Retrieving the detonator from my passenger seat, I check the button that should set everything off.
This is it. The biggest opportunity I’ve had to stop this bill from being passed is literally at my fingertips. It’s always these moments that make me pause and soak it all in. I know these people have families, partners, and children who will mourn them once they’re gone. But there will be rivers of tears when parents and children die from not being able to afford life-saving care.
These people swore an oath to protect the citizens intheir states. And have they? Absolutely not. Their own staff earn a mere sliver of their salary and can barely scrape by.
Like Larry’s receptionist, Willow, who bartends on weekends to make ends meet so she can afford to live a commutable distance and pay her sky-high rent in a slum house she shares with two other roommates.
Then there’s Dennis’ new law clerk, Jalen, who earns only two-thirds of what his white counterparts earn but is probably too afraid to ask for equal compensation.
Ronald’s had a senior scheduler there for over twenty years, but she still only gets two weeks of vacation every year.
Oh, I know all about these people and how they run their offices—let alone their states—with minimal health insurance for everyone else. Tacky emails at Christmas reminding staff that they’re family when they get a box of chocolates instead of a real bonus. Mandatory potlucks where employees are forced to pay out of pocket and use their personal time to make some shitty casserole to feed everyone instead of treating staff to a proper catered lunch.
Meanwhile, the Committee lunches every month at a fucking steakhouse with a sommelier, where side dishes cost extra.
Their employees deserve better. Their constituents, too. And honestly, every one of those old-boy’s-club fuckers deserves so much worse.
The anger of a thousand Congressional aides radiates through my hand as I slam my thumb on the button.
The blast rattles cars, shaking my own windows, and an orange fireball bursts through the restaurant wall. White smoke billows upwards like the announcement of a volcanic eruption—my own Mount Vesuvius, with no survivors.
As onlookers rush out of restaurants and shops, phones whipping out, I pull into the flow of traffic and get the hell out of there. I try to focus on the road ahead of me, but the view in my rearview mirror is spectacular.
The smoke keeps rising, and orange flames lick up at the brilliant blue sky. If this doesn’t stop the Bradshaw Bill, I don’t know what could.
I do, but killing the President is the last thing I want to do. But if I have to, then the President will be next on my list. Even if it means losing Daphne’s trust.
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
DAPHNE
I will never understandwhy Hollywood glamorizes galas. They’re boring as hell between the small talk, the bland hors d'oeuvres, and the string quartet playing lifeless classical music. I’ve been to so many, they blur together, and nothing about this one stands out.
Mom’s manicured claws grip my arm as she tries to drag me to one of the tables.
“Brent’s here,” she hisses with her poised smile. “Go speak with him.”
“I said I’d talk to him tonight,” I remind her. “I didn’t say it would be on your timeline.” Yanking my arm out of her grasp, I stomp in the opposite direction. I didn’t need to even see Brent. My stomach rolled, ready to be sick in the middle of the gala, like my Spidey senses knew there was trouble in that direction.
Mom keeps pace behind me, smiling and nodding at people whom I whiz past without a single glance.
“Donotcause a scene, young lady.”
“Then stop following me, mother.” My cerulean blue dress swishes with my steps, and my silver heels clack overto the bar—the only part of the evening I’m interested in. When Dad throws an event, he doesn’t skimp on champagne.
With a fresh glass of bubbly in hand, I leave my mom to whichever brown-nosing senator’s wife is at the bar and make my rounds. My hopes of finding a friendly face grow dimmer with each step as geriatric senators nod at me with approval that makes me want to flip their whiskey glasses right out of their liver-spotted hands. Wives pout at my cleavage in distaste. Sorry, ladies, but it’s not my fault I was blessed with amazing tits that look phenomenal in a halter.
Honestly, I look like a million dollars tonight. Dressing up in designer dresses and having my hair and makeup professionally done to my tastes are one silver lining of these events.
Someone taps the microphone on stage. “Good evening, ladies and gentlemen.” Everyone freezes like they’re playing red-light-green-light as the MC thanks everyone for attending and donating to Dad’s campaign.
Mom appears at my side like a film noir villain. “I have a surprise for you.”
Shit. I never liked Mom’s surprises.
“Do I want to know?” I ask.
“You’ll find out soon enough.” She smirks like she’s one-upped me.
