Chapter 20
“Have you heard of Montgomery Cox?” Sterling asks.
Who hasn’t? The second-richest man in the state and CEO of SME Industries—a tech company with a strong mission to protect sustainable manufacturing. Cox is extremely popular and very charming. A born businessman.
“He was the cover man for last month’s Time,” I say.
Sterling nods. He’s clean-shaven; I can smell the lingering scent of shaving cream and soap, and it’s a heady mix when I'm this close to him. I’m so used to the pasture’s worth of distance he usually keeps around himself that sitting beside him is a little overwhelming.
“He’s also funding election fraud.”
Holy shit. I scoot my chair closer, my elbow brushing Sterling’s. He jolts. Oh, right. Personal space. Sometimes, I get so excited that I forget.
As subtly as I can, I pull away and see his hand flex on the desk before stilling.
Sterling peers out over the bullpen, eyes tracking our coworkers’ movements, but I know for a fact that Bianca is trying to beat today’s crossword and Andy is too involved in his fantasy draft to care what we’re talking about.
“These are campaign donation records,” I realize, looking at them with fresh eyes. “How did you get these?”
“That’s right,” he says, evading my question.
“Cox gave over sixty million of his own money, which he’s been obnoxiously loud about, but he’s a master of nesting shell companies within other shell companies, making it impossible to keep track of his private donations. ” He pauses. “Almost impossible.”
He’s so pleased with himself. It’s wildly attractive.
“But that’s why I also have these,” he says, shuffling through a second stack of papers he’s attacked with a red pen.
Jeez, it’s like looking at my old Economics homework. Sterling lays them in front of me, our shoulders brushing as he leans in.
I sway closer. He smells divine.
“This is a list of offshoot companies I can prove are his. I believe he’s shuffling the money around so that no one will notice it’s missing.
I want to add up all the incoming donations tied to these companies.
Getting a judge to grant discovery access to a hundred small companies would be a red-tape nightmare, but if we can narrow it down to a few big ones, I might be able to pull in some favors. ”
My heart is beating really fast.
“I’ll still need someone willing to go on the record; otherwise, he’ll hide behind his lawyers and bury everything that points back to him.
” He rubs a hand over his jaw. “It’s clear he’s been very careful, and I’m close, but there’s still something missing.
A pattern. I can tell something is off, but I can’t pinpoint it yet. ”
“What made you suspect him?”
“When you’ve done this as long as I have, you learn to trust your instincts.”
It’s not the only thing he’s picked up. Sterling speaks with a confidence that is bone deep, subtle enough that I might dismiss it as humble if it wasn’t for how unequivocally he knew his own worth. I would kill to borrow that feeling for a day. I’d be able to move mountains.
I turn it all over in my head. The money, I get. All roads lead there, especially where corruption is concerned, and using the shell companies as a basis is smart, but …
“Even if you can prove he made significant private donations, how are you so sure it’s for election fraud?”
He leans back in his chair, eyes the papers as though the answer might divine itself from them.
Either he’s guessing or he doesn’t want to tell me.
“I don’t trust him,” he finally says. “Cox has a history of friends in low places. Now he’s changed his tune and shaking hands with a progressive?
It doesn’t add up. He’s not addressing any of his past either, always giving vague answers to sway the conversation in a new direction or using charm and Mayor Jackson’s positive following to shield himself from criticism.
I’m afraid he’s trying to tarnish a good man’s reputation by aligning with him or else he’s playing a more dangerous long game. ”
“You’d undo all the good Jackson will do because he’s following the same playbook the bad guys do?”
He stands, two palms on the table, pushing his chair back. The indecision is gone. This is a Sterling that is in full command. Determined.
Gorgeous.
My breath catches in my throat.
“And when Cox decides he wants to switch sides? Bankroll the other guys? Changing the rules to suit your cause is exactly what put us in this situation. Let’s say this turnaround convinces you to give him a second chance.
Maybe he’s changed; shouldn’t we want that?
In a few years, he gets to piggyback off that goodwill into a political position of his own.
Maybe he even spends the first year following through on positive change.
Then things start to shift. Suddenly, his talking points start sounding a little too familiar.
He’s protecting the rich, sabotaging his new friends in favor of his old ones. ”
He’s right. I hate it, but he is.
“You’re right, but I won’t make good people pay the price because one asshole wants to play dictator. Catching Cox won’t stop anyone else from doing the exact same thing, but it will be a loss for this city.”
