One Good Woman

by Knox, Abby

  Cutler had a good handshake. He asked about my prosthetic lower leg, asked me about my combat experience, asked how rehab was going, thanked me for my service in the U.S. Army, and posed for a photo.

  Sure, maybe it had only been a photo op to push his bill that would provide more aid to veterans’ health care.

  I recognize that he had probably assigned one of his aides do the homework on me before we had our little moment.

  I knew all of that was a possibility. I know how politics works. But I did not care. It was fucking cool to meet the guy. And besides, he talked a lot about helping out vets, and in my current state, I could use all the help I could get.

  So, Cutler had my vote, even if he had been senator for what seemed like 30 years.

  When Featherstone took aim at Cutler for bribery, political appointments and some campaign finance shenanigans that I barely understood, well, I didn’t take kindly to it.

  And here she is in D.C., campaigning among the political elite. It just so happens I’m back here temporarily for some more specialized therapy having to do with my new prosthetic.

  I wonder if the donors back home would appreciate her chartering her campaign bus to take her to D.C. instead of traveling around the state to meet regular people.

  She probably feels pretty safe here in D.C. around people who share her beliefs. What, she can’t campaign in her hometown?

  The ones who don’t worship the ground she walks on with her little pointed-toe pumps would throw rotten tomatoes at her ultra-modest gray pantsuit. OK, maybe that would be uncalled for; even I wouldn’t do that to a lady.

  While I’m locking up my sleazy motel room from the outside, I see a note taped to the door. It’s a yellow envelope and I already know what’s inside it. Another warning that my credit card has been maxed out and they need another form of payment if I’m going to keep staying here. By all rights, they could make me leave today; I have a feeling they just can’t stomach kicking out a wounded vet.

  I stuff the envelope into my pocket with my phone, not knowing what my next step will be. With my cards maxed out and about $47 in cash left to my name for the month, there’s nothing I can do except hope to get a part time job. But who’s going to hire me when it’s pretty clear I don’t intend to stay long term in the area?

  I hit the streets and keep my eye out for “help wanted” signs as I make my way to the Capitol.

  It’s a bit of a walk, but the doc says it’s necessary to keep the muscles strong in what’s left of my leg. She thinks I can eventually ride a bike again. How that’s going to work with a prosthetic lower leg, I don’t know, but I humor the doc ’cause she knows best.

  The walk is pleasant, and I’m even enjoying the aroma of the cherry trees that line the sidewalks. I’m almost forgetting my current financial situation and feel myself crack a smile at the happy couples walking hand in hand around the National Mall.

  It doesn’t take long before I spot the crowd that has gathered in anticipation of the appearance of Ms. Featherstone and Senator Bridges. Some of them have signs, others are helping people register to vote.

  What stands out to me at the back of the crowd where I’m hanging out is an older man with a shaved head and a dark suit. I recognize him from somewhere. He’s looking like he has zero interest in anything going on around him, but that’s the giveaway. He is, in fact, on some kind of mission.

  I’m trained to spot dudes like that.

  Something about him makes me uneasy.

  I realize then that the man is some kind of aide or assistant to Cutler; I recognize him from the time I met Cutler at the physical rehab center. “That’s one of Cutler’s security guards,” I say under my breath. Again, I really need a dog to talk to.

  What the hell are you doing here, big guy, I ask myself, careful not to indicate that he’s caught my attention.

  I’m intrigued, because he also seems to have positioned himself next to a guy I’ve seen on TV. Shawn, I think, but I’m not sure. I am sure I’ve seen him on TV stumping for Ms. Featherstone, so he’s clearly in her camp.

  As I get closer, I notice the two dudes are talking to each other without actually making eye contact. In fact, both of them seem to be staring intently at the Capitol steps, and it makes me wonder what they’re up to.

  I sidle up close behind them and pretend I’m trying to find the best sightline of the stage.

  What I hear them talk about is coded, but it’s enough to put ice in my veins.

  I can’t tell who is saying what at first.

