He’s not wrong. Ever since the sex tape got leaked senior year, my sole focus has been to earn my law degree so that I can help those who can’t help themselves. I want to stand up for the little guy.
“Ford, I’m getting nervous. Do you know what color panties and bra I’m wearing too?” I press my lips together. An uneasiness arises in my stomach that he was able to dig all that information up about me.
He chuckles and his hands lift out of his pockets, crossing over his chest. “I could probably tell you where you bought them.”
I raise my eyebrows.
“I do my homework. We’re good together.”
“We are?”
“Not like that. You’re not going to be my dirty little secretary, Isla. You don’t have the experience a seasoned press secretary would, but that works in our favor. Sometimes the problem with politics is that the approach is too political.”
“I can’t disagree.” If my time in Washington taught me anything, it was that politics is about who you know and who has the money to make things happen.
“Tell me you’ll be here through the election in May?”
“Yes.” Mostly because I’ll be spending my time with my father, but he’ll never allow me to hover over him. If I do nothing, I’ll go crazy recalculating everything that happened in the past and how the outcome for my father in the future is out of my control.
“I’d love for you to stay on after I win, but we’ll cross that bridge after my induction.” His smirk holds the arrogance of Rocky Balboa.
“How very arrogant of you to assume you’ll be the winner.”
“You’re on team Masterson now, no negativity.”
“Did I miss the part where I accepted?” I smile and he laughs, putting both of his hands in the air.
“Please, Miss Flores, speak your demands.”
I don’t really have any other than needing some time off. As I wonder how to respond, he shows his true colors of hating silence. In high school, Ford would argue points with the teacher because he couldn’t handle not speaking for an entire fifty minutes.
“I can’t lie and say that we won’t be busy—we have our work cut out for us—but there will be time for you to do whatever you have going on.”
I chew on my bottom lip while I contemplate his offer. Being a press secretary for a mayoral election would be great experience to take back with me to Washington. This leaves one area that we need to discuss.
“Do you still hang around the Classholes?”
Ford barks out a laugh. “I haven’t heard that word since high school. But, yeah, I do.”
I bite my lip harder until I draw blood and a metallic taste lands on my tongue. I release my lip.
Ford steps forward, his hand on my forearm. I stare down at it and he retracts the touch. “Isla, no one felt worse about what happened than Asher, believe me. If we knew who was responsible for releasing the tape, we’d have taken care of it.”
A shudder runs down my spine. There’s always been something inherently dangerous about Ford and all his friends, but he can’t be implying what I think he is.
Nausea churns in my stomach at the idea of facing any of those guys again, but my therapist has been pushing me to deal with my past in order to gain closure. She believes it would benefit me and help me move on if I start trusting people again.
“Have you considered that it could be a problem for you… having me work on your campaign?” My cheeks burn at having to discuss this situation. I could be putting myself and Ford in the path of a tornado by working on a campaign with my backstory.
For the first time in our conversation, Ford wears no smirk or half smile. “Trust me, there’s been far bigger scandals in the time you’ve been gone. They’ll be digging up dirt about me anyway. And if something does come to the surface, we’ll deal with it. Besides, Lincoln took care of it. It’s no longer visible anywhere on the web.”
Lincoln always was a genius with computers. Our freshman year, he hacked into our school’s mainframe and changed around the GPAs, so the named valedictorian was Michael Densmore, the guy who held the record for skipping the most days and was scheduled to repeat senior year in order to graduate. It took the school over four weeks to straighten out what he’d done. Of course, there were no consequences. So I don’t question Ford. Asher wouldn’t have wanted that tape out any more than I do.
I clutch my stomach and inhale a deep, cleansing breath. The idea of dealing publicly with it all again sickens me. But I can’t continue living my life always afraid my past will rear its head.
I push my hand out in front of me. “I’ll take the job.”
A slow, calculated smile spreads across Ford’s face. “Perfect. This is going to go great, don’t you worry.” He winks.
I return his smile, but I have to remember to keep my guard slightly up—everyone in Cherry Creek knows you can never trust a Classhole.
3
Chapter Three
Garrin
I sip my whiskey neat as my date, Melody, or at least that’s her name on the high-end escort site, continues to prattle on about the different types of squash. Apparently, Melody aspires to be a chef someday. As if I give a fuck about squash or what she wants for her life. All I care about is that she looks good on my arm, keeps her mouth shut when I converse with someone, and spreads her legs at the end of the night—if I want her to.
It’s not that I don’t want to be here. I’m happy to support Ford’s candidacy and donate money to the cause, but it’s likely that his father, Senator Masterson, will be here, along with my own father. And I do what I can to avoid those pricks.
Polite murmurs become louder and the attendees glance at the doorway. The man of the hour hasn’t shown up yet, and the crowd is growing impatient. He’s just making his job that much harder by being late.
He can’t be lost, what with the event being held at the Cherry Creek Country Club. Most of the potential donors here are members anyway, as is anyone with any real money who lives outside of the city. Even the Classholes and I are members, though none of us ever come. We have far better things to do than Fish Fry Friday during Lent.
Asher and Ryker walk in the room, and I nod. They stop and shake hands, saying a few polite hellos to people as they make their way over to me.
“Any sign of Ford yet?” Ryker asks.
I shake my head.
“What about Dick the Prick and Charles Manson? They show their faces yet?” Asher uses the nicknames for my dad and Ford’s in mixed company, more evidence for my theory that the way the left side of his mouth is tipped up in a perpetual grin says that the filled champagne glass he swiped off a server’s tray on the way over isn’t his first drink of the night.
“Haven’t seen him.” I lift the glass to my lips again. “Where’s Lincoln?”
Ryker shrugs. “Called him but he didn’t answer.”
“I’m gonna hit the head. Be back in a minute,” Asher says and heads toward the bathrooms.
Ryker and I share a quick glance, having a pretty good guess that he’s really going to shove some white powder up his nose.