The Candidate

by Alice Ward

  Violet. Yes. Yes! That was the name I’d given them during the screening. I tilted my head forward in a shy gesture and spoke haltingly, like I could barely get the words past my introvertedness. I knew that changing my bearing would go a long way in disguising myself, more so than even the wig and hideous clothes. “Yes. Violet Wilkes. I, uh, start work here today.”

  He came around his desk and shook my hand, smiling. “Welcome. I’m Bob Simmons, Cameron Brice’s campaign and finance manager. We spoke on the phone.”

  “Oh, yes. Hi!” I said again stupidly, just happy to see a smiling face.

  He motioned me into the room and showed me to a tiny and uncomfortable-looking metal desk in the corner. “This’ll be your new home until we get our boy elected this November. You can set your things here. Can I get you some coffee?”

  I placed my backpack and bottle of water down on the seat and shook my head, relaxing.

  “We’re super glad to have the extra hand,” he said, though everyone there looked more curious about me than glad. One girl, who was probably my age, eyed my Easy Spirits like they were piranha attached to my feet… as if her petal-pink blouse with the bow in the front was any better. “Lots of work to be done to get our man a seat in Harrisburg.”

  I smiled, keeping my thoughts firmly clamped behind my teeth. Hell, no. Cameron Brice should not be allowed anywhere near Pennsylvania’s state capital. But Simmons seemed nice, even if he had been drinking the Brice Kool-Aid.

  He introduced me to the remaining team members, whose names I quickly forgot. They all seemed fine, nice even, despite the first impression and their obviously faulty political beliefs.

  Then he gave me a quick tour of the place, which was cramped and had obviously once been someone’s house before it was converted to headquarters. There was the main room in the front with five desks, which must have once been a living room. It was covered with photos of the elder Brice, who was standing in front of the White House with a bunch of suited people I couldn’t name on sight. Before him, the then-president was giving a speech behind a podium with the presidential seal. Other than that, the headquarters contained a meeting room with a giant American flag on the wall, a kitchen with two vending machines and an avocado-colored fridge from the seventies, and in the back, two offices. One for Cameron, and one for his father. As I predicted, and much to my relief, Cameron was nowhere to be found. The doors to both offices were closed, and the frosted window in each door revealed only darkness beyond.

  The rest of the morning was spent stapling in absolute silence except for the soft stylings coming from some easy-listening station on the radio on top of the filing cabinet. I couldn’t exaggerate the monotony. I must have stapled together five-thousand packets while listening to every Barry Manilow song known to man. Every single cover page said, The Man For The Job: Elect Cameron Brice for Senate, and had Cameron’s smiling face on the front. I tried to concentrate on getting the staple perfectly in the corner, because each time my eyes wandered down to Cameron’s intense gaze, his chiseled jaw, his smiling mouth, I thought about the way his tongue had felt on my core, and I shivered visibly.

  He’d clearly been the man for that job.

  Dammit.

  Meanwhile, people milled about, constantly in my business. They all had to pass by my desk to get to the kitchen and were constantly looking over my shoulder while they fetched cups of coffee. I didn’t see how in such close quarters I’d be able to complete my real job, which was digging for dirt.

  But at lunchtime, to my astonishment, the place cleared out. First, a young girl in the bow blouse — I thought her name was Alicia — pulled her blazer on, grabbed her phone, and went out the front door. Then, the two other men, who could’ve been twins —one was Harvey, maybe— stopped typing at their computers, nodded at each other, and followed. That left Bob, who gave me a smile and said, “Half hour for lunch.” Then he disappeared too.

  I exhaled deeply and finally dug my fingers under my wig to scratch my scalp, which had been screaming for attention since approximately nine in the morning. I checked my phone, which had only one message from my mother. You up for a protest on the 25th? I’ll get the picket signs!

  I typed half-heartedly. Always.

  My mother was an environmental attorney, my father, an immigration attorney, and they were always picketing for some good cause or another. With our busy schedules, despite the fact that they only lived outside the city in Bensalem, protests were usually the only time we had a chance to bond.

