by Lee Taylor
It was a difference Gia understood. She’d always known in a political relationship the “power behind the throne” was the most powerful position. Which was why she’d carved out her role as the campaign manager in all the political contests she was in. It was at that moment she decided that Aiden belonged in the United States Congress. First the House of Representatives and then the US Senate. More important, she decided that she was going to be the one who put him there. She was brazen enough to believe she could do it. Frustrated by her incomplete sexual experience, she decreed that when he climbed to the top of that political peak, she would be there—not pushing and shoving him from behind. Rather, she would be at his side as his wife.
It had been an auspicious moment. So much so that she slipped into the bathroom and, even sans vibrator, brought herself to the most rocking climax she could remember having. Now knowing that political power was her most potent aphrodisiac, she set about planning how to make the best use of her powerful talent.
Chapter 3
How’s the campaign going, Son? Hope that you’re not doing as badly as the latest polls indicate.”
Aiden’s mother broke in before Aiden could answer his father’s scathing assertion. “Really, Franklin, you don’t have to be mean. Aiden is doing the best he can in a very difficult situation.” Putting her fork down and glancing at Gia, Madeline Maxwell’s expression twisted as though she’d sucked on a particularly bitter lemon. “After all, the last thing we trained him to be was a politician—at least one that ran as a liberal Democrat. Is it any wonder he doesn’t know how to respond to that ill-begotten man, Mr. O’Brian?” She sniffed and added, “Who, as far as I know, didn’t even graduate from high school.”
Franklin Maxwell sneered. “Would you be referring to the guy they call Lyin’ O’Brian, Madeline?” Turning to Gia, he asked in an offhand tone layered with animus, “I’m curious, Gia. What is it about you Irish that you insist on calling grown men childish nicknames? I would think that you would know that diminishes them even more than their ethnicity.”
Gia took a thoughtful sip of wine, wishing that just once the Maxwells would acknowledge that she was a beer and whiskey drinker and not particularly fond of the grape. Although she had to admit that the expensive wines the Maxwells served had more than a little kick to them. Heck, she allowed, it was pretty darned impressive how the flavor, or what Aiden called the bouquet, burst on her tongue. It almost made her want to savor it rather than gulp it. She chided herself, thinking how Big Bart would guffaw at her admission. Deciding that she could wrestle with her changing views on wine at a later date, likely over a shot or two of Jameson, she readied herself for the upcoming altercation. Given that the last thing Aiden would do was to take on his insufferable parents even when they openly mocked her, Gia turned to the task at hand.
“Hmm, Franklin, that’s an interesting observation. It does seem strange that a candidate would choose a moniker like ‘Lyin’ O’Brian.’ Or, for instance, that my father, who is obviously not as short as you but not especially tall, would resonate with the nickname ‘Big Bart.’ ” Gratified at the angry flush rising on the autocrat’s pale cheeks, Gia was pleased that her intentional barb had hit its mark. She knew how much the potentate hated his short stature, which even the lifts in his shoes, pompadour toupee, and penchant for hats couldn’t hide.
Chalking up the first of what she intended to be many victories in the upcoming confrontation, she continued. “Since I presume your question is an honest one and that you are truly interested in what I will grant appears contraindicated, let me tell you my theory for why we Irish resonate with nicknames. First and foremost, we Micks love a good story. We love to laugh. What we love even more is to laugh at ourselves. It makes it clear to the observer that we don’t take ourselves too seriously, which as I’m sure you know, makes us more likable. Take for example a harsh, bitter German or a stuffy, pompous Englishman. Who would you rather spend time with? A guy who looks down his nose at you in disgust or a smiling guy who admits that he isn’t perfect but he is a lot of fun to be around? So Michael O’Brian, who happens to be at least a foot taller than you are, doesn’t call himself Big Mike. Rather, he slyly chose the nickname Lyin’ O’Brian, buying into the agreed-upon definition of a politician, and wears it with a grin. People can’t help but love him for it. The fact that he’s been reelected to six successive city council terms testifies to his canny insight.”
She paused for a moment, reveling in the clear fury Aiden’s parents were trying to contain, then drove in another knife. This time it could have been a stiletto, it was so well designed for the task. “Not to continue to rag on the short-man syndrome, but you know how challenging it is to short men that everyone knows their height confirms the diminutive size of a critical appendage. Which is why they do everything in their power to appear bigger.” Without mentioning the fleet of high-powered cars and boats in the Maxwells’ entourage, she smiled. “I’m sure you’ve heard the old adage: if a woman wants to know how endowed her fella is, she just needs to know the size of the car he drives or, an even better giveaway, how much it costs.”
Taking a noisy sip of the odorous, richly colored wine, Gia smacked her lips and grinned at Aiden, who was glaring at her. “You know, sweetheart, I’m beginning to agree with you. Expensive wine is better than cheap booze. Especially if the host serving it is, shall we say, of shorter stature?”
