Sway (Landry Family #1) (2 page)

The thing is—they’re exactly right. It is.

She reads the look on my face and we start towards the door. “I know, I know. You lived like that once. It’s a fantasy, smoke and mirrors . . .”

“Yup.”

“Well, I say I’ll play in the smoke as long as the mirrors make me pretty.”

I snort, pushing open the door to the ballroom. “You go right ahead and dig that gold all the way down the aisle.”

“I’ve got my shovel right here.” She shimmies her backside in my direction. “See that one over there?”

Following her gaze across the room, I see a man I know is one of the Landry brothers. There are four of them and two sisters, twins, if I’m not mistaken. I don’t really follow that kind of thing much, but they’re basically Georgia royalty, and even avoiding current events as I do, you can’t help but pick up on some of their lives. Every newscast, it seems, has something Landry-related even when it’s not election season.

“I’m going to check him out,” Lola says and takes off, leaving me standing with my tray of ridiculously overpriced champagne.

I roam the outer edges of the elegant ballroom, giving a practiced smile to each person that plucks a drink off the tray. Some smile widely, some try to chit-chat, some completely ignore me like they probably do the paid staff at home. It’s fine by me.

A few years ago, I attended events like this. Married to my college sweetheart, a newly minted judge in Albuquerque, we went to balls and galas and swearing-in ceremonies often. It was a magical time in my life, before the magic wore off and everything exploded right in my face.

“Well, aren’t you a pretty little thing?”

I spin to my right to see an older gentleman grinning at me like a snake ready to strike.

“Would you like a drink?” I offer, knowing good and well by the color in his cheeks that he’s already had more than enough.

“No, no, that’s fine. I was actually just admiring you.”

Pasting on a smile and tossing my shoulders back, I try to keep my voice even. “Thank you, sir. Now, if you’ll excuse me—”

“I was thinking,” he says, cutting me off, “how about you and I take a little stroll? Do you get my drift?”

“With all due respect,” I say through clenched teeth, glancing at the wedding ring sparkling on his finger, “how about you take a stroll with your wife?”

I swivel on my heels and head off as calmly as possible, blood roaring in my ears. I can hear his cackle behind me and I really want to turn around and slam my fist into his beefy face. It’s behavior that’s typical of people like this, thinking they can get away with whatever they want with the bourgeoisie. I just so happen to have an overdeveloped sensitivity to it, being that my husband did the same thing to me as soon as he got a little power.

Lola catches my attention as I pause to settle down. She points discreetly to the other end of the room and mouths, “Over there.” The gleam in her eye tells me she's spotted the mayor, but I can't see him.

I shuffle through the crowd and finally spy the man of the hour walking out, his arm around the waist of a woman that's been acting crazy all night. Her head is leaning on his shoulder, her hand resting on his backside. Laughing, I catch Lola's eye and nod to the exit.

"Bitch," she mouths as she approaches the same man that approached me earlier. I want to warn her, but don’t. For one, I know it won’t do any good, and for two, I can’t take my eyes off Landry.

People literally part for him to walk through. It's like he's Moses. They're more than willing to be led through the Red Sea, divided by his power and influence, and into the Promised Land.

I’m off in space about what precisely that land might entail, when my shoulder is bumped, rustling me out of my Landry-induced haze.

"Excuse me," I say. When I realize who I've just ignored, my cheeks heat in embarrassment. "I'm so sorry," I stutter, handing Camilla Landry, one of the Landry sisters, a glass of champagne.

She’s even more beautiful in person, a textbook example of poise and sophistication. In the media a lot for charity work with her mother, her face is easily identifiable with her high cheekbones and sparkling smile.

"Don't worry about it," she breathes, waving me off. "I can't take my brothers anywhere without women getting all mesmerized. Especially that one," she laughs, nodding to the doorway Barrett just went through. "Although, between me and you, I don't get it."

Her grin is infectious, and I can't help but return it.

"I'm Camilla," she says, extending her long, well-manicured hand like I don’t already know.

I balance the tray on one side and take her hand in mine. "I'm Alison. Alison Baker."

"You helped clean up a sauce spill earlier. You put the lady that had the accident at ease when you took the blame and kept the attention off her. I wanted you to know I saw and respected that."

"It really was no big deal.”

"In this world,
everything
can be a big deal. Trust me. You probably just saved my brother a couple of votes."

"Just doing my part," I laugh.

She smiles again, her chic sky-blue dress matching her eyes and heels. "Well, on behalf of the mayor, thank you. He seems . . . occupied, at the moment."

I wink. "I have no idea what you’re talking about. I didn't see a thing."

She nods, looking a touch relieved, and thanks me again before turning away and greeting the older lady from earlier, the one that spilled her dinner all over me. Camilla takes her hand and helps her into a chair.

Her elegance is breathtaking and she has a charm about her, an easiness even though she’s clearly blue-blood, that I’ve never seen before. It’s exactly what the kitchen is buzzing about with Barrett—a charisma you can’t quite put your finger on.

Barrett

"I'M WET FOR YOU, BARRETT."

"I'm sure you are."

I wrap my arm around Daphne's narrow waist, letting my fingers splay against the red satin fabric covering her body. She moans at the contact, her eyelashes fluttering closed, and her head resting against my shoulder.

"How could I not be? You are
so
sexy," Daphne purrs, grabbing the lapels of my jacket and trying to jerk me towards her. "Please, Mayor Landry. Fuck me."

Squeezing her hips to hold her steady, I'm afraid she's going to get sick before I can get her out of here.

"Take me home with you, sugar. Take me to the bathroom for all I care, just take me," Daphne thinks she whispers as I guide her to the foyer of the Savannah Room.

