CHAPTER EIGHT
Reynolds
“It’s great to see y’all out here today,” I said into the microphone.
It was hot as fuck outside, and I was sweating like a stuck pig in my suit.
I don’t know who had decided that we should have a charity picnic lunch auction in the goddamn summer.
It might only be May, but that was already hot as blazes in South Georgia.
Still, this was a re-election year, and I had to step up my game. “Now everybody have fun!”
I walked off the outdoor stage and headed towards Whitney. She somehow looked cool as a cucumber in a white designer dress of some kind. She didn’t look the least bit sweaty, and not one platinum blonde hair was out of place.
“Hey. How was the speech?” I wiped my forehead with a handkerchief.
“Wonderful,” she said. “Now you have to get back up there.”
“Huh? What are you talking about?”
“You’re the emcee for the luncheon auction.” She eyed me with her pale green eyes.
“Are you fucking with me right now?”
She made a face. “Really, Reynolds. I don’t know why you have to use such vulgar language.”
I was hot. And I was peeved. I’d also had about as much of Whitney Masters as I could take.
I’d had to stay over at her place earlier in the week to keep up with appearances.
Byron had been right. I couldn’t leave after I got there.
It had felt too rude. Now, I was stuck with her all day, and tonight we’d be going to an important fundraising gala for my campaign.
It was too much Whitney in too short a time.
“What’s the lunch you made?” I asked, as I wiped my forehead with a handkerchief. I wanted to be sure and bid on her basket.
She laughed. “Oh, you’re too funny! As if I’d make a lunch. I picked up a variety of healthy salads from Publix. It’s in that enormous basket over there.” She pointed to the largest, nicest basket on display.
“Salads,” I said, wrinkling my nose. “Do you mean pasta salad? Or broccoli salad?” I asked hopefully.
“Lord, no. I got a chef’s salad, a Cobb salad, and a fruit tray.”
Hmm. That didn’t sound too bad. Unless she’d gotten them to take all the good stuff off. “Did you at least get some of their fried chicken?”
She shook her head. “Not healthy.”
“Buffalo chicken dip?” I was still hopeful. “Spinach artichoke dip?”
“No, Reynolds. We have to keep you nice and trim.”
I frowned. I was ripped. I worked out, I ran, I played tennis, and I even boxed in the ring with Nico and Byron at Saffron.
“Let me just tell you this, Whitney. If you’re going to get me a lunch to bid on, it better damn well have decent food in it.” I stomped off like a little kid. But damn. I didn’t want to eat a variety of healthy salads like I was part of a lady’s lunch group.
No fucking way.
I stepped back up to the stage and started reading over the lunches up for auction. One was for homemade fried chicken, biscuits, fried okra, and peach cobbler for dessert. Now that was an excellent lunch. It was made by a lady named Clarissa Samples.
“Hey, Byron.” I spoke into the walkie-talkie app on my Apple watch. He stood to the side of the stage and looked scary in his suit and sunglasses.
“What’s up?” He replied using his Apple watch, too.
“Find out who Clarissa Samples is, will you?”
“On it.” He walked off with purpose, like I’d asked him to ascertain the location of a bomb. That was Byron’s way. Every job duty was treated as if it was of the utmost importance. Plus, he got bored sometimes.
It wasn’t long until he got back to me. “Located.”
“Yeah? You got her?”
It couldn’t be someone that would make Whitney feel jealous. I was hoping for a little old lady.
I was in luck! Byron nodded to a woman who looked to be in her sixties who, while well kept, wasn’t exactly competition for Whitney. I was bidding on her basket. Someone else could eat Whitney’s damn salads.
I went through all the meals and the bidding as quickly as possible since we were all melting under the Southern sun. Thankfully, we would be eating inside the nearby clubhouse building, that was, of course, air-conditioned.
I saved Clarissa’s for last and ignored the death glares I got from Whitney when her basket went to a tall, skinny guy I’d never seen before. He’d paid a lot for the lunch, though. Maybe they’d hit it off, and I’d have an excuse to ditch her.
I’d just tell Melda Rogers that I’d have to go back to my playboy ways.
