Page 38 of The Finish Line

“It’s a long story.”

“Do I know it?”

“Intimately and from afar.”

“King, you fucking idiot,” I mutter. I’ve flipped through the book once or twice out of curiosity, but the character names never stuck. I was too absorbed in Cecelia to see the bigger picture of what the book meant, and all these years later, I’m still as clueless.

She named her café after the lead character of The Thorn Birds, the story closest to her heart. Her thieving this book from the Triple Falls Library is one of the reasons we exist. It’s obvious she compares herself to Meggie and our own story to the one inside the pages. I’ll memorize the fucking thing if it means so much to her. But for now, I’m coming up blank on how to proceed.

This is my first time on the board without a strategy, and right now, she’s resuming her life like I’m some obstacle she has to work herself around. She’d left me here this morning, purposefully, so I couldn’t be more of a distraction.

Frustrated, I head into her bathroom and open her medicine cabinet, satisfied when I see her birth control.

That’s a discussion for a different day. I grab the bottle of lotion sitting next to it, uncap it and inhale.

Immediately I’m hit with the familiarity and one of the triggers of my addiction to her, her scent. Reading the label, it dawns on me why.

Juniper Berry.

No wonder I’m addicted to her smell. I drink the contents of her scent nightly. In. My. Fucking. Gin.

“Well played, queen,” I muse, capping her lotion and closing the cabinet.

Rummaging through her drawers, I realize I’m in full-fledged stalker mode with no idea what I’m searching for. Insight? Some sort of aid to help me in winning her back? Frustrated, I slam them shut, knowing I’m not going to find what I need counting her fucking Q-tips. My phone rumbles in my pocket with a text, and I’m thankful for the distraction.

Tyler: Incoming.

The phone rings in my hand a minute later, and I answer on the second, “Tobias.”

“Had to make sure I knew my place picking up after two rings, huh?”

“Good afternoon, Mr. President. How’s the big White House treating you?”

“The bed is very comfortable, Mr. King,” he fires back in the same jovial tone. “I’ve been meaning to call you to thank you for all your help and for your contributions to the campaign.”

“I consider it money well spent. We seem to agree on a lot of policy and change.”

“That’s another reason for my call. I wanted to assure you that I’ll work tirelessly and have the country’s best interests at heart.”

“No doubt you do, sir.”

He cuts the shit. “Been a long time since prep, hasn’t it, King?”

“Too long. I’m surprised you remember me. You were only there one semester.”

It’s a lie. Not his time at prep, but the acquaintance-only aspect of our conversation. Someone is always listening, and we’re not taking any chances. From the second we stepped into that breakfast café twenty years ago, both slightly hungover and eager for grease in our bellies, we got personal due to a newly formed trust and respect.

For the first time, I trusted an outsider with my plans for Roman, and he shared his aspirations as well. And together we strategized our own agenda, and together, we carried it out to the fucking letter.

Little did I know, we would become the greatest of allies. Upon hearing his aspirations, I knew he was the perfect candidate for an underdog President. Orphaned, but from good breeding, insanely wealthy, good-looking, but someone who could control his dick and treat girls with respect, even behind closed doors. He was one of the first of my major recruits and a damn good decision on my part. My financial backing to his campaign was ironic and brought us full circle.

His ink is there—though it’s invisible—and he’s one of the founding fathers of the brotherhood, now sitting in the most powerful seat in the world.

“Molly wanted me to extend an invitation to dinner.”

“Someday soon, I’ll take you up on that.” We agreed early on that the association between us needs to stay formal until we have the bulk of our work out of the way—or unless there’s an emergency. My contributions to his campaign and our months at the same prep school for one semester our only visible tie. He’s one of the only decent men in power, and we have too much to accomplish in the next seven years for our association to taint him—should I ever get prosecuted for my crimes.

Preston Monroe doesn’t need micro-managing, and Tyler has been preparing for this since he joined the Marines.

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