by Alexis Angel
But Parker has been busy the whole day, meeting with some of the big names of New York politics, and I’ve spent the whole day holed up in my apartment, reading through a mountain of legal briefings and strategy documents for his campaign. Seriously, you’d say half of the Amazonian rainforest has been cut down in order to create this much paper. But I’m done now; it’s already 10 pm, and I have to meet Parker’s staff early in the morning.
I get up from the desk I’ve set up in my living room and start dragging my feet toward the bedroom when there’s a loud knock at my door. I glance at my cellphone, still sitting by the side of my laptop, but Parker hasn’t called or texted me. He’s still in a meeting, although I wouldn’t be surprised if he had gotten out earlier and decided to drop in as a surprise.
I smile, remembering how he surprised me last time, and then saunter over to the door. Already expecting to see Parker on the other side, I turn the handle and open the door. Except it isn’t Parker standing in the doorway—it’s my mother.
High heels, a formal pencil skirt, a blouse more expensive than my whole furniture collection put together, and, of course, a smile that I can only translate as trouble. Hi, mom.
“What are you --” I start, not even knowing what to say, but she just cuts me short and walks past me and inside my apartment, her shoulder bumping harshly against mine.
Without saying a word, she walks with her sure step toward the drink cabinet I have on the corner and she grabs two short glasses of whisky. She takes the cork out of a bottle of aged malt and then pours the whisky onto the glasses.
“Here, drink this,” she says, pushing one glass into my hands.
“What are you doing?” I finally manage to say, wrapping both my hands around the cold glass of whisky.
“You’ve done your job, Amy,” she tells me, looking straight into my eyes with an icy expression, and then drinking half of her whisky in one single gulp. “And you’ve done it perfectly.”
“What are you talking about?” I ask, not quite sure of what’s going on. “Did you come for these?” I continue, waving my hand at the stack of documents piled up on my desk. “Because there’s nothing in there that --”
“Oh, for a smart girl, you can be pretty dumb sometimes, Amy,” she whispers, finishing off her drink and then pouring some more whisky. She’s in a celebratory mood, which isn’t really good—for me and for Parker.
“Then what? What are you talking about?”
“Do you think I care about Parker’s strategies or whatever documents his staff passes back and forth? Believe me, if I wanted to go down that route, I wouldn’t need you. What I wanted was for you to give Parker’s life an air of… indecency. Impropriety. Which you’ve done wonderfully,” she smiles, raising her glass at me as if she were giving a toast.
So this was her game all along. And, just like a fool, I played straight into her hand. How could I have not seen this coming?
“Your bid for the senate is in ruins… After that veteran thing it’s going to be impossible for you to --”
“Don’t be a fool. Do you think people are going to care about some stupid thing like that? Once the world knows about what Parker has been up to, that situation is going to disappear as fast as it came up. Oh, don’t look at me like that, Amy. You were dying to get into his pants, and now you finally did it. I don’t care that the two of you are sleeping with each other, you know? It’s all the same to me.”
“I’m your daughter…” I whisper, curling my fingers tightly around my whisky glass. I’m struggling against the sudden urge to simply throw the glass against her head.
“So? And I’m your mother. And, from what I’m seeing, you prefer to side with Parker than with me.”
“You’re a monster, that’s what you are!” I hiss, rage boiling inside my veins.
“I’m not a monster. I’m a realist. Not a wide-eyed dreamer like you and your friend Parker. And don’t act like you’re a saint either, Amy. You helped me do this, remember? And you’ve done exactly what I needed… Now I just need one final thing from you.”
I stare her down in complete silence, ready to refuse whatever she asks of me. I don’t care about what happens. I’m done with his bullshit.
“You need to leave him,” she finally says, smiling as if the words feel like honey in her mouth.
“No,” I reply, placing my glass on the desk and balling both of my hands into fists. “I’m done with you.”
Still with that smile on her face, she sighs heavily and then takes one step toward me.
“You will leave him. I’m going to hit him fast and hard, Amy, and I need him as demoralized as possible. You don’t have a choice in this, you should know by now. Or haven’t you learned anything?”
“Yeah, I’ve learned something,” I whisper, closing the distance between us with one sure step and then hitting her across the face with the back of my hand. “I’ve learned you’re a bitch. And now I want you to get the fuck out of my apartment.”
Moving slowly, she sets her glass on the desk and looks to me, her smile turning into a grin of pure savagery.
“I’ll go, Amy. But if I were you, I’d be as far away from Parker as possible. Because, rest assured, I’m going to crush him… And if you’re standing by his side, I’ll happily crush you as well.”
“Fuck off,” I growl, and then I stare at her as she grabs her purse and walks out of my apartment, leaving the door open behind her.
This is it. Whatever she has in store for Parker, it’s clear what’s going to happen next.
We’re officially going to war.
Parker
I'm sitting behind my large, mahogany desk. My top staff officials are standing behind me, poised and smiling. This is a big moment. I have a stack of documents splayed out over the desk, and a heavy pen resting between my fingers.
I'm signing my way through documents as reporters snap pictures.
I'm hoping this action sets my campaign back on track. It's recently gone off the rails since Kate Meelios showed up unexpectedly at Amy's apartment.
