I stride from the bathroom and come face-to-face with Anthony Rodderick, my sometime-nemesis. Yale educated. His family are Augusta National board members who yield power across the entire state. He holds a guaranteed spot on Sunday morning’s political news circuit that I usually eschew. He’s your typical entitled male, but a liberal, so in some ways he’s even blinder to his own privilege because wanting to save the world assuages his guilt for getting all he wants from it.

“Kimba,” he says, his deep voice modulated by an expensive education, years of breeding, and just the right twinge of a Southern drawl to keep him approachable. “So good to see you again.”

“Good to see you, too, Tony,” I say, deliberately using the sobriquet I know he hates.

His expression twitches almost imperceptibly if you don’t know what you’re looking for. But, of course, I do.

“I think the last time I saw you,” Anthony says, “was at the Inaugural Ball.”

He leans against the wall and slides his left hand into his pants pocket, but not before I notice the lighter band of skin where his wedding ring used to be. Relationships—marriages, families, friendships—are the greatest liabilities of any campaign. I know that firsthand.

“It was very gracious of President Cade to invite his rivals to his big night,”

Anthony continues, grudging admiration and some envy evident in his voice.

“The president is a gracious man,” I reply neutrally.

“And his wife, too. You’d know that better than most considering she was your business partner and best friend. Must be nice when your connections land you the plum jobs.”

“You’d probably know more about that than I would.”

His scoffing laughter slithers under my skin. “Seriously? My family may be rich, but there are no schools, parks, bridges or streets named after us.” His expression goes granite. “And that kind of thing means nothing to Mateo Ruiz. He’s more interested in winning over people in this state who would resist his bid. People like my family and the guys I grew up with. I know how to reach them.”

“I know how to reach them, too. Being like your enemy is not a battle strategy. Thinking like them is. I could outthink you with a concussion.” I step close enough to whisper in his ear. “And you know it.”

He chuckles, his eyes roaming over my face and body with undisguised admiration. He’d fuck me if he could, but that won’t ever happen. I turned him down when he was drunk enough to actually ask, which only makes him more determined to beat me.

“Maybe,” he whispers back. “Maybe I know it, but Mateo doesn’t, and he’s this close to hiring me to run his campaign. You could always come work for me, Kimba. I’d take real good care of you.” Innuendo sours his voice.