  “Who the fuck are you? Where’s Walter?”

  “Hey. Asshat. We speak in code, remember? Cutler’s the Boss. Walter, the lawyer, is the Advocate. Do I gotta spell it out for you, Bag Man? Or should I say, S-H-A-W-N?”

  I knew it was him. Shawn Spencer.

  Shawn then turns to gape at the big bald guy. “Eyes forward, Bag Man. Yeah that’s right, I know your passcode. Real original. How’d you even get into the society?”

  “I don’t have to tell you shit,” Shawn replies.

  The bald man comes back with, “And, I don’t have to tell you who I am. All you need to know is I’m the Runner. You think the Advocate is going to show his face at this bitch’s event? I take care of their business. Anything you gotta say from here on out, you say to me and the Advocate decides if it’s worth accessing the overseas money.”

  Shawn exhales with a sound of exasperation and says, “Are you serious?”

  The reply from the bald guy calling himself The Runner is, “Serious as election fraud in North Carolina, motherfucker. Why are you asking questions? I’m the one with the questions. You got what the Boss wants, or do we call in the real big assholes?”

  Bigger assholes than this guy? I wonder. I didn’t think that was possible.

  Shawn grunts. “She’s so clean she squeaks when she walks.”

  “There’s gotta be something,” replies the Runner. “Do I gotta remind you how much money The Boss has sunk into her opponent’s campaign?”

  “Look,” Shawn says, “She might as well be the Teflon Angel because nothing sticks. People love her.” He laughs smugly and boasts, “I’m telling you, man, I’m gonna make bank for hitching my wagon to this bitch. She’s going places and I’m just along for the ride. I say we just ride this out, then when I staff her office in D.C., I’ll make sure everyone benefits.”

  I’m not exactly a fan of Ms. Featherstone, but if this guy’s working on her campaign, she might need to clean house sooner rather than later, because he is up to nothing good.

  “Problem is, the Boss wants revenge,” says the Runner. “We’ve gotta make this shit big. Not just attack ads either. I know that’s what you campaign nerds consider badass. But we need solid proof that she ain’t the shit everyone thinks she is.”

  “Are you telling me Rex Cutler still has people with access to the kind of money that could bring her down?” Shawn asks The Runner.

  The Runner inches closer to Shawn and spits out in a tone of voice that implies he could murder him without a second thought. “Stop asking me questions, little weasel, and tell me you found a weakness.”

  Well now, I’m listening intently. This is for sure some shady shit I need to know about. People jostle around me as more and more fans of Ms. Featherstone fill the cordoned-off area in front the famous steps, but I’m firmly planted in my spot.

  Shawn rubs his face as if that will alleviate the stress he’s clearly feeling. I wonder what Cutler’s got on this guy that he’s participating in this fuckery.

  “Fine. Stacy says our dear lady is exhausted, she needs more volunteers. And she’s kinda…randy.”

  “The fuck you talking about? She’s actually a dude named Randy?”

  I have to bite my lip to keep from laughing my ass off as Shawn explains to the bald dude what “randy” actually means.

  “Well, now you’re talking. We can work with that.”

  Shawn pulls his phone out of his pocket and dials someone. The Runner
looks impatient but Shawn puts up a finger to shush him. “Stacy. Repeat to me the idea you had. Yeah, about the scenario where we hire a sex worker to pose as a volunteer, where we set her up…”

  Shawn hands the phone over to the Runner.

  A creepy smile cross the bald guy’s face.

  “You sure she’ll go for it?” Asks the Runner. He listens for a few more beats then hands the phone back to Shawn.

  The Runner chuckles, “A chink in the Stone Angel. Cutler will be very pleased to know this. I’ll have the contractor at her campaign bus at nine p.m. sharp and The Scrivener will document the entire transaction. Or as much as we need.”

  “Fine, fine. When do we get paid?” Shawn asks.

