Running Mate
Katie Ashley
Contents
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Chapter Twenty-One
Epilogue
About the Author
Also by Katie Ashley
Acknowledgments
Copyright © 2017 by Katie Ashley Productions
All rights reserved.
No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.
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For my late mother, Ginger, and late grandmother, Virginia, who fostered a love of history and interest in reading about political figures, especially the Kennedys’.
ADDISON
There are some days you never expect to change your life. I’m not talking about a little change off course toward a new and exciting destination—I’m talking about having your entire world shift on its axis and completely restart. Days like these never start off like a Disney movie with singing birds awakening you from a restful slumber while woodland creatures prepare your breakfast and sort out your wardrobe choices.
No, life-altering days always seem to start off in the seventh ring of hell, like when your alarm doesn’t go off and you’re subsequently denied your morning caffeine fix as you sprint around your apartment getting ready at a manic pace. After ensuring that your skirt isn’t tucked up in your pantyhose and that you indeed have a bra on, you haul ass to the bus stop just as the bus careens off. After cursing the bus driver and the universe, you then start jogging the ten blocks to work. Although a cab looks awfully inviting, you remember it’s the end of the month, and you have exactly $66.54 left in your checking account. It’s either eat or ride in a cab, and you enjoy food—well, wine, more precisely—way too much to give in to such extravagances.
So you soldier on while the theme to The Jeffersons plays in your head, because one day, the student loan debt will be paid off and you’ll get to move on up to the East Side to a deluxe apartment in the sky—though in your case, it’s a brownstone in Georgetown. Until then, you’re pretty much screwed.
Just as you round the corner to your building, one of the heels on your Jimmy Choos gets stuck in a street grate, which causes you to pitch forward and practically eat cement. Not only has your purse gone flying, so has the hem of your skirt. It’s currently circling your equator while you moon the morning rush hour crowd.
Oh yeah. Today was a day that would have made even Mother Teresa use a few choice expletives while downing a cold one.
As I was collecting myself off the pavement, my ass received a raucous welcome from the hard hat-wearing Neanderthals across the street. First it was whistles and barking like horndogs. Then they got verbal.
“Yeah, baby! I’d love to pound dat!”
“Mm, mm, mm. Let me pull that thong off with my teeth before I eat that ass!”
When I quickly jerked my skirt down over my hips, the hoots and hollers turned to booing. “Oh fuck off, jackholes!” I shouted over my shoulder before I grabbed my purse and the last shreds of my dignity off the sidewalk. My rebuff was met with howling laughter.
Rolling my eyes, I hobbled into the building with my Choos in one hand and the busted heel in the other. Thankfully, I was completely OCD, so I had a bottle of super glue in my desk drawer that I could use for a quick repair job. It wasn’t like my current dire financial straits would allow for a new pair. These were my black heels—the big gun of my foot attire. At the moment, I could barely afford Payless, least of all more designer shoes. Since I’d bought the pair used off Ebay, I guess I was more of a designer poser than anything.
The elevator swooshed upward to the tenth floor, causing my empty stomach to lurch. After the doors opened, I hurried down the hallway and through the glass doors of the presidential campaign headquarters for Senator James Callahan. At twenty past nine, the place was already buzzing. After his narrow wins in the New Hampshire primary and Iowa caucus, the campaign had kicked into overdrive.
With just weeks until the convention, there wasn’t a moment to waste. When someone runs for president, primary season is do or die. The more wins you rack up, the more likely you are to get the party’s nomination at the summer convention. Since Senator Callahan had only beaten his opponent by five points in each event, he and his team had to put their noses to the grindstone, which in turn meant the campaign staff were working double time.
After tossing my heels and purse on my desk, I made a beeline to the coffee pot. Today wasn’t the day to weaken the sweet, somewhat narcotic brew with sugar or cream. Nope—I began guzzling it down strong and black while it was still scorching hot. My eyes rolled back in my head, and I moaned in almost orgasmic bliss as the caffeine pumped through my system.
Once I’d had a good hit, I turned my attention to the boxes of donuts on the table. Sugar overload and high fat content were the staples of a campaign staffer’s diet. You could count on donuts and pastries for breakfast and pizza followed by more pizza throughout the day. The campaign budget went to TV ads, signs, and banners; we weren’t approved for catered-in nutritious foods. When I wasn’t running late, I tried to bring salad and fruit with me. I’d only been with the campaign six months, but I’d already gained ten pounds. My older brother loved to tease me by saying the entire ten pounds had gone to my chest and ass, and after today’s hard-hat appreciation of said ass, I was starting to agree with him.
I refilled my coffee, grabbed a cinnamon donut with my free hand, and then headed back to my desk. My phone was ringing when I got there. “Volunteer Services,” I answered.
It was my New York attaché, Grant. “Hey Ads, we’re in deep shit with the Latinos for Callahan’s rally.”
Groaning, I slurped on more coffee. “What do you mean?”