  Then I stood up and used the bathroom, checking to make sure my disguise was still in order before heading to the lunchroom where I got coffee and Cheetos out of a vending machine. Not the best lunch, but I had things to do.

  I went back to the main office and wandered about, trying to determine a plan of attack. I went to a filing cabinet with the letter “A” on the front. Pulling a squeaking drawer open, I paged through it, finding nothing but old campaign posters and newspaper clippings.

  Well, Cameron Brice was no idiot, obviously. He wouldn’t leave anything damning in an unlocked file cabinet, where anyone could find it.

  I paced the office, wandering down the hallway, contemplating. Where would I be if I were something Cameron Brice wanted to hide? When I came upon his office door, I knew the answer was obvious. I had to get inside.

  A quick glance toward the front of the building, and I placed my hand on the door. I tried to twist the knob, but it didn’t budge.

  Locked, of course.

  But that was it. My fingers twitched, my spine straightened. That was the Holy Grail.

  Then I heard noises in the front reception area.

  Sighing, I walked back to the front of the office to see Bob Simmons standing at his desk, looking at me. Already back. Fuck. “How goes it?”

  I shrugged. “Fine. I finished all those packets.”

  “Good deal. We’ll get you doing more meaty stuff this afternoon.”

  I didn’t know why, but “meaty” sounded dirty to me. My mind wandered back to Brice. I thought of his hard cock pressed against my abdomen and heat stirred inside me. My eyes trailed to my bruised wrists, and a pang of desire hit me low in the belly. I wished I could be back there, under his command. I quickly squelched that thought and massaged the bruise. If I was going to make this whole “employment” thing work, I had to stop thinking about kinky sex during it.

  Damn, why had I even gone out last night? I’d wanted to get a leg up on my assignment, but I’d only served to make a hard job even harder.

  Bob eyed me curiously, and I realized I’d gotten sidetracked from our conversation. “I’m happy to do whatever you need,” I answered him. “Did you go out to lunch?”

  He lifted a shoulder. “Nah. I never usually go out. Just went to the corner for something quick.”

  “Oh.”

  Shit.

  Bob surveyed the Cheetos on my desk and frowned. “You can’t be eating just that,” he said. He held a bag out to me from Philly Pretzel Factory. “Have one. They’re still warm.”

  “Oh, no, I’m—”

  “Come on,” he said, shaking the bag to tempt me. “You young girls. My daughter is about your age, and she doesn’t know how to feed herself. You’ll waste away.”

  I smiled. It was no wonder he seemed so fatherly. I got the feeling I might even like him… if I didn’t already know his political leanings were so ass-backward. I wasn’t sure a soft pretzel was better nutritionally than a bag of Cheetos, but I took it anyway. “Thanks.”

  “So, how do you like it here?” he asked. “You said in your application that you had an interest in politics.”

  I nodded. Not really, just an interest in bringing down political foes. “I may want to go into the field,” I said vaguely as I tore a hunk of pretzel off and popped it into my mouth.

  He didn’t question me further, so I didn’t have to come up with any more lies. During the afternoon, I did get to do “meatier” things. Bob had me combing Twitter for
any mentions of Cameron, good or bad. I screenshot and filed them in a massive report to be handed to the candidate so that he could gauge public opinion.

  I didn’t need to go far to gauge exactly what public opinion in Pennsylvania was about Cameron Brice. There was, overwhelmingly, more bad than good. I’d thought Kiera was the only person who called him a douche, but the exercise proved to me that I was apparently mistaken. In fact, each tweet I uncovered was more scathing than the next. They insulted everything from his intellect to his haircut. It was almost enough to make me feel sorry for him.

  Almost. After all, he was the one who’d signed up for this run.

  And, if you don’t want to be called a douche, don’t act like one. Period.

  When I finished, I read over the report. Over two-hundred mentions of the word “idiot.” Forty-five “liar.” Twelve “douches.” Three “charlatans.”

  A partridge in a pear tree.

  What else? Out of touch. Aloof. Ineffectual. Deplorable. And of course, my favorite: Right-wing scumbag with too much hair product and too little concern for his fellow man.

