Page 9 of Power Play

“All expenses paid by the Birmingham trust. Plus a monthly allowance.”

“Allowance,” I seethe. “I'll show you where you can shove your allowance, you asshat.”

“Ten grand a month.”

“Oh, well, uh,” I stammer. Shit, that’s a lot of money. But again, what’s the cost? He's conveniently only covered the perks of the 'help' he needs. “For what, Birmingham? My soul?”

Kyle's chest rumbles, a deep chuckle vibrating through the office. “Basically. All this for your help during the campaign and after.”

“After?” I hold a breath. I swear a suspenseful score plays somewhere in the background.

“While I'm president.”

I swipe my tongue across my dry lower lip. “And I'm… I'm what? Your advisor on how not to be a conniving, greedy asshole? Not sure there's hope for accomplishing that.”

My stomach sinks at the Cheshire grin spreading across his flawless face. Apprehension builds, but no matter what he says, I can’t turn down what he’s offering. It’s a new life. A chance to get Taeler out of this town, to show everyone I can break the cycle.

“No, Walmart. My wife.”

Well, except that.

“But I hate you,” I respond, each word slow in case he somehow forgot our feud. “And you hate me. Hell, we can't be in the same room without plotting the other’s slow death.”

Or maybe that’s just me. My imagination does tend to lean toward violence.

“Moot point.” He shoves both hands into the pockets of his expensive slacks that accentuate his figure. “Most married couples hate each other, but it doesn't matter. I'm talking about you as my pawn, not someone I love.” He snorts with one more condescending look up and down. “This offer will change your pathetic excuse for a life. Think about never having to worry about money again, about the opportunities that will be available after the four years. Don't think short term, think about your life, about your daughter’s. You want her to grow up piss-ass poor with zero hope of ever rising above the lower middle class, just like her mom, because you’re too self-righteous to accept a simple proposal?”

“You asshole,” I manage through gritted teeth. Fuck, I hate him. “I know what's on the line. You don't need to remind me of my shitty-ass life.” Breaking from his stare, I glance out the window. My chest expands, lungs filling with a deep calming breath to ease the resentment and anger clouding my thoughts.

“Your daughter applied to several colleges and was accepted to a few, yet she hasn't committed to one.”

A sharp breath catches in my chest. “How do you know that?”

He waves a perfectly manicured hand in dismissal. “We’ll pay for her college too, along with expenses and housing to ensure your… continued cooperation through the campaign and after if—no,whenI win.”

Hell, that's a lot of money in and of itself. Not to mention all the other perks.

“Why?” I blurt. “What can I do as your wife? What does that change for you in the campaign?”

“It eases my image. The people will see I understand their plight, have a voice in my ear from their perspective. With your background, people will eat up the rags-to-riches story you’ll tell them. It’ll be like saving an injured animal. People will fucking love me.”

Oh hell.

He’s serious.

But….

The biggest question is, can I do it? Be with him every day, playing pretend wife, all while I hope he dies of a heart attack with no one around to help him? And toss in lying to the American people about Kyle’s true self daily, using my shitty history as a talking point in the campaign.

Can I live with being his pawn?

Chapter Three

Randi

“Jack on the rocks.” Exhaustion slurs my words. I slide onto an empty barstool and hold up two fingers to the expecting bartender. “And keep them coming.”

This bar is exactly what I need. The other patrons are clustered together in their own booths, leaving the bar entirely empty. It’s a local place that used to be busy until the Chili’s opened up down the road last year. Now most nights it’s like this, a few customers and the lone bartender. It’s not updated, but it has stools, booths, and alcohol—all the things a bar needs. Sure, the floors are constantly sticky, the lights are dim, and dust puffs up when you sit on a booth bench, but the happy hour is phenomenal.

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