by Maggie Wells
She even wore the obscenely expensive Cartier watch to cover the tattoo on her left wrist. Wrapping her thumb and forefinger loosely around the watch, she pressed the clasp into the word inked beneath and drew a deep, reassuring breath. Gerry. She did all this for Gerry, not for her parents. Because Gerry was the one who believed her. The only one who believed in her.
She’d ganked the campaign logo from the website and baked the cookies she wanted to bake anyway. The hours of backbreaking work proved worthwhile when her brother’s handsome face appeared on her phone. True to form, Gerry thanked her for the treats, gushed about how much the staff loved them, then gave her an out on showing her face here tonight.
They weren’t as close as they had once been, but she figured it was to be expected. Kids grow up. Siblings scatter. First one goes off to college, and maybe graduate school. The other spends some time in France, because she has big dreams of shooting for Michelin stars. One gets married and has a kid. In the meantime, there are careers to consider. Gains. Losses. Obligations. Incidents. Accusations. Self-preservation.
“Doing okay?”
Georgie jumped as a hand landed in the small of her back. The table rocked and her drink sloshed, but all the while Gerry stood rock-steady beside her, a smile fixed on his face. His politician’s smile warmed with affection when her big brother turned it on her.
“Sorry. Didn’t mean to make you jump.”
She flashed him a wan smile. “Sorry, don’t mean to be jumpy.”
“No need to apologize,” he assured her. “Never to me.”
Letting her head fall against his shoulder, she sighed. “Thanks, Ger.”
“But he’s coming tonight.” He stared into her eyes worriedly. “I tried to tell Mom no, but there’s no arguing with her on stuff like this.”
Straightening, Georgie imagined her spine to be a steel rod as she drew up to her full sixty-four and three-quarter inches. “I figured he would be here.”
Gerry peered into her eyes. “They wanted me to hire him, Geeg, but I won’t. I wouldn’t. Ever,” he vowed.
Swallowing the lump in her throat, she plucked a piece of invisible lint from his lapel and fiddled with his tie. “Thank you,” she managed to choke out at last.
“No need to thank me.”
Desperate to change the subject, she fixed a smile on her face. “You sounded great. Very mayoral.”
“So I can count on your vote?” he asked with an impish smile.
“Always.” As different as they were, as divergent as their paths were, he’d always been her first and best ally. “I’ll even wear a button and put a sign in the bakery window.” Tilting her head, she pursed her lips. “Except my windows are tinted so no one can see in.”
He chuckled. “I appreciate the thought.”
She brightened as an idea took hold. “I could put one upstairs. Ooh! I could have some kind of sign directing people to come in and meet the other candidates.” She lowered her voice. “Then I show them all the boobs, dicks, and asses.”
Gerry laughed. An actual honest-to-goodness laugh with a head toss and everything. She couldn’t recall the last time she’d heard him cut loose. Gerry himself even seemed startled by the sound. Her heart squeezed in her chest as some nearby guests looked in their direction, their expressions puzzled. The bafflement in the onlookers’ faces made her ache inside. This party was supposed to be for his closest friends and supporters. Hadn’t they ever heard Gerry’s real laugh?
“I love you, sis, but please don’t.”
Smirking, she gave a half-shrug. “Trying to help.”
“I appreciate your willingness.” He smiled and waved to someone over her shoulder. “And I appreciate cookies. Nice round cookies with no resemblance to any body part,” he clarified, piercing her with a look as he backed away. “So anytime you want to send some G-rated materials my way…”
“Gotcha, big bro.”
He raised his eyebrows and leaned in close again. “And if anyone gives you any trouble, I have security people here. They have the wire doohickeys in their ears. Grab one of them and tell them to get me, okay?”
Georgie smirked as she looked her slim, polished brother over from the top of his perfectly barbered head to the understated gleam on his wingtips. “Because you’re going to be better in an altercation than some security gorilla?”
“Because I want to be sure you’re okay.”
