Page 94 of Where the Blacktop Ends

He slides another paper toward me—a so-called ”witness statement" from some idiot she went to high school with over ten years ago.

“So what?” I scoff, trying to mask the punch of hearing about Georgia’s attempt on her life. “You’re going to sell this to the tabloids? Why would anyone care about this story?”

“Got a paper in North Carolina interested. They’re willing to pay big for anything that can take down Troy Marshall’s run for governor. Pretty sure they’d love to hear about your new girlfriend who happens to hate Texan politicians who are fighting for the little guy. Politicians whose platforms are for farmers and ranchers in Texas. Isn’t that what your platform is running on? Don’t you think it’s a clear contradiction that you’d date someone whohatesthe people you support?”

I scoff, unable to hide my contempt. Georgia is nothing like what this asshole is making her out to be. She cares about ranchers and farmers. Her father is one. But beyond that, that isn’t all my platform stands for. I’m running for more than just the farmers and small towns. I’m running for every single resident in the state who dreams of a better world. Better access to affordable health care, job opportunities for all, and safer housing. I want a state that works foreveryoneand I’m certain that senator did something shady to provoke Georgia’s letter, even shadier to get her family to back off and he just couldn’t handle the heat. If anything, he should be poking into this state senator’s background.

Leaning forward, I keep my voice steady. “You’re focused on the wrong person. There are enough skeletons in my closet from when I was sixteen to keep you busy for years.”

“Yeah, but no one knows you’re sleeping with this nanny, do they now?”

I rub my jaw, weighing my next move carefully. I’d already planned to go public about Georgia—whether she agreed to the engagement or not. I’m not ashamed of being with her, not ashamed of sleeping with her or dating her. But I wanted it to be onourterms, onhertimeline. Not some sleazy tabloid’s desperate cash grab, twisting her past into a headline meant to shame her for choices she made as a teenager.

More than anything, I need to talk to Georgia. The last thing I want is to drag a painful chapter of her life back into the spotlight. My priority isn’t saving my own reputation—it’s protectingher. And if that means making this story disappear before it even gains traction, then I’ll do whatever it takes to shut this asshole down.

“When are you selling the story?”

He grins smugly as if he’s already won. “My boss wants a fresh story by Friday. You give me sixty grand and I’ll make it disappear.”

I stand, motioning him toward the door, resisting the urge to throw him out right now on his ass. Sixty grand is ludicrous even if I’d pay double that to protect her. But this isn’t just about me anymore and I need some time to think about the right approach to handle this.

“Leave your info with my assistant Diane on your way out. I’ll be in touch by Wednesday.” Once the door closes, I sit down and pull out my phone to fire off a text to Georgia.

Troy: We need to talk. I’m leaving the office early.

Georgia: Okay. Is everything alright? Liam and I are at lunch, but we’ll head back at the house in an hour.

Troy: No, but I assure you it will be. See you at the house.

Chapter 36 – Troy

“Remember when I told you to tell me if you had any skeletons in your closet?”

The words leave my mouth before I can stop them, and the second they do, I know I’ve started this conversation the wrong way. Frustration simmers under my skin—not at Georgia, not really. I get why she didn’t bring this up in the short time we’ve been together. I do. And maybe I rushed her into a proposal, though to me, it didn’t feel rushed. Iknowher. Iknowus.

But now, I can’t shake the gnawing feeling that while I’ve laid everything bare—every flaw, every truth—she’s been holding pieces of herself back. And worse? Someone else knew before I did. Someone who’s circling like a vulture, ready to rip apart her past and use it against her. That thought alone fills me with a fury I can barely contain.

Georgia shrinks back, her expression flickering with something unreadable, and I realize I’ve already pushed too hard. This isn’t about me feeling embarrassed or lied to. It’s about trust. It’s about the fact that we’remorethan just boss and employee now,and yet, she didn’t believe she could share this part of herself with me. And that stings.

But what stings more? The fact that I should have seen this coming. I should have asked the right questions. I should haveprotectedher before this ever had the chance to explode. And now, I have to fix it—no matter what it takes.

“I’m sorry, Georgia,” I say, stepping toward her, but she flinches and backs away. “Please, tell me everything I should know, so that I can get ahead of this. To protect you.”

I can see the pain in her eyes. She looks away before speaking, her voice softer. “I was just a kid. No one was supposed to know about this.”

“Unfortunately, they do.”

She bites her lip, then stalks off to the kitchen, grabs a large wine glass and fills it to the brim. She downs it like it’s water, the glass barely leaving her lips before she lets out a long, tortured sigh.

“When I was sixteen, my Civics teacher gave us an assignment to write a letter to any state senator about an issue that mattered to us. I was the editor of the school newspaper and cared a lot about the local economy because it impacted my family. I decided to focus on rural infrastructure—it was something that I enjoyed learning about. Our town was growing, connecting to bigger cities like San Angelo, but the infrastructure wasn’t growing at the pace that it needed to. Roads were falling apart, and it was hell transporting goods from ranches like my dad’s and uncle’s. I’d overheard my dad complain and though I didn’t understand all the details, I spent a lot of time that semester researching just how bad things had gotten. It wasn’t safe for my dad, and I was worried about him.”

She lets out a sigh then rests her elbows onto the countertop and places her head in her hands. “The senator I decided towrite to had been voting to divert funds from rural development to sketchy funds in other divisions, and I had proof of it. I dug through years of voting records, found a clear pattern of neglect that stemmed back to his father who was also a senator. He wasn’t just ignoring rural towns; he was screwing over the big cities too. On a school field trip to Houston, I saw how bad the bridges were in the city.”

She pauses, taking a breath. I can see her hands shaking slightly. She’s trying to hold it together, but the tension is written all over her face.

“My letter was direct, maybe a little harsh, but it was backed by facts, and I was sixteen years old. I didn’t expect a response—I mean, who actually reads letters from high school kids? Sure, I hoped he’d see it. But a few months later, when we were short on content, I published it in the school newspaper. It got some attention. People started talking, and someone posted it on social media—it went viral and other people dug up more details around comments this senator had made online towards vulnerable people. Eventually, it all landed on the senator’s radar forcing him to make a public comment.”

“Damn.”

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