“The translator quit, so next weekend’s borough rallies in NYC and the Jersey rallies are totally fucked.”
I took a deep breath and collected my thoughts before I replied. “Okay. Go ahead and start fielding resumes for a new tri-city area translator. Worse comes to worst, I’ll take the train up and do it myself.”
“You speak Spanish?” Grant questioned incredulously.
“Si. Soy fluido en espanol, pendejo,” I replied.
Grant chuckled. “Let me guess, you just used an expletive to describe me.”
“I most certainly did.”
“Call me crazy for doubting you, but didn’t you grow up in North Carolina?”
“Yes, I did. I also spent every summer in Central America. You tend to pick things up.”
“I see.”
“For future reference, pendejo is asshole. I could also call you a cabrón.”
“Okay, okay. I’ll never doubt your skills again.”
“You better not. Keep me posted on the translator.”
“You got it.”
“Adios pendejo.”
Grant laughed. “Bye Ads.”
After hanging up with Grant, I fielded a few more calls while downing my coffee and scarfing down the donut. Since my stomach was still rumbling, I decided my day from hell allowed me to throw ca
lorie counting to the wind, so I snagged another cinnamon donut.
As I made my way back to my desk, I couldn’t help feeling so very blessed that I called the Callahan campaign home. Not only was it a total coup that I’d landed the job at just twenty-seven, it couldn’t have come at a better time for me both professionally and personally. I’d spent the first two years out of college working as the personal assistant to Representative Walter Gregson. While I spent my days with Walt Sr., my nights were spent with his son, Walt Jr., so yeah, you could say nepotism had landed me that job.
Walt and I met our senior year at Duke where we were both political science majors, and we started living together after just six months. Once we graduated, we moved to an apartment in Georgetown. While I started working for his father’s political office, Walt took a job with a lobbying firm.
Everything seemed perfect—like put a ring on it perfect. Looking back now, I realize how naïve I was about all the nights I went to bed alone. Walt assured me that his long days were being forced on him by his bosses. He was the new guy and had to earn his stripes, which meant working into the wee hours of the morning.
The truth was Walt had fallen victim to what I liked to call the DC Dick Curse. Something about the air is different in DC; it fans the flames of narcissism and inflated egos. Even the most committed man who would never dream of straying can get the wandering eye. It’s like they’re sucked into the Bermuda Triangle of Pussy.
It wasn’t just Walt’s eye that did the wandering; his dick ended up wandering into the vagina of one of the office interns. I had the pleasure of discovering this one night when I went to surprise him with his favorite Thai takeout. Instead of finding him toiling away at his computer, I found him nailing the intern doggy style over his desk.
After he had chased me down to the elevators with his semi-erect dick flapping in the wind, he begged me not to leave. He did the familiar song and dance that all men who get caught cheating do. He promised he would never do it again. It was only about sex. He loved me, never meant to hurt me. He even offered up all the heavy hitters like therapy and having the intern transferred.
But, in my heart of hearts, I knew I could never trust him again, so I broke up with him. What I would soon learn is when I broke up with Walt Jr., I also broke up with his father. I was unceremoniously let go the very next day—and by unceremoniously, I mean a security guard met me at the door with a box containing the contents of my desk and told me I didn’t work there anymore. Bad news obviously traveled from son to father quickly. Bastards.
In the span of a few days, I found myself jobless and homeless. I could have tucked my tail between my legs and gone home to my parents in North Carolina, but I was far too independent for that. My strength of character was both a blessing and a curse for my parents. They were the ones who raised me to be resilient and stand on my own two feet. During their time as missionaries in Central America, my sister, brother, and I had learned to be scrappy and resourceful, but I think now they wished I was a little less independent and self-reliant so I could take a nice job close to home and marry some youth minister at their church like my older sister, Amy, had.
Instead, I stayed with my older brother at his apartment in Arlington, Virginia, until I got the job with the Callahan campaign. After a few months with a steady paycheck, I moved into an overpriced yet extremely shitty one-bedroom apartment in the city—the very one I’d been running around in like a maniac when I woke up late that morning.
With a few free moments, I dug the super glue out of my desk drawer. As I lay the materials out on my desk, it felt like I was scrubbing up to go into surgery. Saving a beloved and necessary shoe was serious business. “Work with me, Choo. You still got life in you, bud,” I cajoled. Laying my hand on the toe of the shoe, I pinched my eyes shut and channeled my best televangelist impression as I cried dramatically, “Heal your heel, Choo!”
“Miss Monroe?”
My eyes snapped open as I jerked my gaze from my shoe into the eyes of Bernard George, the head of the campaign. My boss. The big cheese.
After swallowing hard, I squeaked, “Yes sir?”
“Might I have a word?”
Oh, fuckity, fuck, fuuuuck! No one had ever had just a word with Mr. George. You had to get through three staffers just to wave at him. His palatial office with a view of the Potomac appeared to have more guards around it than one of the security checkpoints at the airport. This was soooo bad.
