Chapter 2
CHAPTER TWO
TRISTAN
Daphne Fox. The only living daughter of President Grover Fox. Scheduler for Senator Paul Furt.
My target for the evening.
Pressing my hand over her mouth, I guide her into the empty bathroom with the backpack I snuck in and hid near the kitchens slung over my shoulder.
It took twenty damn minutes for her to finally need a bathroom break.
I’ve been lingering while pretending to doomscroll on my phone when, really, I was keeping mental notes of who was going in and out of each bathroom.
And right now, the women’s bathroom is occupied.
Her eyes widen, and she struggles against me, but her words come out as a jumbled mess of alphabet soup. Her fight is more of a wiggle, and I manage to steer her into the last stall before she relaxes against me. There’s still some fight in her, but I can tell the drugs are fully kicked in now.
Shit, I hope I didn’t give her too much.
Gripping those plush hips, I spin her around as she presses her hands to the metal door.
“Be a good girl and stay quiet for me.”
She sways a little and barely shakes her head no. I should have known a spoiled brat like her wouldn’t cooperate easily.
I unzip my bag. Nestled inside is a wig cap, wig, and a dress that’s a size too big for Daphne. I couldn’t find her exact measurements online.
A blond woman in a business suit went into the restaurant, and in three minutes, a black-haired woman in a green dress will be stumbling out on my arm.
My heart hammers with a rush of adrenaline and excitement as I yank Daphne’s silky blouse from her pencil skirt and unbutton it.
The dainty buttons slip between my fingers, but I manage after a bit of fumbling, like a teenager learning to unclasp a bra for the first time.
I unzip her skirt and slide it down her soft legs.
Nope. Not going to focus on the fact that her bra and underwear match, and the seafoam green lace of her cheeky panties nestle perfectly along the curve of her heart-shaped ass.
God, I feel like a fucking pervert as I lean down, my eyes level with those round globes and carefully ease her legs up and out of the skirt. I shove her clothes into my bag.
Daphne’s legs wobble in her spiky heels. Shit, I hope I didn’t use too much Rohypnol. My brother—the prodigy doctor—guessed how much I’d need, but without her actual height and weight, it was a guesstimate.
Daphne and I can both stumble out of here like we’re drunk, but if I have to carry her, people will have questions. And if Connor McArthur sees us, I’m fucked.
Luckily, Abercrombie isn’t the attentive type. He’s been zoning in and out of their conversation for the past hour and mostly focusing on the ass of their waitress. Poor girl better get a bigger tip than what’s on the end of Connor’s dick.
Once I have Daphne changed and the black wig secured by bobby pins, I tug off my suit pants, the clip-on tie, and knockoff Breguet, then shove them into the backpack. I already have a pair of tan khakis on, and I keep the same suit jacket and button-up shirt.
The bathroom door creaks open, and a man shuffles toward the urinals. The bathroom stalls only come up to Daphne’s calves. If anyone’s looking, they’ll see four shoes in here.
“Shhh, baby. Shh.” I cover my hand over her mouth, loud enough for the man to overhear me.
“You feel so fucking good. Not so loud. Quiet or we’ll get caught.
” I grunt in rhythm like we’re fucking in the bathroom stall.
With Daphne Fox’s curvy body this close to mine, her vanilla perfume fills my nostrils.
Until the vanilla mixes with the fishy synthetic smell of her cheap wig, and I immediately pull back.
“That’s it,” I encourage. “Good girl.”
Daphne moans under my hand and rolls her hips, her ass grinding against me.
Holy shit.
Her moan rockets straight to my cock, and where the fuck did that come from? Other than my hand on her mouth, I’m not touching her. With the urgency to get her the hell out of here before we’re caught, it’s hard to have a hard-on, but one touch of Daphne’s hips against mine and my cock hardens.
Her eyes flutter, and her hips roll. A few of my ex-girlfriends used to tell me how sexy my voice was, but I’ve never made a woman moan from it before.
The urinal flushes, and the man hurries out without washing his hands.
Gross.
Opening the door, I check our reflection in the mirror. Daphne no longer matches any description someone could give the cops about the woman who walked to the back of the restaurant. My disguise is still a blond asshole if the police show up and Connor gives them my description.
Well, my disguise’s description. I do a quick double-check to make sure no dark hair is peeking out from under my wig.
Looping Daphne’s arm around my shoulder, I whisper in her ear.
“That’s it, Daphne. You’re doing so well. Keep walking. One foot in front of the other. I’ll have you home soon, okay?”
Daphne’s head lolls as I half-carry her outside.
Stumbling around the corner, I stop where I have my car parked by two open buildings for rent—no CCTV footage around.
The car required some prep work, between the fake license plate and fake Hyundai logo over where the Honda one used to be.
