The Advisor

by J D Wade

  “Stranger in the neighborhood.” I gestured vaguely with the glass of water, managing to not spill any. “I don’t even know who you are.”

  “Marty Goldman. Campaign Manager for Nathan Reed.”

  “I’m happy for you, Marty Goldman.”

  “Look, here—”

  “What do you want?” I asked, interrupting her. “I’m sorry that I’m being a bit of a shit right now, but I’ve got an existential crisis I’m trying to puzzle out. If you could make this quick?”

  “I know all about your existential crisis.” She sniffed. “Annulment-gate? Tuniverse-gate.”

  “Not quite as clever.” I sipped my water. “I’m not in politics.”

  She rolled her eyes.

  “My life is lived in front of the camera and on social media.” I offered. “People know about it the second I fart or buy a rotisserie chicken. Finding out our possible future president had a failed marriage is much more scandalous. Especially since he’s supposed to be a big ole homosexual, right? How’s that for going against message?”

  Again, her eyes did their ballet to the back of her head.

  “Apparently, you and Nathan Reed have that in common?”

  “Going off message?”

  “Being big ole homosexuals.”

  “Ah.” I nodded and slammed the water. “Are you here to play matchmaker? I’m not really looking for a rich man to be kept by. I keep myself.”

  “Are you always this unpleasant?” She snapped as the last of the dying sun disappeared below the horizon outside.

  Neon lights in the distance twinkled and shone. I could see the beginnings of stars through the windows over her shoulder. Giving her a once over again, I smiled.

  “Oxfords. Business suit. Blunt haircut shellacked within an inch of its life.” I let my eyes wander from her toes to the top of her head. “Ms. Goldman, I bet you’re a pretty big handful yourself.”

  “Point taken. And fair.”

  I was beginning to kind of appreciate this woman. Ms. Goldman. She was blunt. She liked to be spoken to bluntly. I didn’t have anyone in my life I could speak to like that besides Cheri. I sighed.

  “What does possible future president Nathan Reed have to do with you barging into my apartment unannounced?”

  “Future president?” She scoffed. “We’ll see. After this whole dust-up with the fucking Des Moines Article—”

  I snorted and headed towards the kitchen to put my drink glass away.

  “Give me a break,” I spoke over my shoulder. “In two days, people will have moved on to something else. Isn’t the other guy almost a Republican he’s so moderate? I mean, what Democrat will vote for him anyway?”

  “This is politics.” She said. “Not some silly YouTube channel where people say ‘I’m sorry’ and then people move on, Mr. Long.”

  “Timothy.”

  “Timothy.” She parroted. “People don’t just forget when politicians—especially those running for president—have a scandal. This will be brought up in every article about him until the end of time—even if he secures the nomination for the Democratic ticket. Even if he’s in the White House one day. This will follow him forever.”

  “Of course, it will follow him.” I shrugged as I leaned against the kitchen counter. “People still talk about Tuniverse-gate, and that was over a month ago. But they don’t care.”

  “Most importantly, Timothy.” Ms. Goldman crossed her arms over her chest. “This isn’t just about whether or not the Democratic base will forgive—even if they can’t forget. It’s about the fact that no Republican will vote for him now.”

  “Because he had a wife?” A sharp laugh escaped my throat. “Are you kidding me? That might actually help him. Might make him seem less gay.”

  “He’s a gay man.” She squinted at me. “We don’t want any doubt about that.”

  “He shouldn’t have married a woman,” I suggested, though it was advice that was too late to take. “Then there wouldn’t be a single shred of doubt. Screwed himself, really.”

  “Let me just cut to the chase, Timothy.” Ms. Goldman sighed. “Nathan Reed—”

  “Yes?”

  “Needs your help.”

  Another laugh escaped my throat against my will.

  “What’s so funny?”

  “That was very Uncle Sam I Want You.” I chuckled. “And, also, are you fucking with me now? Why would Nathan Reed have sent you here for help from some Social Media Influencer?”

  She cringed.

  “I didn’t come up with the job title, lady.”