I had the election in a lock, anyway. I didn’t really see the need to carry on the farce with Whitney much longer.
Jasper Hill was no threat to me. Even with the traction his comments about me had gotten in the press, I was so far ahead in the polls it would take a disaster for me to lose.
“And that just leaves Mrs. Clarissa Samples’ lunch, and let me tell you folks, this one’s mine. What do I have to bid to beat y’all out of it?”
Clarissa turned pink and giggled while a few people shouted prices.
“How about a thousand? Will that do it or does someone want to top me?”
Crickets.
“Alright then!” I smacked the podium with the gavel extra hard just for the fun of it. “Let’s go eat, everybody. Mrs. Samples, you’re with me.”
***
Several hours later, showered and tuxedoed, I smiled and nodded to several businessmen I knew well.
I hoped this event, for a charity I didn’t even remember, was enough to draw people’s attention away from the recent domestic violence murder.
The press was acting like we had the worst crime in the nation, while that was far from the case.
Our crime statistics were good compared to most like-sized cities in the South.
The press didn’t want to report that, though. It wasn’t sensational enough.
I, of course, had Whitney on my arm, her green dress sparkling and just right for the occasion. I knew how we looked together as a couple.
Perfect.
Her sleek platinum hair, big green eyes, tall willowy body, and polite smile were exactly what a politician’s girlfriend was supposed to be.
My parents had been thrilled when they had seen Whitney on my arm.
I didn’t care too much about what they thought, though.
I didn’t see them often, and I wasn’t dependent on them for money.
The inheritance I’d received from my grandparents and my wise investments in technology stocks had seen to that.
As an only child, I knew I’d inherit my parents’ money one day, but they couldn’t hold that over me to get me to jump through hoops.
I was worth over three times what the both of them had. And they knew it.
That didn’t keep them from giving their opinion, often and loud, that I should marry Whitney and make a bid towards running for governor in the next election.
It wasn’t because they thought we’d be good together or any normal parental things to think.
Nope. It was because they thought she’d help me get elected.
They didn’t care a thing about her. She was just a means to an end.
I didn’t disagree with them that if I settled down, it should be with a very appropriate woman given my political aspirations. But that wouldn’t be soon.
Plus, Whitney bored the shit out of me. I mean, yes, she was a model. But not for fucking lingerie or swimsuits. She’d been a catalog model for Southern stores like Belk. I think it was for boots. Not exactly titillating stuff. I agreed, though, that she was great arm candy for a mayor.
I knew it, but I still had zero plans to propose to Whitney Masters or anyone else anytime soon.
That whole ‘rest of my life’ thing scared the crap out of me.
And I didn’t want to just settle into a marriage like my parents and many of the elite couples of West Bay society had.
A lifetime of affairs for both of us while we either tolerated each other, grew to hate each other, or became friends didn’t appeal to me.
No, if I got married, I wanted love. I wanted passion.
It just didn’t seem likely that I was going to get that in a typical politician’s wife. I was much more attracted to… less ideal women.
In fact, I was thinking my dad was right and what I was looking for was a fairy tale.
I envied my friend Nico. He was in no hurry to settle down and he was under very little, if any, pressure to do so.
He gave me a head nod from the second story of Salazar Nights, one of his night clubs in town.
This one, though, wasn’t a sex club. It was a very elegant nightclub that catered to the thirty and up crowd.
He had locally famous jazz musicians to provide nightly music.
It had a very cool, very upscale 1920s vibe to it.
I was glad he was sponsoring the charity gala tonight.
He was always holding galas to raise money for local charities or something like that at Salazar Nights, and West Bay was better off for it.
Nico liked to pretend it was only to get good publicity for his clubs, but I thought there was more to it than that.
He was more kindhearted than people ever gave him credit for, but he preferred for the public to think he was colder than he was. More like his father, or even Enzo.
As mayor, I was about to have to give a brief speech thanking him and his family for their support.
God. If it weren’t for Nico’s nightclubs, I didn’t even know where we’d have all of our many society events.
I guess they’d all be held at one of the boring country clubs in town, rotating between the four of them.