The Power and the Glory

by Kimberly Lang

  “You are their cause célèbre. Once you have the ear of Senator Marshall, they can’t use you as a martyr or poster child anymore. Therefore, much of this will lose its steam. One press conference—”

  “Whoa, a press conference?”

  He nodded. “First thing in the morning to announce your new position.”

  Aspyn couldn’t find words. Her mouth was moving, but nothing was coming out. She gave herself a hard shake. “You’re not giving me much time to think about it.”

  “It’s the first rule of campaigns, Aspyn. Move quickly.”

  She stood and walked over to the sink for a drink of water. “I don’t know, Brady. I’m not really comfortable with the idea.” For many reasons.

  The futon creaked, meaning Brady was on his feet now, too, but she didn’t expect to feel his hand on her arm. It sizzled like a brand against her skin, and the sizzle spread outward over her body like a ripple across a pond.

  And that gave her another reason—a very good one—to be uncomfortable with the possibility of working for him. She could very easily develop inappropriate ideas about Brady Marshall. She already had, she reminded herself; she just hadn’t had much time to ruminate on those ideas due to the current melee of her life. But they were there, poking at the edges of her mind, springing out in full color at inopportune moments and being explored in-depth in some pretty explicit dreams involving those handcuffs.

  “Why not do it?”

  For a split second, she thought Brady had read her mind and meant do it. Then sanity returned. When she turned, Brady was way too close for comfort, and she found herself staring directly at that broad chest. With the counter at her back, there was no room for retreat, and she sidestepped around him for much-needed distance.

  Why did this apartment have to be so small?

  “Well …” She searched for a good reason, one Brady might buy. The sight of him in his suit standing beside her salt lamps and crystals gave her one. “I’m rather antiestablishment, if you can’t tell. Working for the establishment just might cause a cognitive dissonance that would make my head explode.” And give my parents a heart attack.

  This time, Brady’s amusement irritated her. “Ah, well, think of it as an infiltration, then. Think about all the inside information you’ll learn that can be used against the establishment sometime in the future.”

  Now she was getting suspicious as well. “You seem rather keen on me taking this job. Why?”

  “I wouldn’t have offered it to you if I wasn’t.”

  She crossed her arms over her chest. “What’s in it for you?”

  “Me, personally?” He shrugged. “As the manager of this campaign, I want to win this election. This will help. You can help. Everyone wins, in fact—me, you, Senator Marshall and the good people of Virginia.”

  Guilt about her suspicions nibbled at her. Other than the fact politics was full of professional liars, she had no real reason to distrust Brady personally. He could have made a big deal of Friday’s escapade, let her be arrested, but he didn’t. Instead he’d offered—and it seemed delivered—the chance to make her case to the senator’s office. Now he was giving her the chance to make a small difference and get this mess cleared up.

  But to work for the brick wall she’d been slamming against her entire life …?

  It was only a temporary position. The election was just a little over five weeks away. It wasn’t like she was selling her soul to the devil. If it didn’t work out, she hadn’t really lost anything. It wasn’t like the political establishment could ignore her more than they already were. And if it did work out like Brady said … Well, something good might be gained.

  And her parents? That was going to be an awkward conversation. But they were in Haiti for the foreseeable future. All of this could be over with long before they got back and ever had to know about it. Why couldn’t she work for change from the inside for a while? If she was successful, she’d tell them all about it. If not …

  “Well?” Brady prompted.

  Which brought her right back to the very personal problem she had with this opportunity. Could she work with Brady and not drool over him every day? Could she avoid a silly office crush egged on by her overactive imagination? Of course, there was the distinct possibility that as low man on the campaign totem pole, she’d have little interaction with Brady at all. And while the thought made her want to stamp her foot in frustration, realistically, that might be for the best.

  Seems like I’ve talked myself into it. “All right. I’ll take the job.”

