CHAPTER FIFTEEN #2
We sit in a pair of absurdly ornate chairs that look like they belong in a Versailles waiting room, not a Wyoming hotel. On the counter near the elevator bank is a small landline with a printed sign above it that says: Courtesy Phone—Local Calls Only.
“I need to call Billy,” I say, standing. My voice is steady. My insides are not. “He didn’t give me the routing number for the transfer. He’s gonna lose it if I get it wrong.”
Cash narrows his eyes. “What transfer?”
“What do you mean, what transfer?” I shoot back, channeling just the right amount of annoyance. “Why do you think we’re here?”
He frowns. Tough guy, sure. But not the brightest. He hesitates, then shrugs like he’s above caring. “Fine. Make it quick.”
A breath I didn’t realize I was holding releases. Years of sitting beside Billy during his meetings have left me with a catalogue of bank jargon I don’t even understand. But it’s enough to bluff my way past Cash.
I walk over and pick up the receiver, my hands trembling.
With my fist clamped tight around the pills, I stick out a finger and punch in the number from memory: 307-555-AUTO.
I can see it in my head like I’m standing in front of Leathernecks Auto looking up at the sign.
Wyatt’s voice answers, but it’s a recording.
“You’ve reached Leathernecks Auto. Leave a message and we’ll get back to you.”
For a moment, my heart lodges in my throat. His voice hits like a punch—before, before, before. I shake it off and stay focused.
“Hi, Billy,” I say brightly. “It’s Max.”
I pause and let the silence play like I’m listening. Cash is watching suspiciously from across the room, probably out of earshot but paying close attention. I turn my chin slightly toward the wall.
“Yes, yes,” I say, nodding into the receiver like he’s on the line. “Okay, so the address is 4747 West Hollow Road, outside of Redwater? The old Fremont airstrip. Right. Saturday is a good day. Saturday night will be very busy. Lots of people at the O.D. clubhouse that night—outsiders. Big event.”
Out of the corner of my eye, I catch Cash rising, moving toward me with too much suspicious interest.
“Yes, I’ll be good,” I say quickly, raising my voice just enough to sound obedient. “Sorry for the confusion. Looking forward to seeing you soon.”
“Let me talk to him,” Cash snaps, stepping forward.
I hang up fast. The receiver clicks back into place.
“Sorry,” I say, shrugging. “He hung up.”
Cash’s eyes narrow. He doesn’t buy it, not fully. But before he can push, the elevator dings.
A man in a slim black suit steps out. Clean-cut, polished, and forgettable in the way expensive help usually is.
“You must be the niece,” he says with a big, forced smile.
I blink at him. Seriously?
But when I glance toward the front desk, the attendant gives me a polite nod. This is theater. Paper-thin pretense. No one cares what’s behind the lie as long as it fits the decor.
“Yeah, this is her,” says Cash. He hands me the leather case and then touches my back again, less gentle this time, guiding me toward the elevator. “Someone gonna call me when the, uh, visit is done?”
“Yes,” says the suited man smoothly. “I’ll call you at the number provided.”
I step into the elevator, the man at my side. As the doors close, I start to count my breaths.
We step out into a quiet hallway. Plush carpet muffles our steps as we walk past several identical doors. Finally we stop, and the man knocks once. The senator opens the door.
He’s wearing a pale blue dress shirt, sleeves rolled to the elbows, collar undone just enough to look casual. His smile is wide, eyes crinkling warmly.
“Maxwell,” he says, with a broad, avuncular grin, as if he really is my uncle. “You look radiant.”
He dismisses the man in the suit and I step inside.
The suite smells like expensive scotch and aftershave. Cream-colored furniture. Soft lighting. Too many mirrors. The windows are black with city night.
“That for me?” he asks, nodding at the bag. I blink and hand it to him and he sets it on the dresser, unzipping the top and lifting it open right in front of me. He lifts out a tray of glass vials, revealing stacks of wrapped bills underneath.
“Oh, goody,” he says gleefully, wiggling his fingers.
Then he pulls a leather diary out of a briefcase on the floor and flips it open, jotting a notation down on the page. 6 vials g. 70k. Under a column on the right-hand side of the page, he writes: O.D. underneath a long line of the same letters written in his thin, spidery handwriting.
“Drink?” he asks, pushing the open book aside and pulling two glasses down from a shelf.
