All of the Lights (27 page)

I make a little show of checking the time of my phone and bite down on my lip. "His last meeting was supposed to end almost ten minutes ago, right? Where do you think he is?"

Finally, Denise meets my eyes and sympathy radiates from her warm brown eyes. "He probably just got held up talking to someone after they adjourned. It happens all the time. He'll  be here soon—just sit tight."

This performance is shaping up nicely. Years of practice have perfected this act because I've got my Gaga face on, as Bennett calls it, and Jack is waiting for his cue on the other side of City Hall. All I need now is for the mayor to show up.

"Okay," I smile. Maybe I should be careful not to lay it on too thick. I don't want her to suspect anything if I have to keep showing up here to keep this act going. "Thanks, Denise. I really appreciate your help."

"No problem, sweetie. I just—" her voice dies out as two more voices round the corner of the hallway and her eyes flash excitedly. "See? I told you he'd get here."

I can only nod and do my best to mimic her enthusiasm. She can't get even a whisper of how I really feel about the mayor because she has invaluable knowledge about him—mainly, his schedule. His deep baritone floods the entire hallway and I take a deep breath. I'm about to embark on the performance of a lifetime and there's no way I can fail. There's just too much at stake.

The mayor breezes around the corner with one of his minions right at his side. He's talking a mile a minute, without so much as a glance at the person he's actually talking to, because his eyes are darting around the hallway. With each step, careful inventory of his surroundings is accessed, compartmentalized, and stored for future use. I can't imagine he knows any other way to operate. Dressed in a crisp black suit with thin pinstripes and a black tie, he projects the exact image he's worked to maintain all his years in office: composed, polished, and completely untouchable.

When he spots me, he does a quick double-take and murmurs something to the poor aide next to him. A few months ago, my heart would've stood frozen in disbelief as he walks over to me. It would've stuttered and skipped at the simple gesture of him about to spend a moment of his time with me. My dad, actually willing to give me the time of day.

Somehow, I manage to bite back the laugh before he notices. Bitter is a seed, planted in me before I even had a chance at a normal life, before I ever knew why I'd never find a way to earn his love, and it's blossomed into full-bloomed antagonism.

"Raena," the mayor nods tightly, annoyance just barely visible on his aging face. "What are you doing here?"

My mind wants to react one way, but my emotions have other ideas. A flash of hurt and disappointment vibrate through my stomach and there's nothing I can do about it. I hate myself in this moment just as much as I hate the man standing in front of me.

"Hey, Dad," that name is a lie but I can't give it away, "I haven't really gotten a chance to see you since I've been back." I glance at Denise, who's watching this interaction like a hawk, and while I don't want to cause any problems for her with the mayor, she sort of brought this on herself. "Denise told me you have a little bit of a break right now. I thought we could...I don't know, grab lunch or something?"

I let that sit for just a moment. When he opens his mouth to shoot me down, I dig a little deeper just because I can.

"I could go get us something and bring it back?"

It's not really a question because I already know the answer, but the charade is the key.

His dark eyes, calculating and just as cold, narrow ever so slightly. I ready myself for the inevitable.

"Are you planning on attending the fundraiser gala next weekend?"

Now that we're off and rolling, the rest comes more naturally.

"I didn't get an invitation or anything."

He doesn't miss a beat, especially not when other people are within ear-shot. "You don't need an invitation. Family is always expected to attend."

My lips start to curl, but then I catch myself. "Benn can come, right?"

The mayor's mouth tightens—this should be fun. There's certainly no love lost between the two of them and for good reason, too. "Raena, I'd prefer if you attended the fundraiser with just your sister. I don't want to have to field any more questions about who Bennett is to you anymore than I need him drinking my alcohol and eating my food all night. This event is for family, not family and friends."

Of course, the term
friend
has a pretty loose definition around here. For the mayor, a friend is a person who he can benefit from and who he can have an advantage over. Bennett fulfills neither of those requirements and so, he's written off as a nuisance and a bad influence in spite of the fact that he's the only true family I've ever had, next to Lucy and now, Sean.

This is a conversation we've had before and luckily for me, I know just what string to pull.

"Well," I jut a hand on my hip just for good measure. "If Benn doesn't go, then I don't go."

He weighs this internally, debating whether or not it's worth playing this out in public where people can see, hear, and ultimately write about. The debate is short-lived because reluctant acceptance clouds his eyes.

"Fine," he pushes out roughly. "Bring Bennett then. But be there on time and wear something presentable."

No need to elaborate when I'm supposed to be there or what I'm supposed to wear. Apparently, I'm on my own for that part.

"Okay, Dad," I can feel my nostrils flaring again at that name. "We'll be there. So...what about lunch?"

He glances at his watch and then places a hand on my shoulder. This is only for show, of course. He'd be loathe to touch me with any sort of affection without an audience around to benefit from it. "I'm sorry, Raena. But something came up this morning and now I need to go meet with some potential investors for the city."

The mayor really is a class act. Manipulating his way into getting exactly what he wanted from me without giving an inch in return. It should be an art form—he could teach a master course on the how to shame and humiliate everyone around you to get what you want.

"Oh, okay," I feign disappointment and dejection like the old pro I am. "I understand. I know you're busy. Maybe next week sometime?"

Something a little like a smile flashes across his face, but it's more likely an ironic one, not a genuine one.

"Come on," he gestures with his head toward the end of the hallway. "I'll walk with you on my way out."

I half-expect him to grab my elbow and pull me out of City Hall, but instead, we walk side by side, the picture of father and daughter having a private moment together. Neither of us say a word and that's the way both of us prefer it. Once we pad down the wide concrete steps leading to the expansive sidewalk on the street, I spot his shiny black Maserati idling next to the curb.