  At close to quitting time, the rest of the employees filed out. I looked at Bob. I thought he’d asked me to email the report directly to Cameron’s email address, then realized it was probably one of the last things he’d want his boss to see. Cameron Brice couldn’t have wanted to read this utterly scathing shit about what an asshole he was. I mean, sure, it was true, but Brice didn’t strike me as the type of person to care about public opinion, especially since much of it was from enraged Twitter users who had a combined total of twenty followers. I hovered my mouse over send and then said, “Um, Bob?”

  He looked at me over his bifocals.

  “I’m done with the report. Where did you want me to—”

  He leaned back, confused. “Didn’t I give you the email? It’s C-B—”

  “Oh, you did,” I said to him, looking over the open email message. I’d hoped for more of a buffer between Cameron Brice and me. “You really want me to send this directly to Ca… I mean, Mr. Brice?”

  He nodded. “Mr. Brice insists. You can introduce yourself as the new clerk so he knows who you are. Show a little personality, if you’d like.”

  Personality? I stared at the screen. Taking a deep breath, I began to type. Hello, Mr. Brice. I’m your new clerk. I like rainy days, piña coladas, and walks on the beach.

  Then I erased it.

  Personality. I typed a couple more lines, erasing all of them. I wasn’t sure I wanted to show him my personality because I’d shown him enough of myself already. I imagined writing: Hello, Mr. Brice. Remember me? Because I sure remember you. And your tongue.

  Finally, I just wrote: Good evening, Mr. Brice, I’m attaching your daily social media report. Thank you.

  Screw personality.

  And I signed my name Brooke Ellis.

  Then I remembered. Shit.

  I quickly backspaced over the name and signed Violet Wilkes, Clerk, Cameron Brice for Senate.

  I read it over and over to make sure I wasn’t making any more catastrophic mistakes, closed my eyes, and clicked send. I was going to fail FBI training if I didn’t get better at handling stress than this.

  When I looked up, Bob was studying me curiously. I explained, “I didn’t realize I’d actually have a chance to interact with Mr. Brice as a clerk.”

  “Oh. Well, of course you will. Mr. Brice comes in here fairly regularly since it’s convenient for him. He’s not as scary a guy as the liberal media makes him out to be, though, so don’t be alarmed.”

  I swallowed. Just the thought of seeing him again and my nipples hardened. Thank god for chunky cardigans.

  When I next looked at Bob, he was pulling on a windbreaker. He shut off his laptop and said, “If you’re the last one here, all you have to do is set the alarm and lock the doors.” He demonstrated the procedure to me — three times. “Got it?”

  I nodded.

  Then he left.

  And I was alone.

  Alone! Score!

  After I’d finished my lunch, I began yawning incessantly, feeling the previous night’s lack of sleep catching up with me. But now, I sat up straight, wide awake. I spun around in my chair, hardly believing this luck. Grabbing my coffee mug from my desk, I walked into the kitchenette, determined to get the energy to do my “overtime.”

  I got another bag from the vending machine, Doritos this time since Bob wasn’t there to berate me, and I’d really been on a roll with the healthy eating. I promised myself I’d bring in a salad tomorrow, and do an extra-long sparring workout this weekend. I poured myself a coffee and added the creamer, wondering if I could find something to jimmy the lock on Cameron’s office door. I was just heading over to my desk with the full mug, thinking a paper clip would do the trick, when I ran straight into a solid, six-foot-something wall of muscle.

  My mug sloshed between me and the giant barrier, and while recognition had begun to dawn, it wasn’t enough. I couldn’t stop myself in time. As hot coffee sloshed on my knuckles, I screamed, “Shit!” in surprise and dropped my coffee and bag of chips on the floor. The mug, shaped like a little Santa Claus head, shattered into pieces as I instinctively got into a boxing stance, covering my face with my closed fists, the way I’d been taught in class.

  Before I could throw my first punch, I looked up into the face of Cameron Brice.

  He dropped his briefcase and raised a palm to block my punch, ready. “Hey. Hold on.”

  I froze, gasping for breath. When I could speak, I still wanted to punch him, but I restrained myself, him being my employer and all.

