by Chelle Bliss
She spins around on her heels, straightening her arms at her sides. “Say something,” she grinds out with her jaw clenched so tightly only her lips move.
I stay still, careful not to make any sudden movements because the wild look in her eyes hasn’t disappeared. “I didn’t schedule the dinner, but I had to at least make an appearance.”
“You should’ve declined. How many times did I tell you…”
I lift my hand, stopping her from continuing that sentence because there are a few things we need to get straight. “First, I’m your husband, not your employee.”
She blinks rapidly, and her eyes widen even more, but I start talking before she can.
“Although I love your input, I do not and will not do as I’m told when it comes to my career.” I shake my head as she opens her mouth. “I let you say your piece about Mr. Marino, but beyond that, it’s my call on whether or not I allow him to contribute to my campaign. When I’m home, I’m home. I don’t want our life to become about work or the campaign. Can you understand all I wanted to do was spend time with my wife and feel like a normal person again?”
Somehow. I remain calm, not raising my voice for a single word even though I’m so aggravated with my wife and her constant meddling in my career. She treats me like a child, pulling out her daddy card and always explaining to me as if I don’t understand how the seedy part of Chicago politics works.
Reagan drops her head and lets out a shaky breath. “I do understand, Jude.” She pauses, and I’m hopeful for a moment that the conversation is over. But again, I’m wrong. She raises her head, lifting her chin high, and crosses her arms to match my posture. “But sometimes you need to remember while you were out fighting in a war, I was sitting in my father’s office listening to him cut deals with mobsters.”
“I wasn’t born yesterday.” I run my fingers through my hair and try to keep my voice even. The last thing I want to do is ruin the rest of the time I have left before I have to go back on the road again. “I’ve been in politics long enough to know that if I take his money, I’ll owe him a favor.”
“You can’t,” she says and takes a step toward me, completely ignoring everything I just said.
I push off the counter and turn my back to her. I can’t fight with her anymore about this. I can’t jeopardize the entire weekend over something as silly as a single meeting. “I’m done talking about this, Reagan.”
“Where are you going?” she asks as I grab my keys from the hook near the door.
“Out,” I grunt with my back to her and my hand on the doorknob.
“Wait!”
I hear her footsteps on the tile as the bottom of my shoes touch the landing, but I don’t stop.
I can’t.
Fuck. I won’t.
I love the woman. Hell, I’d lay down my life for hers. I’ve never been crazier about another human being, but lately, we’re like gasoline and fire. The stress of the campaign and the added pressure Reagan continues to put on our marriage by only focusing on my career is weighing me down and killing the dream we gave so much to try to build.
I stalk down the street, wandering to God knows where. I walk for hours, winding down endless streets in downtown Chicago and ignoring every phone call until I end up at the steps of my old gym.
When I walk through the door, my old trainer yells, “Jude! What the fuck, man?” and jogs toward me with his hand outstretched. For a moment, I feel normal again. It’s almost like I’m the Marine who just returned from a battle to a warm reception and a kind handshake.
“So good to see you, Manny.” My smile’s easy as I shake his hand. “Can you fit me in?”
“Can I fit the future governor of Illinois in?” He looks at me like I’m crazy. “Don’t be a dick, dude. We always got time for you.”
“I need a few rounds in the ring. No holds barred.”
His eyes widen as his hand falls away from mine. “I don’t think…” he says, smashing his hands together in front of him as he glances behind his back. “I don’t think that’s a good idea.”
“I can go somewhere else,” I tell him with a shrug.
Manny peers up at me with a wicked smile. “No. No. I’ll just go easy on you. I can’t have that pretty face all messed up for the cameras.” He jabs me playfully in the ribs.
I laugh at his statement. “I’ll try not to beat you too badly, old man.”
He straightens at the put-down and puffs out his muscles, trying to make himself look bigger and badder than usual. “Those are fighting words, Titan.”
“Bring it,” I tell him.
3
Reagan
I don’t pay much attention to what I’m throwing into my suitcase as I pack. Some of the clothes are still in their dry-cleaning bags. I’ll manage a few work outfits out of all this stuff.
I’m pretty pissed. After three weeks apart, Jude took off on me and won’t answer my calls or texts. I missed him like crazy, playing the role of doting politician’s wife while he campaigned.
He knows how much I was dreading that fucking interview and photo shoot for a magazine spread about our home life. Even with the cleaning and decorating help his staff hired, I had to make sure everything was just perfect myself. When a photographer is coming into your home, you have to make sure every last thing is on point.
But I gladly did all of it for him. He’s only home for two days before he hits the campaign trail again, and I’m livid that he fucked me and hardly said two words to me before storming out of here.
We agreed before we got married that nothing would ever come between us. Not politics, not my father—our marriage comes first.
But today his fucking ego came first, and I’m not waiting around until he decides to come home.
I’ve been sidelining my work for months now, focusing on helping Jude instead. And that’s been hard for me, because I’m passionate about my work. I’m the US Congress liaison for the Lancet Foundation, an organization founded two years ago to advocate for bipartisanship.
