Gideon didn’t mind using his fame as one-half of Austin’s most famous on-air duos as leverage to score women who would have made themselves unavailable to him otherwise. Gage did mind. He didn’t like mixing business with pleasure.
“You gotta stop taking candy from babies.” Gage reluctantly pocketed the business card. “I don’t even remember this woman.” Whoever Tara Reese was, she was probably a perfectly nice woman, even if she wasn’t too interesting to talk to. A woman who was waiting for him to call her and ask her out.
If he didn’t, he would be the ass.
“You don’t need to remember her.” Gideon gave Gage a knowing look. “Trust me, all you need to know is that she’s hawt.”
The conversation came to an abrupt halt when Gage’s assistant poked his head through the doorway near the end of the break. “We finally got a live one,” he announced. “Caller was supposed to get married this weekend, but his fiancée ran off with the preacher.”
“Sounds juicy,” Gideon commented as he rubbed his palms together.
“Bump him to the top of the queue,” Gage told the assistant.
Wedding celebrations — even those riddled with drama and dysfunction — had a strange way of putting Gage in a sentimental mood, although he’d never admit it to anyone. Not even to Sebastian, who seemed ridiculously happy with his new bride. Weddings reminded him that the hopeful teenaged boy his romance-dissuaded radio personality mocked was still inside of him somewhere. That somewhere in this cold, crazy world teeming with too many people armed with too much high-tech gadgetry to distract them, couples like his grandparents, buried side by side just shy of their sixtieth anniversary, still found a quiet place to exist.
Weddings always made him want to kiss the girl.
Then he’d seen Sabrina March standing on the porch looking at him with curiosity and wariness in her eyes. He knew nothing about her other than one thing. He knew that someone needed to kiss her, and that it needed to be done right.
He’d definitely done it right.
The commercial break came to an end, and Gage slid his earphones back on. “You’re listening to ‘Fitz and Giggles’ on KCAP,” he brayed into the microphone. “You got a name, caller?”
“Yeah, I do—” He heard a man’s voice tremble after a short delay. “—And if it weren’t for that miserable f-(BEEP)-in’ b-(BEEP) I nearly got hitched to, I wouldn’t be too embarrassed to say it.”
Gage recognized the on-the-verge-of-a-breakdown quaver in the caller’s voice. Only women have the ability to inspire that, he thought. And to think they were called the “gentler sex.”
“Sounds like you, sir, have a sad story to share,” he commiserated as he tossed Gideon a red marker.
His coworker smiled gleefully, popped the cap and drew two more hash marks on the dry-erase board.
**
As Sabrina entered the main rotunda, the staccato click of her heels echoed across the whispering gallery’s glossy terrazzo floor of the old main Capitol building.
She never tired of admiring the ornate plasterwork that adorned the Dome’s supporting columns or the gargantuan paintings of Texas governors that lined its circumference. She inhaled deeply. There it is. That familiar smell: old books, cold stone and decades-old dust.
The musty smell faded when she stepped off the elevator that took her to the underground annex. The extension that housed Theo’s offices had taken quite a bit of tricky architectural maneuvering to mimic the Classic Revivalist style of the main rotunda. Strategically placed skylights made the structure appear large and airy. At the core of the underground structure was a vast open-air rotunda known as the “fish bowl,” where legislators and staff hobnobbed. The offices were tucked in a confusing labyrinth of passageways. Sometimes Sabrina still got turned around when it was night and she couldn’t use the cast of the sun as her guide.
She breezed through the doorway and automatically directed her smile at the front desk, where Violetta Vasquez, the receptionist, usually sat. Only this morning, the phones were unmanned, and the front desk was devoid of Violetta’s cheerful personal clutter: a family of small porcelain ducks, numerous pictures of nieces and nephews and her Maxine coffee cup.
Otherwise, everything else was in its place, from the crumbling dried flower arrangements that Theo’s wife, Jillian, had adorned the reception room with to the four large blue recycling bins on the far side of the room. Each bin was decorated with flower decals and painted in a child’s irregular print: Paper, Glass, Plastik, Alumimum. The office was redolent with the smells of hazelnut coffee and the furniture polish Theo’s private eco-friendly cleaning team used.
