by Amy Faye
They're so used to their teleprompters, so used to their pre-screened questions in interviews, they're not used to having to be a shark.
Being a self-made man in America means that the old money thinks you're an upstart asshole who needs to be pushed back down. On the other hand, being as rich as he was, it was easy to point at him as every example of capitalist decadence for anyone with an ax to grind.
What's more, he played into that image, so it wasn't as if he had room to complain about it. No, he relished it. If he could stick with the people trying to attack him on both sides, the rich who hated him and the people who hate the rich who think he's one of them, he could survive anywhere.
A debate stage with minimal preparation? Hardly a problem.
But all of that assumed that his mind was on it. That he was focused, that he had his edge honed sharp. And, though he wouldn't admit it to anyone, certainly not to himself, he wasn't sharp.
He just had to get straightened out. It wouldn't be that hard. Just get in touch with her. Once she answered his text—then he'd be fine. As soon as he could get her out of his head, then he'd be able to deal with anything that came at him.
Chapter Forty-One
Linda Owens had to admit. There was a certain something to be said for attaching yourself to a man who was like a magnet for media. The minute that she'd started putting her name out there as being open for business, the response had been massive. Absolutely massive.
It was a surprise. She'd been afraid there wouldn't be any at all, but instead she had, for the first time in her life, a serious array of choices that she could pick between. A handful immediately stood out, of course. Serious candidates, who had good chances of winning even without her help.
There were plenty of great options on the table. In this case, literally, as she'd spent the last two days worrying over what to choose, even as the number of choices continued to increase until she felt as if she was going to be overwhelmed.
She needed to figure out a way to decide, and the way she'd decided to go with was to write out the pluses and minuses of each choice, and then look at them all side-by-side. Photos of each candidate, clipped from various magazines, were paper-clipped to the corner of each paper.
Her phone buzzed again. Another offer? She'd started just turning them down. Whatever she was going to choose, there was no chance that she was going to keep adding people to the list of choices. Not when she was already struggling to juggle the number of options that she had.
It wasn't another email, though. It was a text message, and she still had his contact information in her phone. She probably wouldn't ever quite delete it—even if she wasn't working for Adam Quinn any more, he was a powerful networking tool, and eventually he would no doubt look back on her fondly.
Now, though, might not have been the ideal time to hear from him. He would still be sore from her leaving in such a hurry. She wanted his campaign to be in shambles, for him to beg her to come back, but she knew him better than that. Every position, even hers, was redundant. There were redundancies for the redundancies, in some cases.
He wasn't a man who relied on chance, not if he could help it. With his personality and his charisma and the magnetic way that he drew people to him, he could always help it.
So she didn't have any illusions, but it would have felt nice to know that he felt that she was indisposable. It just wasn't realistic.
She clicked the power button and the screen turned off before she could read his message. There wasn't time for personal feelings, not in the pre-election rush.
She missed him, sure. She missed a lot of people. He had a uniquely powerful presence, one that would always dominate the room that he was in. One that left an impression.
She had several impressions. The one that missed being part of a meteoric campaign. The one that missed being part of an almost guerrilla movement. Working with Adam and Tom had been a whirlwind, to say the least, and that whirlwind wouldn't be something that she'd be likely to repeat, not with any of the candidates arrayed out on the table.
That same whirlwind was why she'd left, she reminded herself. It was exciting and even exhilarating, but it wasn't good for her. It was just fun, and there were more important things than fun, or fulfilling, or anything like that.
Sometimes, you have to be smart rather than just enjoying yourself, and this was one of those times, like it or not.
She took a deep breath and shifted the phone from right beside her hip to the other side of the couch, where it was less likely to distract her. She would need all the help she could get.
It would be dishonest to move into the Presidential race with another candidate—though she'd gotten offers. She wasn't going to consider anyone else, because she wasn't going to be used as a weapon against Adam, no matter how effective she might be at it.
Which meant that no matter what, it wasn't going to be a move up. The Senate was probably the only opportunity she'd have. Wherever they moved her to, it wasn't going to be flying around nonstop, and it wasn't going to be based out of DC.
She took a breath and started going left-to-right. Grant, the sitting Senator from Texas. He was strong on the issues, and he was popular with the constituency. The safest option, really. He was a shoe-in if he didn't campaign a bit. There weren't even any real whispers around the Hill of any impropriety.
On the other end of the spectrum, Jill Green was trying to topple a 20-year veteran California senator. She had a good chance of doing it, of course. There was a lot of voter dissatisfaction in California this year, and with the right campaign of controlled aggression, she could upset very easily.
In between were the hedged bets. She felt a tug to give Jill a call and see where she stood. More like, ask when she could start work. How much of that was Adam's influence, though? She'd been working for an underdog for the past months.
Moving over to a new underdog was just more of the same, on a smaller scale. Maybe that wasn't the smartest thing. She ought to reset her risk-o-meter.