I check to make sure the “Baby on Board” sticker is still there.
Settling Daphne into the backseat, I realize she must have left her purse in the restaurant. Perfect. No phone to toss means she can’t be tracked.
I retrieve a baggie from my back pocket and open it, holding the bag and rag coated in chloroform over her mouth.
She passes out in my back seat. I drape a black sheet over her body.
Tugging down the baby sun blinders on the backseat windows, I slide across my little black curtain that divides the front and back seats.
No cameras can see into my rear window now as I drive to my house, over an hour away on the outskirts of Baltimore.
Daphne fucking Fox is in the backseat of my car.
I’ve been following her for weeks, tracking her to see where she goes, what her schedule is, and how tough her security detail would be.
She’s a key piece to stopping the Bradshaw Bill that her father’s so desperate to pass.
If it passes, it’ll ruin the lives of millions of people—not that her dad cares.
He has stocks in multiple health insurance companies, and when this passes, the President and his cronies will have a massive stock bump.
Her Dad will make millions overnight, whereas millions of people would lose their health insurance—or be forced to pay so much they might as well not have insurance at all.
Daphne’s a homebody, which made my work easy.
I knew exactly when she’d be at work, so I could slip into her house and hack her personal calendar.
Her security detail is minimal, but the Secret Service patrols her block a few times a day, so I couldn’t risk grabbing her at home.
I waited until she had something booked—a date.
And with McArthur’s son of all people. Representative McArthur drafted the fucking bill, and he’s on my hit list.
But first, I need to take care of Daphne.
She’s still asleep as I park the car in my garage.
Dragging Daphne from the back seat, I make my way down to the finished basement. I lay her onto the oversized couch and settle her head onto a pillow.
I almost pity the poor girl. She can’t control who her dad is—but she’s reaped the benefits of a spoiled and easy life.
A woman like her has never known real struggle.
She’s always had food on the table, always had a medical appointment when she had a cough or tummy ache, always had money for extracurricular activities and hobbies to pad her college applications.
Student loans are a foreign concept to her.
No, Daphne Fox doesn’t deserve pity.
And maybe I don’t pity her. But the sight of her sleeping on my couch softens something in my chest. She’s pretty, especially asleep. I tuck a lock from the wig away from her cheek. She looked better in her natural blond hair.
Taking the shackle and long chain bolted to the wall, I cuff her left wrist. I noticed at the bar she’s right-handed, so I’ll leave that hand free.
I shut the door before returning to the garage.
I strip the car of its vinyl covering, spending over an hour peeling off the lazy vinyl coat job I did last week in preparation for tonight.
The car transforms from red back to its original black.
I think I can use it one more time before I’d have to call it quits with this car and move on to something different.
And I’ll make sure the car is detailed before I return it to the owners. I might not have asked permission, but I wouldn’t steal a car. Not permanently. I always return them, polished and detailed, with no DNA left behind. I never keep a getaway car for more than two weeks.
Wiping the damp sweat from my forehead, I toss the last bits of crinkled vinyl into the trash bag.
Tying it up, I sling it over my shoulder and stomp out to my backyard, where the wide expanse of trees stretches.
The forest behind my house is small, with a creek bed and plenty of space between my neighbors and me.
I could walk for miles before running into anyone else’s yard.
The sun’s already setting, and orange mingles with navy blue across the treetops, budding to life with the warmth of summer settling in. The June air teases out fireflies as they skip across the backyard.
Dumping the bag in the trash can, I head up to my master bathroom. Stripping out of my clothes, I peel off the blond wig and wig cap, tossing them into my drawer of wigs. I should go through and comb them soon.
I tug off my glasses and slip them inside the drawer, too.
My fingers are still sticky from the vinyl residue, making it easier to peel off the prosthetic nose covering that gave me a wider nose.
Scrubbing my hands until there isn’t a single bit of vinyl glue left, I remove my contact lenses.
One wasn’t necessary since one of my eyes is already brown, but it’s better to be sure my eyes completely match.
Otherwise, it’s something noticeable about me.
The point of a disguise is to be as invisible as possible—in this case, blending in as a pretty boy at a swanky cocktail bar.
I step into the shower, but don’t turn the water on.
Grabbing a bottle of baby oil and an exfoliating glove, I get to work removing the fake tanner from my face, neck, chest, and hands.
Anywhere visible. There goes my rich-boy, golden skin glow after ten minutes of hard scrubbing.
My skin flushes pink from being rubbed raw, but I finish, then indulge in a well-earned hot shower.
After a good twenty-minute soak, I loop a towel around my waist. I pad barefoot down the hallway of my house until I reach my studio. Checking the security cameras, I see Daphne stumbling around the basement, still groggy from the drugs.
Oh good. The princess is awake.