  “Nevertheless.” She grimaced. “He needs your help. Though, he didn’t exactly send me here.”

  I grinned.

  “Look, you little shit—”

  “You are a charmer.”

  “I’m his Campaign Manager.” Her nose elevated slightly. “He needs help with a scandal that goes against his message. His brand. You have experience with handling such a thing very well.”

  “I bet complimenting a Social Media Influencer tasted bitter, huh?”

  “Timothy.”

  “Ms. Goldman—”

  “Marty.”

  “Marty,” I relented, “I am just that. A Social Media Influencer and YouTuber. Grimace and cringe all you want; I know the score. What people think of me doesn’t concern me. Unless it affects my bank account. I have nothing to offer a guy running for president in regards to advice on how to handle a scandal. That’s above my pay grade.”

  “A scandal is a scandal.” She insisted. “We need a unique perspective and innovative ideas about changing public opinion while staying on brand and message. You can do that.”

  “I wouldn’t know where to begin.” I gestured towards the door, hoping my message was clear.

  Marty Goldman squinted at me, as though her eyes were scanning my very essence, peering through my skull and into my brain. Past my rib cage and into my heart. I was confident that this woman was not wholly human and could actually see my soul. Okay. Not really. She was just formidable as fuck.

  “There’s got to be to all of this besides telling some assholes out in the electronic universe what’s trendy and cool. Something I can do that will contribute something meaningful—”

  “Stop right there.” I held my hand up. “That’s not fair.”

  “Here’s that thing you were looking for, Timothy.” She held her hands out, as though offering me an opportunity on a silver platter. “You want to contribute something real to the world, this is it.”

  “Using my words against me—my drunken words—is not going to—”

  “Don’t you want to make your country a better place?”

  A sharp laugh was my response yet again.

  “What?” She demanded.

  “How the hell would I know if Nathan Reed is the right choice?” I asked. “One politician is as same as the next. They’re all out for themselves. They don’t give a shit about me. Or you. Or Mr. Bopisto. Or anyone, really. They just want power and clout. You’re telling me that helping Nathan Reed with a scandal—if I even could—would make the world a better place?”

  “Do you like President Trump?”

  “Obviously not.” I grimaced.

  “Well, the guy running against Nathan Reed—Governor Ledbetter—isn’t much better.” She said. “Power and clout? That’s what he wants. He’s not even a real Democrat. He’s conservative enough to take Trump’s base. And he’ll continue to do the same fucking things. He just won’t be so damn upfront about it. You think Trump is bad? Gay rights will be gone in twenty-twenty-one before people even knew they were on the chopping block. He’s a fucking snake.”

  “And someone who lies about a marriage is a stand-up guy?”

  Marty frowned again.

  “Come to Minnesota.” She suggested, though it was a bit firmer than a mere suggestion. “Listen to Nathan Reed. Hear what he’s about. Talk to him about what happened. You’ll change your mind. It pays, obviously.”

  “How much?” I
asked.

  “Seventy-five thousand yearly salary. But we only need you for a few weeks, so—"

  Again, I was laughing hysterically.

  “It’s good pay.” She rumbled.

  “That’s what I get paid for a month of work, Ms. Goldman.”

  “Marty.”

  “Low-balling me like that means we are not friends.” I glowered at her. “And I only call friends by their first names.”

  Again, she was peering into my soul.

  “When has your job ever given you something to be proud of, Mr. Long?”

  “Fair. But ouch. You really feel good about offering me that kind of money with what you’re asking of me?”

  “Look at it this way, Mr. Long.” She suggested. “You’ve never been a political consultant. This is entry-level. Do well, and maybe you can command more money if you ever choose to do it again. It will also give you plenty to put all over social media—at my discretion, of course.”

  That stopped me.

  “Wait,” I said. “I can put my experiences on Insta, Snapchat, and YouTube?”

  “Within reason.” She relented. “And only after my approval each time. So, Mr. Long, is this the thing you were looking for to change your life? Or what?”