This is city legislation I'm signing today that will make it illegal for sex offenders to work in our public school system, and I'm proud of this. It's about time it's happening.
"This legislation is long overdue," I say proudly, looking up from the documents. "I'm fulfilling a campaign promise that I've made to the citizens of New York City. This is a historic moment for all of us."
I smile and get up from my desk, preparing to leave now that the documents have been signed, and waving to the press, when one reporter speaks up, stopping me.
"Mr. Trask," he says, one arm outstretched to slow my exit and capture my attention, "with your stepdaughter facing charges of sex trafficking as her business is being closed down, will her being labeled as a sex offender cause a strain on your family?"
What the fuck?
I can hardly believe the words coming from his mouth. My head is fucking spinning.
"What did you just say to me?" I ask, turning to address him.
I'm being civil. Hiding frustration and anger that's bubbling to the surface. But honestly, I could wring his neck.
Is this a blatant question to sabotage me in front of the press? Or is there a nugget of truth to this? Is Amy hiding something from me?
Your guess is as good as mine.
The reporter looks at me with a confused look on his face. "You do know about this, don't you?" he says.
"Excuse me, but I don't understand the question," I say. I can feel my pulse increasing, and the room is beginning to feel twenty degrees hotter. What's going on? I think to myself. Is Kate behind this?
I'm having a full-body reaction to this reporter's accusations, but before he has a chance to speak again, Megan places her hand on my elbow.
"Let's go Parker," she whispers, gently guiding me out of the room so that no other exchange of words can transpire. I can tell she's trying to make a strategic exit.
I raise my shoulders and shake my head.
"I really don't know what the fuck is going on Megan," I say to her, leaning in and whispering. And that's the truth.
"I know, but right now, we need to get out of here," she replies, her face serious and stoic.
She continues to lead me out of the building, as a few reporters try to follow behind us. I can hear the continued snap of cameras and raised voices, all vying for my attention and for more information. They're clamoring for my thoughts—anything to grab onto and throw into tomorrow's headlines, I'm fucking sure of it.
"Here we go," she says, pointing to our black limo waiting for us at the curb. The drivers is holding open a rear door of the car and we both slide into the cool leather seats, reporters nipping at our heels. The door slams shut behind us, and we are now completely shielded from the outside world.
The windows are deeply tinted, and while we can see out, we are safe from the prying eyes of all of the photographers. Even their shouts are muffled, and almost a distant memory at this point.
I turn to Megan. "What the fuck was that all about?"
She doesn't say anything, and just shakes her head, her curls bouncing.
I continue. "I'm serious, Megan. I need to know what in the hell is going on," I say again. "That reporter made one hell of a statement back there."
I watch as she pulls her cell phone from her purse.
"I don't know," she says, holding up a finger to silence me, "but I'm going to find out. Just give me a second."
She's holding her phone to her ear, and I watch as she begins speaking to whoever her source is on the other end of the line.
And then it hits me. I don't have another second to give.
I need to see her. I need to see Amy for myself—right now.
"Mike," I say to the driver, "I want you to turn this motorcade around to 43rd Street and 8th Avenue."
"Sir?" he asks. "You're redirecting us near Port Authority. Am I understanding that correctly?"
"That's right," I reply. "And hurry. We need to get there quick."
"Yes, sir," he says, and I watch as he presses one foot on the brake and turns the steering wheel, making a sharp U-turn. Cars are honking at the sudden maneuver. No doubt he just cut a bunch of people off. Megan and I slide to the right side of the car with the momentum of the turn.
If Amy's really going out of business, I need to see it for myself. I'm going straight to the source, her place of business—Kinky Amy's.
"Okay," Megan says, ending her call and breaking my train of thought. "I just got off the phone with the State Attorney General."
She stops for a moment and pulls a stick of gum from her purse, carefully peeling off the wrapper and placing it into her mouth.
Way to leave me hanging, I think.
"And?" I say. "Don't hold me in suspense. What did he fucking say?"
"Well, it's true—the State Attorney General has charged Amy as a sex trafficker," Megan says.
"So, the reporter was right?" I ask, slowly putting everything together in my mind. "Fuck, I can't believe this." My head is spinning.
"And not only that," Megan continues, "but the state troopers are coming right now. They're on their way to shut her business down."
Fuck. We have to hurry. I need to be there.
"Mike," I call out to the driver. "Step on the fucking gas now!”
Amy
“No!” I cry out, crossing my arms and standing right in front of the entrance to my office building. The sidewalk is swarming with state troopers in grey uniforms, all of them eager to storm into my office. “This is bullshit, you can’t simply --”
“I have a court order right here, ma’am,” one of them, the one in charge, says. He steps forward and picks a folded piece of paper out from his jacket. He shoves it toward me and, with a frown, I snag it from his fingers.
Jesus Christ, what the hell is going on? I think to myself as I glance over the document. I’m being charged with sex trafficking, and the state troopers are here to shut down my business. The document is signed by one Judge Andrew McGill, a name that rings a bell. If I’m not mistaken, he’s one of my mother’s political allies. Which makes perfect sense—since I’m tied with Parker, my ruin will surely mean his ruin.