“So, he just gets away with it,” he huffs, dropping back into his seat. He groans into his hands. “These fucking assholes. Cut off one head …”
“Two more take its place.”
He pulls his glasses off and rubs his eyes. I stare at his long fingers and think absolutely nothing.
Nothing I’ll admit to anyway.
“What if Jackson has no idea? You’ll destroy his reputation.”
“And if he does know and willingly went along with it?”
I can’t believe that.
“Just because he’s saying what you want to hear doesn’t mean we shouldn’t look a little deeper.”
We.
My heart skitters around that single syllable for a few beats.
“I hate having to second-guess everyone,” I admit.
Good people face the kind of scrutiny no one looks flawless under while bad players get praised for doing what we expect of them.
“You’re right. You know what? Don’t listen to me.”
I look up, surprised.
“Hold on to that hope. It’s important. Incredible things are achieved through hope.”
“And a lot of bad people have been ripped from the shadows through cynicism.”
He laughs—a throaty, deep sound I want to press my cheek to, feel it work through his chest and into my bones.
“Glad to know I’m still useful.” His eyes shine with contained joy, even as his smile becomes something smaller, deeper, settling over me like a conviction.
“You’re good at this, Mia. Don’t forget that. ”
Speechless, I hold the words close, tuck them inside the safest corner of my mind, where I keep precious memories.
“We’re going to get him,” I tell Sterling. “I’m sure of it.”
* * *
If I never see another box again, it’ll be too soon.
Dumping the two that I’m holding on to the floor, I fish out my keys and lean against my door. I’m so tired.
Going through the donations is taking up all of my spare time, and in order to get my own articles finished, I’m writing on my breaks, in line for coffee, on the toilet.
It’s so bad; I spent four hours at work before my alarm went off, and I realized I’d been dreaming the entire time.
I’m scared we won’t find what Sterling is after.
I don’t want to let him down.
“Hey, let me help you with those,” comes a lilting British accent, and as I push off the door and blink my eyes open, a gorgeous man with silky hair and a wide-collared jacket is passing me his coffee and picking up both boxes with ease.
Lean muscle, warm eyes, tattoos. Like every singer I had posted on my walls at home.
He’s a walking dream.
“Oh, thank you. I’ve been moving all week, and I really wanted to get these last two boxes done tonight, but my arms are currently on strike.”
“Can’t have that,” he says, smiling down at me. I bet he could lift me as easy as those boxes. “They’re lovely. I hope this doesn’t mean I’m crossing the picket line.”
I unlock my door. “I’ll grant you an exception.”
“Beautiful and kind.” He lowers the boxes onto the coffee table, thighs flexing in his jeans, biceps visible under his jacket.
“What about your coffee?”
“Take it,” he says brightly. “I haven’t drunk from it or anything.”
He looks around, eager and curious. There’s not much to see—more boxes and a stack of photos I haven’t had the energy to put up yet.
I push it into his hands. “I’m not going to take your coffee.”
“Why not? It’s great coffee.” He punctuates this by taking a sip.
Annoyingly, it smells amazing, but I’m no fool. “Didn’t anyone ever teach you about stranger danger?”
This cracks him up for some reason. I watch, transfixed, as the joy plays out over his face, nothing hidden, nothing held back. It’s beautiful. I want more of it.
“Love, all my best memories come from talking to strangers.”
I want to know everything about him.
“Well, either way, I’m not drinking out of anything I didn’t order myself.”
“Yeah, that’s smart. I guess I’ll have to take you out so you can get what you want.”
It’s smooth as hell. I’m genuinely impressed. “And if I say no?”
The apartment is small enough that it only takes him two strides of his long legs before he’s in the kitchen, throwing me a knowing smile when he sees the stack of takeout boxes in the trash.
I’ve barely moved in, and I’m already getting judged by the neighbors.
“I’d be devastated, of course,” he says. “Come over next week. I’ll cook you a proper meal.”
It’s tempting.
“Maybe.”
“That’s not a no,” he says, pleased.
“No,” I confirm, the warmth in my chest radiating outward, reacting to his endless enthusiasm, “it’s not.”
He gets real close, smelling of leather and woodsmoke and reminding me of every dark impulse I’ve ever had. A silver chain hangs from his neck, thick, like he is. This is a man who takes up space.
“I don’t even know your name,” I say, a little breathless.
“Lachlan Williams, in 704,” he says. “But you can call me Lucky.”
“From the note.”