Filthy Series

by Bliss, Chelle

  Jude: My current situation.

  I smile and write back.

  Me: Looks like fun. I’m off today too.

  Jude: Oh, I’m not off. This is the CTU president’s boat. We’re spending the day together.

  My mouth falls open in horror. That union is backing me. It’s inconceivable they would even give him the time of day. I can’t find the words to text him back when another message appears.

  Jude: Kidding, gorgeous. This is my buddy’s boat. I’m off too.

  Me: You’re an asshole.

  Jude: On occasion. Where’s my pic of you in a bikini?

  Me: I’m at my parents’ house.

  Jude: Hey, that’s cool. Ask your dad to snap a pic you can send me.

  Me: Not even funny.

  Jude: You miss me?

  Me: Maybe.

  Jude: I miss you. Even though you pretty much called me a misogynist the other day in that interview.

  I smile, because I was wondering if he’d catch the veiled dig I’d made at him.

  Me: The closer we get to Election Day, the dirtier it’ll get, Titan.

  Jude: Dirty, huh? I like the sound of that.

  “Reagan, do you feel like taking a walk around the neighborhood?” my mom asks me.

  “Sure.”

  I send out one more text.

  Me: Have to go. See you Tuesday night at our debate?

  Jude: Yep. Wear your hair up if you want to make me hard. ;)

  It’s not just my cheeks that warm as I read and then reread his message, but my entire body. I’m glad I changed his contact name to Jude because it was getting weird having these heated exchanges with Justin Timberlake.

  “You okay?” my mom asks. “You look flushed.”

  “Oh, I’m fine. Let’s go.”

  I leave my phone in my purse so I won’t be tempted to continue the conversation with Jude. It’s ironic he has people on his team looking for my weaknesses when my greatest one seems to be him.

  * * *

  There’s a palpable energy in the university auditorium in Chicago where Jude and I are about to have our first debate. This is a key moment for both of us. We have to come out strong but not overbearing, appear poised but approachable.

  A man adjusts the mic on my collar and gives me a reassuring grin. “Just trying to hide it from the camera,” he says. “You all ready?”

  “I am.”

  It’s true. I spent fourteen hours yesterday and ten today in debate prep with my team. Lexi called Tom Harbor, and he sent her some good questions for us to anticipate. I answered all of them repeatedly, and my team threw in random, unexpected stuff like, “What makes you cry?” and, “Why don’t you like kittens?” Those questions help me prepare to stay calm when something random is thrown at me.

  Lexi walks with me to my lectern on the brightly lit stage. I take the bottle of water she hands me and set it on a shelf inside.

  “You’ve got this,” she says, squaring her shoulders. “Just remember you’re good enough, you’re smart enough, and—”

  I roll my eyes and laugh at her mention of an old SNL skit we both love. “Thanks. How do I look?”

  She looks over my conservative navy dress and nude heels for the dozenth time. “Great. I love your hair in that French knot.”

  There’s a buzz in the audience, and we both turn to see what’s going on. Jude just walked out from the other side of the stage. I can’t breathe for a second. He’s striding toward me in a light gray suit and shiny black shoes, wearing a white dress shirt and a bright blue tie. He’s clean-shaven, and his hair is combed back neatly.

  I can tell from Lexi’s inhale that it’s not just me who’s taken by Jude’s polished, commanding presence. His gaze stays on me, and I dig deep for my professional side.

  “Ms. Preston,” he says, extending a hand toward me, “you look lovely.”

  I take his hand and shake it, reminding myself how many eyes are on us right now. I can’t let my feelings show.

  “Thank you, Mr. Titan. Good luck to you.”

  “And to you.” He brushes a thumb across my knuckles before releasing my hand. His eyes are sparkling with warmth and confidence.

  Well, fuck. So much for hoping he’d have first-time debate jitters. He looks positively presidential right now.

  He turns to walk to his lectern, and Lexi mutters, “What was that?” under her breath.

  “I’ll see you after,” I say to her.

  She takes the cue and leaves the stage. I square my shoulders and wait for the countdown from the television production assistant.

