Corrupt Read online

  Corrupt

  Chase Potter

  CHASE POTTER BOOKS

  [email protected]

  Corrupt

  Copyright © 2018 Chase Potter

  Cover design by Natasha Snow Designs

  www.natashasnowdesigns.com

  All rights reserved. No part of this may be reproduced in any form or by any means without the prior consent of the Publisher, excepting brief quotes used in reviews.

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events and incidents are either the products of the author’s imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.

  Table of Contents

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter Twenty-one

  Chapter Twenty-two

  Chapter One

  I take a breath, and the August air is slick with humidity. Failing sunlight pours over the trees at the edge of Holden Park, spilling onto the guys hunched in front of me, and I wait. A second passes, and time itself seems to hold out for a single word.

  “Hut!”

  James Addison, the fourth district city councilman, thrusts the ball into my waiting hands. Adrenaline jets into my blood, and pounding heartbeats count my steps backward as I scan the field. The men on my team fan out, vying for the best positions as they’re dogged by the guys wearing jerseys — the opposing team.

  “Matt!” James shouts to me from down the field, jerking his head in the direction of Eric Bradford. The slender man with thick, dark hair is open. Sort of. Open enough to get the ball, but he won’t make it far.

  James’s strategy is always about winning. But in this case, it’s not the game he’s trying to win. He wants to score points with the man who happens to be the only mayoral candidate in a decade who has half a chance at winning against incumbent mayor Walker. Sometimes I’m convinced that James runs the whole city. He could have run for mayor himself and – with all the favors he’s owed – probably won by a long shot. But that’s not his style.

  Bradford catches my gaze, and I know he’s ready, expecting me to pitch the ball to him low and quick. The election is in two weeks, and James is likely trying to make some obscure point about standing with his chosen candidate, but I don’t care about his political maneuvering right now.

  The other team has picked up on Bradford being open, and the chance to get him the ball is swallowed up. James makes a frustrated motion for me to throw the ball, but it’s far too late now.

  Tucking the ball beneath my arm, I push off into a sprint. My Nikes dig into the grass, tearing green from brown as I barrel down the field. Wind tugs at my t-shirt and my hair, and I run faster.

  The other team is bearing down on me, but with the exception of one guy I only met today, no one has a good shot at catching me. The sound of my breath fills my ears, and I swerve and dodge down the field.

  I’ve just gotten past the mess of players in the middle of the field when I see him at the edge of my vision. Half a head shorter and not built like me. Alex. That was his name.

  I’m stronger and faster than him, and he has no chance. From the corner of my mouth, I smirk at him.

  His expression hardens in an instant, and somehow he’s moving faster now, closing the gap. Too fast. Shit. I try to weave away from him, angling myself out of his reach, but he ignores the flags at my waist and lunges at me.

  There’s no way he’s big enough to take me down.

  Our bodies connect, and for a fraction of a second, I’m floating in the air, taken off my feet. Then I slam into the ground, and every last bit of air is squeezed from my chest. My head buzzes from getting knocked flat on my ass, but I’m still acutely aware that Alex is lying on top of me, pure dead weight. His face is inches from mine, covered in light stubble. His hair is dark and short on the sides, but in the front it hangs down just enough to touch my forehead. Hazel eyes stare down at me. An unblinking mix of gold and green.

  “This is flag football, asshole,” I wheeze, feeling the impact more than I’d like to admit.

  The man lying on top of me pushes himself up with his hands on my shoulders — one more insult that deepens my glare.

  “Sorry, I forgot for a minute,” he says, now holding out a hand to help me up.

  I ignore him and push myself to my feet. He is shorter, and his shoulders aren’t as wide as mine. But up close, I can tell that under his t-shirt and shorts he’s solid muscle. No wonder his tackle hit me like a truck.

  He waits for me to say something, but I don’t. As I walk away, I flick one last angry glance at him.

  “I said it was an accident,” Alex calls after me, but I don’t turn again.

  Coming up on James, I toss him the ball. “Who the hell is that guy?” I ask under my breath.

  “Alex Price. You met him before the game, remember?”

  “Right. But who is he?”

  “The new district attorney. So you better watch out.” James punches my shoulder playfully, and I get the impression he’s only half kidding. Then he smirks. “He dropped you pretty fast.”

  My eyes race down the field to Alex. Immediately I realize he’s staring right back at me, and I force my gaze away. “Whatever.” The word wavers as it clears my tongue. Partly because a fraternizing football night of city council members and real estate developers like myself is no place for a district attorney. But also because I can’t get over how he seems too young to be an elected official. They’re usually stuffy lawyer types who see neither the light of day nor the inside of a gym. This guy has had his share of both.

  James stops me with the back of his hand on my chest. “Damn, Matt. I was kidding, settle down.”

  It’s pretty ballsy of him to be messing around with a district attorney, and it requires some effort to not scowl at James touching me. “Yeah, I know.”

