The Phoenix Candidate

by Heidi Joy Tretheway

  Jared cuts off our conversation by opening his laptop and typing furiously. I force my eyes to the e-reader. In two hours, I absorb most of Senator Conover’s major platform positions and make notes on what I’ll want to discuss. He’s strong on foreign policy.

  “Too strong,” Jared mutters during one of his brief breaks from staring at his laptop. “Voters are ultimately self-interested. They prioritize domestic issues over foreign, so the fact that Conover’s been involved in every major foreign action since Kosovo doesn’t hold as much water as what Darrow’s been able to accomplish in California.”

  I nod, knowing Conover’s the underdog in every way: funding, visibility, and pure charisma.

  Aaron Darrow was an immensely popular moderate Democratic governor of California. Together with his anchorwoman-turned-spokeswife, he engineered major reforms that made his second term in office a foregone conclusion.

  Until he announced that he wouldn’t run again. And that he’d be running for president instead. Then a media firestorm broke loose, and Darrow’s been riding the “presumed nominee” wave ever since.

  He’s still presumed—by winning thirty-eight percent of the Democratic primary delegates, he’s out in front. Conover trails by a lethal seven-point margin, winning only thirty-one percent. Boyle brings up the rear, with just eleven percent of delegates legally bound to vote for him during the convention.

  That is, unless Boyle releases them. That makes Boyle a kingmaker, and to the consternation of the party, he hasn’t dropped out yet.

  The numbers also don’t account for another twenty percent: superdelegates, high-ranking party faithful who can vote for whomever they choose.

  “It’s anyone’s race,” Jared concludes, as we debate the various ways that superdelegates, released delegates and endorsements could help Conover pull ahead of Darrow. “It’s been forty years since there was any actual suspense at the convention. It’s good to make the old guard sweat.”

  ***

  When we land, Jared navigates us seamlessly to Denver’s Hyatt Regency.

  He flashes a panty-melting smile at the pretty clerk. “Room for Grace Garcia, please.”

  “Will you be needing two keys?”

  “Please,” Jared says, and I cut him a sharp look. A bit presumptuous, aren’t we?

  His hard look in return says, One fucking minute, Grace.

  Fine. I’ll give him that.

  He carries my bag to my room and I realize his stuff is still in the car. “Aren’t you staying here?”

  “No. I have another flight in three hours.” Now it’s his turn to telegraph, A bit presumptuous, aren’t we?

  “I thought we were meeting with Senator Conover?”

  “You are. I’m going to Florida. Checking out your competition.”

  My mouth drops open in surprise. Conover made no secret of the fact that he’s vetting me and hasn’t decided whom to select yet, but to have it this plain, this immediate, shocks me.

  “Come on, Grace. You’re a big girl. Get over it.” Jared places his attaché case on the hotel room desk and fishes inside it for his laptop.

  “I’m a big girl?” I parrot, sarcasm and annoyance in equal measure in my voice. “Don’t fucking patronize me, Jared. I can handle this meeting without you.”

  “Then don’t give me puppy-dog eyes when I tell you I’m leaving.”

  I’m spitting mad but force myself to contain it. I turn my back to him and cross the room to the minibar for some chilled mineral water, draining half of it before I turn to face him. “Those weren’t puppy-dog eyes. That was my get-the-hell-out look.”

  Jared’s laptop is open and he’s tapping away at it, not even looking at me, not paying enough attention to see I’m well and truly pissed.

  I drop my voice an octave. “Jared. Get the hell out. My room, remember? Although there’s no reason to book it with my maiden name. I’m not going back to that.”

  Jared tears his eyes from the laptop’s screen and finally focuses on me. His eyes sweep up my body, taking in each detail: my classic watch, my dark hair pinned up in a twist, my suit jacket open at the waist.

  He stands and advances toward me with the grace and certainty of a predator. “Maybe I wanted to buy you a little privacy.”

  The tone rumbles from his chest, suggesting all manner of evil a little privacy could buy us. I clench the bottle of mineral water, willing myself to remain standing, to not back down one inch.