  “Jobs like this, the contractor gets paid about ten Gs, more or less, when he fulfills his end of the bargain. The rest of us get paid when this little caper works. All you need to know is the code word ‘Biryani.’ But you better hope it works and you don’t fuck this up,” The Runner says.

  I have to keep my breathing under control and thank god that Senator Bridges walks on stage to speak. The crowd erupts.

  Daphne Featherstone takes the stage.

  Ten thousand dollars! I have to lean in to listen closely to learn more details and figure out how I’m going to insert myself as this would-be prostitute.

  It’s a dick move, sure. But I need the money. And it’s not like I’m even gonna sleep with her. I’ll have the money and be gone before anybody realizes what I did.

  Those two meatheads don’t know it yet, but I’m the only man for the job.

  I look up to the stage and I see Bridges and Ms. Featherstone hugging. The crowd is cheering. She approaches the mic. I watch her wait for the crowd to quiet down before she speaks.

  And holy fucking shit.

  I finally get it.

  I get why people love her.

  Her dark hair is gleaming in the sun; her olive skin has my heart skipping a beat. Her smiles and waves look like she’s genuinely happy to see each and every person who catches her eye.

  I don’t want to get it. I have spent months making every effort to not get her appeal. But here, today? Against my will, I get it.

  It’s almost a shame I’m gonna do what I’m about to do. And I’m still gonna vote for the other guy.

  Chapter Three

  Daphne

  I pull off my bra through my shirt sleeve while wrapping up my nightly check-in with my 18-year-old daughter Riley on speakerphone.

  “Any acceptance letters yet?”

  “Not yet, but Dad says not to worry. Should be getting some soon. He said it’ll be a flurry of emails and snail mail from everywhere I applied by the last week of March or early April.”

  My brow furrows as I drop my bra into the sink and turn on the water to hand wash it. “Well, in this case, father knows best, I guess.” I try to sound breezy, but something is nagging at me. “Honey, I wish I could be more hands-on with all of this.”

  Riley reassures me she does not hold it against me that the brunt of the college admissions experience had fallen to Tim.

  “Mom, Dad’s a whiz at this stuff. And you’re running for a fucking senate seat. You’re the real hero. You’re my hero.”

  I set down the bottle of wine I’ve just opened up and clutch my chest in pride and happiness and love and sadness all wrapped up in one moment. “Oh my god, I love you so much, Riley girl. But watch that potty mouth, please.”

  Riley laughs at me, and the sound of it nearly breaks me in two, it is so beautiful. The sound of home. I can’t believe this baby is going to be off to college soon.

  “Potty mouth, Mom? Really?”

  I join her in laughing at myself for never being able to let go of the “potty” word ever since Riley made me a mom. “I suspect I’ll be using that word until I’m in the nursing home.”

  “Maybe try to avoid it in your campaign speeches.”

  “Who knows, maybe it’ll make me more relatable. Just promise me, baby, when you get your first letter, do me a favor? Tell me first? And don’t text or email or screenshot or tag me or Snapfish or whatever you do with your friends. Call me and tell me. I want us to have a little moment. I’m grateful for your dad but…”

  Riley sighs. “I get it. I’ll give us our own little mommy/daughter moment when the time comes. I promise.”

  We say our good nights and hang up. I let out a loud, wistful exhale as I pour myself some wine while flipping through baby pictures of Riley on my phone. I pause on one of her wrapped up in the hospital blanket, her teeny, skinny newborn fingers peeking out from under the flannel fabric. Was it really 18 years ago? “Sweet baby Riley, where did the time go?”

  I suddenly feel like connecting with someone else. I consider calling Auntie, the woman who raised me. She would relate to these feelings I’m having: the guilt over working my ass off while missing out on important moments in her young one’s life. It’s because of all that hard work that I have made it as far as this, and I never once resented Auntie a single day of missed games or play performances.

  I truly wish every working mom who ever felt that guilt knew this: their daughters and sons are learning work ethic, sacrifice and that the world does not revolve around them. “Whoa, I’m gonna scribble that down for my next campaign speech,” I say, knocking back a gulp of my wine. I drop my phone on the couch cushion and go hunting for my stash of reporter’s notebooks. I still love those things—old habits die hard.

