This slap in the face from Jude stings like nothing ever has before.
Chapter 25
I can still feelReagan’s body against me as I walk down Michigan Avenue to the small coffee shop at the corner that I frequent. My hands are tucked into my pockets and I’m staring at the sidewalk, replaying the night before in my head. I’m so lost in the delicious details that I don’t see the reporters until there’s a microphone in my face.
“Titan, what do you think about the latest revelation about the Preston family?”
I glance up and scan the small crowd that has gathered around me. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“Haven’t you seen the latest headline?” a man in the back calls out.
I shake my head and wonder what has everyone in a tizzy. “I haven’t read the paper today.” I start to walk away, pushing the group to the side gently.
My only thought is Reagan. Before I can break free, a man sticks the paper in my face, waving the headline before my eyes.
Senator Stan Preston Caught Cheating
My stomach sinks, and I slap the paper out of my face. “I can’t comment at this time,” I say before grinding my teeth and brushing by the last reporter.
They’re close on my heels, following me down the street. Fuck, Reagan has to be beside herself. The headline is true, but not about the woman who’s shown in the photo. Everything that I worked to keep on the down low just became public knowledge. Fair or not, this will impact Reagan’s campaign.
When I stop on the corner to hail a cab, one of the reporters bumps into me. “Sorry, Mr. Titan.” She blushes when I turn around with a scowl. “This changes everything for your campaign, doesn’t it?”
My face softens before I reply. As her opponent, I shouldn’t care that her campaign is about to go down in flames. I should be happy about the latest Preston revelation. “The race is between Representative Preston and me. I’m not running against her father.” I hold out my hand and hail the first cab I see. When it pulls to the curb, I turn to face the twenty reporters waiting for my next response. “I can’t comment on whether the allegations are true or not, but it should have no bearing on the outcome of the election.”
They’re yelling my name, trying to jam their recording devices into the cab as I close the door.
“100 East Bellevue Place, please,” I tell the cabdriver when he begins to pull away, leaving the reporters behind.
He glances at me in the rearview mirror. “Tough day?”
Reaching into my back pocket, I pull out my phone and check my messages. “You could say that.” I’m going to kick Carl’s ass.
Reagan hasn’t messaged me, but she has to have seen the headline already—she left my hotel room over an hour ago. I shoot her a quick message and am staring at the screen waiting for a reply when my phone rings.
“I can’t believe you fucking did this, Carl!” I yell, unable to control my anger. “You’ve crossed the line.”
“You should be thanking me,” he replies before laughing.
“I told younotto release the photos. You’re fired, Carl.”
“No, I’m not. Stop acting like a pussy and man up already, Jude. You hired me to be your campaign manager, and I did my job. I’m ensuring your victory on Election Day.”
“I hired you, and I can fire you, Carl. Effective immediately, you’re no longer my manager or my friend.” I end the call as soon as he starts to fire back about loyalty, honor, and duty.
It’s all bullshit Carl makes up in his head to justify his actions, and I’m not buying a word of it. I thought Carl was an honorable man. Never in a million years did I think he’d become so consumed with the campaign that he’d sink so low as to release the photos.
I dial Reagan’s number, but it instantly goes to voice. “Reagan.” I suck in a breath and glance up at the roof of the cab. “I’m sorry, Reagan. I had nothing to do with this. Call me. We need to talk.”
“Change of plans,” I say to the cab driver, waiting for his eyes to find me in the rearview mirror while we’re at a red light. “Take me to 15th and South State instead.”
“Yes, sir.” He nods, returning his eyes to the road.
The reporters are probably waiting for me, camped outside my building, but thankfully, my building has a twenty-four-hour doorman that will keep them at bay. “Pull around to the back off of Clark and Dearborn, please. We’ll enter through the resident garage.”
“Not a problem,” he replies as I’m frantically typing a message to Reagan.
Me: R—Call me!