  He crowds my space. I stare him down.

  He threads a hand through the opening in my jacket, wrapping it around my waist.

  “If you think you’re going to get away with playing the asshole card with a few cute moves, you’re sorely mistaken.” I stiffen as his stubble strokes my cheek, his hot breath in my ear.

  “Not mistaken. I know I’m right.”

  “You don’t know shit.”

  “I know you, Grace. I know what you want me to do to you right now.” His leg presses into mine, forcing my knees to part. His hand tightens around my rib cage until I can barely breathe. His stubble ignites little currents along my skin as his lips skate across my neck.

  “Can’t you focus on what matters right now?” I move to push him away, but he’s faster than me, one hand pinning mine while the other slips my jacket off one shoulder, exposing my teal silk shell.

  “I am focused. Very.” Jared’s lips trail from my neck to my bare shoulder, and he releases my hand long enough to push my jacket to the floor.

  “But”—my mind is getting fuzzy, lost in the coil that’s tightening inside me—“I have a meeting.”

  “In two hours.” Jared pulls the shell up my stomach and over my head. “And I have a flight in three. You’ve been studying like a good girl, so I’d say it’s time for a reward.”

  Holy hell. The way he says reward, like he’s licking something delectable, instantly dampens my panties and makes me squirm. I turn my face toward his, almost brushing his lips, but he pulls back, his eyes dark with want.

  “I’ll give you your reward, Grace, on two conditions.” His fingers are already working on my belt and zipper.

  I shiver as I feel his breath across my breasts. “What?”

  “One, it’s going to be hard. So intense you’re going to feel the echo of me until I see you again.”

  My pants hit the floor. I bite my lip and close my eyes, already sold on this excellent idea. “And two?”

  “For one fucking minute, Grace, just get out of your head.”

  I balk. “I am.”

  “Liar.” His voice rasps. He spins me toward the bed and his fingers dive for my center, already drenched in moisture.

  “I am,” I insist. “What do you want me to say, Jared? Fuck me now? Fuck me so hard I forget my name and why we’re here? Forget that in two hours I’ve got to meet with Conover and convince him I’m the best choice for the ticket?”

  Jared’s teeth sink into my shoulder.

  I scream.

  “Now, Grace. Tell me why you’re here.”

  My breath comes in little short pants, my shoulder still stinging from where he bit me, my body clenching around his two fingers that twist inside me. “I … I can’t.”

  “You don’t want to talk politics right now? Foreign policy? School funding? Maybe agriculture subsidies?”

  “No!”

  Jared’s hand continues to torture me, and my hips buck and writhe, begging his thumb to land on my clit and push me higher. “How about Medicare? How about Social Security?” His thumb finally hits the right spot and I moan in pleasure and need. But I’m not there yet.

  “How about you shut up, Jared, and just fuck me ’til next Tuesday?” I look over my shoulder and see a satisfied smile on his face as he pulls his hand from my throbbing pussy. I nearly throttle him. “Oh no, you do not, Mr. Tease. You will not fucking take me to the edge and just leave me there.”

  “Demanding bitch.”

  “Pussy-teasing asshole.”

  Jared’s smile spreads on h
is face and his eyes crinkle with mirth. “Well, when you put it so sweetly…” He moves his hands to unbutton his shirt but his fingers are deliberately slow and I’m half-insane with a denied orgasm.

  “I hope you brought another shirt.” I grasp the placket with two hands and tear—buttons go flying. I strip him head to toe in a matter of seconds, then I whirl and push him down on the bed, climbing above him, ready to ride him like my own personal stallion.

  Jared’s eyes glaze as he palms my breasts and rolls my nipples between his fingers. I arch my back, pushing his cock deeper until it reaches the place inside me, that catch, where the fire burns brighter and hotter and the intensity is almost unbearable.

  I slam my hips back and connect with him as he bucks, the penetration so deep I feel the painful twinge of being stretched too far, too deep, too much.

