Chapter 46
Forty-Six
Whatta Man
Spencer
“I finally found my way, mom,” I mutter, barely loud enough to hear over the hum of the engine. The words taste strange in my mouth, foreign and fragile. She never got to see me actually happy, actually whole. “And you would love him so much.”
I blow out a breath. Better take care of this item of business. Then I'm going to make an appearance at this fundraiser and dip out as fast as humanly possible so I can get to Ryan.
My thumb finds my phone in the inside pocket of my jacket. The screen lights up my face in the darkened car, casting everything in pale blue. Navigating into messages, I scroll to the number the PI sent me earlier.
I tap the number. The line trills only once.
“This is Senator Buterbaugh.”
The voice is polished, campaign-ready, the same voice that delivers speeches about family values and traditional marriage while he votes to strip rights from people like his own son. Like me. I don't waste time with greetings. I don't waste time with anything.
“Your presidential campaign will not see the light of day,” I say, and my voice comes out steady. “You will cease all pre-announcement activity, effective immediately.”
“Who is this?” The Senator's voice sharpens, losing its politician sheen, gaining an edge of anger.
“My name doesn't matter.” I spit the words out, feeling them land somewhere between my teeth and the receiver. “My name is inconsequential. My name...” I pause, let the silence stretch. “Is what your son moans when I sink my dick into his perfect ass.”
The inhale that comes across the line is audibly choked. Like I've physically struck him.
“You listen to me—”
“No.” I cut him off, my voice rising, filling the back of this car like smoke. “You listen to me. I don't need to tell you how good that feels for your son because you know firsthand, don't you? Do you moan your dominatrix's name when she impales you with her strap-on?”
Dead silence.
Not the silence of a bad connection. The silence of a man who has just felt the floor disappear beneath his feet.
I can hear him breathing, ragged and furious, can picture him in whatever office he's occupying, his face going pale, then red, his hand gripping the phone until his knuckles turn white.
“That's what I thought.” I pick a piece of lint off my pant leg, watching the fiber detach and float toward the floor. “You really should be more careful, Senator. She's been recording you.”
I let that sit. Let him calculate the damage, the headlines, the end of everything he's built. The end of his “righteous path”. The end of the moral majority's poster boy.
I sigh, long and deliberate, and brush another invisible speck from my knee. “Your presidential aspirations end here and now. That conversion therapy funding legislation? You will kill that first thing tomorrow.” I pause, tilt my head toward the window, watch the city blur past. “And Senator?”
Still nothing but angered breathing, harsh and rhythmic, like he's trying not to vomit.
“If you breathe a word of this to your son, say another disparaging thing about him, or so much as entertain the idea of another piece of hateful legislation...” I lean forward, drop my voice to something almost gentle, almost intimate.
“The world will witness what 'Mr. Family Values' does every Monday night. If something happens to me or Ryan, the video is released. Are we clear?”
The silence stretches for three full seconds. Four. Five.
Then, finally, a clearing of the throat. “Understood.”
The word sounds like it's been dragged through broken glass.
“Good.” I make my voice firm, final, the voice of a man who has nothing left to lose and everything to protect. “Don't test me, Senator. The only reason I've given you the opportunity to avoid exposure is to protect Ryan. But I won't hesitate if you don't comply.”
I don't wait. Don't need to hear him grovel or threaten or bargain. I pull the phone from my ear and end the call, the screen going dark in my palm just as the car slows, then stops.
The hotel looms outside the window, all glass and light and the kind of wealth that buys silence and complicity. The kind of wealth that raised Ryan Buterbaugh and tried to break him.
I take a deep breath, letting it fill my lungs, feeling my cufflink press cool against my wrist. Then I tap on the partition, thanking my driver, and open the door.
The moment I step into the hotel lobby, I spot Jen standing off to the right. I stop walking. “What are you wearing?”
She gasps dramatically. The woman is dressed like she walked out of some high-fashion Alice in Wonderland fever dream in white tailored pants, black knee-high boots pulled over them, a black top that's solid over her breasts but sheer mesh below.
A flowing black silk cape drapes from her shoulders and trails behind her.
An ornate black hat with a square top tilted at an impossible angle adorns her head.
And attached to it—I squint. “Is that a vinyl record?”
Jen beams. “It is.”
I stare. She strikes a pose. Then another. Then another. Finally, she spins in a dramatic circle and throws her hands out. “Tell me I'm beautiful.”
A confused laugh escapes me. “You look more than beautiful.” Her smile widens. “But what kind of event is this, Jen?”
She hooks her arm through mine. “You'll see.”
That answer does not inspire confidence. “Jen—”
“Nope.” She starts dragging me toward a hallway. “You'll ruin the surprise.”
I narrow my eyes. “I don't like surprises.”
“That's because you're emotionally stilted.”
I groan. She cackles and pulls me through a set of massive ballroom doors.
And my jaw nearly hits the floor.
The Grand Ballroom has been converted into some kind of futuristic fashion disco.
Black. Silver. Light. Movement. Energy.
A massive stage dominates the far end of the room, shooting off the front of it—a catwalk that has to be fifty feet long and at least six feet wide. Round tables fill both sides with black tablecloths, silver place settings, towering centerpieces. But it's the shoes that catch my eye.