  Just then, there’s a knock on the door of the bus.

  “Oh god, what now?” I grumble.

  I peek out the curtains and see the source of the knock. It’s a man, wearing a blazer and a campaign volunteer badge. And he’s…whoa…kind of hot. Like supermodel hot. And not millennial hot. More like George-Clooney-and-Aidan-Turner-had-a-baby hot. The kind of hot that does not volunteer for senatorial campaigns. Someone like him has way more fun things to be doing. Like being filmed pretending to save lives at a fictional beach with his pal The Rock.

  Most of my campaign volunteers are college age or recent grads. This one is…well-seasoned. Like a succulent piece of meat.

  His shoulders stretch the limits of that tweedy blazer. A five o’clock shadow, combined with a head of thick dark hair with just a hint of gray at the temples, has my lonely heart racing.

  I’m hesitant to open the door as my security detail has already gone home for the night. Plus, it’s getting dark. And why would a volunteer be here on business so late at night? It’s nearly nine pm! At my age, it’s a good chance I might already be asleep.

  But I open the door, and when I do, preparing to give the eager thing a speech about boundaries, the expression on this man’s face is not at all what I was prepared for.

  The intense brown eyes and full, almost pouty lips pull into a disarming smile when he sees me.

  My mouth goes dry, because other parts of me? Very much not dry.

  “Can I help you?”

  “Ms. Featherstone. I’m Buckley Elliot. Shawn said you needed someone in D.C. to help coordinate the effort to attract the military absentee vote.” He pats himself on the chest proudly. Head to toe, he is absolutely adorable.

  I try not to stare at his lips, and yet I self-consciously lick my own. “Oh great! Yes, Shawn and Stacy both said they'd found me a charismatic military man. Wonderful to have you on board.” I try not to blush when I say the word “charismatic” but that’s a lost cause.

  We shake hands and smile stupidly at each other for a second.

  I then remember I’m not wearing a bra, and let go of Buckley’s warm, firm handshake to cross my arms in front of my button-down shirt to hide my suddenly erect nipples.

  When I do this, I catch sight of his eyes drifting sensuously down my body.

  “Apologies. I know it’s late. I saw your speech today and what can I say, you got me fired up to volunteer. They brought me straight here because they say you personally vet each and every volunteer. So …uh…vet me.”

  I sho
uld ask him to come back tomorrow. But damn, it feels like a treat just to stare at him. And he smells so good. Like the woods on a sunny day.

  “Prepare to be vetted. Come on in,” I say. Wait, what did I just say? What does that even mean?

  I stand aside to let him enter the motor-coach.

  “Nice digs,” he says, glancing around as I close the door.

  “Thanks,” I say. “I could stay in hotels, but after we did the math, this was a lot more bang for my buck. Plus, it gets my face out there. The wrap with my face on it is a bit much, but Shawn and Stacy insist it gives me an edge.”

  I pour Buckley a glass of wine and offer it to him, which he accepts.

  He nods charmingly and slides himself down on the sofa. “As long as you’re getting more bangs than the other guy with your money, then it’s all worth it, right?”

  Chapter Four

  Buckley

  The second Daphne opens the door to the motor-coach, I know this whole caper is a terrible idea.

  I was so sure this was going to work. After her campaign speech today, I low-key followed the man who called himself the Runner, and I watched him make a phone call. I figured out quickly why they call him that. He works fast. I had thought I could have intercepted the male prostitute and paid him off by convincing him to take half of my cut if he let me take the job. But I had trouble keeping up, on account of my new leg.

  The only thing left to do was follow him as closely as I could, and wait for my moment.

  That moment came when the Runner’s car arrived at Ms. Featherstone’s temporary campaign headquarters. As soon as the Runner opened the door, I pounced.

  “Jake! Hi! So good to see you!”