I know that all too well.
How in the hell did someone snap that photo of me punching Blaine yesterday?
Anya appears, her face pale, eyes narrowed into glittering blue slits that make it clear I’m not on her list of favorite people.
Not sure I ever was.
“You okay, Lindsay?” she shouts over the grinder, the ever-present folders in her arms, her face lined with exhaustion. Anya’s been part of the background of Harwell Bosworth’s political world for years. And then I remember.
Back in the day – way back, before she came to work for Harry – she worked for Nolan Corning.
“I’m fine,” Lindsay shouts back. “Just trying to talk to Drew.”
“Looks like he’s not cooperating.” She glares at me.
I glare back.
“I’m making her coffee!” I smirk.
Anya’s perfectly manicured finger points to a spot over my shoulder. I turn.
A giant silver carafe full of coffee is on the counter behind me.
Lindsay rolls her eyes.
“I make better coffee than that mud.”
“Hey!” Connie’s offended voice comes up behind me. “That is organic Fair Trade ‘mud’ made from beans produced in a Guatemalan coffee plantation that Mrs. Bosworth has supported for years through her humanitarian efforts.”
“Fired,” Lindsay whispers to herself, blinking hard, looking at me askance.
I cock one eyebrow. “Let’s grab coffee and some privacy.”
“Privacy? Here?” She snags a mug next to the big coffee dispenser and makes a cup, her palms encircling the china, her sigh full of so much stress. Earbuds dangle from around her neck, the little nubs brushing against her nipples outside her t-shirt. She sips, her eyelids down, then she looks up at me.
The sad smile guts me.
“They set me up, Lindsay.”
“I know. And Daddy knows it, but he’s all about winning. Have to keep up appearances.”
“Were you eavesdropping?”
She shakes her head, a wry smile on her lips. “No. I just have the drill memorized. Daddy only has a few plays in his playbook, Drew. And they all revolve around getting elected.”
“You know I’m not what the newspaper – that’s just a bunch of lies.”
“Of course I know that!” A few sips later and she’s pensive. No one interrupts us, but in the background I hear phones ringing, copy machines and printers churning, the muffled busy-ness of a politician who has just declared his candidacy for president.
“You sure?” Every nerve in me is like a candle wick, on fire and burning down the line.
She squares her shoulders, the ear buds dropping, her pony tail bouncing slightly. “Yes. I trust you.” Looking around the room, she takes the chance, stepping into my space. My heat.
My body.
Her hands go to the nape of my neck as she leans in, hot breath against my jaw, and whispers, “I trust you. I know that now. Nothing you do could make me doubt you. Nothing.”
I go cold.
All these years I’ve chased her trust. The relentless pursuit of control over my body, my space, my work, my reputation, has culminated in this moment. I’ve served in combat, killed people, saved lives, nursed wounds, and put my own broken hull of a body and soul back together with duct tape and grit.
The moment I’ve been waiting for is now.
And all I can do is feel a massive wave of guilt.
Because the man Lindsay finally trusts isn’t the person she thinks I am.
Which means she’s trusting a lie.
Marshall walks in, gives us a disgusted look, and addresses Lindsay as she pulls out of my arms and retrieves her coffee.
“Your father needs you for a short briefing.”
“I’m about to go for a run.”
“It’ll have to wait.”
“You don’t control my schedule,” she announces, gulping down the rest of the coffee.
She flounces out of the room like it’s an Olympic event and she’s a gold medalist in Condescension, pointedly going outside for a run.
Leaving me shredded.
Chapter 14
“Drew! Good to see you, though the circumstances sound intense.” Dr. Salma Diamante’s office is California Fresh, with turquoise walls, creamy sandy-colored carpets, and seashell-themed design elements conveying the feel of the beach. It’s serene, stark --
And all too familiar.
“Dr. Diamante.” I sit in my normal spot. Habit. You spend nearly two years coming for once-a-week sessions and you pick a spot that’s safe. You pick the same damn seat every week because that’s one less decision you have to make.
When your mind is like Swiss cheese at the center of a napalm tornado, the less complexity, the better.
“You booked a two-hour session, I see,” she comments, eyes intent, studying me calmly. Her body language is relaxed.
She has all the time in the world.
Good. She’ll need it for my problem.
“Yes. Figured I’d get it all out of the way in two hours and then I won’t have to come back.”