“I am aware of how math works, Senator.”
For the first time since we met, I look at him. I mean, really look at him, trying to make sense of his whole…vibe, but instead getting stuck at the gray hairs overtaking the dark brown strands at his temples.
“How old are you?”
A vein pulses in the center of his forehead as he stares at me, giving me the sense that he gets this question for this reason all the time. “Thirty-five.”
“Do you know why my father wanted me to meet you?”
He runs his tongue across his teeth, breaking eye contact to look back out at the sky.
“Perhaps because it is my birthday, and you are a guest at my party.”
My jaw drops. “Holy shit. I’m sorry, Mr.—”
“Gambit,” he supplies, turning his head slowly and offering me his hand, which I take with my mouth agape.
“I thought you didn’t shake hands, Mr. Gambit.”
“With strangers,” he clarifies. “I do not shake hands with strangers, but you and I are not strangers, Senator Taylor. We are very good friends.”
June 3,2015
The goddamn air in this office is broken again.
Beads of sweat roll down my back, soaking into my shirt and making my skin crawl. The fan in the corner spins uselessly, blowing hot air in my direction that causes the edges of the papers I’m reading through to flutter.
I slam my hand down on the stack, trying to stop them from being picked up and carried away but it’s no use. The pages on the top lift up and take off, floating around the room while I watch with resentment simmering in my bones. Not just for the papers, but for the fucked up air conditioning unit connected to the offices at this end of the hall that never seems to function the way it’s supposed to, leaving me and the other junior members of the Senate to freeze in the winter and sweat through multiple sets of clothes in the summer while the bastards with more seniority and notoriety live in the lap of luxury.
Most of all, the resentment is for the woman and child smiling at me from the frame on my desk. Their happy faces mock my suffering, which is ironic considering they’re the cause of it. Their demands for my time and attention devour every morsel of my energy, keeping me from committee assignments that would raise my profile and help me ascend from the hellish ranks of the Cannon House.
A low whistle pierces the silence of my reverie, and I jolt, brows shooting toward my hairline when I see Phineas Gambit standing in my doorway. I’m on my feet in an instant, rushingaround the desk to pick up the pages of the prospectus now scattered all over the floor.
He looks down his nose at me, eerie verdant orbs refusing to hide judgment.
“Sorry,” I mutter, hating that this is his first impression of me after six years. “Please, come in.” I wave him through the door, but he stays put. His hesitation puts the men behind him on high alert. They’re clearly his security. One steps forward, glaring at me over Gambit’s shoulder.
“Is everything alright, sir?”
“Everything is fine, Garrison. I am simply trying to discern if the Senator is well or not.”
His eyes ghost over my brow, and I lift my hand, wiping the sweat away. “I’m not sick. The air condition is just out.”
“Mmm.” When he steps inside, Garrison and the other man try to move with him. He holds up a hand, and they pause. “The room is not big enough for all of us. Garrison, at the door. Woodard, in the hall.”
He snaps his fingers, and they do exactly as he asks.
“Are you waiting for me to give you an order as well, Senator?”
“No.”
“Good. Then please have a seat. I do not want to be inside this dreadful office any longer than I have to.”
Since I feel the same way about the space, I can’t bring myself to be offended. I take a seat behind my desk. “How can I help you, Mr. Gambit?”
“Straight to the point. I like that,” he muses.
“Yes, well, I have a meeting in fifteen minutes.”