Aiden flushed as ferociously red as his father, then tried to change the subject. But he couldn’t keep from first apologizing to his angry parents. “I hope you understand, Mother and Father, that Gia is just teasing. It is a safety valve for people involved in a tight campaign. We have so many late nights and long days, we often resort to gallows humor that to outsiders might seem mean-spirited.” Before Gia could take issue with his attempt to excuse her bad manners, he continued, “I did want your advice. Both yours, Father, and you as well, Mother. Gia and I are trying to decide what my central issue should be. I . . . I’m thinking that we should run on the environment. You know, climate change and all that. I know that’s what most people like me, at least my age, think is the most critical issue we face. I could become a spokesman of sorts . . . ”
When his mother just looked down at her hands as if she couldn’t force herself to respond even if she had an issue she thought was important, Franklin rose to the occasion. His words were clipped, thick with disdain. Ignoring his clearly pained son, who’d let his assertion fade into nothingness, he turned to Gia. “Given that your father was incarcerated for political corruption among a laundry list of other crimes, I wouldn’t presume to suggest a political issue that would resonate in this particular district. Clearly, you are the expert on your constituency. Frankly, I doubt that your electorate would know anything about the science behind climate change even if a level-five hurricane blew through and leveled all of their trailer parks.”
Gia nodded thoughtfully, as if considering Franklin’s disparaging aspersions not only about her father but also the intellect of their “electorate.” Knowing that she’d laid it on a little thick, she could understand why he was pissed. But true to her nature, she couldn’t help piling on. Franklin’s disdain and his wife’s refusal to even voice an opinion brought out the worst in her or what her father would have considered the best. She nodded again and mused, “You might be right, Franklin. I’m concerned that the environment is too ‘white bread’ an issue for Aiden, if you know what I mean. Aiden is already being tagged as a rich, privileged, preppy kid running on his daddy’s money. Of course, we all know that isn’t true. In fact, the last time I checked with our campaign treasurer, neither one of you has given close to the ‘per person’ allowed twenty-five hundred dollar contribution. Rather, on our potential donor list, the spaces behind Mr. and Mrs. Franklin Maxwell’s names are blank.” She gave a dramatic sigh. “Even so, it is hard to overcome the image you have created that of doting parents who will always support your only son in any of his chosen endeavors. Our voters
would find it hard to believe that you haven’t given your son’s campaign one red cent.”
****
Aiden’s voice was strained, reproachful. “Do you always have to be so mean, Gia? For once, couldn’t you have tried to be polite, even a little pleasant instead of—”
“Mean?” Gia finished his sentence for him. “Gee, Aiden, I guess I could have been nicer, maybe even pleasant. Heck, maybe I could have ignored the ugly things your father insinuated about me and my family. Hell, about our entire nationality. Correct that. The last thing your father did was insinuate. He was fucking blatant! How about the digs at my father? And then to have the audacity to pretend he knows the first thing about running a political campaign. For God’s sake, Aiden, why did it take me to challenge your loving parents for the fact that they haven’t deigned to give one penny to your campaign? Instead, they sneer at the people like me who are working twenty-two-hour days to see their precious son elected to Congress!”
When he continued to look down, Gia couldn’t help adding, “And then there’s your oh-soooo-proper mother, who, if she ever had an original thought, wouldn’t voice it because it would be beneath her. That’s not how nice ladies talk or act, is it, Aiden?” She snorted. “Good God, you would think it’s the 1950s and that women haven’t spent the time in the trenches going to the trouble of being liberated. We even burned our bras, for God’s sake.”
Aiden glared at her. “Like you know anything about the women’s liberation movement. It was last-century news. Besides, from what I’ve seen of your mother, she isn’t exactly a bra-burning, liberated woman.”
Gia conceded with a shrug. “You’re right, Aiden. My mother is even worse than yours, if possible. She never stood up to my dad or to me, for that matter. She just spends the better part of her life on her knees in a pew praying for our redemption. But, Aiden, we are far past the women’s movement as it played out in the last century. We’re in the ‘me too’ movement days. Women are speaking up. Voicing their opinions. Claiming their rightful place in the workforce and the economy. Most important, we’re rewriting the rules between men and women. We women are done being chattel. Orifices for men to stick their dicks in.”
When Aiden frowned, obviously dismayed by her gross language, Gia refused to back down. “I know, I know, Aiden. You wish I would be nicer. More polite to your parents and that I wouldn’t talk so dirty. But, buddy, you may as well accept it. And at some point, it might be nice if you would actually support me. Maybe occasionally take on your fucking father and no-brain mother. Tell them the least they could do is thank your soon-to-be wife, who is doing something for their beloved son that even with all their money and privilege neither of them could possibly do. To be specific, this mouthy, brash, profane bitch is going to see that you are the first Maxwell ever elected to the Congress of the fucking United States of America.”
Gia wasn’t surprised that Aiden barely spoke to her for the next couple of days. At one level she didn’t blame him. She had been a real brat to his parents. She had hit them harder than they probably deserved. After all, she knew that to go after the size of a guy’s dick was hitting below the belt, no pun intended. But that supercilious, pretentious Franklin Maxwell brought out the worst in her. She sighed, admitting that his aspersions about her family and particularly her father cut her deeper than she wanted to admit. She also knew that one reason for her sharpness and bad temper was that their campaign was going steadily downhill. Nothing she did seemed to change the trajectory. Their opponent was an old pol who’d easily won his last six races for city council. He now looked like a shoe-in to win the Democratic primary, easily knocking out Aiden and then going on with a better-than-even chance to win the general.
