Little waves ripple along the surface of my coffee, my hands trembling in anticipation. I lift it to my lips, take a scalding sip, and then lean forward, setting it on the table.
Should I find a coaster or something?
I swipe both damp palms down my gray slacks. “Great, so what do you need from me? Birth certificate and proof of residency are two that come to mind that are required for eligibility.”
An older, balding man slides a manila folder across the table. “We need several items to complete the submission process.” I stop its path before it tips to the floor. “The list is in there, along with several forms that you must sign.”
“Great.” Not great. So not great right now. Maybe it’s not too late to back out. What the hell was I thinking! I can’t do this, help run a fucking country. Maybe if I avoid eye contact and make a break for the exit, they’ll forget I was ever here.
“I asked my attorneys to draw up an agreement detailing everything we discussed. That is also in there,” Kyle says, nodding to the folder in my hands.
My eyes flick to the door. If I back out now, what is there to go home to?
Just breathe, Randi. Deep inhale and slow exhale.
“Moving on to your cover story.”
My brows draw together. “Cover story? I thought you wanted me because of my background, not despite it.”
He nods, steepling two fingers beneath his dimpled chin. “With you switching from my wife to filling the vice president slot, we only need select portions of your background known, not everything.”
“I don't understand.” I shake my head and glance around the room, hoping someone will fill in the missing pieces.
“He means they need you poor, but not the poor white trash you are.”
“Fuck you,” I grit out to the man smirking against the sideboard. Knew he was an asshole the moment I laid eyes on him in the hallway. “Who the hell are you, anyway?”
“Shawn Whit,” Kyle says with a tight smile. “Shawn’s blunt but correct. We've decided to embellish your backstory so it's not so fucking depressing. No one would believe some low-rent trailer trash would be effective in the VP seat.”
I relax, sinking farther into the seat. I’m not mad—I’m relieved. The thought of the whole world knowing everything added more pressure to the already crushing weight resting on my shoulders.
“I can see that angle. What are you suggesting we change?”
“We keep your loser mother out of the press. Instead we give the media a softer version of your story, a version we can spin to appeal to the voters.”
“Sounds like a back-ass way of saying you want to lie to the voters.”
No surprise that he ignores the accurate comment. “It will take a lot of maneuvering inducements—”
“Bribes. It's called a bribe, which is illegal,” I interject.
“—but we'll make sure only the parts we want of your backstory make it to the press. If we feed them the information, they'll never bother digging to verify the facts.”
“Now that I believe,” I mutter. Leaning forward, I grasp the warm mug and take a long drink. I savor the warmth the liquid ignites down my throat, the smooth flavor unlike anything I’ve ever had. Bet it’s laced with diamond dust or gold flecks. “I don't think it’ll work, but you're the one in charge of this evil plot.”
“I'll get the basic points of your improved background that you'll need to memorize before we hit the campaign trail. Also, to keep the media busy, the campaign will lead the press to believe we’re romantically involved. Those idiots thrive on a good love story, a rags-to-riches sob story. Plus, it will give you a small foothold in the DC social scene if you’re linked to me and my family name. If they think we’re together maybe a few key circles will accept you, but it’s a long shot. Now the next step, making you look the part.”
I sink deep into the soft cushion, hoping it can swallow me whole. Every eye in the room zeros in, scanning me from head to toe, scrutinizing very inch.
“Hair, obviously,” says the woman. For the first time since I entered the room, her attention focuses on me instead of the phone glued to her hands. “A few chemical peels can improve her skin tone.” Yikes. Didn't realize it was that bad. “Botox around the forehead and eyes to make her appear less worn.” I'd be pissed if I didn't agree with her assessment. “Lip injections, fast-track Invisalign, plus several whitening treatments.”
Hell, maybe Ben is right. I am haggard. All that sounds not only expensive but painful. Not that they would have any sympathy to my plight.
“Is there enough time to make her believable?” Kyle asks. He leans back in the chair, blue eyes still assessing. “We only have two months until the convention.”