  Game face, Reagan. This is crucial. Own it.

  The debate is being moderated by two Chicago news anchors who both introduced themselves to me backstage. One of them, Jenna Morrison, opens the debate and asks us to introduce ourselves.

  My intro warms me up. The familiarity of the words builds my confidence, reminding me how many times I’ve rehearsed all this. Jude also nails his intro, and I realize he’s been practicing, too.

  “Mr. Titan,” Jenna says, “you were recently voted Most Eligible Bachelor by Chicago Magazine. How do you feel about that?”

  He grins sheepishly. “I’m honored.”

  She smiles back at him. For fuck’s sake. What kind of impartial journalist is she?

  “Is there someone special in your life?” she asks.

  “Right now I’m totally focused on my campaign.”

  There’s a chorus of disappointed groans from the audience. I clench the sides of my lectern, forcing myself to look impassive. Secretly, I’d like to kick it over.

  “Representative Preston, where do you currently stand on gun control?” Jenna asks me. Apparently, she doesn’t want to giggle over my relationship status as she did with Jude.

  “The same place I’ve always stood,” I say. “I’m for it, and here’s why.”

  I launch into my prepared answer and fall into a groove, hitting every note I rehearsed. I’m feeling especially good as I refute Jude’s statement that he’s the only one who will look out for our veterans.

  “I agree that our veterans need a voice,” I say. “I’ll also be their advocate. And in addition, I’m going to be a voice for other people I meet daily who aren’t being heard. The single mom who needs help to finish college so she can provide for her family. LGBTQ Americans who want and deserve complete equality. The college student who can’t afford rising tuition costs and faces graduating with a mountain of debt. Seniors who deserve to know Social Security and Medicare are safe and not being raided to fund other programs. Our country’s diversity is a tremendous asset, and we need to remember everyone deserves to be represented.”

  Jude meets my eyes for a split second before speaking. “Representation is good, but let’s be real here. No one person can represent every voice out there because some of the voices are in direct opposition to each other. I will listen to all of them and then make what I feel is the best decision. That’s leadership. I’ve led before, sometimes in life-or-death situations. I don’t want to go to Congress and do what’s popular. I want to do what’s right. That’s what—”

  “Are you saying I won’t do what’s right?” I cut in sharply. My heart is pumping rapid-fire in my chest as I realize he just accused me of just doing what’s popular.

  “Your idea of what’s right comes back to who exerts the most pressure on you,” Jude says to me. “And that’s no fault of yours, it’s true of most politicians. I’ve got broad shoulders, and I can say no to the special interests. I don’t cave under pressure.”

  “Neither do I.”

  “You did when you cast your vote on state pension reform. Our state is broke, Representative Preston. We’re deeply in debt, but you kicked the can down the road instead of making a tough decision because your vote belongs to the teacher’s unions.”

  His comment draws light applause.

  “I voted my conscience,” I say, turning back to the audience. “Our teachers earned their pensions. I’m not raidin
g what they earned. I’ve cast votes on tough decisions.”

  “During your short tenure as a state representative or while you were a law school student?” Jude asks sharply. “I’ve decided who would be first in line facing insurgents in battle, which means certain death.”

  This is my moment. I don’t even think before speaking. “I guess I am nothing like you, Mr. Titan, because as a leader, I’d choose myself.”

  “I did.” His voice is strong but laced with emotion. The auditorium falls silent. “I did,” he repeats, looking down at his lectern to compose himself. “I made choices that got men and women killed. Men and women with families. With lives in front of them.”

  I swallow hard, not seeing my political opponent anymore. Now I see Jude, the man whose dark, haunted eyes reach straight into my heart.

  “I’m sorry,” I say softly.

  He meets my eyes for a brief second, and I see emotion swimming in his. It almost looks like regret.

  “I’m no career politician,” he says to the audience. “But haven’t we all had enough of those? I think it’s time to elect an average person who’s worked for everything he’s got. No one’s spoon-feeding me answers or underwriting my campaign. This is just me, asking you to give me a chance to lead for you.”

