The Phoenix Candidate

by Heidi Joy Tretheway

  Jared looks up at me, and for the first time I don’t see the cocky, dominant man who lives to tease and torture me. I see someone far more humble, more vulnerable, more real.

  “Grace, I can’t give you everything you want.”

  “Then give me something. One thing.” I pull off his T-shirt and push him back on the bed. “Just give me tonight.”

  Chapter Twenty

  Jared’s breath rattles as I strip off his boxers. I press his knees apart, planting kisses up the inside of his thighs. I feel the muscles in his legs harden beneath my hands and I flick my tongue against his shaft.

  Once. Twice. His cock twitches in response.

  I trace my tongue up the vein, my fingers trailing between his thighs and cupping his sac. Soft, short curls. The smell of musk and man. The ridge and velvety head as my lips close around him.

  Jared’s groan is deep, vibrating through his chest.

  Emboldened, I take him deeper. My teeth tease the head of his cock, then I pull him deeper into me, my tongue stroking in a building rhythm that matches his breath. Shorter pants, sharper gasps.

  The power over him in this moment sends electricity skittering across my bare skin. My jaw aches, my knees grind into the hotel room carpet, and my breasts brush the rough comforter cover. In this moment of strange suspension, I feel my connection to Jared amplify, morph, and blend in my own skin.

  My fingers work beneath his sac, his seam, and his balls that draw tight, the skin wrinkling as I bring him closer. I swallow and take him deeper in my throat, lost in this darkness and desire.

  Jared’s body hardens, his legs squeeze around me as his climax builds. Three more strokes, my tongue works his length. Two more. I add pressure from my lips and my jaw, sealing myself tightly to him as my fingers press between his legs.

  It’s his undoing. A deep growl builds in his belly as I take him all the way over the edge. His whole body convulses with the climax, his breath ripped from his lungs.

  “Grace.” It’s a plea for release that’s coming hard and fast. His hand fists in my hair so tightly my scalp tingles. I tighten my hold on him and swallow, refusing to release him until he’s emptied himself completely. With one last convulsion, he shudders and goes slack.

  I release him slowly, sliding my lips from his cock, placing one soft kiss there before I slide up his body and into his embrace.

  “Grace.” This time he says my name reverently, tenderly. His hand combs through my hair, from my nape up my scalp, and he pulls my body tightly to his. “You don’t know what you do to me, woman.”

  I grin into the darkness, a secret smile he can’t see. “I think I have a pretty good idea.”

  “No, Grace. You truly don’t know. You could be addictive.”

  “And you’re not?” I toss out playfully. I run my hands through his chest hair, feeling the hard planes of muscle across his stomach.

  “Not like this—this much.” Jared’s still breathing hard, and I pull away from him enough to see the dim light reflected in mahogany eyes. “You’re too much, Grace. Too real.”

  “Too alive?” I challenge. “Because this is what you said I needed to be, right? Living.”

  He doesn’t answer. For a long time, I just lie there, curled under his arm, listening to our breathing grow deeper, slower, more even. I’m drifting to sleep when I hear his whisper.

  “You make me want to be that alive, too.”

  ***

  My phone’s alarm sounds foreign and I stir, disoriented in this bed.

  I roll, finding the rest of the bed empty.

  As is the room.

  No Jared. No clothes or papers or mess. No suitcase.

  And suddenly I feel horribly alone.

  What have I done?

  Nothing. I have done nothing wrong. I decided I wanted something and I came to get it. I decided I’m not giving up on the campaign or on Jared. And I came here to get them both.

  But waking to an empty hotel room tells me I’ve failed.

  Damn my tendency to sleep soundly. Damn him for slipping away early. A memory from yesterday pecks at the edges of my mind. He has to go back to Florida. To meet with Rivera or whoever that other running mate might be.

  Damn him for not waking me. For not kissing me goodbye.

  That lack of a kiss, Jared withholding that simple intimacy, stings the worst.