The woman's blonde hair swishes along her collarbone. Everything about her is perfectly placed. Not a single wrinkle mars her crisp suit, and her makeup is dewy in all the right places, giving off a refreshed look. Unease rolls in my gut. I shift my focus from her to the table, unable to take her disapproving scowl any longer.
“It won't be perfect, though a vast improvement from the distressed appearance she has now. We can continue the various treatments through the campaign as well. At that point the changes will be gradual. No one will take notice.”
“Add in some etiquette classes.” Shawn smirks. “I bet she eats with her fucking toes.”
My nose and lips tug in a sneer. The earlier embarrassment vaporizes, red-hot anger blasting through my veins instead. “Fuck you.” Palms pressed to the leather, I pitch forward, ready to tackle the asshole.
Shawn chuckles, glass clicking along the sideboard as he stands from his perch on the edge. “You've said that already. If you keep it up, I'll take you up on it. After the improvements, obviously.”
“Great. So that settles it.” Kyle's fingers dig into the cushioned arms of the chair. Standing, he straightens his navy pin-striped suit coat. “Shawn will be our advisor through the campaign.” He gestures to the narcissist whose death I'm already mentally plotting. “What he says goes, just the same as me. You will do everything we tell you, or this contract will not only be voided, preventing any future payments from the Birmingham trust, but we will also pursue legal action against you, demanding repayment of every cent we've paid out to that point.”
The blood drains from my face. “What?” I gasp.
“This guarantees your cooperation,” Kyle says with a haughty chuckle. “We hold the cards, not you. Get used to it and maybe you'll survive this with minimal damage.”
My mouth gapes, my coffee forgotten between my hands, as Kyle, the woman, and the four men file out of the room.
Nausea rolls as fear coils in my gut. Real fear. I've had tough times, had to get myself out of difficult situations, but this is different. I'm in over my head, way over my head, with no one on my side. These men are ruthless. I suspected this town is run by men like this, but when the evil and manipulation stare you in the eye, ripping through your soul, it's like a backhand to the face.
“Hey, Trailer.” Slowly I lift my unfocused gaze to Shawn. Shoulder against the doorframe, dark eyes glinting in the overhead lights, the evil rolls off him, filling the room. “You're mine, puppet. Let the fun begin.”
Chapter Five
Trey
January
“It's open,” I shout over my shoulder, eyes glued to the live debate on TV. Heavy footsteps thump closer as the person moves from the front door deeper into my condo. Tipping the near-empty beer bottle back, I flick my gaze to Tank as he falls into one of the five leather recliners stationed around the TV.
“Game's on,” he grunts as he rearranges in an attempt to sink deeper into the soft leather. “Why are you watching this shit?”
Hitting the Mute button, I keep my eyes on the screen.
“Can you believe this?” I point the remote at the television, where a man and woman debate back and forth. “This candidate and the bullshit platform she's taking. No doubt she's lying through her perfect teeth, and the
general public is fucking buying it. People are idiots if they believe someone like her is any different than the rest of the corrupt fucks running for office.”
“Then turn it off.” Tank’s eyes slide shut. “When's the food getting here? I'm fucking starving.”
“Second dinner?”
“Damn straight,” he grunts. “That health crap Sarah forces us to eat isn't enough. Look at me.” He waves up and down his massive body. “This tank don't run on fucking kale. I swear that woman’s trying to kill me. I love my wife, but damn, give me the meats.”
I smirk and shake my head. With a groan of my own, I shove from the recliner and amble to the kitchen. Head deep in the fridge, I shout, “That wife of yours is deadly in her own right; she doesn't need to kill you by starvation.” The door rattles, beer bottles clanking together. I pinch my lips, letting out a short, high-pitched whistle. “You want a beer?”
A deep chuckle vibrates through the condo. “Hell no.” He lifts his tight T-shirt up his chest, displaying the rippled six-pack he's so proud of. “With a body like this, I don't waste calories on beer.”