  The audience applauds loudly. I want to refute what he said, but I’m afraid to. I don’t know unequivocally that my father hasn’t seen to donations into my campaign. He’s told me he hasn’t, but he wants me to win so badly that I wouldn’t put it past him.

  I’m gutted. I just got my ass kicked out here. That was the defining moment of the debate, and the momentum stays with Jude until the end. I keep my game face on, but it takes everything in me to remain composed. For the first time in this campaign, I want to cry angry tears. Jude is gaining on me, and instead of being the cutthroat badass I thought I was, I secretly fawn over him just like all the other women do.

  Jude’s playing me. My weak spot is him because he wanted it that way. I feel like such an idiot for letting him set me up privately and then knock me down in a televised debate.

  When we shake hands at the end of the debate, I still see emotions swimming in Jude’s eyes. I do what I have to do, posing for photos and doing two interviews before I go back to my small dressing room. And once there, I close the door and sit down, burying my face in my hands.

  I’m falling apart, and the one person who could comfort me is also the reason I feel this way. I’ve never felt so backed against a wall—or so completely alone.

  Chapter 15

  “You killed it tonight.” Carl’s almost buzzing with excitement as the crowd slowly migrates toward the exits of the auditorium. “Didn’t it feel amazing?” he asks and punches me playfully in the shoulder like he’s shed ten years from his life.

  “Yeah.” My head’s nodding, but it’s a complete lie. There wasn’t much about the debate that made me feel amazing. I loved the response of the crowd, but I could see Reagan slowly slipping into herself, falling into my shadow at my side.

  That’s the rub.

  She’s my opponent.

  It shouldn’t matter how she feels. All’s fair in love and war, right? But this is a mixture of the two. We’re not battling over who is picking the kids up for soccer practice. We’re fighting it out for one open Senate seat, and we can’t both come out on top.

  Kissing her that night on the bench outside the inn seemed to be a great idea at the time, but it has us on a path that ends on a cliff, followed by nothingness.

  There’s no outcome that will make both of us happy. Even though she walked out of my room weeks ago and said good-bye, I haven’t been able to get her off my mind.

  There’s still a pull between us. That gravity that brings us back together, but over time, will rip us apart in spectacular fashion.

  Seeing her face splashed across the papers and at night when I’m alone in my room on television has been a double-edged sword.

  “Carl.” Martin Sanders, the chair of the Illinois Republican Party, interrupts us, and I’ve never been so thankful to be able to break free.

  “Hey, Marty. How the hell are ya, buddy?” Carl shakes his hand and turns his back to me.

  I step backward and loosen my tie. “I’m going to go backstage. I’ll meet you out front in fifteen, Carl.”

  “Yeah, yeah. I’ll be there,” he says, paying absolutely no attention and waving me off. “Marty and I need to catch up.”

  My tie feels as if it’s choking me, working with my dress shirt to strangle the life out of me. I’m undoing the buttons as I head backstage, straight for the dressing rooms.

  Lexi’s on the phone, pacing in front of Reagan’s room when she catches sight of me. “Can I help you?” Her voice is anything but friendly. It’s not even cordial.

  I glance around the corridor. “I need to talk to her,” I say, running my fingers through my hair.

  Her glare is even less friendly than her tone. “Lemme call you back. I have a problem I need to take care of.” She stabs the screen of her phone, and as soon as she drops her hand to her side, she’s in my face. “She doesn’t want to see you.”

  I won’t let Lexi’s proximity stop me from seeing her. “Did she say that, or are you her keeper?”

  “I know her better than anyone, Mr. Titan. After what just happened out there—” she points toward the stage and takes another step closer, dropping her voice to a whisper “—she’s never going to want to speak to you again.”

  I throw my hands up and confess, “I know. I’m sorry. I need to talk to Reagan, Lexi. I won’t leave until I do.”

  “I can have security remove you,” she threatens.

  “You aren’t going to cause a scene, Lexi. Let me see her, and if she doesn’t want to speak to me ever again, I’ll leave her in peace,” I plead.

