Sway (Landry Family 1)

“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.”