  Chapter 5

  Timothy

  I Don’t Want You

  Minneapolis was cold as balls. I’d had to fly into the frigid city, which hadn’t yet been convinced that Spring was-a-comin’, in economy commercial. Presidential campaigns obviously had a limited budget as far as the travel expenses of contract consultants went. Of course, the travel might have been payback for my negotiations with Marty Goldman. Demanding that I get paid seventy-five-thousand dollars, regardless of the length of time I was needed, really pissed her off. I fully expected her to go to a different Social Media Influencer with a resolved scandal. It wasn’t like there weren’t plenty from which to choose. Instead, she had agreed, and then flew me in to meet Nathan Reed in economy commercial to the coldest fucking city I’d been to in ages. Minneapolis-Saint Paul International Airport was relatively quiet, probably due to the early morning hour. Still, I chose to believe that no one wanted to fly to what was practically Antarctica of the United States. I made my way off of the plane, found the baggage collection area, and walked along the frigid airport, my coat buttoned tightly around me.

  It had been less than twelve-hours since Marty Goldman had left my apartment to go back to Minneapolis to await my arrival. For all of her stern demeanor and blunt talk, she was also efficient. My ticket was purchased and waiting for me at the airport within an hour of us speaking. She hadn’t wasted any time in securing my travel. Of course, when I found out that I had less than seven hours to get on a plane, I wasn’t too happy. Fortunately, I already had a packed bag, and all of my essentials gathered. As a last-minute thought, I filled a carry-on bag with a few other essentials and more business-like clothes. My usual fare probably wouldn’t work if I had to be seen publicly consorting with Nathan Reed’s campaign staff. So, a few pairs of black slacks and button-downs had to be added to the mix. A few ties, dress socks, and a pair of dressier shoes got stuffed into my bags as well. It was better to be safe than sorry.

  A man decked out in a suit that one would expect to see Will Smith in while fighting aliens—with dark sunglasses to match, as well as a chauffeur’s hat—was waiting at the entrance. A small handwritten sign with my name on it, held out confidently as he scanned the few people milling about the entryway to the gate, was in his hands. I couldn’t help but chuckle to myself as I saw the chauffeur standing there, tall and handsome, official and severe, the name “Timothy Long” on a sign held out in front of him. I was no porn expert, but I’d seen a few that started that way. Giving the chauffeur a once over, I had to admit to myself that I wouldn’t have minded at all. He was tall—as I liked. Chiseled jaw and square shoulders, arms that bulged in the sleeves of his blazer. I definitely could have done worse for a porn scenario for myself.

  Sighing to myself, since it was unlikely that this man had shown up randomly to take me to Pound Town, I approached him. My carry-on bag was slung over my shoulder, and my suitcase was rolling behind me. As I neared him, his lips parted in a grin, sparkling white, straight teeth greeting my eyes. This man was absolutely gorgeous. If Nathan Reed had been in charge of hiring this driver, he was definitely a gay man who made a bad choice as far as marriage went in the past. There was no way a straight man would have hired this guy.

  “Are you Mr. Timothy Long?” He asked, his head moving to indicate that he was sizing me up.

  Baritone. Another item on the list got checked.

  “That’s me.” I smiled back, hoping I didn’t look ragged from my flight. “You can just call me Timothy. Or Timmy. But I prefer Timothy.”

  Pull it together, Timmy.

  “Excellent.” He lowered the sign and reached out to shake my hand. “Brandon. I’ll be your driver.”

  “Nice to meet you, Brandon.”

  “Let me get that for you.”

  Before I could stop the driver—Brandon—he had rounded me and taken the handle of my suitcase out of my hand. Feeling his fingers glide along mine sent a shiver along my spine.

  It’s been too long, Timmy.

  “I hope you got some sleep on the plane, Timothy.” Oh, God, I loved the way he said my name. “Ms. Goldman was already rallying the troops for a meeting when I left the hotel.”

  “The troops?” I pulled my phone out of my pocket as I followed Brandon towards the sliding glass doors. “It’s only a little after six o’clock.”