  It’s too much, too much sight and sound and smell. I’m fucking an almost perfect stranger in an anonymous hotel room and just as the words Who am I? penetrate my brain, Jared thrusts harder and groans with his climax. His thumb finds my clit and drives me to follow him.

  I moan his name and God’s and a dictionary’s worth of curses. I don’t know how to hang on here, I just know that the orgasm wracks me and drains me of everything.

  Energy. Tension. Coherent thought.

  And I finally collapse forward, breasts against the soft hair of Jared’s chest, my face buried next to his neck as he remains buried inside me.

  Chapter Fifteen

  Jared’s hand goes to my nape, his fingers sliding into my hair where the French twist has disintegrated.

  He remains buried inside me.

  Oh, God. Inside me, as in, he just came. Inside me. Without a condom.

  Fuck! Fuck! Fuck!

  I tense and push myself off him, but his arm bands more tightly around my ribs. “Stay a while, Grace. We’re good for another hour or so.” Jared’s murmur is warm and contented, his stubble tickling my cheek as he speaks.

  “No.” I push again and this time he releases me. I run to the bathroom, lock the door, and sit on the toilet, wondering exactly how I could be so fucking stupid.

  Am I really this rusty? That I can sleep with a man precisely twice and manage to forget the condom on round three? What the hell is the matter with me? I’m smart enough to remember my pill, but not smart enough to grab a rubber.

  Minutes tick by, and I hear a tap on the door.

  “Grace? You OK?”

  “Fine,” I grit out. “I just need a minute.” I pee and furiously wipe my eyes, trying to shake this off.

  It’s nothing, my logic says. It took three years playing without a goalie with Seth to conceive Ethan and we never had another. I can only hope that Jared’s clean, that grabbing a condom the first couple of times we did it suggests some modicum of responsibility.

  I’m fine, I scold myself.

  I step out of the bathroom, a little bashful as Jared finishes dressing and watches me. His normally expressive eyes are crinkle-free, placid, as if he’s psyching himself up for something with deep meditation.

  I dress silently, wondering if this is all we’ll have—some hot, intense sex in an anonymous room.

  “You’re meeting with Shep downstairs in forty-five minutes,” Jared says. He touches a few keys on his laptop. “I sent a text to your phone with the details. He’s not going to want to go point-by-point with you yet, just do a deep dive on one of the issues, see how you two line up.”

  “Which one?” I’m nervy. He could have told me which one to study harder on the flight.

  “Foreign policy, especially military engagement in oil-producing states.”

  “Oh, good. An easy one.” My sarcasm is thick and cranky.

  Jared stands and touches my chin. “That is an easy one, Grace. Shep’s the expert. He’s got twenty years’ worth of experience there, and the polls show that people trust him more than Darrow or the incumbent to actually work out our problems.”

  “So then why are we talking about it?”

  “He’ll expect you to fall in line.”

  “And if I don’t?”

  “Then it’ll be a short conversation, right?” Jared snaps his laptop closed and returns it to the attaché case. His shoes and jacket are on but his shirt hangs open where I tore off the buttons.

  “Maybe it will be our last,” I mutter. I shake out my hair and anchor a bobby pin in my teeth, scooping my mass of dark brown curls back into the twist I’d carefully engineered this morning.

  Jared comes up behind me, meeting my gaze in the mirror as his hands rest lightly on my shoulders. “Not so tight,” he whispers.

  I let the twist uncoil, loosening my hair enough that ringlets drop down by my ears.

  Jared’s index finger trails down my cheek, across my lips, and takes the bobby pin from my mouth. “Perfect,” he breathes, sending a shiver down my spine. “You look perfect.”

  I take the pin back and finish fastening my hair. His confidence infuses me with hope. I’m waking up to the fact that maybe I do want this. Maybe I want to be a running mate a hell of a lot.

  “This won’t be your last meeting, Grace.” Jared’s voice is strong and sure. “This conversation is an easy one, but some of the others will be harder. Gun control, capital-gains taxes, some of your environmental legislation—you’re going to have to fight him on those issues. You’re pretty far apart, especially for being from the same party.”

