by J J Arias
“Hmm,” Josephine murmured as she considered her words. “No, but in college I’m pretty sure you called that congressman who was stumping on campus a charlatan and a chicken hawk,” she said, her dark eyes calmly perusing her tablet.
George narrowed her eyes. “That was different. He was a draft dodger very keen on sending other people’s kids to die in a needless war he would have been too afraid to fight in himself.”
Every second that Josephine didn’t look up from her screen made George’s blood boil one degree hotter.
“True,” Jo finally agreed, her eyes stretched up over the top of her sunglasses as her neck remained bent. “And perhaps Ms. Dortch feels justification for her actions as well. It may be a good idea to actually converse with her.”
The suggestion was preposterous. She needed less interaction with that woman, not more. It was not sustainable. The moment it was politically feasible to do so, she would ask her to resign from the fellowship, or if need be, she’d be told to leave outright. She just couldn’t stand an entire year of her. Not when the re-election cycle would bring greater and greater levels of scrutiny as the second Tuesday in November neared in just over a year. It didn’t matter what she was playing at; George would be no one’s pawn.
Chapter Five
The morning after the fundraiser, the reclaimed arts district was back in full swing as if it had never been converted to a full-fledged street carnival. Mila pulled on the dark sunglasses that covered half her face and stepped out into the steamy mid-morning air. In black yoga pants and a black tank top, she was better dressed for a gymrat’s funeral than for Sunday brunch with her bestie.
After making sure the tabloid journalist who’d been circling her like a starving shark earlier that morning was gone, she set out for the short walk to the gastro pub. He hadn’t taken kindly to her aggressive rebuff for a paid interview and had continued shouting questions from the sidewalk about the rumor that Governor Fernandez had forced her into the dunk tank. So stupid.
“Aren’t you a sight for sore eyes,” Amanda, her dyed, fire-engine red hair styled in a thick fishtail braid on the side of her head, stood as she waved Mila over to her bistro table on the sidewalk.
Couldn’t get anything inside, she grumbled internally as she hugged her faintly perspiring friend.
“Well, you look like shit,” Amanda observed before flagging down the server.
“Don’t sugarcoat it on my account,” Mila replied with a lopsided grin. She respected a direct approach rather than deep-fried bull. “I may or may not be a tad hungover,” she admitted after a beat.
“You don’t say,” Amanda replied in feigned surprise.
Without asking her what she wanted, Mila’s friend ordered her a Bloody Mary. Extra spicy.
Once the hair of the dog had returned some color to Mila’s face and they’d ordered something to eat, Amanda gave in to her curiosity. “So, are you going to tell me about it, or am I left to forever wonder if the governor is as heinous as everyone says?”
Mila left nothing but a celery stalk and ice cubes in her glass before she replied. “She’s not that bad.”
“What are you even doing there? You don’t agree with any of her policies. She’s not exactly a beacon of progressive ideals. If anything, she’s repressive,” she added as if in an aside to herself. “Why would you give up your job to work for her? Just because of that stupid scandal that only Boomers care about?”
When she’d ceased her rapid-fire barrage of questions, Amanda relaxed into her seat and popped her straw in her mouth as if ready for a deluge of answers. None were forthcoming.
“It’s a good opportunity to make some real connections inside. If I want to be seen as anything more than a dancer, I have to make a name for myself in those circles.” Mila hated her response the moment it left her lips.
“Bullshit,” she decried without removing the straw from her mouth. “You’ve never given a single fuck what anyone thinks about anything you do.”
The truth pulled up a chair and ordered itself a double shot of honesty with a blunt chaser.
“Want to hear something even stranger than my working for her?” Mila asked after the server refreshed her empty glass.
“Obvi,” she shot back.
“I find myself trying to play by her rules and placate her. But the more I try to engage with her, the more I end up antagonizing her. It’s like I can’t help it even though it’s counterproductive to my whole point,” Mila explained as she worked it out while talking.
Scrunching her dark eyebrows together, which she hadn’t bothered to dye to match her hair, Amanda was pensive. “The real question,” she decided after a long pause, “is why do you care? Spill the tea, girl.”
Her words hung between them even after the server set down the strawberry and cream stuffed French toast and cheese blintzes for them to share. Mila resisted the unusual urge to lie. She did care, but she didn’t want to.
“What has she done with her career anyway,” Amanda continued after swallowing her mouthful. “No one is going to accuse her of being daring or pushing the envelope forward on anything. She’s a career politician who only cares about making it to the next election, not doing anything of consequence.” She shrugged. “So if you’re challenging that, it’s a good thing.”
“I suppose,” Mila conceded, but the rest of her thought was cut off by the man turning the corner with his phone camera pointed at her. “For shit’s sake,” she muttered as her icy blue eyes darted toward the source of impending intrusion.
“What is it?” Amanda asked, snapping her neck to look at what had robbed her of Mila’s attention. By the time she’d turned back, the single sleaze had multiplied into three and they were all barreling toward her hurling questions.