  Apparently satisfied, he drops his hand and starts back toward our team. Refusing to move, I steal another look at Alex Price.

  James finally calls over his shoulder, “Matt!”

  * * * * *

  My hand sneaks up to rub my shoulder, and Alex's eyes leave his beer to follow the movement. I stare back impassively as I try to massage out the soreness from when he slammed into me earlier.

  “Sorry,” he says, and the word is quiet enough that it slides between the table’s conversation without anyone else noticing. Besides James and two other council members, Eric Bradford joined us too. I know the other guys, but James is the only one on the council that really matters. He does the deals, he pulls the strings, and he has everyone in his pocket. Myself included.

  I don’t answer Alex, but I don’t tune into the other conversation either. Too many seconds have passed when I realize I’ve been staring at him. I force my gaze downward to my beer, to my fingers closing around the sweating glass. Lifting it to my lips, I tip it back and try to shrug off my unease.

  “And what do you think, Matt?” James asks.

  “Huh?”

  He glances at Bradford, who explains, “About the area around the new stadium. The city is interested in developing it.”

  “Condos or commercial?” I ask, but mostly I’m just being polite. I’ve s
pent months on this project already even though the city hasn’t even called for proposals yet.

  “Both, I should think,” Bradford says, and his words are infused with just a hint of authority. Even if he turns out to be a terrible mayor, at least he’ll sound good while he’s doing it. Assuming he gets elected. Which he will, because James pulled all the strings to fund the man’s campaign. I almost feel bad for the current Mayor Walker. He’s not a bad guy, but he refused to fall into line like everyone else. James has had it out for him ever since.

  I bring a hand to rub the side of my chin, pretending to consider this for the first time. “I think we could make that work. High-rise condos with commercial space on the first couple floors would look great.”

  “I agree,” James volunteers. I almost smirk at this game he’s playing. Where our ideas don’t appear to be ours, and our consensus seems organic, unplanned. Really this whole thing is just a big circle jerk. James told me almost a year ago exactly what he wanted built. He even gave me list of subcontractors I had to ensure enough work for.

  Across the table, Alex is watching with casual interest, and in an instant I regret him hearing this conversation. James might just think it’s harmless, but I suspect he’s trying to bring Alex into the fold.

  I don’t like it.

  “Bathroom, be right back,” Alex says. It’s the most he’s said since we sat down.

  I wait until he’s out of sight. “Why the hell did you guys invite him? He keeps staring me down.”

  James grins. “Maybe he likes what he sees.”

  “Shut up,” I snap.

  “Seriously, I think he’s into guys. You should play the angle, Matt.” He grins wider.

  Bradford chuckles. “And here I thought you only built your connections with campaign contributions.”

  “I don’t discriminate.” James flashes us a slick smile.

  My glare deepens, and I level it against James. I can’t tell if I’m more irritated at his suggestion or that they’re all so comfortable with the syndicate James has built. I keep my mouth shut.

  James shrugs. “Just saying.”

  Alex sits back down then and takes a drink of his beer. “Darts anyone?” An innocent question, matched by innocent eyes.

  James says he’ll play, and he nudges my knee under the table. This is when I’m supposed to say I would love to play as well. But I’m held captive by an iron jawline and hazel eyes.

  “I have to go,” the words spill out of my mouth.

  “Huh? We just got here,” James argues.

  “Sorry. I… uh, don’t feel good.” The lie is woven from threads of frustration. But not because James is giving me shit.

  The three of them are still staring at me when I throw a twenty on the table and walk out of the bar.

  My steps feel heavy against the concrete as I leave the bar behind me. A breeze ripples between the mix of skyscrapers and older brick buildings, and the tension in my shoulders loosens its hold. At the end of the block, I get into my car and slam the door behind me. Then I take a breath and… wait, even though I’m not entirely sure why. Maybe just because I’m still a little addled by that tackle. It’s possible to get a mild concussion from getting laid down like that, right?

  I force the thought away. For how I’m reacting, you’d think I got taken down by a damn unicorn or something. But no, just a dude. A dude who happens to be a district attorney, and one of the few people in this city I need to be careful with.

  I straighten my arms against the steering wheel, and my back presses into the seat. For a moment, I imagine my car is new and not a dozen years old. My plan was always to buy myself a new Audi when I finally got my first big break in the design world. I dreamed of that high margin project, the one that would get my name out there.

  But it never came. At least not the way I wanted it to. So instead of a high-powered German car, I bought a Toyota. Several years later and I still drive it. Even though cracks are starting to show in the plastic and the once sleek lines of the exterior are dated. I could afford a lot nicer vehicle now, but I like this car. It reminds me of where I’ve been. And it helps avoid awkward questions from friends or family. Not that I have much for family. The time since my mom left now gets measured in decades instead of years, and my dad is dead.

