Page 17 of Power Play

I point the lip of the bottle to the TV. “I'll bet you a hundred dollars that woman is a complete fraud, and this scheme she and Birmingham are spinning will fall apart.”

“I'll take that bet. I doubt she's what you're thinking.”

I scoff. Sliding onto the barstool, I lean back against the counter and stretch my arms along the top. “Look at her. No way that woman grew up the way she's saying. Lower middle class, my ass. For fuck’s sake, she went to Harvard. I've never met anyone who wasn't a trust fund baby who went there.”

“You're one to talk about trust fund babies,” he grumbles under his breath.

“They haven't shown anything about this small town she says she's from. Nothing on her background, period. I’m telling you it's all made up to be some sob story. And don't get me going on her and that fucktard Birmingham. Of course they're a couple.” My grip tightens, the sweaty bottle slipping in my palm. “Women like her are the same. Power-hungry users. All of them.”

“Wow.” Shoving from the chair, Tank lumbers over and leans a stocky hip against the counter. “You're one jaded son of a bitch, you know that? Not all women are like—”

“Don't even think about saying her name.” It's bad enough I thought it. I shove the rising anger and regret back into the dark cavern where it belongs.

He raises both hands in surrender. “All I'm saying is you're being fucking judgmental right now. You don't know shit about that woman.”

“I know enough,” I say with a wave of my hand to the TV. “Every news channel is practically screaming that those two are a couple. And considering I’ve never heard of this Randi Sawyer until recently, I'm going with they're in it together. Just another power couple in the making.”

“You can't be serious. Ever heard of the term ‘fake news’?”

“This is different.”

Tank chuckles. “Right.” His back straightens, going on high alert at the shrill of my phone.

“That’ll be the food.” I swipe the screen and press a button, buzzing the kid up. “And listen, I'm not anti-women. I'm just… anti-that.” I say with a nod to the screen. “Someone who will be whatever pawn they need to be to get ahead. And considering I've been up close and personal with women like that my whole life, I know what to look for. That woman is a fucking puppet if I've ever seen one. Look at her. No one looks that good unless they've grown up with money.”

A knock on the door stops my rant. Grumbling under my breath I stride to the door and yank it open.

“Mr. Benson,” the freckle-faced kid squeaks. “Your order from Uncle Wong’s.” Focusing on the receipt, he recites, “A number seven, number six with extra sauce, number three, two number tens, and an order of fried rice.”

I nod, digging into the pocket of my black gym shorts. The kid’s eyes widen at the hundred-dollar bill I slap in his extended hand. Generous, sure, but it’s the smallest bill I have on me.

“Keep the change, kid.” I slide the white plastic bags off his arm, tip my head in a silent goodbye, and let the door shut behind me.

A roaring crowd greets my ears over the rustle of plastic as I organize the various Styrofoam to-go containers along the bar. I swipe my tongue along my lower lip, eyeing the food to choose which to start with. I quickly snag the number three box. My muscles pull and ache as I stretch over the bar, dipping my hand low to reach into the drawer that holds my favorite set of porcelain chopsticks.

Positioning the two together, I shovel three pieces of sauce-covered chicken into my mouth before attempting to chew.

“I think you're wrong.”

I raise my brows in Tank's direction. “Rarely. But what am I wrong about?”

“About that Randi woman. I think you're wrong. There's something about her, the way she carries herself. I think that’s what you're seeing that you think is fake. It's not her background she's faking; it’s the person she's trying to be for the DC dipshits.”

I stare at my friend, lost for words. Maybe he's right. Doubt it, but maybe. Only time will tell, and it doesn't make any difference if she doesn't win.

“I'm surprised you don't love her for kicking that weasel Shawn Whit off Birmingham’s ticket.”

A barely chewed piece of chicken lodges in my throat. Coughing, I pound a fist against my chest to dislodge the bit of food. “What?” I croak out.

Tank’s dark eyes glide from the TV to meet my own. “You didn't know that little tidbit? Rumor has it your favorite girlfriend stealer was the original choice for Birmingham's VP pick, not that Randi lady. Right before they had to file their registration, boom, it's her name instead of Shawn’s. Interesting, right?”

“Very,” I say after chugging half the beer to clear my throat. “Wonder what that's about.”

Tank shrugs. “See, you don't know everything. Don't go tossing out judgments until you hear it from the source is all I'm saying.”

Shawn is as manipulative and underhanded as they come in DC. I would know since we practically grew up together.

I shake off the shiver of apprehension that bolts down my spine. If that Randi Sawyer did knock Shawn off the ticket, she better watch her back. That man will be out for blood if they win. For her sake, I hope it's not true. I know firsthand the joy Shawn gains from watching other people suffer due to his actions. Borderline sociopath if you ask me.

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