I lift my eyes to look at him. He’s aged a little bit since the last time I saw him. A little heavier in the jowls, a little more tired around the eyes, but the arrogance is untouched. It radiates off him.
“No thanks.”
He doesn’t respond. Just gestures lazily toward the sitting area by the window, and picks up a bottle of amber liquid, pouring two drinks anyway, as if he hadn’t heard me.
I take a few steps into the room, but still catch his movement out of the corner of my eye—the quick motion of his hand, the slip of a vial from the tray, the subtle tip over one glass.
The he turns and hands that one to me.
He lifts the other in a toast. “To old friends.”
“I’m not thirsty,” I say, placing the drink on a small side table.
“Oh, come now,” he says, chuckling like we’re sharing a joke. “Let’s have some fun. Sit down, relax. You might change your mind.”
He picks up the glass I set down and carries it to the seating area, placing it gently on the coffee table.
I walk slowly to the couch with my one fist clenched, feeling powder seeping into the creases of my palm.
There’s no way out. No unlocked door, no chance he hasn’t covered his angles. I need to be smart.
I lower myself onto the edge of the cushion, keeping my spine straight and knees closed. He watches with too much interest.
“That’s it,” he says, easing down onto the couch across from me, legs spread, posture loose. “Make yourself comfortable.”
He tries to talk. Asks how I’ve been. How things are at the club. Makes a joke about Billy still being a “hothead.” But I don’t answer. I just watch him, silently, while he moves on to each new topic.
Eventually he stands. “I should freshen up.”
When he disappears into the bathroom, I move fast.
All four pills are warm and sticky in my palm, two already half-disintegrated. I crush them all into powder on the glass coffee table using a heavy marble coaster, and scrape them into my drink. The bitter dust blooms through the amber liquid.
I hesitate, just a second, staring at it.
One gulp and everything could go quiet.
But I push the urge down and stir the drink with my finger, watching the powder swirl, then swap my glass with his.
He returns with his gray hair freshly combed back, trailing a lingering scent of mint. He sees the drink in my hand and smiles, the heat from his eyes crawling across my skin. I lift the glass and take a sip with his gaze tracking every movement. He settles into his couch with a pleased sigh.
“You know, there was a time,” he says, “when I could snap my fingers and get what I wanted. When women would line up for a moment. For a favor. For a taste of what it means to matter.”
Something flickers behind his smile. A thin seam of bitterness that doesn’t quite fit the soft lighting or the luxury upholstery. My pulse picks up in alarm at the sense that he’s getting impatient.
He slugs back half the drink in one pull, grimaces, and stares into the glass like something’s wrong. My heart seizes—for a moment, I can’t breathe.
But then he shakes it off and downs the rest.
“More?” he asks.
I shake my head, lifting my mostly full glass.
“You really should drink up, sweetheart,” he booms, pushing up from the couch and strolling to the minibar. “You’re gonna need it.”
He returns with a fresh glass, but instead of returning to the other couch, he perches on the coffee table in front of me, too close, blocking the path to the door.
His posture has changed. Less relaxed. More focused. His eyes gleam now, not with charm, but something sharper and predatory.
“I bet you taste like fury,” he says in a low, rough voice—so different from the genial man who greeted me at the door. “Bet that mouth has bitten more men than it’s kissed. I want you on your knees, mascara running, voice gone from screaming. You think I don’t see it? That need to be ruined?”
And there it is. The monster beneath the veneer.
My stomach turns. I focus on my drink. Anything but his face.
“You wear that anger like perfume,” he goes on, stroking the rim of his drink with his finger. “It clings. Makes people notice. Makes me hard.”
I keep my breathing even. My grip on the glass tightens.
“I bet you walk around pretending no one’s watching. But you know they are. You count on it. Every step is theater. Every little fuck-me look you give them, a dare.”
He shifts forward slightly on the table, eyes glittering.
“Girls like you, they’re always the loudest when they break. The ones who act toughest are the ones who cry hardest. You gonna cry for me, Maxwell?”
I want to spit. Scream. Rip his eyes out of his skull. But I focus on taking slow, even breaths, and pray that whatever cocktail was in that drink works quickly.
He drains his glass and lowers it to the table with a clink, glass on glass, then he undoes his belt slowly, with a sick smile. He slides it free, holds it for a beat, then drops it on the floor.
“I’ve thought about you, you know,” he says. “Those legs, that mouth. What it would take to make you beg.”