  But what no one knows is that with James’s help over the last several years, I’ve made a small fortune. At least I hope no one knows, no one besides James and my accountant. Who happens to be the only man I really trust — my accountant, not James.

  James is the reason I’m always looking over my shoulder, the reason I’d rather not be anywhere near a district attorney.

  My gaze wanders through the glass and down the street, and I release a restless breath. I don’t want to go home yet, but I sure didn’t want to stay at the bar either.

  Leaning back in my seat, I pull out my phone, open up Tinder, and start swiping. For once, I’m not sure what I’m looking for, and the minutes tick past along with dozens of faces. I get more than a few matches, and I message back and forth with several of them.

  I’m starting to get bored, but I’m holding out for one of these women to be interested in something more immediate than getting coffee. Because right now I could use a distraction.

  A quick tap tap on the passenger side window drags my attention away from my phone. One look and I groan. Of all the people to be staring in at me, it just has to be the tackling unicorn. The moment we make eye contact, he opens the door and sits down in my fucking car.

  “Excuse me?” I demand.

  He watches me for a moment, and curiosity tussles with confusion in his expression. “Did I do something to piss you off?”

  There’s something about his voice, the way it’s accusing and vulnerable all at once.

  “Um, no,” I answer quickly. “Why would you think that?”

  “You’ve been avoiding me ever since I tackled you on the field.”

  My eyes narrow, and I decide his voice isn’t anything special at all. “I’m not avoiding you.”

  “You know, they teach us in law school how to tell if someone is lying.”

  He smirks, but it’s unnecessary because I know he’s kidding. My cheeks grow hot anyway, but Alex doesn’t seem to notice. He glances out the window, for a moment only. Then he leans back in his seat — in my seat, because it’s my damn car — and the hardness in his features seems to withdraw. “Can we try this again?”

  “Huh?”

  He holds out his hand to me, across the center console. “I’m Alex,” he says. “I’m thirty-three, I have a law degree and a soft spot for single malt Scotch. I like thunderstorms and the color green, and I’ve always wanted to visit New Zealand.”

  His hand is still poised in the air between us. We’re wedged into my car, and this whole thing is stupid, and —

  I shake his hand anyway. “Matthew. Nice to meet you.” The words land with a thud. “But, um, everyone calls me Matt.”

  He raises an eyebrow, and I know that the window is closing on this speed-dating style first meeting reboot. “Okay,” I say more quietly. “I’m thirty-three, and I’m an architectural designer. Well, more of a real estate developer these days. I love snow but I can’t stand the cold, and I live with my little brother. I mean, he lives with me.”

  I take a breath as I see the smile tugging at Alex's mouth. “See, that wasn’t so hard. Now you know a little something about me, and I know a bit about you.”

  “Yeah,” I grudgingly admit.

  “You guys play football every other week, right?” His fingers slide around the door handle, resting on the metal.

  I nod, even though part of me thinks I should lie. “Flag football,” I reiterate. “I’m going to be sore tomorrow from getting laid flat on my back.” I mentally cringe at my phrasing.

  Alex cracks a grin, and I notice how the last of the evening sun on his face is turning his stubble gold. “You looked like you could take it.”

  I think he’s flirt
ing with me, and I raise an eyebrow. “So you did it on purpose, huh?” I joke.

  He shrugs, and when the grin turns mischievous. I can’t tell if he’s serious or not.

  “I guess I’ll see you in a couple weeks then,” Alex says, and his eyes skip over me one last time before he gets out and shuts the door. He gives me a little wave through the window, and then he’s gone.

  Chapter Two

  The door of my condo clicks softly shut behind me as I toss my keys onto the shelf beside the door, and I’m greeted by the smell of something amazing. From around the corner, I can hear sizzling and the clink of a metal utensil against a pot, and I follow the sound into the kitchen.

  “Hey, Carson,” I say, leaning toward the stove to see what he’s making. “I take it you got my text that I was coming home for dinner.”

  Startled, he jerks his hand and the whisk along with it. “You have to wait,” he orders, shoving me away with his free hand. I have about sixty pounds on my little brother, but I let him push me away from his work area. I know he doesn’t like being interrupted, but I love watching him cook.

  “Okay, buddy,” I concede and take a seat at the kitchen island. The stove is at capacity — potatoes are boiling in one pot, he’s frying up some sort of white fish in a wide stainless pan, and a heap of spinach is just starting to cook down in another. Whatever he’s stirring now in a tiny sauce pan is making the whole place smell like heaven, but I’m not sure what it is. I crane my neck to get a better look as he checks a potato with a fork while simultaneously stirring the spinach.

  Carson exists to cook. At his urging, I finally caved and bought him an Easy-Bake Oven when he was eleven. He loved it, and I started having to do more cardio at the gym to keep up. Once he was tall enough to reach the stove though, it became obvious his true passion wasn’t baking. It took about six weeks before he became a better cook than I was. Eventually he just asked me to stop making meals altogether.