The Phoenix Candidate(32)

Nothing. I have done nothing wrong. I decided I wanted something and I came to get it. I decided I’m not giving up on the campaign or on Jared. And I came here to get them both.

But waking to an empty hotel room tells me I’ve failed.

Damn my tendency to sleep soundly. Damn him for slipping away early. A memory from yesterday pecks at the edges of my mind. He has to go back to Florida. To meet with Rivera or whoever that other running mate might be.

Damn him for not waking me. For not kissing me goodbye.

That lack of a kiss, Jared withholding that simple intimacy, stings the worst.

I shower and dress, imagining he’ll walk back into the hotel room bearing coffee and pastries. I check my messages, imagining he’s left a sweet or saucy message there.

Nothing. Nada. Zip.

Fuck him.

Anger inspires me to jog, then run, back to my condo. I hate running, and yet physically pushing myself is the only way to hold my scream at bay. I went to him to have the talk, to have it out after he pushed me and pushed me and forced me to let go of my little dead family and start living again.

And now that he’s gone—without a kiss or a promise or words to make all of this right, or even enough words to just give me hope that our connection means more than a couple of orgasms.

I steel myself for the reality of what’s next: I could be a running mate. And with or without Jared, I’m going to be the best damn choice Senator Conover ever made.

I’m over playing nice. It’s time to play hardball.





***





I push into my Oregon legislative base, an office I share with a few other local legislators. It’s shortly before nine and my six Oregon-based staffers are already here.

Lacey gives me a wink and a nod but she knows better than to say anything about Saturday night. God, was it only four days ago? She works for another Dem—a sweet, round, former school principal who can carve your heart out, serve it to you medium rare, and make you love her for it.

I sift through emails from colleagues and constituents. There’s too much lobbyist drama to deal with this early. Trey calls from D.C., his amped-up mood confirming he’s already downed two of his three ritual grande triple-shots.

“What do you want to do first, Grace? Calendar or media?” His urban-flavored tenor holds a permanent smile that beams through the line.

“Calendar.”

“You’re getting a ton of new invitations. You must have knocked them dead at that developer conference because I’ve got a couple of new real estate events coming through, both before we go back in session.”

“Add the best one, send regrets for the other.”

“Done. The good one’s an easy flight to Phoenix. How about a cyber-bullying symposium?”

“How long is it?” I cringe at the thought of wasting precious summer days inside a sterile hotel conference room.

“Three days, but they want you to open day two with a talk on cyber-privacy and revenge porn. Chicago.”

“I’m all over that. I’ll fly in the night before, but can you get me out by lunch?”

“Let’s see, your schedule looks … booked that afternoon! It’s a tragedy!” Trey cackles as he invents something unavoidable for my calendar. “The rest of the events are drive-bys when you’re back in D.C., lunch or dinner, no speaking.”

I pause a beat. “I’d like to do more speaking, actually.”

I’m pretty sure Trey’s jaw just hit his desk. “Excuse me, what, Miss-Colton-Who-Barfs-Before-She-Speaks?”

“You heard me. More speaking. Fewer grip-and-grins. I need to be more visible, especially on my key issues.”

“I love you, you know that, Grace?”

I smile, enjoying our banter. “Yeah, Trey. What do you want?”

“Well, there’s an event at my high school. Nothing fancy, maybe a few hundred people. They’re talking about the new rules for the school year—everyone’s got to have clear plastic backpacks now.”

“That’s serious.”

It’s deadly serious. Trey lost his little brother to a gang shooting. It’s why he practically stalked me my first month on the Hill, begging for a job, anything to help me get my gun-control legislation to move further and faster. Now he’s my chief of staff. “What do you need me to do for it?”

“Just go talk to them. Tell them about Seth and Ethan. Tell them about why what you’re doing is the right thing. They’ll get why it matters. We’ve all lost someone who mattered to us.”

“I can do that.”

“It’s the night before the opening of session,” he warns.

“Doesn’t matter. I’ll do it for you.” In a heartbeat. Trey is the closest thing I have to family now. Trey and his Mama Bea. At least once a week when I’m in D.C., he drags me over to their place for dinner. I’m pretty sure ninety percent of my thighs are Mama Bea’s biscuits.