  I shower and dress, imagining he’ll walk back into the hotel room bearing coffee and pastries. I check my messages, imagining he’s left a sweet or saucy message there.

  Nothing. Nada. Zip.

  Fuck him.

  Anger inspires me to jog, then run, back to my condo. I hate running, and yet physically pushing myself is the only way to hold my scream at bay. I went to him to have the talk, to have it out after he pushed me and pushed me and forced me to let go of my little dead family and start living again.

  And now that he’s gone—without a kiss or a promise or words to make all of this right, or even enough words to just give me hope that our connection means more than a couple of orgasms.

  I steel myself for the reality of what’s next: I could be a running mate. And with or without Jared, I’m going to be the best damn choice Senator Conover ever made.

  I’m over playing nice. It’s time to play hardball.

  ***

  I push into my Oregon legislative base, an office I share with a few other local legislators. It’s shortly before nine and my six Oregon-based staffers are already here.

  Lacey gives me a wink and a nod but she knows better than to say anything about Saturday night. God, was it only four days ago? She works for another Dem—a sweet, round, former school principal who can carve your heart out, serve it to you medium rare, and make you love her for it.

  I sift through emails from colleagues and constituents. There’s too much lobbyist drama to deal with this early. Trey calls from D.C., his amped-up mood confirming he’s already downed two of his three ritual grande triple-shots.

  “What do you want to do first, Grace? Calendar or media?” His urban-flavored tenor holds a permanent smile that beams through the line.

  “Calendar.”

  “You’re getting a ton of new invitations. You must have knocked them dead at that developer conference because I’ve got a couple of new real estate events coming through, both before we go back in session.”

  “Add the best one, send regrets for the other.”

  “Done. The good one’s an easy flight to Phoenix. How about a cyber-bullying symposium?”

  “How long is it?” I cringe at the thought of wasting precious summer days inside a sterile hotel conference room.

  “Three days, but they want you to open day two with a talk on cyber-privacy and revenge porn. Chicago.”

  “I’m all over that. I’ll fly in the night before, but can you get me out by lunch?”

  “Let’s see, your schedule looks … booked that afternoon! It’s a tragedy!” Trey cackles as he invents something unavoidable for my calendar. “The rest of the events are drive-bys when you’re back in D.C., lunch or dinner, no speaking.”

  I pause a beat. “I’d like to do more speaking, actually.”

  I’m pretty sure Trey’s jaw just hit his desk. “Excuse me, what, Miss-Colton-Who-Barfs-Before-She-Speaks?”

  “You heard me. More speaking. Fewer grip-and-grins. I need to be more visible, especially on my key issues.”

  “I love you, you know that, Grace?”

  I smile, enjoying our banter. “Yeah, Trey. What do you want?”

  “Well, there’s an event at my high school. Nothing fancy, maybe a few hundred people. They’re talking about the new rules for the school year—everyone’s got to have clear plastic backpacks now.”

  “That’s serious.”

  It’s deadly serious. Trey lost his little brother to a gang shooting. It’s why he practically stalked me my first month on the Hill, begging for a job, anything to help me get my gun-control legislation to move further and faster. No
w he’s my chief of staff. “What do you need me to do for it?”

  “Just go talk to them. Tell them about Seth and Ethan. Tell them about why what you’re doing is the right thing. They’ll get why it matters. We’ve all lost someone who mattered to us.”

  “I can do that.”

  “It’s the night before the opening of session,” he warns.

  “Doesn’t matter. I’ll do it for you.” In a heartbeat. Trey is the closest thing I have to family now. Trey and his Mama Bea. At least once a week when I’m in D.C., he drags me over to their place for dinner. I’m pretty sure ninety percent of my thighs are Mama Bea’s biscuits.

  “This is why I love you, Grace.”

  “Hey, Trey?”

  “What?”

  “I love you, too.”

  Chapter Twenty-One

  I work through constituent calls, read legislation, and check the web too often for news of Senator Conover. Now it’s a waiting game, as I wonder whether he’ll choose me or Rivera.