Jude and I have become the poster children for crossing party lines to find common ground. As congressional opponents, we should have been enemies. For a while, we kind of were. But I quickly fell for him, seeing that what brought us together was more important than what we disagreed about.
I didn’t drop out of the race because of our relationship, but rather because the revelation about my father’s secret family made me reevaluate what was really important to me. But I’ve taken lots of hits from women’s groups within the Democratic Party for stepping aside for my man.
Fuck them. They don’t know me, and they don’t know us.
I add a couple pairs of heels and my travel makeup bag to the suitcase, zipping it closed. When I pick up my phone, I see a text from Julia, my assistant. She’s booked my flight and arranged for me to be picked up in DC when I arrive late this afternoon.
I’ve been pushing this trip back for weeks, prioritizing Jude and his campaign. No more.
After texting Julia back, I send a message to my husband. Going to DC for work.
My anger starts to subside on the cab ride to the airport. Jude was right for thinking Dominic Marino would cause a blowup between us, but that doesn’t make him right for not telling me about it.
Dominic Marino buys politicians, plain and simple. He doesn’t care what party they are—I’ve seen people from both sides get in deep with him. He lures them in with his deep pockets and pretense of no-strings friendship, wining and dining them hard. But eventually, he calls in favors, and they’re never legal. He stands for everything Jude and I despise about politics.
“Where you headin’?” my cab driver asks, brows arched as he looks at me in the rearview mirror.
“The airport,” I remind him.
“Naw, I mean, once you get there. Where you flyin’ off to?”
“DC.”
He scoffs as he cuts off the car next to us without even glancing in his mirror. “What’s a pretty thing like you goin’ to
that hellhole for?”
“Work.”
The edge in my tone silences him. I’m in no mood to be called a pretty thing. No one who knows who I am—or rather, who my husband is—would dare to say such a thing. Jude is charismatic and diplomatic, but he also lets it be known that his wife is hands—and eyes—off.
I’ve always loved that feeling, that he and I belong to each other. He’s careful not to be alone with young female staffers, not just because it can create trouble, but because he wants me to know no one’s even trying to get with him and being turned down.
The cab driver glides to a stop, unloads my luggage, pockets his tip, and heads away. I’m walking into the airport, suitcase in tow, when my phone buzzes with a text. When I see my husband’s name on the screen, I glare at it.
Jude: WTF? You’re not scheduled to go anywhere.
I want to ignore him, like he’s been ignoring my texts, but I’m no good at that. I always want to respond. I sit down on a bench inside O’Hare and start to text back and forth with Jude.
Me: My schedule changed. And btw, you need to be home for the grocery delivery tomorrow at 10.
Jude: I’m leaving day after tomorrow for 2 weeks. This is how you want to leave things? Really fucking nice, Reagan.
Me: YOU LEFT THINGS THIS WAY, NOT ME. I’m not some doting wife who will just sit at home and wait for you.
Jude: I’d never mistake you for doting, sweetheart.
Me: Fuck you.
Jude: I’m under a lot of pressure right now. I’d think you of all people would understand.
Me: Shove that guilt trip up your ass, Jude. You shouldn’t have walked out on me.
Jude: For fuck’s sake…I didn’t walk out on you. Stop being so melodramatic.
Me: Stop being such an asshole.
Jude: Come back home.
Me: I’m going to DC for work.
Jude: Reschedule it. I need you with me.
Me: Says the guy who walked out and ignored all my calls and texts.
Jude: JFC, Reagan, I needed to blow off steam.
Me: Well, so do I. You don’t seem to get that I’m sacrificing for this campaign. I’m sidelining my work, having fundraising meetings and helping your dumb-ass communications girl every fucking day.
Jude: Of course I get it, but this is for us. We’re in everything together.
Me: Bullshit. You hopped in bed with Dominic Marino, knowing it would piss me off.
Jude: I’m not giving you my balls to keep in your fucking purse, Reagan. You know who you married.
Me: This is exactly why I’m not ready for a baby. You pawn off a bad decision by saying it’s just who you are, and you run away when things get hard. When I need you most.
Jude: I didn’t fucking run away, stop saying that. I just needed a break. We talked about trying for kids three years into the marriage, and now it’s five years and you still aren’t ready. You always have an excuse.
Me: My career is not an excuse, you prick. When we decided that, you weren’t planning to run for fucking governor. I’m so tired of you thinking I can just find a way to balance everything all the time. I don’t have a full staff like you do. It wouldn’t be fair to bring a baby into this chaotic life.
Jude: Can we not do this over text? Come home.
Me: I have to go check in for my flight.
Jude: When are you coming back?
Me: Does it matter? You’ll be gone anyway.
I power down my phone and put it in my purse, standing up to head for the check-in counter. I’m so angry with Jude right now, but I’m also hurt.
Mostly hurt, actually. I miss him so much when he’s gone, and then he pisses away hours of our time together brooding.
I knew who I was marrying—he’s domineering, cocky, and strong. He’s also the hardest-working, most honorable man I’ve ever known.
