Page 21 of Tips and Trysts

My heart is racing, and I don’t try to hide my grin. Finally, we’re going to—

No. Fuck me.

Even when the figures are distant shapes through the blinds, I know exactly what’s happening. I quicken my step.

My father is here—and he brought a photographer.

Seven

CORA

“Out,” Everett orders themoment he enters my hospital room.

If I weren’t on codeine, I would probably suppress the surge of thrill rising in my stomach, but as it is, I’m loopy as hell.

I stare. I stare shamelessly.

Everett’s button-down shirt is gone, his white undershirt is untucked, and the look in his bloodshot eyes is that of a man who has drifted out of second-degree murder territory and is fully prepared to commit murder in the first degree.

“Son,” Governor Logan exclaims, beaming at Everett and bearing an uncanny resemblance to my mother passing out copies of my report cards to her friends at church. He holds out both arms. “There you are.”

Governor Warren E. Logan the Third is too handsome to be trustworthy, but not handsome enough to distract from his untrustworthiness. Like Everett, he’s tall with a head of thick, dark hair, bright green eyes, and cheekbones that could make waves on a runway. The similarities stop there though. There’sa poise to Everett—an effortless aura of regality surely honed during countless cotillions or a past life as one of the aristocrats whose bullshit inspired the French Revolution. Conversely, the governor looks solid. He takes up space because he’s big and vivacious, unlike Everett who takes up space purely because he’s attractive. He lacks Everett’s indifference. His aloofness. The ice in his motherfucking veins. The governor’s handsomeness looks manufactured, like someone polished his gilding to its brassy under layers. He’s still charming, nevertheless.

Everett doesn’t even acknowledge his father’s outstretched arms. “Get rid of the photographer,” he directs while scattering a comically large pile of sour candies onto a nearby counter. “You can’t be serious. She’s in recovery.”

“Everett—” the governor objects, clearly alarmed, but Everett isn’t listening.

He takes the camera from the photographer and deftly unclips pieces of it with the familiarity of a mob boss dismantling a gun. He pulls out the memory card, wiggles it in the air, and slides it into his pants pocket.

“This is over—” he begins but stops abruptly in the middle of his sentence while looking between his father, the photographer, and this random blond woman who didn’t bother introducing herself when the trio stampeded into my room five minutes ago.

“Perhaps we owe Maxwell an apology for disassembling his camera.” Governor Logan takes a step forward. “Wouldn’t that be proper, Everett?”

Unblinking, Everett folds his lips over his teeth. He inhales. Exhales. “My apologies, Maxwell,” he finally says, dipping his chin. “You can bill the account for any damages.”

Satisfied, Governor Logan layers a smile that doesn’t reach his eyes. “Good boy,” he says before clapping his hand on Everett’s shoulder and squeezing.

Everett glances at the hand on his shoulder before his eyes rise to meet his father’s. “You shouldn’t be here right now. She needs…” He looks at me. “Tell me what you need. Do you want them gone?”

My jaw slackens. “You’re askingmeif you should kick out your father?”

“You need to recover,” he explains, advancing closer to my bed. The closer he gets, the more his expression hardens. His gaze flickers over me, and he starts shaking his head. “If you hadn’t been so—”

My good hand shoots up like it’s trying to break the sound barrier. “You better cut the shit right there. I know you’re about to criticize me for risking my life, and I’m not going to sit through a lecture.”

“But—”

“Was I supposed to let youdie?”

Everett frowns before he looks at his father and his entourage. “I need a minute alone with her.”

Governor Logan’s features stop tensing, but they’re obviously not relaxed. It’s like he knows what a relaxed face looks like and is doing a startlingly convincing impression of one. “Fine,” he murmurs. “We’ll be around the corner. We’ll come back—”

“No pictures,” Everett interjects, but he quickly pauses and clears his throat. “Please.”

“Everett,” the governor says, chuckling lightly. “Be reasonable. Bestrategic. Voters are—”

“I don’t care about voters,” Everett grits out.

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