Page 62 of Tips and Trysts

I’m such a tool. I’m beyond a John Deere tractor; I’m a whole ass combine.

Brow knotted, Lander glances at my white-knuckled hands. “Are you sure?”

“I’m fine,” I grit, not even bothering to be convincing.

Just then, the bathroom fills with the sound of used and creaky hinges. A man appears in the mirror, and I recognize him immediately: my main opponent, Samuel Forrester.

DC, in the scheme of US politics, is an outlier. The District isn’t one of the fifty states, so it has limited representation in Congress, and up until 1970, DC didn’t even have a representative. Since then, the elected representative has always been from the same party and receives an overwhelming majority vote in the general election. Bottom line: whoever wins the primary is going to win the general election in November. It’s practically a guarantee.

Out of the four of us in the primary, only Samuel Forrester and I have a realistic shot at winning, and Forrester is now staring at me in the mirror.

He nods. I nod back.

Then he goes over to the urinal, unzips, and pees.

Lander and I exchange a look while Samuel hums to himself at the urinal. After a beat, Lander mouths, “What the fuck?”at precisely the moment I identify the song he’s humming: the motherfucking “Battle Hymn of the Republic.”

Samuel stops peeing right when Lander can’t take it anymore and snorts into his fist. He tries to pass it off as a sneeze, but it’s a failure I can only describe as the sound Lander would make if he ever laid an egg.

“Bless you,” I say, shooting Lander a glare.

Now, Samuel is at the next sink and looking at me so fixedly that I’m not sure if he’s trying to intimidate me or ascertain if I’m down to fuck. “You’re Everett Logan.”

“I am.”

“Nice to finally meet you.” He shuts off the faucet. “Samuel Forrester.”

“Evening,” I reply before I pass him one of the paper towels from the stack in front of the mirror.

He grabs another three, staring me dead in the eyes while he does it, and that’s when I realize this asshole knows more about me than he’s letting on.

“Although, we’ve met before,” he goes on, crumpling his paper towels. I’m sure if we listened carefully, we could hear the frustrated wails from the spirits of the trees who died so this man could win a figurative dick measuring contest.

“I don’t recall.”

“You were…ten? Eleven? It was Princeton Reunions. I was the same year as both your fathers.”

Lander stiffens behind me. He’s a recent addition to the “My Father is a Cuntface Club,” but he’s already an active member.

Samuel bobs his chin. “At dinner one night, you wouldn’t eat a thing. Some vegan kick, from what I could tell. Warren looked like he was going to dissolve your trust fund right then andthere.” He lets out a hearty chuckle. “He didn’t though, I take it. You’re still his pride and joy.”

“I don’t remember that,” I lie.

“No? God, he gave you this look,” Samuel goes on, canting his head. “This really serious look. No words. Something in that look made you pick up the hamburger in front of you and eat the entire thing.”

My stomach immediately churns at the memory. It was the last time I ate meat, and I vomited so much that Alyssa ditched the rest of the weekend’s activities to bring me to the Princeton Medical Center to get an IV.

“Does he still look at you like that?” Samuel continues before he drops his pile of paper towels into the trashcan. “I can’t imagine. That was the look of a man who doesn’t take kindly to being embarrassed.” Samuel checks his face in the mirror. “Best of luck out there, son,” he mutters before he breezes out the door.

Lander then faces me, brow knotted. “You barely said a word to him. What’s wrong with you?”

“Come on,” I murmur, heading to the door.

“Ev,” Lander hisses, falling in step with me in the hallway. “You didn’t seriously let that cheap tactic get to you. Everett. Are you good?”

“Do I look good?” I demand before we step back into my prep room.

Dalton is seated in one of the chairs around the conference table, and his brows elevate when we enter. “Shit,” he mutters.

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