  Aspyn still looked at him with equal parts suspicion and amusement, which didn’t fully surprise him. What did surprise him was the brief moment when she’d let that mask slip and sized him up like a yummy treat she’d like to devour but knew she’d regret the calories later. It was the echo of that same sentiment in him, though, that had him wanting to retract the offer and look for a plan B approach out of this PR mess.

  “Okay, then. Press conference tomorrow morning at ten.” He eyeballed the battered and body-hugging jeans and nubby cardigan she wore and considered discussing a dress code. Then he looked around her apartment and decided it wasn’t worth his breath. The campaign had their official granola earth-mother on staff and she would probably look the part. “I’ll send a car for you at nine.”

  One eyebrow went up. “You’ll send a car? Where is this press conference going to be?”

  “Campaign HQ, of course.”

  The other eyebrow joined the first. “That’s less than a mile from here.”

  “And?”

  “And I can walk or ride my bike.” Aspyn crossed her arms over her chest. “The first issue I’d like to bring to your attention is the waste of resources that things like ‘sending a car’ are—both to the planet and the campaign.”

  He bit back the sigh as Aspyn started in on an obviously often-delivered speech.

  He really was going to regret this.

  CHAPTER THREE

  MARGO was in the process of opening the store when Aspyn came down Thursday morning, ready to tackle her first day of work—even if she still wasn’t one hundred percent clear on what she’d actually be doing.

  “Good morning!” Margo sang out. “Don’t you look adorable?”

  Aspyn tugged at the borrowed black skirt. “You think?”

  “Definitely. And not just adorable, either. Competent. Capable. Professional. You’re going to knock ’em dead.” Margo was a proponent of dressing for the part. As the owner of a New Age bookstore, she leaned toward caftans and head scarves, even when the result was more “carnival fortune-teller,” because that’s what people expected. She’d been the driving force behind Aspyn’s wardrobe today, practically manning a phone tree to find all the appropriate pieces. “Here.” Margo passed her a travel mug with the bookstore’s logo on it. “A ginseng and kava tisane to get you going today.”

  Margo mothered her unreservedly, and Aspyn was thankful for it today. She needed the cheerleading. The events of the last few days had her head spinning as it was, but yesterday … She couldn’t quite decide what had her more off balance: Brady’s offer, the fact she’d accepted it, or her disturbing reaction to Brady himself. About midnight last night, she’d finally convinced herself she’d be able to handle this job and keep her hormones under control.

  The bags under her eyes rather belied that already shaky resolve.

  “Now go. You don’t want to be late for your press conference.”

  “I feel terrible leaving you short-handed, with no notice—”

  Margo waved a hand. “Annabelle will do fine, and my sister is glad to have her doing something other than lazing around the house. This is an amazing opportunity for you, honey. Take it.” Then she leaned in with a coy smile. “And the scenery there is much better than anything you’ll get around here.”

  “The scenery?”

  “If you must take a job in the political machine, eye candy like Brady Marshall makes it go down much easier.” Margo
fanned herself, causing an armful of bangles to jangle. “I’m considering volunteering for the campaign myself.”

  “Don’t be silly.” Margo wasn’t really helping in the it’s-not-about-Brady-Marshall department. “Anyway, he’s the campaign manager, and very, very busy, I’m sure. I doubt I’ll have much interaction with him at all. Other than the press conference today, I bet I’ll rarely see him.” Bummer.

  “Pity.” Margo patted her arm, adjusted her necklace and unlocked the front door. “Go. Have a great day.”

  The neighborhood was awake, bustling but not too busy. After the media circus of the last few days, it was nice to see things getting back to normal. Brady had made an announcement to the media on his way out yesterday—she hadn’t heard it, but it had worked wonders. Only a few cameras were still hanging around, but she had no doubt they’d be out in full-throng at HQ.

  Once she was safely around the corner and out of sight from the bookstore, Aspyn sipped carefully from her mug. Her eyes watered and she ducked into the coffee shop. Joe, the owner, held out his hand, and she handed over the mug without comment.