  She stares at me for a beat, her eyes narrowing on me. “I’ll give you ten minutes, Titan. If you upset her…” Her bony digit pokes me in the chest, and her glare deepens. “I’ll ruin you.”

  “Just give us a few minutes alone, and don’t let anyone down here, please.”

  Her eyebrows draw together. “Why?”

  “Because it wouldn’t look good if people saw me leaving her dressing room.”

  Her eyes roam over the expansive hallway, but her finger’s still firmly pressed against my chest. “I’ll make sure no one sees, for Reagan’s sake. Don’t pull any shit, or you’ll be sorry.”

  I can’t control my grin. “I’ll be an absolute gentleman.”

  “I don’t know if it’s in your nature to be a gentleman. Hurry,” she says, looking around my shoulder before peering up at me. “You have ten minutes before I come in there.”

  As I reach for the door, I turn around and face her. “Thanks, Lexi.”

  She glances around and shoos me. “Go, before I change my mind.”

  One hand’s on the doorknob, and I raise my other hand, about to knock, when I change my mind. Reagan will never welcome me inside, not after the debate—not after the way I belittled her.

  Slowly I turn the knob, praying she doesn’t start screaming before I get inside the room. When the door is cracked just a few inches, I catch a glimpse of her.

  She’s hunched over the desk, holding her head in her hands and sniffling. Oh God, she’s crying. It’s my fault. I’m the cause of her sadness, and it guts me.

  We were both fools for not thinking ahead. Of course, a political debate is going to get nasty. It’s cutthroat.

  She doesn’t hear me enter over her muffled sobs or the click of the door as it closes behind me. My hands are balled into fists, and I want to kick my own ass for hurting her.

  “Reagan,” I say, my voice almost a whisper.

  Slowly she lifts her head and locks eyes with me in the mirror. “Jude,” she whispers and stifles her tears. Her beautiful face is covered in streaked mascara, which is made worse when she wipes her cheeks with her fingertips. The sadness in her eyes morphs, and her gaze turns icy. “I don
’t want to see you.”

  Stepping forward, I keep my eyes pinned on her. “We need to talk.”

  Her body stiffens when I’m in her personal space. “No. There’s nothing left to say.”

  Reaching out, I brush the tiny strands of hair that have fallen loose from her bun, and she closes her eyes and pulls away. “There are too many words to say in the few minutes we have.” She peers up at me in the reflection, but all I want is for her to turn around.

  “It’s too late for ‘I’m sorry.’”

  “I’m not sorry for what I said, Reagan.” My grimace isn’t lost on her. That didn’t come out exactly how it sounded in my head. “I’m sorry that they were said to you…about you.”

  Her legs swing around on the tiny bench, before she’s in my face, glaring at me. “I don’t know why I thought we could get through this unscathed, Jude. I knew you were going to try to discredit me.”

  There’s little space between us. Such a small amount that I can feel her body heat and the familiar pull of her body to mine. Don’t touch her—you can’t.

  “I’m discrediting the candidate, not the woman.”

  “We’re the same,” she tells me, slamming her open palm against my chest and knocking me back a bit. The look on her face hurts me more than her hands ever could.

  It’s deserved. My behavior’s been shitty. I could’ve formed my answers differently, spared her some hurt, but people would get suspicious. Reagan and I are opponents—we’re supposed to go for the jugular.

  Before she can pull her hand back, I wrap my fingers around her wrist and haul her body toward me. “I don’t care what happens on the stage or what you say in an interview, Reagan. That’s the candidate speaking—the woman who’s trying to fulfill her passion and dream. The person standing in front of me isn’t the same stuffy, uptight woman on the stage.”

  Her eyes dip to where our bodies are connected and she tries to yank free of me, but I don’t let her. “You’re the same cocky asshole.”

  I’m still holding her wrist, and I snake my arm around her waist and bring her closer. “Stop,” I whisper, brushing my lips against her forehead near where it meets her hairline. My eyes close, relishing the feel of her in my arms again as our hearts thump uncontrollably and in sync. “I’m sorry.”