Sabrina frowned.
Where was everyone? Theo normally didn’t grace them with his presence until later in the morning, but Carlton and Moira, her coworkers, were always in the front office bantering and bickering.
More pressingly, where was Violetta?
Her ears picked up the sound of chatter coming from the far back office, which Sabrina and her coworkers had christened the Think Tank. Crossing through the War Room, where office meetings were held, she found Moira and Carlton hovering around the office radio, coffee and pastries in hand. What could possibly be so riveting? Sabrina wondered as she stared at their backs.
“—so keep it on KCAP for more ‘Fitz and Giggles’—”
She cleared her throat. The pair looked around, bug-eyed. Moira stopped chewing her jelly donut. Carlton, the quick thinker of the two, hastily turned the volume down. His dark skin was coupled with pale green eyes and a shock of glossy black hair — an exotic combination on any human being, but with his bone structure, he could have been a model. He certainly had the fashion sense. He wore a double-breasted designer suit she hadn’t seen before. Likely another high-hanging fruit harvested from his success at e-trading.
“Sabrina,” Carlton said with a contained smile. “Good morning.”
It was the wrong thing to say. All wrong. After Sabrina took a comp day, the typical Carlton Hayes salutation was, “Welcome back to Monday, bee-yotch!” Or he’d eschew greetings entirely and rib her with a snarky comment about her hair.
“Good morning, Carlton. Moira,” she responded cautiously. She placed the remaining cup of latte on her desk and slung the messenger bag from her shoulder. “Since when do we tune in to early-morning talk shows in this office?”
It was bad enough that Gage “Fitz” Fitzgerald had murdered the peace of her morning drive. Now he’d encroached on her professional space as well?
“Everyone listens to ‘Fitz and Giggles’ now,” Moira Espinoza piped up. “I’m a feminist, and even I think they’re hilarious.” A tall, big-boned girl with a thick nimbus of untidy brown hair, the legislative aid served as the perfect foil for Carlton’s Greek god beauty. She wore her customary uniform: white T-shirt, denim skirt and ancient Birkenstock sandals with one strap duct taped to the side.
Sabrina looked at her shrewdly. “Everyone?”
“Well, a lot of people,” Moira pointed out weakly. “Theo called to say he’d be in late, and we had some time to kill. So we started listening to that Fitz guy on the radio to pass the time and — Sabrina, what happened this weekend?”
“Drop it, Mo,” Carlton warned on the heels of her disjointed ramble. “Sabrina’s personal life is none of our beeswax.”
Only now it was. One Gage Fitzgerald had definitely seen to that. Sabrina wondered if Theo listened to KCAP. She sank into her chair, laced her fingers together and placed her hands in front of her. Time for a Theo maneuver.
“Here’s the abbreviated version. I’ve made some unfortunate decisions in my personal life lately, and that includes the one I made this weekend. You could even say they were ‘stupid.’ As of today, I’m through being stupid. The two of you will speak of this to no one. Not Theo, not other staffers, not your best friends or your mothers. Now.” She slapped her palms on her desk, ignoring the shock on her colleagues’ faces. “Where’s Violetta?”
The best way
to proceed was to behave as though this nightmare of a morning were behind her.
“Ah, bad news,” Carlton hedged. “She quit.”
“You’re joking,” Sabrina said with disbelief. “D’you mean to tell me that I take one day off to help plan my best friend’s wedding, and the anchor of this office just up and quits?”
“Theo wanted to cut Violetta’s hours,” Carlton explained. “He wants to put more of the budget into making the office ‘green’ — or giving it the appearance thereof.” He glared at the stack of boxes piled in the corner of the Think Tank labeled “Austin Sustainables.”
The spendy biodegradable plates, cups and utensils hadn’t been a big hit in the office due to their propensity to disintegrate mid-meal. Theo Ward, materials vendor to elite construction companies and niche contractors, made every attempt to appear a friend to the environment under the watchful eye of his constituents and the press. This time, he’d literally put his money where his mouth was.