“This is bullshit!” I say again, stomping my foot against the floor and standing my ground. If these troopers want to take down my business, they can do it over my dead body. No way I’m going to let them in over some phony charges.
“This is the law, ma’am,” the man who handed me the court order barks, his fingers resting on the butt of his revolver. Just perfect. “Now stand aside,” he says, lowering his voice until it becomes just a whisper. The threat is implicit; if I don’t move out of his way, the troopers are going to use force.
There are at least twenty of them, all of them standing in a half-circle around me, a scowl on their faces. They came in their SUVs as if I were a terrorist, jumping out from their cars and establishing a perimeter around me as if I had a bomb strapped to my chest. Not a happy sight when you’ve just woken up half an hour ago and your brain's still rebooting.
“No,” I growl, opening my arms wide and blocking their path. “Over my dead body,” I whisper back at the trooper in front of me, and I see a hint of a grin flashing on his lips. He pulls his gun free from his holster belt, and he’s about to point it at me when the loud sound of engines grabs his attention.
I look over his shoulder just in time to see a limo parking in front of the building, two NYPD cars flanking it. The cavalry has arrived, and just in time.
“What the fuck’s going on here?” Parker cries out as he steps out of the limo, buttoning his jacket and walking toward me in a straight line. He shoves two troopers aside and then comes up to me. “You okay?” he whispers, and I just nod, running my tongue between my dry lips.
“Yeah, but this is… This is complete bullshit.”
“I know. Don’t worry; I've got this,” he says, and then turns on his heels to face the troopers. “Care to explain exactly what’s going on here?”
“Uh, sir, there’s a court order,” the tall trooper says, pointing at the document I'm still holding in my hand. “We’re here to shut down whatever’s going on in here, and a judge has signed off on it.”
“A judge?”
“Yeah, Judge McGill,” the trooper continues, taking his hat off and wiping the sweat off his brow. He thought this was going to be a clean operation, and now he’s being stared down by the mayor. “Governor Meelios ordered this investigation, and the judge has approved of the proceedings.”
“Governor Meelios, uh? Well, trooper, I must ask you to get back to your cars and get out of here,” Parker tells him, a deadly expression on his face. NYPD officers have started climbing out of their cars now, and they’re hanging back around the limo, hesitantly watching the scene unfold right in front of them. A crowd of onlookers has also started to gather on the sidewalk, a voyeuristic kind of confusion washing over everyone’s face. They were mildly interested in the commotion the state troopers were causing, but now that the Mayor has stepped onto the scene, everyone’s hooked. This beats reality TV, I guess.
“Sorry, sir, but… Uh… We can’t do that. Governor’s orders. We must go through with this,” the trooper continues, and I notice his fingers tightening around the butt of his gun. This isn’t good.
“Fuck the Governor. I’m the fucking Mayor,” Parker shoots back, and then raises his hand up in the air and waves at the NYPD officers. They stand up straight and walk toward both Parker and I, cutting their way through the troopers and standing shoulder-to-shoulder with Parker, the palm of their hands resting on their still holstered guns.
“Sir, I don’t think that’s wise,” the head trooper hisses, looking at the wall of NYPD officers that has just formed in front of him.
“Well, I don’t think that you being here is wise either. So that has us at an impasse, trooper,” Parker growls, and then turns to the NYPD officers. “Don’t let any of these troopers through. This is a political vende
tta, and I won’t let it happen in my city.”
“We’ll use force if necessary, sir,” the trooper threatens Parker, his voice hesitant but icy at the same time. Big mistake. Parker takes one step forward and, now towering over the trooper, he simply smiles.
“Go right ahead,” he whispers, and hesitation washes over the trooper's face. Nervously, he wipes the sweat off his brow once more and then turns on his heels, creating some distance between him and Parker.
“Form up!” he barks at the other troopers, assuming his position in their straight formation. He raises his gun up in the air, and the other troopers do the same, pointing their guns at Parker, me, and the NYPD officers.
“You’ve heard the Mayor, boys,” one of the NYPD officers shouts, and they all get their guns out at the same time. Oh, God, this is going downhill fast. I wasn’t exactly expecting a shootout when I woke up this morning.
“We’ll use force, sir, final warning!” the trooper shouts at Parker. The expression on Parker’s face hardens; and he walks straight toward the line of troopers, only stopping when the muzzle from the head trooper's gun is pressed against his chest.
“Then what are you waiting for?” Parker growls, and I feel nauseous for a very long second, imagining the sound of a gun going off. Then, moving fast, Parker grabs the troopers’ gun and takes it out from his hands. “Thought so,” he says, emptying the gun’s chamber and then throwing it to the ground. “Now get the fuck out of here.”
With one deadly last stare at Parker, the trooper’s pale lips tightly purse into one thin line, and he finally turns on his heels and orders his subordinates to follow after him. In a matter of just a few seconds, they get back in their cars and disappear, almost as if they were never here in the first place.
I was right; my mother is more than willing to go to war.
And this is just the beginning.
New York Daily Journal
Mayor to Governor: Over My Dead Body, Honey!