Every table has a different style of shoe centerpiece—stilettos, combat boots, Vans, Doc Martens-all spray-painted silver with black flowers spilling dramatically from them. On one side of the room, rows of auction tables display sports memorabilia and framed collectibles.
“What have I just walked into, Jen?”
She squeezes my arm. “Isn't it amazing?”
“Yeah, but what—” I stop. Because two meddlesome women I recognize are barreling toward me, squealing, smiling, glittering.
“Spence!” Harper launches herself at me, her arms wrapping around my neck before I can react.
She's dressed entirely in black—skin-tight bodysuit, giant belt, beret, thigh-high boots—like some impossibly stylish French secret agent.
She releases me only for Cricket to immediately throw her arms around me.
Cricket has gone full Marilyn Monroe: white dress, a faux white fur, layers upon layers of costume diamonds, and a blonde wig.
I blink at both of them. “What are you doing here?” Then I look at my friend slowly, suspiciously. “What is this, Jen?”
She just shrugs. I scowl. Ryan’s sisters start giggling. “Oh, this is going to be fun,” Cricket says.
Before I can interrogate anyone further, Parker and Dita stroll over.
I do a double take. Dita's dark hair is gone-either it's a wig or she actually cut it.
It's now a sharp black pixie cut. She's wearing a silver spaghetti-strap dress paired with Doc Marten boots and a low-hanging sunflower pendant.
The look shouldn't work. It absolutely does.
Then there's Parker. My God. Parker has fully committed to whatever this is—leather chaps, leather vest, muir cap. Tom of Finland brought to life.
“Hey, Boss,” Dita chirps.
I bark out a laugh. “You two are quite the pair.”
Dita grins. Parker doesn't. My smile fades.
He's still carrying the guilt from earlier.
I sigh and shift my weight. “Parker.” His eyes lift.
“I want to apologize.” His brows furrow.
“The last few days have been...” I blow out a breath.
“Trying.” An understatement. “My reaction had nothing to do with either of you.”
Dita immediately waves me off. “Don't stress it.” She nudges Parker. “You've never been anything but good to us. We're all allowed bad moments when we're under pressure.”
I nod. Then look back at Parker. “That shirt was hilarious.”
His eyes widen. “It was?”
“Unfortunately.” A grin starts forming on his handsome face. “Stop beating yourself up.”
He lights up. “I thought so. But… sorry for the timing.”
“Forgotten.” Then I spread my hands. “Now can someone please tell me what the hell is going on?”
As if summoned by the question, a young man in a silver tuxedo approaches. He’s one of at least twenty similarly dressed young people moving around the room. He hands each of us a booklet. “Event programs.”
Something about him looks familiar. I've definitely seen him before.
Before I can place him, he's already walking away. I glance down. The front cover reads: FREE YOUR MIND. FASHION TO THRIVE. My stomach does that fluttery bullshit it’s been doing a lot of lately.
Below it, in smaller text: Featuring the Debut Collection from Tyler Jackson.
My heart leaps into my throat. I look at Jen. “Please tell me what's going on.” The words come out desperate, choked.
“Sooo...” Cricket says with a mischevious smile. “That project my brother's been working on?”
My knees suddenly feel weak. No. No way. My eyes slowly lift from the program. “He...” The room blurs slightly. “He did this?”
Jen's smile softens. “He had help.” Then she shrugs. “But yeah. It was his idea. He wanted to help Tyler hard launch his collection.” She gestures around the ballroom. “And raise money for THRIVE.”
My eyes dart around the room. Suddenly I recognize the faces. The silver tuxes. The volunteers. They’re all from the center. The older ones, at least. My eyes are now wet.
Anthony and Chance appear beside us, apparently catching the end of the conversation. “And the dinner tonight?” Anthony adds.
I look at him and he grins. “Ryan gathered everyone in the over-eighteen group at THRIVE who's interested in cooking.” My mouth falls open. Anthony points toward the back of the ballroom. “They're making the entire meal.”
“What?”
“The hotel's kitchen is supervising,” Anthony clarifies, laughing. “But Butters is basically running them like a catering crew.”
I stare at him. Then around the room. Then back at the program in my hands. I can't breathe. I can't think. I can’t— “I can't believe he did all of this.”
“I can,” Chance says firmly. “But don’t be angry with him. Tyler wanted to surprise you. He swore Butters to secrecy.”
Angry? A dozen emotions are crashing through me right now. Anger is not one of them. Wonder. Disbelief. Pride. I swallow hard, then look directly at Anthony. My voice comes out rough. Wet. Certain. “Tell me where the kitchen is.”
Anthony's eyebrows shoot up.
“Where is he?” The words catch in my throat, but I push them out. “Where is my man?”
A shriek erupts from Harper. Cricket grabs Jen's arm. Dita gasps. Anthony's face splits into a massive grin. “It’s about damn time.”
I narrow my eyes. Anthony only laughs. Then jerks his head toward the back hallway. “Come on.” He starts walking. “I'll take you.”
As I follow him, Chance reaches out and smacks a hand against my shoulder. His smile is warm. Certain. “You got this.”