Which was why all the other options were still on the table. Her phone buzzed again. She checked it again, in spite of herself. Thankful it wasn't another text from Adam. It sat there in her notifications bar with surprising weight.
An email from someone she'd have to turn down. She wrote the standard response. The phone felt good in her hand. She looked down at Jill Green's sheet of info. Her heart pounded a little, as doubt started to creep up, but she dialed nonetheless.
A minute later, a woman's voice answered.
"You've reached the office of Jill Green, how can I help you?"
Linda's chest pounded a little. Every interview always felt this way, somehow. "This is Linda Owens? I'm calling about a job offer from Mrs. Green."
The woman paused a minute before answering. "Good to hear. One moment and I'll put you through."
Linda's head buzzed, and then another woman's voice spoke on the other end of the line.
"Miss Owens? Glad you could call."
Linda's stomach churned in her gut. "Of course. I was glad to hear you're looking at me. I've been following your campaign with some interest."
Chapter Forty-Two
Linda had a free ride down to California to meet with her prospective new employer, which was a good sign. It showed a certain degree of seriousness. Sure, the Green campaign might not have had a ton of money, but there was always room for a few hundred dollars, in political campaigns that regularly topped a million dollars.
On the other hand, if they'd reached out to her and then subsequently asked her to lay out for her own plane ticket, then that wouldn't exactly look good. If she liked what she saw, then she could start whenever she liked. If she had any reservations, a flight back to DC., no hard feelings. Easy.
The flight was coach, but that didn't much matter. Before last year, she'd never flown first-class in her life. A few months of flying on private jets shouldn't change much. And it didn't, sitting in the airport. It didn't change much loading. She
remembered the score, and it hadn't changed in a year. The same security, the same long lines, the same busy airports.
It all seemed completely reasonable, and felt like she was slipping back into her second skin, until she settled into the seats. A sudden jolt of reminder when she pressed herself into a seat that apparently was made for people without arms or necks. Six hours later, the plane touched down, and Linda Owens couldn't get off quickly enough.
Her phone buzzed as soon as she turned it on, as if to tell her—surprise, surprise—that something had happened in the six hours since she took off and turned the phone off. Who would have guessed?
She clicked the phone screen on, glancing up for a moment to assess the line of people standing up to get off the plane. Unless she wanted to fight through them—she decided that she didn't want to squeeze in, after all, seeing how thick the crowd was—she had a few minutes.
Another message from Adam. A pang of guilt shot through her. She'd quit his campaign, but had that been all they were, really? And had she really communicated the full extent of her departure?
Maybe she owed him an explanation. Maybe he'd owed her a warning. So maybe they were even. She clicked the phone off and slipped it into her breast pocket without reading the messages. There were four of them, now. The notification read "Adam – 4 New Messages," because she hadn't read any of the others, either.
A large gap opened up in the crowd, as the plane emptied itself of businessmen who had to take the red-eye and hadn't been able to sleep, and Linda pulled her day-bag from the overhead.
The California weather was a welcome change, she had to admit. A change she would gladly accept. Now she just had to go through with the meeting, one that, based on the phone conversation, was largely a formality.
The first signs that she hadn't slept enough on the plane, and that the sleep she had gotten was woefully inadequate, started appearing as soon as she got on the road. The day went by in a dull blur, her ears filled with a high-pitched whine that would have been bad on any day, but today was supposed to be a hit.
She lay her head down in a hotel room that she wouldn't mind spending the next six months in if she had to, a tiny bottle of alcohol between her fingers, and closed her eyes. If she wished hard enough for her head to explode, maybe it would, and then she'd be able to finally feel at peace.
Something in her gut made her take her phone out, in spite of herself. She clicked her thumb on the side button, and the phone screen leapt happily to life, in spite of the low battery. Her thumb hovered for a moment over the notification, and then she clicked, in spite of her better judgment.
The messaging app opened, just like she'd known it would, and Adam's texts from the past week filled the screen. She started to read, and then started to frown. She shouldn't be making decisions with a screaming headache. She should be sleeping.
Instead she sat up, and pulled a piece of paper out of her tablet. She wrote "Adam Quinn" across the top.
Pros on the right, cons on the left.
On the right side, she wrote "Adam," and on the left side, she wrote his name again. There were the two biggest pros and cons right there. The rest were going to take a while, with the siren going on in her head. She'd have to manage some time, because Jill Green was going to need an answer.
And, though she'd made a policy decision to refuse any other offers, so would Adam.
Chapter Forty-Three
Adam's eyes closed, and he slowed his breathing down. He held his thoughts still, and waited for sleep to overtake him. A limited amount of time for sleep meant learning how to fall asleep quickly. It's a skill, and like any skill, with diligent practice it might be learned.
As his head buzzes discontentedly, and his mind yanks at the leash he's got it on, Adam knows something else. Like any skill, one that's grown comfortable enough to count it as a given, as a part of your personal repertoire, you can lose it one day.
