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The calculation is one I’m ashamed of. I’m equally ashamed it hasn’t crossed my mind before.
However, I can be sure it’s crossed the mind of the man at my side. His hand stays on my lower back as he guides me through this dim cave, pretending he belongs here.
He’s faking it. He doesn’t belong any more than I do. But this was his idea, dodging the popular downtown night spots in favor of someplace obscure, where we won’t be seen.
“Let’s try something new,” he said earlier after collecting me in his silver Ferrari. He even touched my knee with confidence he has no right to have. “Where we can be alone and get to know each other.”
We’re not alone here, not at all. We also won’t run into anyone we know.
I don’t care that we aren’t alone because I have no special interest in getting to know Pierce Carrington.
Carrington is a last name that turns heads in Em City. His father owns the Cyclones and pro football is huge around here. Pierce left his job in the team’s head office to manage his older brother’s campaign. Larson Carrington is running for mayor of Emerald City this year.
He’s running against my father.
This bar, tucked away in a single story brick commercial strip on an east side street I’ve never heard of, attracts all sorts on a Saturday night. There are old men who drink quietly alone and young men who arrogantly demand attention. There are women too, not as many. Some command the pool tables in the rear and others gyrate to a heavy bass thud. We collect a few amused glances on our way to the circular bar in the middle of the oddly shaped room.
I’m aware that I fool no one.
I look like what I am; a cloistered rich girl in search of a thrill. I won’t be the first or the last.
Pierce extends his hand, like he means to help me hop up on the high barstool. The chunky silver ring he wears is courtesy of the Cyclones’ Super Bowl win a few years back. I suppose the owners receive rings too but it strikes me as odd, the wearing of a trophy not personally earned.
Ignoring his outstretched hand, I manage to sit on the barstool with no assistance. I’m short, not helpless.
I hail the bartender. “Jack and Coke, please.”
Pierce nods to the man. “Same.”
The bartender wears an eyepatch and a thick gold cross. A streak of white runs in a lightning zigzag through his black hair. He moves with hypnotic speed, pouring our drinks within seconds and sliding them across the table.
I drop a fifty dollar bill before Pierce can make a move. “Thanks. No change.”
“I’ll get the next round.” Pierce inches his stool closer, close enough for our shoulders to touch. He’s polished and assured and thirteen years my senior with two former wives notched into his belt. He radiates the belief that he’s obscenely good looking and I suppose many people would agree. He’s tall and square-jawed and clearly finds time to use the gym.
But he’s here for a reason. He thinks I’m young enough, silly enough, to be bought with flattery and attention while he mines for useful information.
I doubt it’s occurred to him that I might be interested in doing the same.
My father blindsided me with this campaign. After many years as the mayor of affluent West Emerald, his original plan had been to run for a Congressional seat.
Life had other ideas.
Last year, a horrific family scandal turned us into national tabloid fodder. My monstrous stepmother dragged our last name through the sewer even after her death. The decision was made to suspend the Congressional campaign.
But out of tragedy comes opportunity.
Those are not my words. My father repeats them often.
Stuart Ballerini had become a person of interest, a celebrity of sorts. A devoted father who had raised his little daughter alone following the death of his first wife and was then deceived by a despicable woman.
What a story.
After all, evil men are a dime a dozen.
But evil women? They capture everyone’s imagination.
I wasn’t there the summer afternoon my stepmother drank a bottle of acid rather than pay for her crimes. But I was certainly around to witness the fallout.
