appearances were all it took to play the part of picturesque future First Daughter, Lindsay would win the election for her dad.
Not that easy, though.
“Still no clear sense of what they’re up to with those texts?” Paulson asks out of the corner of his mouth. Earbud in, full boring suit, and more weapons under his jacket than a prepper on Halloween night, Paulson’s scanning the crowd while he talks to me.
“No. But they’ll be subtle. These guys aren’t going to shoot up a crowded theater.”
“You have a way of helping me relax, Foster.”
“Doing my job.”
“Yes, boss.”
Strange words coming from my commanding officer on my first tour in Afghanistan.
“Care to explain the picture with you in it?”
“Already did.”
“I think there’s way more to it than you’re telling.”
I don’t say a word.
We give each other dry looks and I move on, watching the scene intently.
“...a man who needs no introduction, Senator Harwell Bosworth!”
The public address system crackles with the roar of the crowd, thousands of people applauding, stage lights blinding but necessary. I look across the dark back of the stage and see Lindsay standing next to Gentian, blinking furiously, her face a slab of granite.
No emotion.
You’d never have guessed what happened yesterday ever occurred. We’re all professionals. We are about action, not emotion. Control, not impulse. Every calculated move is designed to support the man on stage right now, the guy with both arms in the air waving, and that’s when it hits me.
I’ve been hired to control.
To control Lindsay.
To keep her in a state of agitation and worry.
If I weren’t here, in charge of her, she wouldn’t be constantly – viscerally – reminded of my role in the massive clusterfuck of four years ago.
The senator and Monica want her to be uncertain. They want her to be unsteady. If she were centered and grounded, she’d be powerful.
A force.
Demanding.
And the last thing a man who’s leveraging his way up the ladder to become the leader of the free world wants is a daughter with a sense of her own true strength.
The blood drains out of my face as I watch Lindsay touch Gentian’s arm, stand on tiptoes, and try to get him to step out of his role and smile at her.
He’s steady as a Beefeater.
Good man.
All across the country, over the next few months, similar stage displays will happen. Republicans and Democrats and Libertarians and Independents and Greens and smaller political parties will have people declare their candidacies for the primary runoffs, to become the party candidate in the actual national election in November, two years from now.
Harwell Bosworth isn’t all that special.
He’s been in politics for most of Lindsay’s life, but he’s at the beginning of the long slog to the White House. So are all his rivals, each competing for the top spot.
A position people would kill to have.
How far would you go to be leader of the free world?
“Drew?” It’s the dispatcher at my call center. “Ready for a transmission?”
“Bad timing.”
“You said if anything came in from that number -- ”
“Scarves?” That’s our code for Stellan, John and Blaine.
“Yes.”
“Go.”
“New text.” I watch in slo-mo as Lindsay reaches into her purse to retrieve her phone.
“What’s it say?”
“‘What color is your underwear?’”
“Not funny!” I shout, exploding.
“That’s what the text says, sir!”
“Fuck.”
“And a new one says, ‘We can’t wait to find out. And we will.’”
I tear off stage, knowing I can’t bullet my way across in view of the crowd, needing to get to Lindsay before she reads that fucking text. They’re toying with her, mindfucking her before the biggest performance she’s faced in four years, and I don’t care how much she’s hurt me in the last two days, or how angry I am at her for stealing my gun and lying to me, she’s still a human being.
And my client.
And I still love her.
“Gentian,” I snap into my headpiece. “Don’t let her read her phone. Repeat – don’t let Lindsay read her phone.”
“Yes, sir.”
I can’t see anything, can only thread my way through the overcrowded backstage area and hope Harry drones on and on in his speech about how wonderful America is and he buys me enough time. Gentian can take the emotional hit of having Lindsay get pissed at him.
But if she reads those texts...
“I’m not allowed to have a phone anymore? What are you talking about, Silas?” Her voice is high and hysterical, at a pitch that says she’s beyond irritated, anxiety in full force.
“He’s following orders,” I say, gasping, winded not by the effort of getting here but by the sheer power of the mess unfolding before me.
“Why?”
“You don’t want to read what’s on your phone.”
Alarm fills those gorgeous brown eyes and she stands, frozen, like she’s made of wax. Monica’s watching us from her side of the stage, shaking her head, mouth a firm line of carefully painted lipliner. Her anger is justified.
So is Lindsay’s terror.
“They texted me again?” Lindsay gasps.
Can’t lie to her.
“Yes.”
“Are they here?”
“They can’t hurt you.”
“That’s not an answer!” Her voice is shrill, like an air raid siren.
“I don’t know. But we have you covered.”
“Covered?”
“Lindsay.” I reach for her elbows, cradling her trembling bones in my hands. “They. Are. Not.
Going. To. Get. You.”
“...and I couldn’t be the effective senator without my lovely, extraordinary wife, Monica Bosworth!” Harry’s arm sweeps toward Monica in that exact moment. The crowd goes nuts, cheering, as Monica moves with catlike grace across the stage, into Harry’s arms for a carefully rehearsed cheek kiss, followed by a kiss on the lips. Not too racy, but not stodgy.
Just right for national television clips.
“I can’t do this, Drew.” Lindsay’s knees go weak and my hold on her tightens. “I thought I could, but I can’t.”
“You can. You will. It’s one hug with both your parents, ten minutes of standing there with a smile on your face, an arm reach in the air holding hands, and some waving. You can do that.”
“Not with those bastards stalking me.”
“They’re stalking you whether you’re on stage or not. On stage, I can watch you carefully. My team knows about the text by now. We’re all on heightened alert.”
She starts breathing again. I didn’t realize she’d been holding her breath.
“Can’t turn back now. Your dad and mom will gesture to you any minute.”
Her face goes blank.
One long, deep breath. Two. Three. Lindsay transforms before my eyes. She’s still shaking, but now her face gets some color in it again, cheeks pink. She flashes a fake smile at me.
With dead eyes.
“You’re right. This is show time. I’ve spent four years hiding from the world – against my will – and now it’s time to prove to Mom and Daddy that they were wrong.”
“Exactly!” Pride fills me, making it hard not to touch her right now. Public appearances have to be maintained, though.
“And when this is over, you’re helping me to escape.”
“Huh?”
“You said so.” Triumph fills her voice.
“...daughter, Lindsay!” Harry’s giving us a smile that looks so sincere, but under those friendly eyes he’s saying, Get your ass on stage.
Lindsay peels away from me and walks with great confidence into her father’s arms, fluid as a gazelle, graceful and confident. The crowd claps politely, a few catcalls and hollers a bit much.
A quick kiss on Monica’s cheeks and the two women wrap their arms around each other’s waists, staring adoringly at Senator Bosworth, who begins the true speech of the night.
“I stand before you tonight as a proud Californian and a United States senator...”