Unshed tears clogged her throat and burned behind her eyes, but she wouldn’t let them go. Not when she’d spent so long getting her eye makeup right. “I’m always okay,” she assured him with a wobbly smile. “Now go press the flesh.”
Gerry grimaced. “I hate that expression.”
“Really?” Giving him a wicked grin, she saluted him with her drink. “I love it.”
“Behave,” he warned as he backed off again.
“Never.”
“Always my Georgie,” he said with an affectionate smile. He pecked her on the cheek seconds before a group of well-wishers swallowed him whole.
Happy she’d decided to come, Georgie sighed, shook a few kernels of popcorn loose, and tossed them into her mouth. As she chewed, she scanned the faces milling about the rapidly filling room. She recognized far too many of them. Her father’s cronies had come out of the woodwork. So had her mother’s fair-weather friends. Gerry’s school friends. Easing her weight from foot to foot, she continued to search until she spotted her quarry.
Matthew Mulligan hadn’t changed much. He was still handsome, in a brooding dark Irish sort of way. He carried more weight these days, but the extra bulk wasn’t unappealing. Though he was closing in on the big five-oh, women still eyeballed him when he walked past.
His wife, a former model with cheekbones sharp enough to cut diamonds, was as beautiful as ever. If one found barracudas attractive. A slender blonde a good decade or so younger than the party’s most powerful man, Willow Mulligan never quite forgave her husband for opting to be the power behind the throne. She was, after all, a woman born to be in the spotlight.
Matthew had made a name for himself in Chicago politics by running campaigns for some of Georgie’s father’s most formidable competitors. Tired of fighting against the boy wonder, Gerald Carson had made getting “that Mulligan kid” on staff his mission. When the mayor’s longtime chief of staff had announced his retirement due to health issues, old Gerald’s wish came true.
A street fighter at his core, Mulligan began assembling the ammunition needed to take the longtime mayor out of the running the first day on the job. He bided his time, pocketing favors and amassing favors, all the while playing the devoted and dutiful right-hand man with such commitment they not only failed to see his betrayal coming, they refused to believe he’d turned on them to this day.
They’d refused to believe a brilliant, successful man in his forties would make inappropriate advances on their high-strung and headstrong daughter.
Georgie’s cheeks flamed at the memory. Her father’s birthday. She’d baked him a special cake. A real one, with all the artery-clogging frosting her mother denied him. She’d wanted to leave the box on his desk, so he’d find the cake waiting for him first thing in the morning. Matthew had said no problem when she asked to stop by after hours.
The snick of the lock still echoed in her ears. The imprint of his hand on her ass and his damp palm covering her breast lingered all these years later. Wintergreen. His breath smelled like those god-awful wintergreen lozenges. The barest hint of the scent made her stomach churn now. She’d first caught the scent of danger when she bent over the desk to place the white cake box at the center of the blotter. He’d pinned her there, his dick pressing into the crevice of her ass. He’d said things. Horrible, terrifying things like how he wanted to shove his dick into her sweet mouth and have her suck him off. How he’d fuck her bent over her daddy’s desk. All the ways he wanted to use h
er body. Like she was nothing more than a fucking blow-up doll.
Heat seared her cheeks as she remembered how she’d stood there, frozen by fear and humiliation. She’d let him spew his lewd, lascivious thoughts, unable to move, because this couldn’t possibly be happening. Not for real. Not to her.
When she heard the rasp of a zipper, the freeze-frame jumped into fast-forward. She connected with an elbow first. Flashes of an old Sandra Bullock movie played in her head as she stomped hard on his foot. Unfortunately, she was still wearing her kitchen clogs, having hurried over from the restaurant on her break.
Her hand closed around the sterling silver letter opener her mother had purchased from an estate sale. She swung wildly. The opener caught the sleeve of his shirt. The blade tore a two-inch gash in the fine-spun cotton but drew no blood. Still, she had the element of surprise on her side. He was still gaping at the hole as she ran for the door.