I forced a bright smile to my face. “Yes sir, of course.”
After sliding on my gimpy shoe, I then proceeded to hobble off-kilter after Mr. George. The broken Choo seemed to fit what I could only anticipate was my break with the campaign, and my chin trembled as I dealt with the impending doom. You didn’t come back from being fired from a campaign—political staffers had a long memory when it came to people who fucked up. Four years down the road, there might be a new candidate, but you would forever have the word loser on your forehead like a biblical mark of the beast.
Instead of ushering me into his office, Mr. George held the glass exit door open for me. I bit down on my lip to keep from crying. I wasn’t even going to get a courteous brushoff in his office. Someone was probably emptying my desk drawer right now. It would be just like my demise at Representative Gregson’s office. Considering I’d been kicking ass and taking names at my job, I couldn’t help but wonder what I had done that had so offended Mr. George.
He gave me a tight smile as we got onto the elevator, and we spent the ride down in awkward silence. Once we reached the ground floor, he didn’t head to the front of the building. Instead, he started toward the back exit. Jesus, talk about a walk of shame. Instead of dissolving into hysterics, I threw my shoulders back and held my head high. There would be time for falling to pieces later. For the moment, I had to save face.
When I got outside, the sunlight momentarily blinded me, but after my eyes adjusted, I did a double take at the sight of Mr. George standing in front of a stretch limo.
“Wow, you guys really fire in style, don’t you?” I mused.
Mr. George’s salt and pepper brows knitted together. “Excuse me?”
“You’re firing me, right?”
He chuckled. “Of course not. You’re one of the best volunteer coordinators I’ve ever seen in all my years of running campaigns.”
Suddenly I felt very stupid for overreacting; jumping to paranoid conclusions was one of my worst character traits. “I’m sorry. It’s just…no one on my level ever gets to see you, least of all have a meeting with you. I couldn’t help but assume I was being fired.”
“No, Miss Monroe, you are definitely not being fired.”
“Then what exactly is going on?”
“Senator Callahan has something he wishes to speak to you about in private.”
“You’re shitting me.” My extreme shock had apparently rendered me foul-mouthed. Mortification rocketed through me, and my cheeks flushed. “Excuse my language. This is all very unexpected.”
Mr. George just chuckled. “It’s quite all right, Miss Monroe. I find my mouth runs away with me sometimes as well.” It was hard to imagine Mr. George ever being less than completely straitlaced.
My knees started shaking in my Choos. I couldn’t possibly imagine what Senator Callahan wanted to speak to me about. The part of me that wanted to see the glass half full imagined he wanted to promote me to a higher position in the campaign, but the pessimistic side of me was much, much bigger, especially after the morning from hell I’d had so far.
But then an icy feeling of unease crept its way up my spine. Although most days I struggled with self-esteem just like any other woman, I still knew in my heart of hearts that I was a decent-looking girl. What if Senator Callahan had seen my picture and decided he wanted to have his way with me? Even though he could easily be considered a silver fox, there was no way in hell I would ever use sex to further my career.
It was then that I quietly began humming “He Had It Coming” from th
e musical Chicago. After spending middle and high school immersed in musical theater, I often resorted to humming show tunes whenever I was nervous. Most of the time, I managed to find a tune to go with my current mood.
As the driver opened the limo door, Mr. George patted my back. “Stop worrying, Miss Monroe. Your job is safe, but better yet, you are safe.”
At his knowing look, a relieved breath whooshed out of me. “I’m glad to hear that, sir,” I replied as I dropped into the limo. I slid across the seat, leaving plenty of room for Mr. George, who eased down beside me.
Once we got on our way, Mr. George dug a mini bottle of Moet out of the mini-fridge across from us. “Would you like some champagne?” he offered.
Although it would have probably settled my out-of-control nerves, I decided I should pass. After a breakfast of champions comprised of black coffee and donuts, I wasn’t sure my stomach could handle the bubbles. Besides, I needed a clear head for what was about to happen, and alcohol wasn’t going to make me sharp. There was also the less than desirable fact that champagne always made me burp, and the last thing I needed was to gross Mr. George out after cursing around him.
“No, thank you,” I politely declined.
With a wink, Mr. George put the champagne back and handed me a bottle of water. “Just so you know, I wasn’t trying to ply you with alcohol to make a pass at you.”
A flush of embarrassment tinged my cheeks since that thought had crossed my mind. “That’s not what I was thinking,” I lied.
“It’s exactly what you were thinking, along with the fact that you didn’t think drinking would calm your anxiety about your meeting with Senator Callahan.”
I widened my eyes. “How could you possible know that?”
“Because the whole limo ride to see a powerful man thing would seem nefarious in most people’s minds. Throw in the fact that you are an attractive young woman and it makes it seem even seedier.”
“Well…I…”