  Joe dumped the tisane into the sink, refilled the mug with the French Roast she preferred and gave it back with a smile.

  “Thanks, Joe. You’re awesome.”

  “Margo means well.”

  “I know. And I love her for it. Nothing beats caffeine, though.” She inhaled the steam gratefully before putting the lid back on. “And I’m going to need it today.”

  Joe waved away her money. “It’s on me. Good luck.”

  He turned to another customer, and she waved goodbye. She’d built in plenty of time to make the walk, but the shot of caffeine mixing with nerves already on edge had her covering the distance in half the expected time. Sure enough, there were press vans outside HQ. Not as many, she noted, as yesterday. Had the press already lost interest?

  Aspyn took a deep breath to steady herself and opened the door to one place she never thought she’d go. Campaign HQ was not what she expected. They’d taken over an old storefront and filled it with nondescript desks and tables. A few had computers, but all had phones. There was a distinct red, white and blue theme in the minimalist decor, and every wall was covered in Marshall For Senate signs. It was only a little after nine, but a dozen or so people were already manning phones and stuffing envelopes, and there was a healthy buzz of energy and noise.

  Brady was easy to find, standing off to one side and talking on the phone. Margo’s eye-candy comment sprang to mind. Indeed. The jacket to his suit was draped over a chair behind him, and his shirtsleeves were rolled up over his forearms. They were tanned to the same hue as his face, meaning he didn’t always wear long sleeves. Granted, she was hardly an expert on Brady’s wardrobe, but it was hard to picture him in anything other than a suit and tie.

  That was a lie. Frankly it was rather disturbing how easily she could picture Brady in substantially less. Dear Lord, she’d had her hand on the man’s thigh; between the breadth of his shoulders—which was evident to all, even in a suit—and the firsthand knowledge she now had of his quadriceps, it was quite easy to extrapolate to an appreciation of what Brady was like under that D.C. politico uniform … ahem.

  She snapped her attention back to his tie. Today, it was a different shade of red with small blue stripes. She had no business noticing anything else.

  Remember that.

  Even if she didn’t already know Brady was the man in charge, simply the way he filled the space and the way the activity buzzed around him made it obvious he was the boss.

  Then Brady looked up and noticed her. A strange jolt of adrenaline shot through her veins, a combination of excitement and nerves and Brady’s presence. He waved her over, but she kept her steps slow and even in the hopes her pulse would calm down before she had to get too close.

  A crease formed between Brady’s eyes as he ran his eyes over her, but he never paused in his conversation—something about small donors—and Aspyn shifted uncomfortably under his stare. The crisp, distant tone to his voice didn’t help, either. When he hung up the phone, one eyebrow went up as he asked, “Who died?”

  That rankled her. “Good morning to you, too.”

  Brady accepted the censure with an amused nod. “Good morning, Aspyn. Good to see you. Seriously, did someone die?”

  “What?”

  “You look like you’re on your way to a funeral. At a convent.” Irritation and disapproval colored the statement in equal amounts.

  Her outfit felt strange enough as it was. That remark didn’t help at all. “I figured if I was going to be part of your staff, I should try to look more conservative. More mainstream, less counterculture.”

  A woman, not too much older than Aspyn, appeared at Brady’s elbow and handed him a piece of paper. Brady looked at it, then made introductions. “Aspyn, this is my assistant, Lauren. She’ll help you get set up and your phone and email sorted out. Anything you need, let her know.”

  Lauren seemed friendly enough—and very casually dressed in khakis and a cute sweater. Now she felt slightly overdressed as well as uncomfortable. Brady and Lauren exchanged a look that Aspyn didn’t understand, and a second later, Lauren was gone.

  Brady immediately went back to business. “Did you prepare a statement like I asked?”

  Focus. It’s a job, not a fashion show. “I did. Very brief, just how pleased I am that Senator Marshall recognizes the importance of his constituents’ concerns and how much I’m looking forward to listening to them and acting as a bridge …” She trailed off as someone else brought Brady something to sign.

