“Anywhere,” I said.
She nodded. “Anywhere it is.”
Nitro grinned, put the truck in gear, and peeled out. The city slid by, a mess of sunlight and dirty windows and life going on as if nothing had happened. Carly’s hand found mine, her grip strong. For the first time in a long time, I felt like maybe I could let someone else drive. I glanced at her, then at Nitro, and then at the blur of the world outside.
“Don’t let me down,” I said, not sure who I was talking to.
“Never,” Carly said.
And for once, I believed it.
Chapter sixteen
Carly and Damron
Icleared my throat, mostly for effect. The room stilled. My fingers found the edge of the podium and locked on, bone white, nails perfect and fake but sturdy as hell. The statement was prepared, every word weighed and rehearsed. I read it like a benediction:
“Thank you all for coming. In light of the recent events surrounding my home and campaign, I want to address concerns directly and without equivocation. While I appreciate the assistance provided during a time of personal danger, I want to make it clear that I do not condone or support any illegal activities—by anyone, under any circumstances.” The silence after was thick enough to drown in. I could feel the cameras zooming, drinking in the blush of new bruises barely hidden with makeup, the practiced smile stretched a millimeter too tight.
“Senator, is it true you were taken hostage by the Bloody Scythes?” a woman in the second row blurted, because there’s always one who’d rather be first than right.
“Reports of a hostage situation have been greatly exaggerated,” I said, keeping my tone light. “I was under protective watch. The MC members in question acted in accordance with their own protocols, not mine.”
Someone else, male, nasal: “Do you have any comment on your ex-husband’s involvement in the incident?”
I held the gaze of every camera in the room. “My ex-husband’s actions were his own. I am not responsible for the choices of private citizens, even those with whom I share a complicated history.”
“Complicated?” This from the back, where the opposing views liked to lurk. “Can you clarify your relationship with Mr. St. James?”
The question hung, and for half a second I saw the night before—Damron’s hand on my back, blood on both our shirts, his eyes flat with the kind of loyalty you don’t get in this business. “We are divorced,” I said, a touch more acid than planned. “He is the president of a motorcycle club. I am a sitting Senator. If there were overlap between those roles, you can be sure my opponent would have found it by now.”
The crowd tittered. My campaign manager’s shoulders dropped an inch. I ran through the rest of the statement, dodging landmines about “gang influence” and “the security breach” and “the public’s right to know.” Each answer was a handshake wrapped in barbed wire—just enough truth to pass the sniff test, just enough artifice to keep my throat unslit by morning. When the official Q&A wound down, the real feeding frenzy began. They mobbed the podium, throwing questions like axes:
“Senator, will you comment on reports of physical intimacy with Damron St. James at the hospital?”
“Senator, is it true you personally authorized a retaliatory strike against the Dire Straits MC?”
“Are you now or have you ever been a member of the Bloody Scythes?”
I just smiled, let the flashes wash over me. “I’ll address any further questions through my official press office,” I said, which was code for “kiss my ass and wait for tomorrow’s news cycle.” I turned on my heel, the way they’d trained me—never let them see the limp, never show your back, always leave the room thinking you’re the last one standing. Backstage, Marcy the campaign manager was waiting with a Diet Coke and a fistful of polling data, both of which she tried to force into my hands. “That was… good,” she said, scanning my face for cracks. “Could’ve used more compassion, but the numbers on law and order are through the roof.”
I shrugged. “I don’t do compassion. Not on cue.”
“You need to at least pretend,” she whispered, then glanced at my hands. “Jesus, loosen your grip, you’re cutting off circulation.”
I looked down. The knuckles were white as bone meal. My left ring finger—where the wedding band used to live—was red and raw from tapping the underside of the podium. I flexed my hand, tried to feel the blood return.
“Want me to run interference with the donor calls?” Marcy said, softening her tone as she pressed the soda into my palm.
“No. Let ‘em sweat,” I replied, twisting the can until the pop tab snapped loose. I drained half in one go, feeling it fizz against the edge of my fractured ribs. “They’ll either get over it, or they’ll cut a check to the other guy.”
Marcy nodded, then eyed the corridor where a swarm of interns hovered, ready to scrub the space of any physical evidence I’d ever been there. “Next up is the channel seven sit-down,” she said. “You have forty-three minutes to eat, change, and practice your talking points.”
“Forty-three,” I echoed. “Not forty-four?”
She almost smiled. “You’re better on an empty stomach anyway.”
I grinned. “My secret weapon.”