  “Who else is he considering?”

  Jared shakes his head. “Can’t tell you that. Just go in for the meeting and remember what we’ve worked on so far—you’ve got a good story, and Shep will want to hear how you tell it in your own words.”

  Jared’s chin drops. For a moment, I think he’s going to kiss me, but instead he simply presses our foreheads together, like he’s offering a mind meld to help me make it through my next meeting.

  “Good luck, Grace.” And he’s gone.

  ***

  “Lovely to see you again, Grace,” Senator Conover booms from across the crowded room. He crosses the carpet in a few swift steps and grasps my hand between his much larger hands. His shake is more of an affectionate squeeze, and his brown eyes crinkle.

  Which, of course, reminds me of Jared.

  Damn.

  “Let’s grab a conference room, shall we?” Conover nods at his assistant, the man who had me sign nondisclosure forms a couple of days ago, and leads me out of the reception.

  “What was that?” I motion to the room we just left.

  “Another grip-and-grin.” Conover shrugs. “It’s the best way to make sure I’m not leaving anyone out. Colorado’s not always a sure thing.”

  I force myself to nod. This fundraising is in a whole different echelon compared to the grassroots effort of my campaigns. In addition to using part of my husband’s life insurance money, my supporters organized fundraising dinners, pancake breakfasts, and golf tournaments.

  But at this level, nobody breaks a sweat.

  Conover and I sit facing each other in leather club chairs in a small library where a coffee service is set up.

  “Jared tells me you’re getting up to speed. And your background check is coming along fine.”

  I sip my coffee. “What exactly does this background check entail?”

  “The usual.” He waves his hand dismissively. “Your voting record, quotes in the press, any articles you’ve authored, and the civil stuff—liens and unpaid parking tickets.”

  “I don’t have any—”

  “We know.” Shep’s smile is very white, his eyes sharp. “We just don’t want any surprises.”

  I hold up my hands. “No surprises here.” None on paper, anyway. The only things that could truly shock him lie buried within my heart.

  Conover launches into a foreign policy lesson that is both intricate and insightful. I fill a couple pages with notes, interrupting him only occasionally to ask him for finer points. When he finishes, he takes his coffee cup and settles back in his chair.
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  “It’s important you know all of this, Grace, because your strength isn’t foreign policy.”

  I nod at the understatement.

  “We don’t want any gaffes.”

  “You mean, like Sarah Palin’s ‘You can see Russia from Alaska’ comment?” I remember the ridicule after her interview with Charles Gibson, even though she didn’t precisely say that. There’s no doubt a Conover-Colton ticket would be compared to the McCain-Palin ticket of less than a decade ago.

  “I’d like to think you’re going to be a lot tougher. And a lot more strategic.” He gives me a shrewd look, and in his narrowed eyes I see how he’s been weighing my assets. “When McCain picked Palin, you know what her greatest national exposure was? A photo spread in Vogue. You’ve got a major national issue under your belt, something that’s affected people from Sandy Hook to Virginia to Arizona to Oregon, and more than once.”

  “But a lot of people hate my positions on gun control.”

  “And a lot of people love them,” Conover counters. “Look, you’re not proposing killing the second amendment, and we need to be clear on that. Your husband was a hunter, wasn’t he?”

  “Yes,” I admit, but my eyes slide to the floor. Invoking Seth in the campaign—it’s something that churns in my gut. It feels like a betrayal of him, of our frayed relationship when he died, and even my turbulent connection with Jared.

  “What about the other elephant in the room? I’m thirty-nine.”

  “And I’m sixty-eight. It’s a good balance. Appeals to two generations. Paul Ryan was forty-two when he was chosen. Palin was forty-four. There’s a precedent.”

  “What about Hillary?”

  “We can’t count on her for an endorsement. But I think the fact that she was presumed to run set the stage for people to expect a woman on the 2016 ballot. I think that helps us.”

  Conover is quiet for a beat. Then he leans forward, his elbows on his knees. “You want to tell me what’s really bothering you, Grace? Are you worried we can’t win?”