  There’s nothing from Jared, not a shred of communication no matter how many times I check my messages. Voicemail. Text. Email. Social media. Nothing.

  A hole grows in my chest where I’ve never noticed an absence before. Was I lonely before I met him? Did I need anything or anyone?

  No. I was fine. I had my district and my girlfriends and the back-and-forth travel. I had my hobbies and my time on the water, paddling solo in a kayak. I had all of the culture Portland could offer, from First Thursday art in the Pearl District to concerts on the Edgefield lawn or in the Crystal Ballroom.

  But yes. Yes, I needed something, and someone. Yes must be the only answer, or else why would I have allowed myself to be taken in and taken home by a man about whom I knew nothing?

  And I still know nothing about him.

  A Google search turns up snippets from various campaigns—he’s become one of the country’s most sought-after Democratic strategists. His credits include Conover’s four successful senate bids and dozens of contentious state and national races. In this tight primary, understanding the strengths and weaknesses of both sides makes him a lethal weapon for Conover.

  Maybe campaigning is what does it for him, and I’m just the convenient distraction. I’d like to think it’s something more than just wild sexual attraction, spitfire fighting, and hot make-up sex.

  God, I miss kissing. The kind that liquefies my insides and makes me feel like I’m flying. Even a dozen orgasms are not enough to make up for that sweet, simple need.

  The sharp sting of being deserted in Jared’s hotel room becomes a dull but more painful throb as days pass with no contact from Jared.

  Did I push him too far? Did I ask too much?

  No.

  I spend my evenings kayaking the Willamette River and stay up late reviewing docs on the e-reader Jared gave me, forcing myself to stop seeing Jared’s hands as he gave it to me, his strong frame as he pressed me against the wall inside my condo, his skin tangled in the sheets on my bed.

  He’s been everywhere, all over my condo, and he touched nearly every part of my body. He’s gone, but he left his ghost behind.

  New documents pop up in the e-reader every night, and I wonder if he’s sending them. The sheer volume of pages makes me feel like I’m back in law school. I dig deep into the issues I skirted before: foreign trade, appropriations, military spending.

  But I can hack this. I’ve been a domestic-issues legislator so far, but if I’m going to get within a heartbeat of the presidency, I need to be at the top of my game. I pull out all the stops. I write briefs of the briefs, make lists of the top people on each issue, and keep Trey busy hunting down source docs and setting up interviews.

  I need to get to the heart of this.

  By Friday night, I’ve got a hot date with YouTube, watching old videos of VP debates. Lacey tries to drag me out for cocktails but I refuse—the learning curve isn’t just steep, it’s a brick wall.

  And the fact that Jared was picking on me for things like my wardrobe, car, and lack of a dog start to piss me off. Hell, the fact he hasn’t called truly pisses me off.

  My phone rings midway through a Palin-Biden debate and I’m tempted to ignore it, but the little needy voice that says it could be him forces me to at least look at the screen.

  “Trey? It’s practically midnight in D.C.”

  “And look at us, both still working. Your constituents are getting their money’s worth.”

  “How did you know I’m—”

  “Grace, I know you. You attacked this week like a freakin’ tiger. And since I haven’t pried whatever’s going on out of you yet, I’m going to help you anyway. Feel like a flight tonight?”

  “Not especially.”

  “Good. You’re booked in two hours. That’s plenty of time to get to the airport.”

  “What? Not unless I leave right this minute.”

  “I’ll give you ten minutes to pack. You’re going to want to do this.”

  “What?” I’m suspicious. Trey usually asks me before he books anything, so the fact that he’s taken over is more than a little suspect.

  “I’ve got you on a panel for tomorrow at ten a.m. in D.C. It’s a national women’s leadership conference, and Nancy Pelosi just dropped out. She’s sick.”

  “So you want me to jump on a redeye. Awesome.” My sarcasm is thick but I feel my pulse speed up, eager for this opportunity. “Who are the other panelists?”