Tears. Hot and salty. Georgie could almost taste them as she watched Matthew Mulligan work the room. The seconds spent trying to disengage the lock on her father’s office door still seemed like an eternity. She’d burst from the office, flew through the anteroom, and barreled down the long hallway leading to the elevator bank. The few dedicated stragglers still working watched in fascination as she passed, but no one moved from their desk. No one but the guy in the last cubicle.
Gerry.
She’d nearly gutted him with the letter opener she held fast in her fist. She was crying. A sobbing, shaking, quivering mess. But Gerry remained cool. Calm. Without missing a beat, he drew her away from the warren of cubicles and into the deserted lobby, demanding to be told what happened. But before she could compose herself enough to say anything, the slap of hard-soled shoes on tile drew his attention.
Matthew Mulligan skidded to a stop mere feet from them, his shirt half-untucked. The L-shaped tear in his shirt sleeve exposing his tanned forearm covered in dark hair. He took in the sight of the letter opener clutched like a dagger in her fist and started the spin.
She came onto me.
Went crazy when I told her no.
Wild.
A married man.
Out of control.
But Gerry looked at her. Only at her.
Georgie would never forget the fury in her brother’s eyes. In a flash of hyperawareness, she saw everything in retina-searing high definition. Her flight, the fight, a scandal on the eve of their father’s birthday, the upcoming election. Gerry. The career he’d been groomed for since birth. A career he actually wanted. Five minutes. Barely five minutes had passed since she walked off the elevator with her father’s birthday cake in hand. She couldn’t let lifetimes’ worth of work be undone in five minutes. Nothing actually happened. She was fine. He hadn’t touched her. Well, no more than any drunk guy in a bar might have tried. And she’d had guys say nasty things to her before. Sticks and stones. Those words could not hurt her. Much. They certainly wouldn’t break her. And she wouldn’t let them break her family.
What a naive fool she’d been.
When Georgie’d dropped the letter opener and grabbed hold of Gerry, she actually thought she was doing the right thing. Maybe, for once, her parents would look at her as something more than their other child. The spare to the heir. They’d see she did care. She begged Gerry not to say anything. To Matthew, to their parents, to anyone. Over and over again, she swore she was fine. Promised nothing bad had happened. Reassured him time and again there was nothing to tell. Matthew was a jerk. She handled herself. She begged him to let the incident go. Don’t upset Mother and Daddy. Don’t make trouble.
The second she was sure she had her brother’s murderous instincts under control, she glared at Matthew and whispered one word, “Resign.”
And he had. Matthew Mulligan had done what she told him to do, but not without pulling Gerald Carson down with him.
* * * *
Mike pulled rank and bumped one of the subcontracted security guys from the spot near the popcorn stand. Chintzy power move or not, he couldn’t take being positioned between the sushi station and the raw bar for one more minute. Speaking discreetly into a hidden microphone, he confirmed his change of position with the others, then refocused on the crowd.
James was out there with them, moving and shaking, which placed him in his element. Mike and Colm were happy to play wallflower at these things. Mike found watching the mini-dramas play out from a distance amusing. The last thing he wanted was to be forced to exchange small talk with strangers.
There was a couple at the pizza station fighting in hissed whispers. Troy, one of their regulars on security detail, had moved closer to the table and pressed the button to activate his mic, broadcasting the fight into the earpieces of the rest of the crew. Apparently, the man had been caught giving some nonverbal dictation to his assistant, but that wasn’t the entertaining part. No, the fight didn’t get truly interesting until the wife mentioned she’d been getting some from good old reliable Shelly as well.
Mike was scanning the room when Troy’s voice broke over the crackling whispers. “One of you single guys needs to get this Shelly girl’s phone number.”
As far as Mike was aware, there were only a handful of guys on the detail who weren’t attached. And one of them was him. There was a momentary pause, which he was about to fill with an order for them to pay attention to their jobs, when another voice piped in.
“Ten-four. All over finding Shelly, big guy,” Darren, a second-year cop who had done a couple of minor jobs moonlighting for them, piped in, his voice cheerful.