“Oh, god,” Sabrina groaned. “What else?”
Carlton and Moira exchanged furtive looks.
“Jillian’s pregnant,” Moira blurted.
Sabrina’s hand paused en route to the coffee cup. “She can’t be. It’s an odd year.”
During their marriage, Theo and Jillian Ward had managed to produce a little Ward every other year like clockwork during each legislative interim for a sum total of four girls. And now counting.
“How did that happen?” Sabrina wondered aloud.
“‘Whoops,’ would be a good guess,” Carlton said. “Now Jill wants Theo to pony up the quality family time he’s been promising her. Which means, of course, that he’ll be spending even more time here at the office.”
“Lucky us,” Sabrina murmured into her coffee cup. Still stunned by the news and its implications, Violetta’s departure was temporarily forgotten.
“What are we going to do without a receptionist?” Moira asked plaintively. “I am not pulling copier duty. I have chemical sensitivities.”
“And I refuse to go on Theo’s takeout runs,” Carlton added. “His puerco borracho will stink up my car.”
Sabrina stopped them both with a calm hand. “I’ll talk to Theo and make him see the error of his ways.”
But she read the doubt all over her coworkers’ faces. She excused herself and sought refuge in the ladies’ room, where she put the finishing touches on her makeup: bone-colored eye shadow, mascara and a dab of sheer lipstick. Her hands shook from irritation and too much caffeine.
Sabrina had always believed that the might held by those in public office should be used for right. But she had long since abandoned any illusions she had about Theo Ward once she discovered that the social policies she had designed for him and that he had pretended to enthusiastically embrace — laws that would benefit women, children, minorities and the economically disadvantaged populations in Texas — were in fact a carefully constructed artifice strategically designed to woo voters across enemy party lines.
Moreover, she had also discovered that Theo had no intention of learning the job he was elected to do. Instead, he had relied on staffers like her who were younger, smarter and more ambitious to craft his legislation and put the final coat of polish on his public image.
If only everyone under the Dome knew who runs this show …
Who the real brain was behind Theo’s most popular bills. Who wrote his speeches. Who developed his public-relations strategies, appeased disgruntled constituents and single-handedly managed his campaign fundraising events. Who outlined his talking points and even counseled him how to vote. It was her, his Chief of Staff.
All Theo Ward had to do was show up and turn on the charm.
Sabrina fluffed her bangs with her fingertips and gave the hasty touch-up job a look of approval. At least she had more important things to worry about than Gage Fitzgerald.
CHAPTER FIVE
“Vamonos!”
Gage shooed away the trio of colorful banty chickens that pecked idly around on his front porch. One of the small fowl, a rooster, refused to be usurped; it dug its claws into a plank and crowed at him belligerently.
“You’re out of your league, pal,” Gage told the bird. “Wanna impress your lady friends? Stick to facing off with alpha males your own size.”
The rooster clucked back at him ominously and took several steps away.
Gage shook his head as he reached down to pick up the daily paper. He had never lived in a city where neighbors kept livestock traditionally confined to rural areas. But this was Austin, where anything went. He had passed through town a couple of times to visit Sebastian, then whipping his way through joint doctoral degrees in English and philosophy, and had become enamored with the sleepy college town.
A lot had changed since Sebastian had lived in a dilapidated garage apartment in the same neighborhood south of the lake where Gage had recently procured an overpriced sublet. Twenty years ago, River Run had been the heart of the city’s infamous weird. Musicians, writers, painters and other artsy types dwelled in bungalows hidden away at the end of winding cul-de-sacs and behind lawns overwhelmed with brushy native flora and an abundance of untamed ivy. The smell of marijuana and clove cigarettes curled around each breeze.