  “And?” Brady prompted, not looking up.

  She had to search for her train of thought. “Um, yeah, acting as a bridge …” This time, it was Brady’s phone that caught his attention as a text came in. “Maybe I should see if Kirby has another set of handcuffs,” she mumbled.

  “Bite your tongue.”

  So he was listening. “Do you know how hard it is to talk to you when you’re doing other things?”

  There was that look again, the one that made her feel like he found her oddly amusing—but not in a good way. “I’m a very busy man, Aspyn, and perfectly capable of doing more than one thing at a time.”

  She nearly took a step back at his tone. This was a different man than the one she’d talked to in an interrogation room and in her apartment. This was worse than the man she’d locked herself in the elevator with. “If everyone in D.C. is like you, no wonder the whole country is frustrated and angry. In order to really listen to people, you have to give them your full attention.”

  She could swear Brady’s jaw tightened, but his mouth curved into a smile that belied the sarcasm in his voice. “Then by all means, let me stop everything and give you my full attention. I’m sure the Majority Whip won’t mind if I ignore his text.”

  “You get by on your looks a lot, don’t you?” she snapped.

  His eyes widened. “Excuse me?”

  He was giving her the chance to walk back that comment. She should take it. The flare of bravado sputtered, and she felt petty and juvenile for resorting to snark. “Nothing.” No sense in getting fired for insubordination on the first day.

  “All right then. This should be quick and painless. I’ll go up first, state how this situation has really opened our eyes to the concerns of the citizens and how pleased we are to welcome you to the staff.” Brady was still multitasking as he spoke, and her irritation was slowly giving a little ground to being impressed with that ability. But only a little. “You’ll have a couple of minutes to say your piece, then I’ll tell everyone how to contact you, we’ll answer questions and be done.”

  “Okay.” She was struggling to process everything. This was obviously business-as-usual to Brady, but she felt four steps behind in her understanding. Hopefully campaigns were a learned skill, and she’d be able to adapt quickly to the mind-set. “And then what?”

  Oddly that question got his full attention. “What do you mean?”
>
  “What happens after that?”

  Brady looked at her like she wasn’t all there. “You listen to people, of course.”

  “Well, yes … but …” She’d forgotten how hard it was to concentrate when she had his undivided attention. Maybe she should encourage him to answer that text. “But where? Where do I sit? Who do I report to? What else will I be doing?”

  For someone who seemed to be so on top of things, a set of what she considered relatively simple questions had him blinking at her.

  “You can actually work from home. You don’t have to come in here every day.”

  “But wouldn’t that defeat the purpose? How can I make recommendations to the campaign if I don’t know what’s going on with the campaign?”

  Brady rubbed a hand over his forehead. “Then pick one of those desks in the middle. They’re for whoever needs them at the moment.”

  “And?” Getting the simplest of information was like pulling teeth.

  “And, what?” Now he sounded exasperated.

  “Who do I report to?”

  “You don’t ‘report’ to anyone,” Brady snapped. He quickly caught himself, though, and his tone became completely professional again. “However, you’ll send your comments and recommendations directly to me. How about … let’s see … twice a week? I’ll forward them to the right staffer.”

  Okay. Since the moment Brady offered her the job, there’d been a nagging feeling that something wasn’t quite right. She’d chalked it up to her own mind playing games, but it grew stronger in the wake of Brady’s vagueness. A senatorial campaign had to be a tightly run ship, and Brady seemed like a tightly wound captain who would know every last detail.

  Aspyn berated herself for negative thinking. Brady had only slightly more time than she’d had to adjust to the addition of this position. His tightly run ship needed time to adjust course. As far as she could tell, no other campaign had a position like this, so there weren’t a lot of preset rules or traditions to fall back on. Maybe once they all saw how this was actually going to go, they’d readjust accordingly. “Okay, then.”