I pop the cap on the bottle and toss it into the trash. I’m not worried about my figure. No one’s warming my bed at night; no need to put in the hours at the gym to stay chiseled. The cold white marble digs into my side as I lean against it. “I know you’re just saving those precious calories for your other addiction.”
The man is the purest definition of a badass, yet he has a soft spot for one delicious treat.
Chocolate.
What can I say? My best friend has many strange quirks; that’s just one of many. Not that I can judge, since I have plenty of my own. We balance each other. He's calm to my knee-jerk reactions. I'm the crazy offsetting his boring ass. At the academy we hated each other, mostly due to our equally fierce competitive spirits. We both strived to be first in everything, but in the end, we recognized we were more successful as a team rather than fighting each other. He’s been my best friend ever since. The only real, honest man in this damn city.
I turn my attention back to the debate. My eyes narrow at the woman on the screen. She’s beautiful, no doubt about that. Everything about her is perfect, from her dark, silky, full hair to the flawless makeup and St. John's suit. It's not her perfection I don't like, it’s her type. The woman on the screen is the same as every other woman in this city. Beautiful, smart, the perfect arm candy for an up-and-coming politician. I know her kind—Mom. Fucked her kind—way too many to name. Fell for her kind—She Who Must Not Be Named. I'm over it. Over them, their agendas, the backstabbing and manipulating. Done.
This is my life, and I will live it the way I want, no matter the consequences.
“What's up your ass?” Tank questions. “You look like you have gas or something.”
I loosen my lips softening the snarl and roll my shoulders to drop them from my ears.
“Her. I've known enough of her kind. No way in hell can I be around someone like that all day every day. What will we do if they win the primary and we're on her protection detail? Can you imagine the fucking drama that surrounds someone like her?”
“Our job doesn't change just because she's a woman. Makes it a little more challenging, but it’s still a job nonetheless. It wouldn't be a problem if we were still on the VP’s alpha team.”
“That old fuckstick was asking for it and you know it.” Of course he's still stuck on my fuckup from last year. I've gotten over it, somewhat. It's been a fun vacation, if you enjoy zero true responsibility and daily paper shuffling.
Who am I kidding? It’s terrible. These past several months sitting idle have turned me bitter.
Didn't life used to be fun? Fun was before the demotion, before I realized Rachel was using me, before Mom and Dad threw down their ultimatum.
I point the lip of the bottle to the TV. “I'll bet you a hundred dollars that woman is a complete fraud, and this scheme she and Birmingham are spinning will fall apart.”
“I'll take that bet. I doubt she's what you're thinking.”
I scoff. Sliding onto the barstool, I lean back against the counter and stretch my arms along the top. “Look at her. No way that woman grew up the way she's saying. Lower middle class, my ass. For fuck’s sake, she went to Harvard. I've never met anyone who wasn't a trust fund baby who went there.”
“You're one to talk about trust fund babies,” he grumbles under his breath.
“They haven't shown anything about this small town she says she's from. Nothing on her background, period. I’m telling you it's all made up to be some sob story. And don't get me going on her and that fucktard Birmingham. Of course they're a couple.” My grip tightens, the sweaty bottle slipping in my palm. “Women like her are the same. Power-hungry users. All of them.”
“Wow.” Shoving from the chair, Tank lumbers over and leans a stocky hip against the counter. “You're one jaded son of a bitch, you know that? Not all women are like—”
“Don't even think about saying her name.” It's bad enough I thought it. I shove the rising anger and regret back into the dark cavern where it belongs.
He raises both hands in surrender. “All I'm saying is you're being fucking judgmental right now. You don't know shit about that woman.”
“I know enough,” I say with a wave of my hand to the TV. “Every news channel is practically screaming that those two are a couple. And considering I’ve never heard of this Randi Sawyer until recently, I'm going with they're in it together. Just another power couple in the making.”
