Page 28 of Royal Bargain
The name rings a bell. No idea why. Some district deal I must’ve missed in the weekly briefings? Maybe something the logistics team handled behind the scenes.
I glance at Burns, who’s already laughing with one of the finance guys. If it was something shady, he sure as hell isn’t sweating it now.
I take a sip of my drink, forcing the unease down. There’s always backdoor shit in politics. Deals I don’t hear about, things that happen above my paygrade.
As long as the numbers are good, what does it matter, right?
The conversation turns toward strategy again, campaign staffers gathered around a cluttered whiteboard, marker scrawls half-erased and overlapping from weeks of long nights and caffeine-fueled brainstorms.
“We’re killing it in Harborview and Eastgate,” someone says. “Even Southbridge flipped in the last internal poll. But Ashtown’s still hanging tight for O’Rourke.”
Burns exhales sharply through his nose and shoots me a look. “Thoughts, Brannagan?”
I shrug. “Ashtown’s always been a tough nut. Blue-collar, tight community. Lotta pride. They don’t take well to polished suits or flashy promises. They want to know you’ve got skin in the game.”
Burns rubs his chin, then smirks. “Well, most of 'em work the steel mill, right? Young guys, mostly? Start handing out coupons for free beers to vote for me, and I’ll have their support overnight.”
There’s a beat of stunned silence.
Then laughter erupts around the table.
“That's actually kind of brilliant,” someone chimes in, clearly not joking.
“Hook 'em with the drink, reel 'em in with a strong speech,” another says.
Burns grins wide and raises his glass. “I’m only half-kidding, but hell, if it works…”
I laugh along with the others, but it sounds hollow to my own ears.
It’s a joke—isn’t it? Except no one’s saying no. No one’s calling it bribery. They’re tossing out slogans now. Designing faux beer labels in their heads. "Raise a glass for Burns!"
I glance around the room, the laughter loud, the clinking of glasses ringing off the campaign walls.
I clear my throat. “We don’t need to do all that,” I say, pitching my voice just above the buzz. “We’ve got the numbers. If the data’s right, we’re ahead in almost every district that counts. No reason to play games in Ashtown.”
The laughter dips for a second—just a second.
Burns waves a hand, still smiling like I just told a charming story at dinner. “Of course not, Liam. Christ, it was a joke.”
He claps me on the back, firm. “Everyone’s clearly just having a laugh. No one’s actually suggesting we bribe voters with beer. That’d be insane.”
The chuckles resume. Someone makes a crack about campaign kegs and the room starts humming again.
But the moment clings to me like smoke.
Was it a joke? I mean… it had to be, right? No one’s that blatant. And Burns is too smart to suggest something illegal with a dozen ears listening. I must’ve just missed the tone. Maybe I’m tired. Maybe I don’t know how to laugh with the suits yet.
Still, it settles wrong in my gut. Like stepping onto a stair that isn’t there.
The noise is starting to get to me—buzzing in my ears like static—so I slip down the hallway, past the wall of campaign photos and half-peeling posters. I find a quiet corner near the back offices and duck into one of the breakrooms, closing the door behind me with a soft click.
I’ve never been one for big crowds or loud parties and it’s been tough getting used to mingling like this all the time as Burns’s campaign manager.
It’s dim in the break room, just a flickering fluorescent above and the hum of the fridge. Someone left a coffee mug in the sink with half-dried creamer at the bottom. I lean against the counter and fish my phone out of my pocket, half-expecting some crisis from Ana already.
Nothing. Just the old threads.
One from Rory, months ago.“You’re better than you think. Just stop proving everyone wrong and start proving yourself right.”