Back then the neighborhood had also been a good argument for concealed weapons permits. Now River Run was undergoing rapid gentrification. The main avenue that used to be lined with pawn shops, no-tell motels and triple-X cinemas now looked like it had been designed by twenty-something hipsters expressly for singles and couples who were Gage’s age. Men’s and women’s retro couture boutiques catered to customers who wanted to look like they’d spent the afternoon pushing through hangers of vintage apparel, and curio shops sold Moroccan henna lamps, handcrafted beads and Día de los muertos baubles priced out of all common sense.
When the lease on Gage’s sublet expired, his landlord had showed up on the doorstep with a new one in hand. Gage had taken one look at the increase in rent printed at the bottom of the first page, and the first words out of his mouth were, “Hell no.”
Looking distinctly miffed, the landlord, a hipster himself, had snippily informed him that the house could easily fetch just as much, if not even more, if it were rented to out-of-towners a few times a year during Austin’s various film, multimedia and music festivals.
Gage had simply told him, “Good luck with that,” and proceeded to tear the lease in half.
He wasn’t happy to leave. He felt right at home in the gentle flux of resident activity on Evaline Street, which was just far enough away from the main avenue that he had little contact with the weekend throngs that flocked to their favorite hipster havens. The rambling two-story house, with its high ceilings, scuffed wooden floors and a ceiling fan in practically every room, had a well-lived-in feel. It was a bitch to heat on cold days, and the plumbing was temperamental — features that Gage, having grown up in a house much like this one, found familiar and even oddly endearing. In the dark hours of early morning when he shaved, the smell of homemade tortillas wafted through the window from the string of Mexican cafés on the next street.
And none of the neighbors complained when he worked in the garage all night long.
Moving into the large River Run house had been like slipping his feet into an old pair of shoes. Comfortable. Easy.
And now it was completely out of his price range, given that his personal finances had taken an unexpected hit during the past two years. The “For Rent” sign staked in the corner of the lawn reminded him that he had less than a month to find another place to live. Gage told himself that he wouldn’t have to count his pennies forever; the crisis would pass. In the meantime, he’d have to resort to cheaper digs.
“Hey, Gage!” a woman’s voice called, interrupting his reverie.
Speaking of easy …
He paused with the key still in the lock. His next-door neighbor, Ronnie, traversed the distance between them in an unhurried saunter. She wore a torn sweatshirt and shorts t
hat revealed an impressive expanse of brown shoulder and leg. Her pale blond tresses were pulled up in a tousled-looking updo he suspected she’d painstakingly styled to look as though she had done it on the fly. The color of her skin and hair was all too typical of Austin women and reminded him of the Palomino horses he saw in pastures outside the city limits.
“Back atcha, Ronnie.” He gave her the same friendly smile that he would any of his female coworkers at KCAP.
Only Ronnie had tacitly made it clear since the day he moved in that she wanted more than sugar-borrowing privileges. She’d invited him over for lemonade on the porch. Mike’s Hard Lemonade. No doubt she was a long, cool drink of it too — with a cherry at the bottom. The perfume she wore smelled sweet and fruity.
A few years ago, Gage would have gladly lived up to Fitz’s on-air reputation. He would have drunk with Ronnie all night, bedded her at dawn then let the cards fall as they may. But if the school of hard knocks had taught him one lesson, it was that the path of least resistance slid into a quagmire of complications and misgivings. Women like Ronnie — women with whom he couldn’t recall the details of a single conversation — were always the first step in the wrong direction.
“This morning’s show was awesome.” She smiled and braced her palms on the top of the fence railing that separated their properties. “The other girls at the salon thought it was hilarious, too.”
“I do aim to please.” Gage noticed that she’d thrust her breasts forward in a gesture that was meant to appear unobtrusive.
“Sounds like you had a good time at your friend’s wedding,” Ronnie drawled with a hint of coy. “Although I can’t believe that the maid of honor turned you down.”
“I suppose there’s no accounting for taste.” Gage kept his tone light.
One thing that he’d noticed about Texas women was that they communicated sexual interest almost exclusively through body language and innuendo. Now Ronnie was shifting her weight from one long leg to another, subtle movements that connoted a certain expectation. The lemonade stand was still open for business.
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