He unzips, pushing his pants to his knees. His cock is half-hard. Small and pale. He wraps a hand around it and starts stroking it, watching me with a slow, sick smile.
“I know girls like you,” he says. “The ones who run but don’t really want to get away. The ones who talk back just so you’ll pin ’em down harder. It’s the fight that makes you wet, isn’t it?”
He breathes harder now. Slides his pants all the way off, spreads his knees wide.
“I don’t mind tears. I like 'em. But I like the sound more. That little gasp when it starts to feel good. When you realize it’s too late to stop. Mmm.”
His voice drops a register.
“You ever look at yourself in a mirror after? Face all smeared. Mouth raw. That shine in your eyes like you’re lost?”
His breath hitches. His hips give a small, involuntary jerk. His cock twitches in his hand as he tightens his grip, stroking faster now, but sloppier. His face is flushed high across the cheeks, a sheen of sweat glistening at his temples.
“I want to be the reason you never look at yourself the same again.”
His eyelids flutter for a second like he’s savoring something only he can see. But he’s no longer looking at me—he’s gone under, drunk on the image in his head. His other hand reaches between his legs to cup his balls. His lips part. The room feels humid and wrong.
“I’d edge you until you scream. Slap your pussy until it’s red and twitching. Then make you say thank you. Again and again.”
The bile rises in my throat, burning when I swallow it down.
“God, I’ll fuck your pride right out of you. You’re gonna get on that couch, pull your knees up, and let me see you. I won’t even touch you at first. I just want to watch you come. Then I’ll fuck your throat slow. Keep it sore long enough you’ll think of me every time you swallow.”
His chest rises unevenly now. He leans back further, thighs trembling slightly, and groans—not performative, but involuntary. The skin of his neck mottles red. I think the drink is hitting. Hard.
“You’ll gag, but you’ll take it. All of it. You’ll cry, and I’ll keep going.”
His eyes are glassy. His tongue peeks out to lick his lips.
“C’mere,” he says, a hand twitching toward me. But this time I notice his words have started to slur. “Be a good girl and get on your knees for Daddy.”
I don’t move.
His focus fractures. The glint in his eyes dims like someone pulled a curtain. His hand stutters on his cock, then loses rhythm completely. He blinks slowly, head lolling slightly to one side.
His grip fumbles. His gaze slips past me, trying to focus. He mutters something, but the syllables melt in his mouth.
His hand slips off his cock, limp now, and he sags backward onto the table until he’s lying down. Breath shallow. Face slack.
“Max,” he mumbles. “Mmmm…Max’ell…”
I wait. A beat. Another. My body frozen. Watching. Hoping.
He twitches once. Then groans, deeper this time. A line of drool slips from the corner of his mouth.
I don’t trust it at first. I stare, breath caught. Is he faking? Is he going to sit up laughing? Another trap? But he doesn’t move. Doesn’t blink. The rise and fall of his chest is thin and erratic, like a failing metronome.
I sit frozen for a moment. I can’t tell if the hollow in my chest is relief or dread.
Then I rise and tentatively step around the belt, the pants, the empty glass. I move toward the door, quiet and fast, and the senator doesn’t move an inch.
Out in the hallway, a hotel staffer is pushing a cart with fresh linens. His eyes flick up when he sees me.
“Excuse me,” I say calmly. “I think that man needs help. He’s not well.”
The man’s brows pull together. He hurries toward the door just as the man in the suit from earlier comes around the corner.
“Everything all right?” the suit asks.
“I think he had too much to drink,” I say. “We’re done.”
The staffer steps into the doorway. The suit tries to stop him, speaking urgently, but the damage is already done—the hotel worker looks genuinely alarmed.
While they argue in hushed tones, I slip into the elevator and press the button for the lobby. The doors slide shut with a hiss.
Even the elevator is polished and gleaming. Brass buttons, ornate molding around the mirrors. My reflection is calm and composed. A woman in a black silk dress—I could fit right in here.
Inside, my pulse is a thunderstorm.
Cash is waiting in the lobby, sprawled out in a chair looking bored. I hurry toward him, eager to leave, as he clocks the details—my pace, the flush in my cheeks, the fact that I’m not crying.
“You done?” he asks.
I nod.
We don’t speak on the ride back. The silence stretches too long.
I stare out the window, watching the black fields flash by.
“Everything go smooth?” he asks finally, voice unreadable.
I meet his eyes in the rearview mirror.
“Yup,” I lie. “Fine.”