“How much is Blankenship paying you?” Mila challenged as she stood, her head heavy from the vodka she’d added to her mild hangover. “And is it really enough to compromise any dignity you might have left?” she added, her strong chin jutting out as her back straightened and her muscular figure was even more imposing than it had been while she was seated.
“Is it true that you’re pregnant with the First Dude’s baby?” a woman with frizzy corn husk hair asked as she shoved her phone in her face.
Mila’s surprise at the allegation rendered her momentarily frozen. Amanda jumped up from her seat to block the three descending reporters from coming within arm’s length of an enraged Mila. As soon as she did, a table of guys in golfing clothes stood to get them off her.
“We have credible informants who say you’ve been paid to be a surrogate for Florida’s first family and your participation in Governor Fernandez’s fellowship is just a convenient ruse,” the paparazzo who’d first began harassing her weeks ago shouted from between two dads in polos. “Can you confirm that?” he managed to get out before being shoved back.
“Aren’t you afraid that drinking will hurt the baby?” the third one asked.
“Oh, I’ve got something to confirm for you,” Mila replied as she lunged forward, her bright eyes darkening like an angry sea to mirror her rage.
Before she could get her hands on any of the snakes responsible for disrupting her day, the owner of the restaurant appeared in the door with threats of calling the police if they didn’t vacate the premises. He’d been kind enough to comp their meal and offered to move them to a table inside, but it was too late. Their appetites had been ruined and all Mila wanted to do was go home.
“Has it been like that?” Amanda asked as they walked arm-in-arm toward Mila’s place. Her eyes constantly surveyed her surroundings, just like Mila’s had been doing for some time.
“Not that many and not so dramatic. I hadn’t heard that surrogate thing.” She was thinking of the last few weeks. “But just about every day, that big guy has tried to get a comment out of me. He comes up with weirder and weirder shit to get me to react. I can usually ignore him, but there were just so many of them today,” she replied through a haze of exhaustion.<
br />
“You should call the cops every time you see them,” she fired back. “They can’t just stalk you and make baseless accusations like that.”
Mila shook her head before explaining that for the most part they weren’t doing anything illegal. It may have been an affront to good taste, but their harassment was just on this side of the line. What offended her most were the assumptions that she couldn’t have gotten the job on her own. No one asked her about her scholastic achievements or academic career. Those facts weren’t nearly as interesting as her dancing.
“Why did you mention that senator?” Amanda asked as they rounded the corner.
“I think he’s the one behind all this,” she explained as she finally took a deep breath while standing in the stairwell of her building. “Trying to make some scandal out of literally nothing.”
“Do you even know her husband?”
“No. He just came in with some party. I wasn’t even working the floor. I happened to recognize him and we got to talking about politics. It was a mistake to have walked out with him, but I didn’t think—”
“Don’t beat yourself up, babe,” she said with a squeeze to her forearm. “You know there’s a thing my grandpa used to say. Whatever happens is convenient. It loses some of its punch in translation, but you get the idea. It’s like everything happens for a reason. Maybe this is how you launch your career. In ten years, you’ll be running for president,” she added with a smile and good-natured shove with her shoulder.
Mila laughed. She didn’t bother reminding her that she’d never meet the constitutional requirements to be president.
* * *
After a Sunday trapped inside, Mila had become fed up with her confinement. She waited for sunset before lacing up her running shoes and pulling on a dark baseball cap. A sixteen-mile paved trail over what used to be a railroad track was the cure for what ailed her.
With earbuds nestled in her ears and her body warmed up from the walk to the trail, Mila pulled her hair back into the tiniest ponytail and set a moderate pace. Each rhythmic step allowed her to breathe easier. As she ran, stress and intrusive thoughts faded. They couldn’t maintain her pace. She soared with Heart’s Crazy on You blaring in her head. The 1970s debut album was still her favorite, and it carried her for miles before switching to their 1980s hits.
By the time Mila was in a full sweat, and more than halfway down the trail, she’d forgotten what she was so agitated about. Her shoulders relaxed and her neck loosened as she found a long, steady stride. Under the predictable yellow glow of streetlights, she found peace in her solitude.
The path looped around where two rivers met and back out to the parking area at the trailhead. With a clear mind, Mila considered taking another lap, but the burning in her thighs and tightness in her lower back counseled her against it. After a long stretch in the stiff grass, she decided on a shower and maybe some Ethiopian for dinner.
“Ms. Dortch! Mila!” The sound of her name on unknown lips forced her attention to the side. The woman with cornhusk hair had materialized out of thin air from between two parked cars.
“Leave me the fuck alone!” she screeched, wholly unprepared for the intrusion after the peaceful meditation of her run. Mila bolted across the lot and headed for the street, but the woman would not be deterred.
“Mila, I just want to ask you a few questions. If you give us an exclusive, we’re willing to offer you five thousand dollars!” she called as she gave chase through the park gates.
“I have nothing to say to you,” she shouted as she spilled out onto the street.
“Think of your baby! Do it for your future child!” she screamed as she tried to run faster to catch up, but her wheezing made it evident that she was in no shape to keep up.
