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“Keep her in there. I don’t want her seeing any of the scarves.” Hell, a part of me doesn’t want to see Blaine, either.
Another part can’t fucking wait.
“Yes, sir.”
“Gentian, get a confirmation on all hallways or corners not covered by video camera.”
“Jones already did, sir. The small alcove between the bathrooms and the loading dock has a tiny portion that isn’t covered by the angle of either camera in that area. It’s a dead zone of about six feet wide, right in front of a labor law sign.”
“Got it.”
I march back into the backstage area and my guys guide me, through glances and microgestures the average person wouldn’t notice, until I take a deep breath before turning a corner, knowing what I’ll see.
Harry, chatting with Blaine Maisri.
My mouth spreads into a smile that never, ever comes close to reaching my eyes.
“Drew! You remember Blaine, don’t you?” I can’t read Harry right now. He’s looking at me, but I might as well be looking right back at a white wall. “He’s an up-and-coming state representative who’s making a play for my old House seat.”
I nod curtly at Blaine, who gives me a smirk. “Maisri,” is all I say. The less spoken, the better. The guy who gives as little as possible is the one who wins.
These scarves already took damn near everything from me four years ago.
They don’t get another drop from me.
“Foster.” His eyes don’t even meet mine.
Lindsay keeps calling me a coward, but the real one is right here.
My grin widens. “Good to run into you.”
His head jerks up and this time, I realize why he won’t look at me.
He’s fucking terrified.
Adrenaline shoots through me like a line of napalm set on fire.
“Actually, I was hoping to have a word with you,” I say, pretending to be chummy, working my throat like it doesn’t have an elephant in it.
The fear in his eyes disappears as if someone has programmed him, and his circuits have been rewired. His eyes light up as if he’s excited. Stoked.
Eager.
“Really? For old times’ sake?”
“Maisri has the backing of Nolan Corning,” Harry explains, as if I don’t know, his eyebrows going up with fake admiration. Those eyes are calculating, just like Lindsay’s. “On the fast track. Twenty or thirty years from now, you could be in the White House,” he says to Blaine, who doesn’t even bother with false modesty.
“From your mouth to the voters’ ears,” Blaine answers with a grin.
A photographer snaps pictures. Harry grabs Blaine’s hand and turns at an artful angle, controlling the picture. Image shaping is everything.
“You high school buddies go at it. I have more flesh to press,” the senator says, clapping Blaine on the shoulder in that collegial way men in power have.
So do I.
With my knuckles.
“Tell Corning I said hi,” Harry calls over his shoulder to Blaine.