  “You’re going to love this. Ready? Lauren Kennedy Darrow … and the keynote is Oprah.”

  I nearly drop the phone as Trey says Oprah. Because, yeah. Sharing a stage with that woman would be insane. It could make headlines. Given her broad appeal, it could be an amazing photo op.

  “Grace? You still there?” Trey’s voice is a distant echo; I’m already in motion.

  “Still here! Packing!”

  “I’ll pick you up when you land.”

  ***

  I don’t catch more than a catnap on the flight, though Trey blessed me with a business-class upgrade. I spend the entire flight doing research on women’s leadership and equality issues, and on my fellow panelists.

  God help me if Oprah asks if I’ve read her latest book-club recommendation and I haven’t. I digest the blurb dutifully.

  Then I turn my attention to Lauren Kennedy Darrow. Born Laura Harmignes, she attended Florida State on a cheerleading scholarship, majored in broadcast journalism, and then moved around the country as television news reporter Lauren Kennedy.

  It’s unclear why Lauren changed her name—maybe Kennedy was just better than Harmignes on television? Maybe Lauren seemed more sophisticated than Laura?

  Laura/Lauren’s final reporting gig was in Sacramento, where she met then-state representative Aaron Darrow. His family money in agriculture, paired with her media savvy, propelled him into the state spotlight. They married and the first of three incredibly photogenic children was born the day before Darrow announced his intention to run for governor of California.

  Three years later, he delivered another photo-op showing off his new twin daughters, accompanied by son Aaron Junior. AJ sported an outfit remarkably similar to John F. Kennedy, Jr. It’s clear that the Darrow family intends to create the next Camelot.

  ***

  “Grace.” Trey frowns as he picks me up at Reagan National. “You were supposed to sleep.”

  “I can sleep when I’m dead,” I answer lightly, inhaling the rich smell of the coffee he offers me. I’m not dead anymore. I’m living. I’m going to do this.

  He navigates angry Beltway traffic on the way to the event, the horn on his decade-old Corolla working overtime.

  “What have people got to be pissed about on a Saturday morning?” He huffs in frustration.

  “Maybe that they’re up this early?”

  I listen to Trey’s instructions on how to get to the green room, the earlier speakers and events, and what he managed to glean off participants’ tweets so far. There are two thousand women and p
robably a few hundred men attending Women to the Helm.

  I’d better get used to a stage this big.

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  “Grace. I’m thrilled you’re here.” Lauren snags me immediately when I walk in the green room door. Her honey-blond highlights are radiant against an ivory jacket and navy sheath dress. Oxblood heels complete her look.

  Red, white, and blue. She is so first lady material.

  I struggled into my pantsuit in the microscopic airplane bathroom shortly before landing, did my makeup in the passenger seat of Trey’s car, and my dark curls are already frizzing thanks to D.C.’s late-July humidity.

  “Why don’t you come over here and get freshened up?” Lauren asks. She oozes warmth and poise, but I can’t help but feel it’s a judgment against me. I sit in one of the tall director’s chairs and then realize the woman seated next to me is Oprah.

  She gives me a little wave but doesn’t speak, just points to her phone. She’s listening to someone on the other line.

  Oh. My. God. It’s Oprah. I try not to stare at her in the mirror opposite us.

  A makeup artist attacks me and Lauren stands by, watching the woman wipe all the makeup I just applied off my face and start fresh.

  “This is unexpected.”

  Lauren waves her hand, as if we do Hollywood-style hair and makeup at every political event. As if. “It’s just part of the conference organization. We’ve got a couple of cable channels here, so I thought it would be wise.”

  “You’re one of the conference chairs,” I say, simply to fill the silence.

  “Honorary co-chair, of course.” Lauren smiles, indicating that her minions do the real work. “I appreciate you joining us on such late notice, Grace. I admit I was disappointed when you declined the first invitation, but frankly this panel is a better position than the slot we offered last spring.”