“Stand down on Shelly,” he murmured into the mic.
Mike exhaled through his nose as the mic chatter subsided again. Holding a highball glass of iced tea, he stepped away from the popcorn stand and wandered in the general direction of the bar. The crowd was beginning to get thicker as more and more of the city’s illuminati made their appearances. He watched as two women who clearly loathed one another exchanged air kisses.
There was a lot of glad-handing and backslapping. Particularly with the older generation of men. Maybe the ritual was some kind of endurance test. If the slappee could withstand the slapper’s assault, they moved onto the next round or something. Mike smirked as he sidestepped a woman who was gesticulating wildly, a champagne flute in each hand. Perhaps, in round two, the shoulder patting would shift to scissor kicks and takedowns. Taking a sip of his fake scotch, he perused the shifting crowd, wondering if artificial joints would actually be an advantage or disadvantage in ballroom brawling.
Pausing at the edge of the dais, he scanned the room for the candidate. Finding Gerald Carson Jr. wasn’t a difficult task. All one had to do was look for the biggest knot of sycophants. Immediately upon meeting them, the Carson family’s Great Hope insisted they call him Gerry. Born with the usual amount of skepticism when dealing with politicians, Mike had resisted. Always safer to keep their relationship with the client on a more formal basis. But the man of the hour wasn’t on board. Claiming there were already too many Mr. Carsons, he was adamant they should be on first-name terms. And the crazy thing was, the guy seemed to be the real deal.
Mike checked the throng of people surrounding the candidate, but failed to spot anyone who wasn’t beaming at him as if he were Bono, the Dalai Lama, and Tom Hanks all rolled into one. They’d put a female guard on him instead of one of the burlier men. A tactical decision Mike was proud to call his own. He figured any bad guys looking to infiltrate the inner circle would immediately attempt to take out the biggest, toughest-looking dude in the vicinity. While they flailed, Carla, a three-time mixed martial arts champion, would have secured the primary and dispatched any other threats.
But they weren’t expecting anything nearly so dramatic. Chicago politics could get ugly, and, at times, downright distasteful, but seldom violent. The pizza station bickering might be the most action they’d get, which was both good and bad. It was shaping
up to be one long, boring night.
He could be at a party with Georgie.
At a party filled with people who didn’t walk around like they had pokers lodged in their butts. A party where she’d drink too much and lean against him. They’d go home together. Not to his home. He didn’t want to take her to the designer decorated row house he’d bought in a last-ditch attempt to make Laurel happy. He wanted to go to her place. The snug apartment above the bakery where they’d made love so many times. He liked being there. Loved the quirky framed posters on the walls and the fuzzy throw pillows she shoved off the bed to make room for their naked wrestling. Loved every damn minute he spent there. Naked or clothed. But mostly the naked ones. He wished he was tucked in with her.
The music quieted and the gilt-trimmed ballroom was hushed by a few sharp raps against a microphone. A tightly trussed woman who looked to have undergone one too many facelifts beamed a Nicholson-esque grimace out at the assembled guests. Those nearest the stage politely angled their faces toward her. Their expressions ranged from beaming adoration to polite interest, and, finally, exasperated impatience. The last one he spotted on Gerry Carson’s face. Only the briefest flicker of annoyance, quickly covered with an indulgent smile.
Georgie liked to make goofy faces at him. And he lived for those looks. They said she thought he was completely ridiculous, but she liked him anyway. She made him feel good. Everything about her was good. Which made him wonder why the hell he was so reluctant to spend more time with her.
“Excuse me,” the woman murmured into the microphone.
The crowd hushed, but a few rabble-rousers continued to carry on. Much to their emcee’s disapproval. The woman pursed collagen-enhanced lips and waited for the noise to quiet. Struck by the strangest sense of déjà vu, Mike took a step forward onto the parquet dance floor, his attention locked on the woman on the stage. She looked familiar. He tried to place her, but she was hidden half in the shadows.
