Chapter Twelve
Now
After I lead the way to the living room, Senator Samuels sits on my couch as if she’s been there before.
Correction—as if she owns the place.
She strikes me as the kind of woman who never appears uncomfortable in public. In fact, I don’t recall ever seeing her act uncomfortable anywhere, and I’ve covered several of her debates and watched hundreds of hoursof Senate hearings and floor discussions where she was either leading the way or participating very vocally. I’ve interviewed her several times. I’ve watched even more interview coverage of her.
And yet, even with that air of comfort engulfing her, she doesn’t appear pushy, or conceited, or anything like any other politician I’ve ever met. She truly is a beast of her own. Politically speaking,of course, because the senator is a lovely woman.
There are many words I would use to describe ShaeLynn Samuels—brutal, efficient, direct, canny, cagey, wily, and perhaps even ruthless—but ugly or unattractive arenotamong those descriptors, and I say as a man who knows without any doubt that he’s gay.
Okay, yes, I’m deep in the fricking closet, but still.
I think that particular aura surroundingher is why most people underestimate her. It was something her mother used to great efficiency, from what I’ve heard through others. Samuels is definitelynota stereotypical limp liberal noodle, no matter what those people far to the right of me would like to claim.
She’s a fighter, and sometimes a damned dirty one, from rumors I’ve heard.
Then again, so was her mother, if those rumors areto be believed. Although Florida State Senator Marlene Samuels never ran for higher office despite her popularity here in Florida and people asking her to run. The widowed mother raised her only child in her image—strong, fierce, and unyielding in the face of adversity.
“So howareyou doing, Mr. Markos?” she asks.
“Coyness does not become you, Senator.” I don’t have the energy or brain cellsfor a battle of wits with her today. I want her to have her say and get out.
She smiles. “I don’t think anyone has ever used that word to describe me. Not without it including a lot of sarcasm.”
Meanwhile, while we’re talking, I notice Christopher heads toward my kitchen. I’m not sure what he thinks he’ll discover in there, because I haven’t gone to the grocery store since the night of my arrivalin Tallahassee, and other than ice cream, chicken pot pies, and several pizzas in my freezer, the pickings are pretty damn slim. There are absolutely no snipers lying in wait to ambush the senator in there although there is some sketchy cheese in the fridge I haven’t tossed yet.
My fridge is nearly empty because I didn’t want be chased by tabloid reporters while trying to buy toothpaste and spaghettisauce and haven’t managed the energy to make another trip in the middle of the night.
“What brings you here today?” I ask once I’m seated. “I’m sure it’s not to bask in my downfall.”
Or, maybe it is. Maybe there’s a level of pettiness to the woman I was previously unaware of, although our past interactions were always cordial and professional, or so I thought. The last time I spoke with herwas that night I interviewed her in Tampa, the day after the election.
I’ve never taken an adversarial approach in my dealings with the senator. She’s far too savvy a political animal for that. She’s best dealt with directly, forthrightly, without trying to schmooze her or blindside her.
“I hear you’re looking for a job,” she says with a smile that continues to reveal nothing. “I happen to bein the market for someone with certain skills.”
“What kind of skills?” Needless to say, I have my doubts. Maybe not doubts, but definitely alotof questions. I am curious why a Democratic senator wants to talk tome, a previously unabashedly conservative TV personality, about a job in the first place.
She tips her head to the side, just a little. “So you’re willing to hear me out?”
“That depends.What kind of job are we talking about?”
Christopher returns to stand in the living room doorway. I don’t know if the senator knows about our past, but I suspect his presence with her today isnota mere coincidence.
He stands there, hands loosely clasped in front of him, feet shoulder-width apart, and stares at me with those intense green eyes that I could never forget.
Lord knows I spent plentyof years hoping to.
Despite trying to keep my focus on the senator, my gaze repeatedly darts back to Christopher, the proverbial moth to the flame.
Damn, he still looks good. His silent presence draws me, taunts me, calls to that deeply hidden guy inside me who will always be curled up in a Daytona hotel room with him and letting him hand-feed me tiramisu.
“For starters,” she says, snappingmy focus back to her, “I need assurances this is all off-the-record. What I say to you now isnotfor public consumption.”
I snort. “Sure, why not?”