  “Things never stop on the campaign trail.” Brandon smiled brilliantly, turning his head to look at me as Minneapolis’ frigid air gushed through the doors to greet our bare faces. “Well, I guess that’s not entirely true. We have been here for a few days, after all. I guess we’ll be here until close to Super Tuesday. Which is a little odd.”

  “How so?” I shivered as we exited the airport and began walking towards a black Town Car. “How many campaigns have you driven for before?”

  “Two.” He replied automatically. “So, I guess that doesn’t make me an expert. And this is my first presidential campaign assignment, so maybe I’m just assuming things. But I thought we’d keep moving until a candidate was chosen.”

  “That sounds fair.” I agreed. “Why have they decided to stay here, then? Not that I don’t love the Arctic and all, but, yeah.”

  Brandon laughed as we approached the car and rounded it to access the trunk. He reached into his pocket, a beep sounded, and the trunk popped open. Brandon had the handle of my suitcase pushed in, and the bag stowed in the trunk before I could even blink. Then he slid the strap of my carry-on bag off of my arm and stowed it in the trunk next to my suitcase. I stood there, watching him as he reached up to grab the lid of the trunk. For a moment, he seemed unsure of what he should say, but finally, he pulled the trunk lid down and shut it gently. His smile returned as he looked at me, those teeth peering out at me once again.

  “I’m sure Ms. Goldman will tell you all about it when you get to the hotel.”

  “Not at liberty to say?” I teased.

  “Or speculate.” His smile grew. “I’m a driver. And only for certain events. Usually, Secret Service drives Mr. Reed around.”

  “Fair enough.”

  “Come on.” He gestured for me to follow him.

  Instead of trying to coerce more information out of him, though I would have loved to see what would cause him to give up something akin to government secrets—maybe he could be plied in some way—I followed. Brandon led me to the back passenger door and popped it open swiftly and elegantly, gesturing towards the interior. Looking inside, I could see that there was nothing to fear inside the car. It looked warm and cozy, but I really wanted to grill Brandon for more information. So far, all I knew was what I’d seen snippets of in the news, and then what Marty had shared with me at my apartment. Which was nothing more than Nathan Reed needing someone to hel
p him navigate his scandal. Which, in most people’s lives, wasn’t even that much of a scandal. Failing to disclose a previous marriage wasn’t that big of a deal. It wasn’t anybody else’s business, and no one should feel forced to share such information. Besides, if people wanted to know about previous marriages, they could search court records.

  Other people aren’t running for President of the United States, Timmy.

  “There’s nothing in there that will bite you.” Brandon teased.

  “Well, what’s the fun in that?” I quipped.

  Brandon’s professional, sweet smile changed. The corner of his lip turned up wickedly. But only for a moment. I was going to enjoy being around Brandon—however long that would be.

  “They’re all waiting for you.” He stated.

  “Who’s ‘they’?” I asked.

  “One way to find out.” He gestured towards the interior of the car once more.

  “Fine.” I relented. “But if you’re really a serial killer pretending to be a driver for Nathan Reed, I’m going to be really upset with my judgment.”

  Brandon laughed loudly as I ducked down and slid into the car. I settled into the seat, pulling at my coat to adjust it to my seated position. Brandon peeked over the top of the door to look in at me sitting there.

  “I’m pretty harmless.” He said. “Unless requests are made, Timmy.”

  I gave him a quick grin before he gently shut the door with a “thunk.” Taking a deep breath, I tried to control my feelings about being in the presence of such a physically appealing, flirtatious man. Honestly, I didn’t even care if his flirting was serious. Or if he was gay. It was just nice to have flirty banter with such a guy. After all, it wasn’t like I had come to Minneapolis to shag some driver for the campaign—but I could have a little harmless fun while I was freezing my nuts off and getting underpaid. Within seconds, Brandon had dashed jauntily around the car, making such movements look easy, even in a suit, and popped open the driver’s door. Cold, wintry air gushed in, slapping against my face once more as Brandon slid into the driver’s seat. He mercifully shut the door before we both froze to death.