“You can't be serious. Ever heard of the term ‘fake news’?”
“This is different.”
Tank chuckles. “Right.” His back straightens, going on high alert at the shrill of my phone.
“That’ll be the food.” I swipe the screen and press a button, buzzing the kid up. “And listen, I'm not anti-women. I'm just… anti-that.” I say with a nod to the screen. “Someone who will be whatever pawn they need to be to get ahead. And considering I've been up close and personal with women like that my whole life, I know what to look for. That woman is a fucking puppet if I've ever seen one. Look at her. No one looks that good unless they've grown up with money.”
A knock on the door stops my rant. Grumbling under my breath I stride to the door and yank it open.
“Mr. Benson,” the freckle-faced kid squeaks. “Your order from Uncle Wong’s.” Focusing on the receipt, he recites, “A number seven, number six with extra sauce, number three, two number tens, and an order of fried rice.”
I nod, digging into the pocket of my black gym shorts. The kid’s eyes widen at the hundred-dollar bill I slap in his extended hand. Generous, sure, but it’s the smallest bill I have on me.
“Keep the change, kid.” I slide the white plastic bags off his arm, tip my head in a silent goodbye, and let the door shut behind me.
A roaring crowd greets my ears over the rustle of plastic as I organize the various Styrofoam to-go containers along the bar. I swipe my tongue along my lower lip, eyeing the food to choose which to start with. I quickly snag the number three box. My muscles pull and ache as I stretch over the bar, dipping my hand low to reach into the drawer that holds my favorite set of porcelain chopsticks.
Positioning the two together, I shovel three pieces of sauce-covered chicken into my mouth before attempting to chew.
“I think you're wrong.”
I raise my brows in Tank's direction. “Rarely. But what am I wrong about?”
“About that Randi woman. I think you're wrong. There's something about her, the way she carries herself. I think that’s what you're seeing that you think is fake. It's not her background she's faking; it’s the person she's trying to be for the DC dipshits.”
I stare at my friend, lost for words. Maybe he's right. Doubt it, but maybe. Only time will tell, and it doesn't make any difference if she doesn't win.
“I'm surprised you don't love her for kicking that weasel Shawn Whit off Birmingham’s ticket.”
; A barely chewed piece of chicken lodges in my throat. Coughing, I pound a fist against my chest to dislodge the bit of food. “What?” I croak out.
Tank’s dark eyes glide from the TV to meet my own. “You didn't know that little tidbit? Rumor has it your favorite girlfriend stealer was the original choice for Birmingham's VP pick, not that Randi lady. Right before they had to file their registration, boom, it's her name instead of Shawn’s. Interesting, right?”
“Very,” I say after chugging half the beer to clear my throat. “Wonder what that's about.”
Tank shrugs. “See, you don't know everything. Don't go tossing out judgments until you hear it from the source is all I'm saying.”
Shawn is as manipulative and underhanded as they come in DC. I would know since we practically grew up together.
I shake off the shiver of apprehension that bolts down my spine. If that Randi Sawyer did knock Shawn off the ticket, she better watch her back. That man will be out for blood if they win. For her sake, I hope it's not true. I know firsthand the joy Shawn gains from watching other people suffer due to his actions. Borderline sociopath if you ask me.
I stare at the congealed sauce at the bottom of the container. Maybe Tank’s right. Maybe I am jaded. I’m just over this city and the phonies in it. Everyone doing whatever they can to get ahead. Using, manipulating, lying—nothing is off the table.
After everything I've seen growing up in this fake-ass political circus, how could I not be jaded? This past year hasn’t been a breeze either. Is this a good way to live, this bitter version of myself? No, but if I keep my guard up, no one will make me a fool again.
“Yeah,” I mutter. Turning, I gaze out the wall of floor-to-ceiling windows, marveling at the soft glow of the Capitol Building. “Doubtful, but maybe. Let's just hope they don't win.”
Power Play: Power Play Series Book 1 Page 5
