“Graves has use for his … services.” He rests an elbow on the table and points to the paper. “We’ve had more trouble out of this Reeves journalist than we’re comfortable with.”
I roll my eyes. Vaughan: the solution to all their problems. I don’t envy him, although I’m fairly certain he enjoys his job.
Piper Reeves isn’t the first reporter to sniff around EV, growing closer to the idea there’s a secret society underground in Chicago, and she won’t be the last. Though her articles are somewhat interesting. Investigative, that is.
The scent of seared steak, truffle oil, and citrus drifts through the air, and my stomach growls. I haven’t eaten anything since last night, as my morning was packed full of meetings andpaperwork at my office. I don’t have time to be here, and even though my grandfather has had this job and knows the demand, he’d never accept me canceling lunch.
The waitress returns with my grandfather’s drink and takes his order while I point to my usual. Her flirtatious demeanor evaporates when my grandfather snaps at her for not asking how he wants his steak cooked fast enough, and she leaves the table on the verge of tears.
“You’ve been staying at your lake house more often. Is that where you’re taking your bids?”
It shouldn’t surprise me; he’s had me followed since the day he assumed full custody of me as a child, but still a sliver of unease slithers through me at his words. I clench my jaw and grind my back molars to keep my expression unreactive.
There’s no point in denying what he already knows, so I nod.
He sighs and shakes his head. “Wouldn’t kill you toactuallyanswer. Do you talk to them while you have them in bed? Do you moan with your hands on them?”
My lip curls involuntarily, and my grandfather chuckles aloud, happy with his ability to goad me. We’ve never had a typical grandfather-grandson relationship. People assume I was groomed for politics the usual way—private education, polished speeches, legacy handshakes—and I was. But I was also raised by a man who stripped me of any childhood he felt would make me weak. He’d rip the books from my hands and shove amanila folder full of secretsin their place, telling me I needed to learn how the world really worked.
He believed in control.
There came a point when nothing I said mattered. The Eight twisted the platform I ran on to serve their own deals, and I finally saw through my grandfather’s motivations. He hadn’t made me a leader to make a difference. He’d made a mirror to carry on his name.
Our food finally comes, and my grandfather offers the waitress another backhanded compliment about how he’s glad it arrived today. He cuts into his medium-rare filet, and I watch as it rolls around in his half-opened mouth, trying to muster the appetite I had several minutes ago. He drones on about EV and recent acquisitions the club has made, makes demands, skips dessert, and stands the moment he drops his fork onto his empty plate.
“You’ll get this? I need to meet with Graves. I’ll see you tomorrow night.” He tugs at his suit and steps away, engaging with a few nearby tables—for show, not genuine care—before finally leaving.
I hate how they fawn over my grandfather. As if he’s someone to admire. As if he wants what’s best for the people he used to serve. What would the average hardworking American think if they knew what their politicians really did in the dark hours of the night? Or if they could understand the magnitude of money laundered and stolen, all for the sake of furthering their own depraved agendas.
Every damn week he walks away and leaves me sitting here, picking at the last scraps of my lunch, pretending this doesn’t sting over and over like hell. I should be smarter by now, not let the used feeling sink in and bloat my insides. But somehow, the ghost of who he was to me—the memories from before I knew better—still makes me crave the kind of approval I’ll only get if I give in to his world, his plan.
Like tomorrow night. Another one.
They’re all the same, depressing and damned. It’s another way for my grandfather to mark me like some hound dog peeing on his territory. He’s aroused by the power of seeing me bid. Of knowing I’ve taken a bite of the apple. He smirks and smiles when other members watch me bid with the DuPont family money and partake in the devolving evening.
The waitress startles me as she reaches over me to remove my plate. “Ready for the check?” She leans closer than necessary, her chest caressing my shoulder as she smiles soft and slow. “Or … do you need something else?”
Her voice drips like honey—it sticks to my skin and makes me want to wash my hands. I know the look in her eyes. It’s practiced, predictable, and works on lonely men with too much money aching for something to chase. But whatever switch she’s trying to flip in me … it stays off. Always has.
She’s pretty. Many women are. But it’s no different from noticing art in a gallery you paid twenty bucks to see. You may pause, tilt your head to admire, and think to yourself,that’s nice. But then you move on. There aren’t any pieces that follow you out the door, haunt your thoughts, or pull at something unspoken from your chest. It’s art for art’s sake. Seen, not felt.
I shake my head and give a polite smile that I don’t mean before she finally walks away.
No pull.
No spark.
Always the same.
The quiet awareness that I don’t feel something—can’tfeel anything—settles over me as I throw several hundred-dollar bills down on the table. Then, without waiting for the check, I leave.
Ice clinks against the sides of my glass as I swirl it with one finger. The cube traces lazy circles through the amber liquid, which tastes like ash. Condensation slicks over the rim and drips down the side of the glass, catching the cuff of my shirt.
Cigar smoke curls through the musky air. With it, expensive cologne overpowered by the scent of warm skin, chased by themix of bitter and sweet. Bodies of dancers moving over men, all dressed in high-end suits their wives picked out for them this morning, glisten under the lighting. The golden sheen drapes across the marble surfaces and stretches over the empty stage.
The curtains hang heavy, muffling the velvet bass that pulses through the room, but I don’t miss the slight brushes from behind the fabric or the clinking of chains.
I nudge my glasses up the bridge of my nose with one knuckle, jaw set. A laugh echoes from the other end of the room, and my attention snaps toward the grating shrill. A dancer tangles her fingers in a fellow congressman’s hair and buries his gleeful expression against her.