Her not-so-quiet request gains the attention of the men in suits lining the marble walls. They look at us, the Mayor of Savannah and the daughter of a United States Senator, over their tumblers of gin. A few crack a grin, but most just nod and turn back to their discussions about oil or the stock market.

Not one man with the requisite American flag pin on his suit jacket is appalled. This may be the South, where people like to think it's all gentility and manners, but it's also politics, and it has its own code of conduct that morality has no place in. Politics equals power, but it also equals fortune, a bit of fame, and a lot of pussy, and these men take full advantage of it all.

And so have I.

But these days, with the gubernatorial election on the horizon and my campaign numbers strong but not enough to make me a shoo-in, I have been more selective in my extracurricular activities. My eligible bachelor title earlier this year, along with some pesky pictures of me with a couple of models at a party in Atlanta, didn’t help my campaign. My adversary, a bastard named Homer Hobbs, has taken the angle that I’m just some spoiled little rich kid that can’t be trusted with the keys to the Governor’s Mansion. That’s one angle. There are others.

“Are you coming home with me?” Daphne slurs against my shoulder.

“You know I can’t do that,” I say, pausing while she catches her balance. “I have to stay here and entertain the masses.”

She giggles. “Why don’t you come entertain my ass instead?”

Fighting to hide my frustration, I hurry her along as best I can towards the exit.

“So many people came to see you,” she gushes.

“Let’s hope that translates to votes.”

“You need my daddy’s vote, Barrett?”

Her tone, a babyish whimper, makes me roll my eyes. I know exactly what she’s on her way to pointing out.

Yeah, I’ve fucked her and I’m not saying I won’t replay that. But I’m not fucking her tonight for her daddy’s endorsement. It wouldn’t be a sexual transaction tonight; it would be an implication of power, of necessity, and I’m not about to step into that.

The oversized door is pushed open by a man in a green-vested suit. He tips his hat. "Mr. Mayor, may I summon your ride?"

"No, thank you, I'll be staying for a while. Can you please see that Ms. Monroe gets home safely?"

I slide my arm from around her waist and watch her teeter on her heels. Her black hair is a mess, her dress wrinkled and clinging haphazardly to her body. She's starting to nod off, and I'm embarrassed for her. The daughter of Miles Monroe, she should know better than to publicly embarrass her family. It's the political Golden Rule, a rule that's simply not broken without severe consequences.

I slide a hundred dollar bill into the valet's palm. "Please get her out of here immediately."

"No problem, sir. I have a car waiting. Anything else?"

"That'll be all."

I turn on my heel to see my father across the hall. He winks, running one hand through his salt-and-pepper hair and excuses himself from the conversation that's taking place around him.

He falls in step beside me as I make my way into the banquet. I spy my mother, Vivian Landry, in conversation with a judge on the Georgia Supreme Court.

"Nice move, son," Dad drawls, patting me on the shoulder as we walk. "We're going to need Monroe’s support. Your numbers are solid, but Monroe's endorsement would make sure you win. That precinct—"

"I know, Dad."

He shakes his head. "I know you know. I'm just saying I know he'll be appreciative of you getting her out of here. What in the hell was she thinking?”

I shrug, scanning the activity in the room. "I don't know what she was thinking, but I also don't know who let her drink that much," I say, turning my back to my father. It never ceases to amaze me how callous he can be about this entire process.

"Whoever it was just did you a favor, son.”

"Well, I could use a few more favors. Hobbs is doing more damage with his accusations than I dreamed. Did you see the interview today?"

My father cringes. "Yes."

"He pulled up those pics from Atlanta. Again.”

"It's just politics, Barrett. Propaganda."

"Fuck propaganda," I bite out.

Wrapping my hand over the back of my neck, I try to work out some of the tension. The last bit of an election is always tough—mentally and physically. Everyone warned me as I went up the ranks that it would just get harder, more vicious. I thought I was prepared. I thought wrong.

I wake up every day wondering what will be said about me in the media. I have to watch what I say, what I do, rethink every breath that comes out of my mouth because the wrong word to the wrong person can all be twisted. And you can trust essentially no one.

It’s a constant state of defense and it’s starting to wear on me a bit. Or a lot. Either way, there’s nothing I can do about it.

This is my dream. I keep reminding myself of that.

“Don’t look like that, Barrett.”

“Like what, Dad? Like I’m tired of the bullshit? Like I just want to be able to speak freely, grab a cup of coffee, crack some jokes without worrying about who will spin it a hundred ways from Sunday?”

“You’re in the big leagues now. This isn’t a local election. There isn’t a whole hell of a lot I can do for you like I can down here. You have to play the game.”

"I’m trying to play the game, Dad, but I’m playing with people who have no rules. How could he support Hobbs anyway?" I ask, declining a glass of champagne.

"He'll support Hobbs if he's going to win.” Dad takes a sip of his drink. “And Hobbs has already said he’ll vote against the Land Bill.”

I stop in my tracks and turn to face my father. The bill in question is one of the hottest areas of contention in this election. It would take a large swath of property near Savannah and convert it into a commercial zone. It would trigger construction, create jobs, create affordable housing, increase revenue. All in all, it’s a win . . . except for the landholders who just so happen to be old money families, like mine and Monroe’s.

And apparently I’m the only person that thinks the rich, like me, getting richer at the expense of the poor is a bad idea.

“I’m not ready to commit one way or the other on that,” I say to my dad, not wanting to go into it again.

“I’m just telling you—if you’d just throw your weight against it, it would make this Monroe matter much simpler.”

“So you think I should support it because our family stands to make more money if it doesn’t pass? Funny, Dad, that’s not what I thought I was being elected to do.”

He chuckles, the gravel in his tone letting me know he’s not pleased. He’s also not about to cause a scene. “You won’t be elected at all if you don’t play your cards right. Remember that.”