  “Oh my god!” I placed both hands on the sides of my wig, hoping it wasn’t planning on sliding off my head. “You scared the shit out of me!”

  “Sorry,” he said, putting a hand on my elbow. He smiled crookedly at me, and I couldn’t see anything that resembled the man in the club. He had a gorgeous, movie star face, one that it almost hurt to look at. Somewhere, underneath all that beauty, was the tongue that had been my undoing last night. There was a dark five-o’clock shadow on his jaw, and his hair, which so often had been perfectly coiffed, was more tousled and unkempt. “Whoa, slugger. I thought I’d wandered into a ring with Muhammed Ali.”

  I just goggled at him.

  “Violet?”

  I couldn’t figure out why he would be naming flowers in my presence. I stared more, stupidly, like a mute.

  He held up his phone, which was opened to his email account. “You emailed me?”

  “Oh.” I blinked as I remembered my alias and slumped into poor posture, taking my voice a notch lower to timid. “Yes. Right.”

  “So, what? Did they leave you all alone here? I’m sorry,” he said, tapping the side of his head like, how could I have forgotten? He held out his hand to me. “Cameron Brice.”

  Of course he was. After studying him for so long from afar, and knowing him so intimately last night, it was hard to believe we’d never been formally introduced.

  I stared at his hand, not knowing if I should touch it. I was afraid of what might happen, how my body would respond if I made contact with his skin again. Already, I could feel my nipples harden, pushing against my bra, wanting him, making me thankful to the inventor of sweaters. Would I be able to play along and pretend like I was the mousy clerk, Violet Wilkes? Or would I totally lose it, like Cassandra, and give myself away?

  “Thanks for the report,” he said, still holding his hand out.

  “Oh. You’re welcome.”

  I’d put it off long enough. Tentatively, I reached out and shook just the tips of his fingers, and damned if electricity didn’t surge straight up my arm, through my heart, low into my abdomen. Something dangerous stirred between my thighs, and I was in danger of growing wet for him. I snapped my hand away quickly, hoping he didn’t feel it too.

  But from the way he was staring at me so intently, I knew he’d felt something. “Have we met before?”

  Shit. “No,” I said q
uickly, too quickly. I licked my lips and tried again. “Don’t think so. I mean, maybe you saw me at one of your rallies? I’ve gone to a lot of them. I’m a big fan.”

  God, I couldn’t stop babbling. Please, don’t recognize me! I screamed inside my head, hoping I wouldn’t throw up from sheer nerves and over-gushing.

  He considered this. Then he just nodded, much to my relief. He’d bought it.

  But the relief dissolved a second later, and I found myself desperately wishing he had recognized me. What if he had? What if he’d taken me into his office, stripped this ridiculous disguise off of me, and I got to experience his miraculous tongue once more?

  Screw it.

  Now I really was wet. Embarrassed, my eyes trailed to the mess between us. I turned around to seek out some paper towels, but he’d already reached for the rung underneath the cabinets, unfurling a pile of them and ripping them off the roll.

  I reached down to pick up the shards. Smiling, broken Santa stared up at us. “Ho-ho-hope this wasn’t anyone’s favorite mug,” I mused to myself.

  Or… not to myself. I realized I’d said it out loud when he gave me a quizzical look.

  Oh, god, could I be any more of a moron?

  Cameron Brice was a typical wooden politician with absolutely no sense of humor. I needed to keep my goofy jokes to myself, and get out of the building, stat.

  Then he said, his voice low and oozing a little of that magnetic charm I’d completely fallen for last night, “I guess we’re both on the naughty list now.”

  A shot of fear struck my heart. For a moment I thought my cover was blown, and he’d recognized me. “What?”

  He pointed at the broken cup. Okay, so he wasn’t talking about last night. Nothing like trading lame Christmas jokes in the middle of May. I let out the breath I’d been holding.

  He dropped the paper towels on the mess stretching across the linoleum floor as I heard footsteps behind us. “What are you doing, Cameron?” a voice boomed.

  Behind him, in the darkened hallway, I could just make out the outline of the white-haired man that up to now, I’d only seen on television, standing woodenly behind a podium with an official presidential seal. Back then, he’d been smiling winsomely.