The Long Game (The Fixer #2)(5)

Transparency wasn’t President Nolan’s strong suit.

The rest of the class period passed in a blur. When the final bell rang, I stood.

“About that grudge-holding yearbook editor—” Asher started to say, but before he could recommence wheedling, he was summarily cut off.

“You owe me a favor.” Emilia Rhodes wasn’t a person who bothered with words as mundane as hello. She was as intense as Asher was laid-back—and she was, unfortunately, correct.

I did owe her a favor.

“What do you want?” I asked Emilia.

She hooked an arm through mine. “Walk with me.” She didn’t speak again until we’d made it to the hallway. “Tomorrow during chapel, they’ll be taking student council nominations.”

“In November?” I asked.

“Student council elections take place on Election Day.” Emilia executed a delicate little shrug. “Hardwicke tradition.”

Hardwicke wasn’t a normal school. Most days, it didn’t even pretend to be.

“The next student council term begins in January,” Emilia continued. “I intend to be president. You have a certain amount of . . . influence”—it pained Emilia to say that word—“at this school, particularly among freshmen and miscellaneous social misfit types. When the headmaster calls for nominations tomorrow morning, I want you to nominate me. Maya will second your nomination.”

I waited for the catch. “That’s it?” I said, when none was forthcoming. “Nominate you for student council president, and we’re even?”

Emilia gave a roll of her blue-green eyes. “No. You’ll nominate me, and then you’ll make sure I win, and then we’ll be even.”

I narrowed my eyes at her. “And how am I supposed to make sure you win?”

“How do you do anything?” Emilia shot back. “I’m not asking for a miracle here, Tess. I’m qualified for the job. I’m in good social standing. I have the right connections. And you know I’ll do a better job than John Thomas Wilcox.”

John Thomas was the horrible excuse for a human being who’d coerced the vice president’s daughter into taking those pictures. After I’d stopped him from sharing them, he’d zeroed in on me as a target.

He was a predator and a coward, and even the sound of his name set my teeth on edge.

“John Thomas is your opponent?” I couldn’t keep my features from working their way into a scowl.

“One of them,” Emilia confirmed, thrusting out her chin. “In the past decade, Hardwicke has had only one female student council president. My parents are dentists. His father is the minority whip.” Emilia stopped walking and turned to face me head-on. “I intend to win this, Tess.”

The last time Emilia had attempted to hire me, it was to keep Asher out of trouble. Putting her in office over John Thomas Wilcox seemed like a less Herculean task—not to mention more enjoyable.

“Fine,” I said. “I help you win this election, and then we’re even.”

Emilia’s lips parted in a small smile. “Welcome to the campaign.”





CHAPTER 4

It took Bodie less than ten minutes after he picked me up to ferret out the finer details of my day. For someone I was fairly certain had committed his share of felonies, Ivy’s driver could do an impressive soccer mom impression when it came to pumping information out of me on the way to and from school.

“I doubt ‘student council campaign manager’ was what Keyes had in mind when he told you to get more involved at school.” Bodie flashed a smile at me.

“I agreed to Sunday night dinners and allowing him to publically acknowledge me as a Keyes,” I retorted. “Field hockey and debate were never a part of the deal.”

Bodie studied me for a moment, the way he always did when the subject of William Keyes came up. “If the old man starts to make noise about it,” he said, trying to mask the fact that he was taking mental notes on my well-being for Ivy, “you can always tell him you’re taking a page from the Keyes playbook and trying your hand at calling the shots behind the scenes.”

I grimaced. The last thing I needed was for the Hardwicke populace to decide that I was some sort of kingmaker-in-the-making.

“It’s a favor for a friend,” I said. “That’s it.”

“You’re a Kendrick,” Bodie told me, taking the turn toward Ivy’s house. “Favors for friends have a way of complicating themselves.”

Bodie slowed the car as we approached the driveway. In addition to being Ivy’s chauffeur, he was also her bodyguard—and mine. With casual efficiency, he surveyed the street in front of Ivy’s house, his gaze coming to rest on a car at the curb.

Since Ivy worked out of the bottom floor of our sprawling DC home, clients came and went with a fairly high frequency, but this car didn’t fit the profile of Ivy’s typical client. Beneath the grime, the vehicle was burnt orange—and clearly used. The windows weren’t bulletproof. I doubted its owner had ever even considered hiring a driver.

I glanced over at Bodie, trying to get a read on him. Did he recognize the car?

As he pulled into the driveway, his phone buzzed. A text, almost certainly from Ivy. Bodie read the message. A second passed. He put on his best poker face, then glanced back up at me. “How would you feel about ice cream?”