I feel like a dickhead. Like a social media influencer who gives a homeless person food but shoves a camera in their face to show the world that they’re a good person.
“Your ticket?” the man repeats as he pockets his tip with a polite but awkward smile.
I hand the slip of paper to the valet, who literally runs off. In minutes, the Porsche pulls up to the front of the White House, and the valet opens the driver’s door before dashing around to open Daphne’s as well.
I walk Daphne around to the other side of the car and offer her a hand as she slips into the passenger seat. She checks that all of the fabric of her sparkly dress is inside before I close the door.
I make the mistake of glancing up. The group of valets istalking to one another, their eyes flicking to me like I’m an animal in a zoo. Yep, I’m one of the rich pricks tonight. Guilt wads like wet paper towels in my stomach as I pull away.
I’m not one of them.
But even with all my money, I’m not Daphne’s equal in this world. I didn’t get the fancy education, the entries to country clubs, the handshakes of the top one percent who can grease palms, stab backs, and break the law without consequence. Even after all my work, I’m still the aimless man hiding behind another mask.
CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT
DAPHNE
Tristan’s lost his mind.We’ve been driving in silence for twenty minutes. Not a single word. He hasn’t even put the radio on. I’d settle for a lame podcast—anything but the deafening silence that’s humming between my ears.
“You’ve been quiet.” My voice amplifies in the car over the purring engine.
“I just…” he pauses. “I didn’t think they’d whip up a new Committee together so quickly.” From the passing car lights and streetlamps, I can see him getting paler. “They’re really going through with it.” Soul-shattering dread blankets his voice.
“I thought you had other ways to stop it with Brent dead.”
Tristan slowly nods. “There are… ways. But I really don’t want to go that way.”
“What way?”
Tristan sighs. “Ways that involve me breaking more promises to you.”
More promises?I’m not sure what he means. Silencelingers until I finally have the nerve to ask, “What promise?”
Tristan runs a hand through his hair before gripping the steering wheel tighter, his knuckles stretched bone-white beneath his skin. “Your dad.”
It all clicks into place. If the Committee doesn’t stop the bill and it passes in the Senate, the President needs to sign it into law. That won’t happen if my dad’s dead. The Vice President is a mouse of a man who wouldn’t upset the American people and risk ruining the chance of running his own full term as President. The bill’s slowly getting traction in the media, and the people learning about it are angry at Congress. Dad publicly says he wouldn’t sign it, but everyone with two brain cells knows he’s lying.
The Vice President has no attachment to the Bradshaw Bill and would be too damn scared of being killed himself to pass it if something happens to Dad. I’m sure VP Wilkinson would stop the bill if he became President.
“Would you do it?” I ask. “Kill my dad?”
Tristan jolts like my question electrocutes him. “I don’t want to talk about it, Daph. It’s been a long night.”
Maybe it’s for the best. Shouldn’t I be more upset at the thought of my boyfriend killing my father? I’m not. I’m not surprised. I’m not upset. Or angry. Or relieved. I’m indifferent, and if this is something Tristan has to do to literally save people, then maybe it’s truly for the best. Evil comes in so many forms, but it’s tragic when its demonic clutches take control of your own parents.
“Fine,” I say. “We’re almost back to my place.” I settle my hand on his thigh. Warmth radiates under my palm, and the luxurious suit fabric is buttery soft. Tristan grounds me like a lightning rod before my thoughts spiral.
He takes my hand in his. The movement triggers his cologne, and the smoky scent of him fills the car.
I don’t want to think about anything else tonight but him. But us.
“Do you want to stay?” I ask. “You know, for a drink or something?”
God, Daphne.Why can’t you have a fraction of a backbone and tell him that you want him to spend the night? Any man with half a brain cell can read between those lines. Men might need smoke signals and skywriting to take a hint sometimes, but every man knows that a woman asking him to spend the night is code for wanting sex.
Or, in my case, I want Tristan to blow my back out and make me come so hard I forget my own name. I don’t just need an orgasm. I need heaven-splitting, star-seeing, there-must-be-a-God-for-anything-to-feel-this-good sex.
“Would you prefer a hotel?” he asks. “I can get us a suite somewhere.”