But lately, I find myself wondering if he really knew who he was marrying. He’s a smart man, so he probably did know. But did he think he could change me? Tame the one woman who wasn’t intimidated by him?
We both communicate with people for a living, so why is it so hard for us to communicate with each other lately? Everything seems to devolve into a fight. The only place we completely mesh is in the bedroom, where Jude’s controlling nature works for both of us.
Our bedroom is where I planned to spend most of today, making up for all the sex we’ve missed out on in the past three weeks. Instead, I’ll be sitting at O’Hare for the next two hours and staying in a hotel tonight, away from my husband.
I’m not sorry, though. He needs a dose of his own medicine.
4
Jude
“What the hell are you doing up so early?” my campaign manager Tyson asks as I climb onto the campaign bus and collapse in the booth. “We’re not pulling out for a few more hours.”
I stare at him across the table, tapping my fingers against the Formica as I grit my teeth. I’m still reeling from the fact that Reagan took off, leaving for Washington without talking to me about it first. I had a few days to spend at home, naked and curled up with my wife in bed, but she went off half-cocked without thinking.
“So, I take it your time off wasn’t good,” he says when I don’t answer his question.
“I don’t want to talk about it,” I tell him as I turn my face toward the window and stare into the parking lot as the sun starts to rise above the distant trees.
“You better get your house in order.”
My eyes snap to his and narrow as my jaw ticks. “My house has nothing to do with my campaign.”
He leans back, sliding his arm across the back of the booth. “It has everything to do with this campaign. Your entire platform is family values, and if your marriage collapses, so does your chance to win the governor’s mansion.”
“We’re fine, Tyson.” At least, I think we are. Married people fight all the time. Reagan and I are not different from anybody else, but somehow, we’re held to a higher standard, which is completely ridiculous.
I go back to looking out the window as Tyson shuffles the stack of papers in front of him. I’m grumpy, on edge, and in no mood to hit the road to shake hands and rub elbows with some of the most corrupt people in the state. Tyson keeps staring at me, waiting for me to look at him, but I pretend I don’t notice although I can see him out of the corner of my eye. I curl my hand under my chin and close my eyes, wishing I could do the last few days over again.
“We’re heading downstate for an NRA rally, followed by a dinner with a Veterans organization.”
“Hmm,” I mumble, keeping my eyes closed and letting him talk. I’m taking everything in but not really paying attention. I already read over the itinerary for the week and know exactly where I’m going and when, but that doesn’t stop him from repeating everything to me.
“Are you listening to me?”
“Mm-hmm.”
He sighs but continues on, knowing I’m in no mood to actually form words until it’s absolutely necessary. “Tomorrow’s not as easy. We’re meeting with some voters who are on the fence. You need to be on point and win them over. Luckily for us, you’re polling really strong with the female constituents, so I think you have them in the bag. Just make sure you show up with a little more smile and a lot less anger, ’kay?”
I open my eyes and stare at him. Tyson’s been a top aide of mine since right after I got elected to the Senate. He’s kind of a nerdy, awkward sort, but he’s hardworking and loyal. I had no doubt I was choosing the right man when I asked him to manage my campaign. This is the first time he’s had such a high-profile role, and we’re both learning as we go.
“We’ll get a few drinks in you, and you’ll calm down.” He smiles and pushes his glasses higher onto the bridge of his nose.
My phone vibrates in my pocket, and I reach down, thankful for the distraction from Tyson. Reagan’s name flashes across the screen before going black. This is the first time she’s messaged me since she boarded her flight to DC. For a momen
t, I’m hopeful. Maybe she’s going to call a cease-fire, and we can put the entire shitty episode behind us. But as I slide my finger across the screen and take in her words, I know she’s digging her heels in deep.
Reagan: Spoke to a DNC friend last night. Stay far away from Marino.
I drop my phone onto the seat next to me, and Tyson makes a noise in the back of his throat. “What?” I ask, my voice dripping with anger.
“I just sometimes worry about how that girl affects you.”
“That girl is my wife,” I remind him. “The love of my life, actually. You should really watch how you talk about her.”
“You should really watch how you treat her, then,” he replies and sets his lips in a firm line, staring at me over the rim of his glasses, judging me.
His words don’t sit right with me. I played right into his hand on that one, but Tyson seems to know how to get under my skin and my opponents’. I let out a deep growl as I grab my phone and type a quick message to Reagan.
Me: I’ll take your words under advisement.
Not the most romantic message, but at least I didn’t tell her to go fuck herself like she did to me before she got on the flight. I couldn’t give her more than that. Her ability to walk away, even if I technically left the house first, wasn’t something I could just let go so easily. She knew what the few days’ break meant to me, having been on the campaign trail herself, but she didn’t care. Everything seemed to be about one-upping the other, no matter the cost.
“I’m going to get some rest in the back.” I stand, taking my phone with me in case Reagan has more to say or I feel the need to tell her anything more. I want to call her so badly. Hearing her voice always helps put shit in perspective, but I can’t let what happened slide so easy.
“I’ll wake you when we hit Springfield. Get some rest. You look like shit, and I need the golden boy in front of the crowd and working the room tonight.”
