God, I hope I remember how to do this. I kick off my boots and start up the stairs.
I step over the third step—it’s always creaked.
The fifth one near the landing groans if you put your weight in the center, so I skirt the side and avoid that one too.
At the top, in the hallway, I hug the wall and step slowly. I make it to my bedroom door without a sound.
The second it clicks shut behind me, I sag against it. I listen for evidence of my dad having heard me coming in this late, but the house is still.
Exhaling, I set my shoes down and take my clothes off for the second time tonight. Tomorrow he’ll probably ask me where I was, but I’ll just tell him I was out with a friend and came home late.
Crawling into my cool bed, I pull the comforter up over me. My skin is still sensitive from all the places Luke kissed me, the burn of his stubble a delicious sting. My lips are swollen, and so is my pussy.
I sniff myself. I smell like Luke and sex, and it turns me on all over again.
Just outside of town proper, Luke is probably in his bed with my smell all around him, and I hope he’s turned on too.
A smile sneaks across my face before I can stop it.
41
COLE
The wealthiest people are never satisfied. That’s the first rule of money.
The second is that everyone lies about the first.
The Bozeman Ranch Resort ballroom is full of people proving both.
I straighten my cuff and accept a glass of bourbon from a passing server. Top shelf. Naturally.
Success isn’t just about power. It’s about making sure everyone sees you have it, and I’m making sure everyone sees it tonight—donors, lobbyists, business owners, future cabinet appointments, and the media. Tonight, this fundraiser for the campaign is as much a show of power and making alliances as it is emptying these people’s pockets.
Every person in this room is useful.
Which is exactly how I like it.
“Cole!”
I glance up as a woman in a sequined gown waves from across the ballroom. Margaret Wilson. Two hundred thousand dollars last quarter, three hundred if I play this right tonight.
I smile.
Showtime.
Heading toward her, I shake a few hands without slowing down. I want her to think I can’t wait to talk to her. When I reach her, I take her hand and chastely kiss her cheek. “Margaret, you look stunning.”
I mean it. Money buys a lot of things, and taste occasionally makes the list.
“Oh, stop.” She laughs, pleased. “I was just telling the Hendersons about your infrastructure plan. Brilliant, really. Montana needs someone who understands business.”
“That’s kind of you to say.” I take a sip of bourbon and turn to meet the Hendersons. I know who they are, of course. Mark Henderson is the largest construction contractor in Montana, and he’s not impressed with my business acumen—he’s imagining how much money he’ll make if I win.
So I give them exactly what they came for. Economic development. Job creation. Growth. The future. I’ve delivered the speech so many times I could do it in my sleep.
The funny thing about voters is they don’t actually want the truth. They want a story.
I happen to tell a very good one.