"Do you need me to call you a cab, Raena?"

"No," I smile tightly. "You don't need to do that for me."

And once I figure out why you told me to lie about that night, I'll never need anything from you ever again.

"Alright," he nods as he opens the back door to slide down to the leather waiting for him. "Go back to the store today and help your sister."

One last order before he goes. Par for the course.

The best I can muster is a silent nod and I wave a little when he disappears behind the Maserati's tinted windows. Then I whirl around on my heel and pound out a quick text to Jack:

He just left. I'm heading your way.

"CAN YOU SEE anything?"

"Jesus Christ, keep your head down," Jack snaps at me and tightens his hands around the steering wheel.

I gesture toward the looming warehouse the mayor's car just pulled up in front of. "Don't get your panties in a twist. He might see you too, you know."

He reaches over and nudges my shoulder a little to force me into crouching down in the passenger seat. "I'm pretty sure I know which one of us he'll recognize first."

"Geez," I grumble and slide down a little in the seat just to get him to shut up. "Happy?"

"Ecstatic."

I huff out a laugh and shake my head. "You still haven't answered my question."

Out of the corner of my eye, I watch Jack squint through the window, eyes locked on the black Maserati parked nearly a block away. "Nothing yet. He's..."

Jack trails off just as movement from the car catches my attention. The back door closest to the curb opens and the mayor slides out briskly, coolly, always keeping up the pretense even when no one—at least not that he knows of—is watching. I scramble to get my phone out of my purse and snap as many pictures as I can of him entering the building, making sure to get at least part of his face in each one. When he disappears through the front door, which is the only real activity we've seen around the whole building since we've pulled up, my head snaps to face Jack.

"Let's go to the other side of the building. Maybe there's something else over there."

His lips pull apart in a frown. "No way. It's too risky."

The way he just brushes me off without a second thought nearly pushes me over the edge and my shoulders slam into the passenger seat. "How do you know we won't be able to see what's going on in there?"

"I know I don't feel like getting shot today," he shoots me a wary glance. "That's good enough for me."

There's not much room for argument there. Jack's right—it's too risky to get much closer, at least until we have a better idea of who he's meeting in there and why. All I know is that meeting an 'investor' is most likely just a euphemism for something more nefarious. The problem is that now we have to wait here for the mayor to come back out. Here, in Jack's pickup truck. Without Bennett. All by ourselves.

This should be fun.

Almost as if he can read my thoughts, Jack reaches over and blasts some music through the speakers while I flip through the pictures I just took. When I settle on the pictures of the mayor's schedule, my eyes fall right to those empty spaces around the ribbon-cutting on Friday.

"You think you could turn this down a little?"

He scrubs a hand over his face, but obliges. "
This,"
he gestures to the radio, "is Incubus. I know it's not the Backstreet Boys, but it's my truck. My music."

"Benn's the one with the boy band obsession," I mumble.

I will not, however, admit that I have an inappropriate amount of One Direction songs on my iPod. And N'Sync. And Hanson. And fine, Backstreet Boys, too. Way more than a 27-year-old should have, that's for sure, but he'd have to kill me before I ever admitted that out loud.

"Well," he waves it off. "I've heard enough of that shit to last me a lifetime."

Time to change the subject. "So why is Friday off the table?"

His gaze snaps to mine, a tense, stormy grey. "It just is."

"You know, this whole partnership thing doesn't really work if we can't be honest with each other. You know, if we don't trust each other."

Now his lips turn up in a smile, not unlike the one I saw on the mayor when I suggested we get lunch next week. "You sayin' you trust me?"

When he lifts an eyebrow at me, my eyes narrow. I have no interest in playing right into this game, so instead of responding, I just blow out a deep breath instead. To trust him would be like speeding down a pitch black highway with my hands anywhere but on the wheel. I just can't do it.

"The ribbon-cutting is on Friday," I try instead. "That wouldn't be of any interest to you now, would it?"

His eyes never leave the space right above his steering wheel. At least I know I'm on track.

"Didn't the mayor raise taxes on them or something like that? That's how he got his fancy new condo right in Southie?"

Finally, he takes the bait and a hard tick works its way down his jaw. "Yeah. That's about it."

"St. Anthony's owned one of the spaces in that building, too, right? What did they use that for again? Community outreach? Office space for planning all their fundraisers?"

"Why do you say
fundraiser
like it's a dirty word?" His shoulders are still square with the windshield, but I don't have to see him to know he's narrowed his eyes at me. He's also successfully managed to dodge my original question and maybe that's for the best.

"I don't know all the rules about Catholics and the way they raise money," I shrug. "But some of their methods seem a little suspect."

"Oh really?" He cocks a wary eyebrow at me.

"I don't know...playing bingo—you know, gambling? Raffling off bottles of liquor, that sort of thing. Pretty sure there's something in the Bible about not doing those kinds of things, but who's keeping track, right?"

He bristles next to me, his hands tightening around the steering wheel so tightly they turn pale. I don't know why I'm pushing this because he's definitely not the person to have this kind of conversation with. But we've got nothing but time and I'd rather argue with him than strike up a genuine conversation.

"Of course you'd think that," he grumbles. "Of course all you'd see is the bad."
"Hey. It's not my fault those people are the most hypocritical, judgmental people you'll ever meet. Correct me if I'm wrong, but I'm pretty sure the Bible says you're supposed to treat others the way you want to be treated and to judge not lest ye be judged and all that."