Chapter Text
“Who the fuck do you think you are?”
He gave a slow, coy smile in response.
The two diners were tucked away in the corner booth of a dark Midwestern greasy spoon. One was a petite woman with a sleek black bob, faux fur coat and designer handbag tossed on the seat beside her. Between them on the sticky table was her phone; it was set to silent, but it buzzed with the erratic frequency of a cardiac patient’s heart monitor. Her companion was an elegant young man with a round face, a honeyed voice, and piercing blue eyes that matched the periwinkle shades woven into his prim gingham shirt.
After a long pause, he broke the incredulous silence. “I’m someone who knows what he wants, and I’m someone who knows how to get it.” He leaned forward, never breaking eye contact. “I followed your work in 2012.”
“Well, if you’re doing this ” - she gestured at the file folder splayed open between them - “then I’d hope so.”
“You won re-election for President Obama,” he said. “You defined the narrative of the whole cycle.”
“If you think flattery means anything to me, you’re a fucking moron.”
She started gathering her things to leave, but he touched her forearm. The gentleness of the gesture stopped her cold in her tracks.
“You know how to win the game,” he said. “The others don’t even know they’re playing.”
She sat down, phone clattering back onto the table. “Look,” she said. “I only have so much time here tonight, so let’s cut to the goddamned chase. I don’t give a fuck about happened in 2012. I also don’t give a fuck about what you think, or what anyone thinks, because I know that I’m good at what I do, and, unlike the other bitches in this business, I don't need anyone to tell me I am. So what do I give a fuck about? I give a fuck about getting the best candidate on the fucking debate stage to pummel the rhetorical and quite possibly literal shit out of that marmalade bastard. I give a fuck about exiling him and his cheating fascist pond scum of a political party to a modern-day fucking St. Helena. And I give a fuck about actually doing something in concert with competent professionals that might - and stop the goddamned presses! - actually improve Americans’ lives. Because do you know what pisses me off the most? Incompetence. Fucking incompetence. If you can't get me that, then we are done, tonight and forever."
She downed the last of her Bud Lite in a single swig - whether in triumph or despair, it was impossible to tell.
Her companion watched her.
She watched him watch her.
Neither of them budged, even as her phone buzzed itself to the edge of the table.
“Work for me,” he finally said. “Work for us. We can do it together. We can do competence. Heck, let’s be ambitious and aim for excellence.”
She cackled. “You are insane. The gay mayor with the butt name is not going to become the next President of the United States. I don’t even know why we’re talking right now.”
“Because you like a challenge?”
“Throwing yourself in front of a train is not a challenge.”
He closed the folder and pushed it across the table. “Read the white papers I wrote,” he said. “Watch some interviews. That’s all I’m asking. It’s an unconventional approach, but there’s something there. I promise.”
She eyed the folder dubiously, but finally, impulsively, snatched it up and rammed it into her bag. A beatific grin lit up his face. It was the most boyish he’d looked all night.
“I can’t guarantee anything,” she warned.
“I know.”
“There’s going to be at least ten candidates. Twenty, if shit gets crazy.”
“I know.”
“The opposition is going to eat a guy named Pete Bootyboy alive. If there’s a sex scandal, it’ll come out, and if there’s not a sex scandal, they’ll make one up.”
“I know.”
“You’re a cocky son-of-a-bitch,” she said.
“I know.”
She snapped the bag shut and narrowed her eyes, assessing him. “Does your boyfriend know we’re having this conversation?”
“Well,” he said carefully. “I have to choose the right moment. But I’m capable of that.”
“You’d fucking better be. If he’s not onboard, none of this works.” She peered at her phone, then started hammering out a text as she talked. “Give me twelve hours to go over this folder. My people will call you. Not vice versa. Let me get you into my contacts. How do you spell his last name?”
“B-u-t-t-i-g-i-e-g.”
“Christ,” she muttered. “And what was your name again?”
He smiled. “My name is Chasten. It’s been a pleasure, Lis.”