I stop smoothly and pivot to face the person. I scan his face, realizing who has stopped me.
Motherfucker.
“I’m sorry,” I crinkle my nose and click my tongue. “Your name eludes me,” I faux grimace.
“Hmm,” he hums, smiling an overly wide pretentious smirk. “Brendan Jennings. CEO of Jennings Petroleum and Refining.”
“Ah, yes.”
“Perhaps you don’t recall, hon,” he begins, stepping closer to me. Instinct has me wanting to back away but I wouldn’t dare give him the satisfaction. “I sought your consultation when I ran for Senate but I recall you being a bit uncouth about my offer to be a junior consultant on my campaign as I felt Trent Caskil had the manager position best in hand but standing here now, face to face I am sure the message came across wrong. You’re far too pretty to be so ugly.” His eyes skim over my form like I’m his next meal.
“Here’s the thing. I came to your office for that initial meeting but imagine my surprise when I heard you sling racial slurs and sexist remarks like it was your job. So I left, choosing to ditch our little interview,” I whisper. “I went back to my office and sent you a note. The message I sent along was…” I pause pretending to read from a bubble above his head. “I have standards and you don’t come close. Kindly piss off. Regards, Raegan Potter. So, you see, Mr. Jennings, pretty face or not, I don’t see how I could have made myself any clearer. And as far as your campaign manager goes, clearly he didn’t have things in his manly capable hands because you lost, now didn’t you?”
“What a—”
“But of course the odds were never in his favor or yours. Especially after that dreaded recording of you tossing around those racial slurs and bigoted comments surfaced. Oddly, I think I recall that news breaking the day after I ditched that meeting with you.”
“You,” he seethes, his cheeks reddening.
“Of course not.” I smile robotically. “But even if I did, you’d never find out. You know those media folks. Their lips are sealed tighter than your fate in DC. That is to say, it’s not budging.”
“Listen here little darlin’,” he spits the word like it tastes bad.
“I’m no one’s little darlin’, least of all yours and you keep it up and I’ll make certain you win nothing in the future except a ticket to sit before one or two of several oversight committees, darlin’. It’s no secret that you’re as slimy as they come. I have it on good authority that your doomed campaign was fraught with campaign fraud.” I pause for effect, scanning his face for cues.
“Why are you here in my state?”
“Me? Oh, you know, I love these events like this. Looks good and I’m a charitable woman,” I shrug.
“I have your number little missy. I know your type. The only thing charitable about you Potter, is how often and with whom you lay on your back and spread your legs,” he grits, stepping closer, his hot, whiskey coated breath brushing over my ear as his clammy hand brushes over my upper arm.
Everything in me screams, “Run!” but I don’t. Instead I focus on Sylas, on how amazing BCF is for men and women that deserve to have a wonderful trip, catching giant fish with someone so charismatic and kind as Sylas Broussard. Armed with these thoughts, I fire back, aiming to torpedo him, entirely.
I laugh humorlessly. “Slut shaming? That’s your ace in the hole?” I fake-pout. “Mr. Jennings I’d have to have a heart to be so easily wounded, but lucky for me I don’t have a heart or a soul, only ambition and a bank account.” I howl with laughter, my face turning red. I can feel the veins in my neck bulge. I sniff my nose and fan my face just to rub it in. “All that hot air about men being more capable in politics.” I shake my head. “You tried bending the rules and breaking the law in an effort to win and you still lost,” I snicker. “So excuse me if I don’t run off crying because you implied I’m a whore. I’ll try to pencil in a day to cry about it.” I pop the clasp of my clutch open and fish out a tissue to press it to the edges of my eyes. “I suppose if you had hired me for the position I deserved, instead of insulting me and degrading a black colleague of mine for having a little silly female brain,” I pout rolling my lip out, “then you’d have your pompous ass in DC right now doing a lot of nothing for the American voter that I would have convinced to put your flabby ass there.” I take the opportunity to critically scan my eyes over him from head to toe, while tucking my clutch under one arm.
Eat shit and die, asshole, Blind Rage seethes.
“So,” I gently clap my hands in front of me. “… Do the world a favor, slither on back to your den, take a bath in a barrel of your crude oil, count your money and your blessings, that I can’t truly be bothered enough to waste my time ruining you… further.” Jennings, to his credit, grumbles a string of threats that don’t hold water, then turns the corner leaving me alone. I sigh deeply, a good portion of my consciousness aware that it gets very tiring collecting enemies in my business. It hollows me out, more and more by the election cycle. I spin on my heel and head back towards the tent praying Sy’s speech is wrapped up by now.
I don’t get far because Sylas is standing only a few feet away. His hands tucked casually in his dress pants. I breeze past him, giving him a sideways glance as I go. A moment later I hear him catching up to me.
Glancing up to him I see his eyes darkened with concern. “You good?”
“Of course,” I smile, smoothing my hand down his chest.
“Who were you talking to?”
“No one of importance,” I smile broadly and get up to my tiptoes to steal a chaste kiss. We glide slowly back to the mouth of the massive part tent and I admire the finished product. “Do you hear that?” I whisper, cupping my hand behind one ear. Sy frowns.
“Hear what?”
“The glorious sound of check books flapping in the wind.” I grin, because it’s absolutely true.
“Yeah, I hope you’re right, Snow.” My reward is another signature Sylas Broussard lopsided grin. A long moment passes with us just watching the event unfold when Jennings catches my eyes across the space talking to some other blowhard near the other wide entrance.
“Who is he?” I motion my chin toward Jennings. Sy’s eyes follow mine.
“That’s Brendan Jennings. You at least know of him don’t you?” Sy frowns.
“Yes, of course I know who he is but I mean how are you affiliated with him?”
“He’s a donor. He’s been one of my few big name donors since I founded Buzzsaw.”
Fuck.
“Looks like someone is waving you over,” I say nodding toward a few men trying to flag Sylas over to a small group of men, huddled around chatting.
“Go, mingle,” he says, quickly kissing me on the cheek.
“I don’t know anyone. I’m not exactly sure what I would say to a random,” I lie.
“Tell ‘em you’re my future wife.” He grins.
“I won’t say that,” I breathe with wide eyes.
“Why? That’s what I’ve been telling everyone,” he says pulling me closer to him.