Pitchers who get the yips. Golfers who suddenly throw away a tournament where they're highly favored to win. Something in the back of their minds, something ancient and unpleasant that doesn't like you, rears its ugly head and says no. Not today.
It's said that for five days, now. His head feels like it's going to fall off, soon. The ringing in his ears is so powerful that he barely registers it's there any more. He'd notice more readily if it suddenly disappeared. Instead, the only conscious proof of its existence is the pain that is drilling a hole in the side of his skull.
Every sound is amplified a hundred times. He holds his eyes shut. His body still. And then, slowly, one by one, he tightens and loosens every muscle in his body.
Adam feels relaxed, in so far as he has practiced relaxing. Relaxing is another skill that he's learned, and he's still got it under control. Sleep is as simple as relaxing the body, relaxing the mind, and letting yourself drift away.
The billionaire lets his mind wander. There are tools in his tool-bag. Ways to calm his mind. You can't count any skill as learned if you don't have the tools to right it, in most situations.
His thoughts, turned loose, immediately turn where he knew they would. Some part of him worries about the election, but not as much as it deserves. The rest worries, but not about his chances. If he's not meant to win, then he's not meant to win. But he wouldn't have run if he thought that were the case.
Where is she? She could be anywhere at all, and it wouldn't matter. If she called him, he'd be able to be there within fourteen hours. Inside the country, that number is cut easily in half. Five hours, if he hurried, he was confident.
But the fact that he didn't know meant that he couldn't go. And of course, he shouldn't go in either case. The play's already been made, and as much as he might be able to force it, Adam can't bring himself to sink quite so low. Not yet, anyway. Not with her.
No resolution is to be found. The only answer is to wait, and he knows it. Which isn't particularly helpful, so his mind turns in circles until he finally has had enough, and the leash goes back on. Normally, it's enough to do something. On a distracted night, he might try one tactic. His instincts, trained over years of limited sleep, are usually fairly good.
This time, though, he continues feeling that familiar buzz in his mind. The threat that no matter what it is that he tries, he won't sleep. Not like this.
There's something he wants to do. Something that his brain won't let him sleep until he clarifies. Sometimes, a question that needs answering. Sometimes, an idea that he needs to write down for the morning, to avoid losing track of it.
Only, this time, the only thing that he can think of, he can't possibly do. After all, he's tried to contact her for almost a week. If she's not going to answer, then she's not going to answer. There are ways to elicit a response. Tricks. But he's not going to use them. Not on her, not yet. Not if he can stop himself.
He closes his eyes. There are still three hours and forty-five minutes until his alarm goes off, and at the very least, he might be able to cat-nap through them.
Some time later, his mind takes pity on him, and allows him entrance to a rocky sleep.
Chapter Forty-Four
He couldn't quite explain why it was so strange to see Tom there, but there was something about the man striding up to his desk—something about the way he hurried, perhaps—that made Adam sit up straighter.
"What's wrong?"
"You'll want to see this," he growls. And then, abruptly, he turns on his heel and starts walking back.
The television is paused on a man who somehow scratches a vague memory in the back of Adam's mind. He's seen the face, maybe. But it doesn't seem intimately familiar. If they knew each other, it must have been some time ago.
Adam stands behind the sofa, rather than sitting. Tom watches him only for a moment before turning to regard the television.
"Ready?"
"Sure."
The frozen image starts moving, leaving a little progress bar at the bottom. The camera cuts over to the host of the show. He's surrounded by ominous
red lights—typical of Fox News, Adam is starting to realize. He leans heavily on one arm.
"You were Adam's room-mate in college, is that right?"
The question, followed up with the voice that answers, brings the face back into his memory. Terry Johnson hasn't aged particularly well. He looks like he's had a hard life since college. Then again, he had a hard time at college, too. Anyone who didn't go to class would.
"Yes, Ray."
The host leans back. "So tell me about this accusation."
"Well, I was working on my Masters thesis when Adam was working on his Masters, as well."
"So you were rivals, then?"
"I guess you could say that," Terry answers. It was a lie, of course. They were the same age, sure. And they were working in the same field. That might have made some people rivals. A little friendly competition could make the work easier, make the hours go by faster.
That would have required, of course, that Terry was any sort of competition.
"So then what?"
"Well, I was working on a project that would revolutionize computers. You might remember, Ray—back in that day, you had computers that were taking up the better part of a room, yeah?"
"It seems made up," the host responds, laughing. "But I guess that's true."
"So I had an idea to shrink them way down. Small enough to sit right on your desk."
"Oh?"
"Well, wouldn't you know, two years later, what should I hear, but Adam Quinn's done exactly that. I don't know about you, Ray, but that sounded awful suspicious to me, back in 82."
"I imagine it would. Why haven't you come forward before this?"
Adam takes a deep breath and closes his eyes. The reason was that it wasn't convenient for him. The case wouldn't get past the preliminary stages, and everyone knew it.