Getting more desperate by the day, Gia began to wonder if maybe she should concede to Aiden and make the environment the centerpiece of his campaign. At least on that issue he knew what he was talking about and didn’t need to be spoon-fed. But even as the thought tugged at the recesses of her brain, she shot it down. If there was one thing she was sure of, it was her political instincts. Her father had raved about them. She knew in her gut that a preppy guy riding the environment as his central issue in this blue-collar district would be as effective as trying to take down a bull elephant with a pea shooter.
She reminded herself that her father had won every race he’d entered by relying on the same finely tuned instincts that he had instilled in his precocious daughter. It was after midnight, closing in on a particularly grinding day, when everything they did seemed to be failing. She admitted, at least to herself, that the prospects for Aiden’s success were dismal and getting worse by the day. Tossing back her third shot of Jameson, Gia had a flash of inspiration. Rebooting her computer, she clicked on the file labeled Big Bart. Scrolling down the entries, she found what she was looking for and pulled up the document titled “A-list.”
Quickly scanning the list of names, she berated herself for not having thought of this cohort sooner. She belatedly acknowledged that this select group of men were the true kingmakers. The ones who lived and worked in the shadows and were known only to a chosen few. They were her father’s go-to guys when he was in trouble and needed a team skilled at working below the radar and not constrained by niceties such as legalities. As her father had once told Gia, these men knew where all the bodies were buried and which bodies, if exhumed, would ensure that Big Bart got elected. Very few people knew their names and for good reason. They were dangerous men to know, much less to hire. And even for candidates like Big Bart, whom they liked, they didn’t come cheap. Seeing Max Sheldon’s name, Gia remembered her father saying that Max was not only the smartest guy he knew but the dirtiest fighter he knew. Gia allowed herself to smile. If ever she needed someone as smart as she was and as dirty as her father, it was now.
Chapter 4
Well, well, well. I must have done something right in my jaded life. How else to have a message from one of my favorite, sassiest little girls.” The diminutive, gray-haired man smiled, then his eyes widened in appreciation as he openly surveyed her body. “But then, I would have to be blind and brain dead not to appreciate that the ‘little girl’ I knew has become a stunning young woman.” He reached for her hand and raised it to his lips in a courtly gesture. “Tell me, lovely lady, to what do I owe this pleasure?” Before Gia could answer, Max Sheldon frowned. “Did something happen to . . . your father?”
“No, no, Mr. Sheldon. Dad is fine, quite good, actually.” She gathered her strength, determined to appear confident. Unfortunately, her nervousness overcame her composure and she blurted out, “But, Mr. Sheldon, my father doesn’t know that I’m here. He would be annoyed that I’m bothering you.”
Max took his seat behind his elaborately carved desk and waved to the chair in front of him. “Please, Gia, if I may call you that, sit down. I hope I don’t have to tell you that Bartholomew Tremaine’s daughter is always welcome. Frankly, I can’t conceive of why your father would be annoyed that you are seeking me out. But please, before we continue, tell me about your father. How is he doing? And, my dear, know that you can be honest with me.”
“No, Mr. Sheldon, my father really is doing quite well. “ She added, “Considering that he is in prison.”
“Ah yes, there is that. But if there ever was a man who could rise to the occasion, any occasion, it is your father. While that cheers me, let’s face it—your father deserves a bigger stage. A stage worthy of his talents.”
Gia nodded in agreement, then looked down, not wanting the astute man to see the pain she couldn’t hide.
Making it clear that he’d read her reaction, Max went to the crux of the issue. “But since neither one of us can do a damn thing about your father’s current situation, how can I help you? Before you tell me why you are here, let me reiterate how much it pleases me to see you and to hear from your father’s and my old cronies how well you are doing. I remember how you, as a mere slip of a girl, brought down a houseful of heavy-drinking, rowdy men with
one of your smart remarks. Or better yet, flippantly ignoring all of us and doing what you did best—charming every damn man within a hundred yards of you.”
Gia looked at him in surprise. She’d been so nervous about seeking him out that she’d forgotten that among all of the pols who surrounded her father, Max Sheldon was always unfailingly polite, even gracious. He quickly confirmed that he also didn’t suffer fools gladly.
“Now that we have established that your father is as well as he can be, tell me, Gia, why you are here?”
Gia felt she needed to explain her reluctance. “It’s just that my father always told me that you rarely meet with people. That you guard your privacy.” She rushed forward. “Even knowing that, I decided that I had to talk to you.”
A frown creasing his brow, Max steepled his hands in front of him and held her gaze. “Suffice it to say, if you braved your astute father’s warning, you must have had a good reason to seek me out. So please, young lady, tell me how I can help you.”
Gia broke in. “I’m going to be honest. If my father knew I was here, he’d probably kill me.” She quickly added, “That’s bad enough, but I know that you are expensive, and frankly, there is no way I can pay your fees.”