With her heart racing from the anger and surprise, Mila had no trouble leaving the woman behind to continue her pointless shouting. It was the false sense of relief that left her unprepared for the man on the corner.
“Whatever they’re offering, we’ll double it,” he promised. He was the man who’d been harassing her from the beginning. “I know people who’ll pay big. It doesn’t even have to be made public. They just want to know the truth,” he said with his grubby hands reaching for Mila’s wrists as she tried to run past him.
Mila’s skin flushed deep red as she tried to free herself from his grasp. “Don’t touch me,” she screamed at the top of her lungs, but there was no one around to hear her.
“Just listen,” he continued, his hand like a vice on her arm. “Don’t be such a bitch. It doesn’t cost you anything to hear me—”
When the insult made its way behind the wall of Mila’s frustration and irritation, it triggered the end of her patience. Utilizing the unquestionably strongest part of her body, she engaged her sore thigh and kicked him in the stomach as hard as she could. Judging by his immediate release and doubling over, it was plenty hard.
Mila didn’t wait for him to get to his feet before she bolted away from the gasping mess on the sidewalk.
“Watch out!” an old man screamed from across the street just in time to alert Mila to the fact that she’d stepped onto the road into oncoming traffic.
In the face of headlights and car honking, Mila froze for a moment before leaping back onto the sidewalk just as a bus tried and failed to come to a screeching halt.
“Stay there, sweetheart!” the old man yelled, his trembling fingers hovering over the extra-large buttons on his flip phone. “I’m calling the police. I see you, young man! You should be ashamed of yourself,” he added with his voice failing under the strain as a small dog yapped at his heels.
The sleaze on the ground didn’t waste another second before dragging himself to his feet and running into an alley, still struggling to catch his breath as he went. Mila wanted to chase after him and give him more of what he had coming, but she remained motionless. A blaring police siren was the death knell for her plans to take matters into her own hands.
* * *
“Hello,” a groggy voice answered Mila’s call on the second ring.
“I don’t know what you’re going to do, but if you want me to continue with the fellowship and keeping my mouth shut, you need to do a hell of a better job keeping me safe from the psychopaths that would happily kill me to get a clickbait story on the governor,” she said, unleashing her fears and frustration like rapids exploding through an ill-built dam.
“Ms. Dortch?” Josephine asked as she caught up slowly. “How did you even get this number?” she started before focusing on more important matters. “What happened?” she asked after clearing her throat and saying something to someone with the phone away from her mouth. “Are you alright?”
For a moment, Mila felt bad for obviously having roused the chief of staff out of bed. But the regret turned to anger as she thought how nice it was for her to be safe and comfortable while Mila was practically pushed in front of a bus by someone wanting dirt on her boss.
“Am I alright?” she parroted sarcastically. “Yeah, I’m just peachy, no thanks to you or your boss,” she chided before explaining what had happened, and been happening, with so-called reporters. Josephine didn’t comment on her decision not to file an official police report, but she could tell the woman was relieved that it wouldn’t draw even more attention.
“I’m very sorry that happened to you,” Josephine began with apparent sincerity. “I wish you would have told us sooner. We had no idea this was going on.”
Mila was caught off guard by her concerned tone. “I assumed it would get better, not worse,” she explained, leaving out the part where she just wanted to be treated like a regular fellow. She was sure Flotsam and Jetsam weren’t calling someone high on the food chain to complain about anything.
“Do you wish to withdraw from your position?”
“No,” Mila snapped, anger returning once more. “What I want is protection from the harassment and stalking. At my prior place of employment, I was very safe. I had someone escort me to and
from work, and a bodyguard anytime I requested. There’s no doubt in my mind that the state’s finest should be able to do as well as that,” she said, her chin jutting out as if Josephine could see her body language.
There was a long pause before Josephine responded. “Let me see what I can do,” she said before the line went dead.
* * *
“Absolutely not!” George nearly stomped her foot as she tied the thin white robe around her pale silk nightgown and stepped back to let Josephine into her bedroom.
Cleo and Victoria darted from their beds to greet Jo in a far more excited manner than George had displayed.
“We cannot spend a single taxpayer dollar on a state police officer to guard a glorified intern,” she raged as she paced from the sitting area to the four-poster bed and back. “And don’t look at me like that,” she snapped at a relaxed Josephine sitting on her sofa and petting the Australian Shepherd’s head in her lap.
“Like what?” she asked with exaggerated innocence.
“Like you’ve already got an idea because you were waiting until sunrise to tell me about this so you’ve had plenty of time for those gears to turn,” she said as she dropped into the floral armchair across from Jo, causing the other dog to come running to her side. They were eager for their morning routine.
Josephine shrugged nonchalantly.
“Oh come on! You know I hate it when you play coy,” she snapped with the irritability of someone who hadn’t been allowed the decency of coffee before having a problem thrown in their face.
“Listen, I need you to keep an open mind,” she started as if testing out the rope on a high-wire act. “Before you say anything, just let me get my entire thought out.”