Nervously, I reach out and take them.
Like that, we ride all the way to our destination, holding hands while I listen to George in politician mode as he practices his speech. I’m so used to how he talks after years of being his friend and coworker that when I write for him, in my head I’m listening to the words in George’s voice. It helps me tailor a speech to him, so it sounds natural when he says it aloud.
Casey’s praised me for that many times, and so has George. It’s why I’m now his chief speechwriter. During his last Senate campaign, Casey was running a rough draft of an important speech past me that the hired speechwriter had put together, and I red-lined the hell out of it until she handed it off to me and told me to rewrite it.
I did, in less than two hours, and even she admitted it was perfect.
She then fired the speechwriter and handed those duties over to me.
I’ve written every speech he’s given since then, except for the one he gave at the memorial. He and Casey wrote that one.
Frankly? I’m kind of glad I wasn’t asked to write it. It was better they did, because they were the two people who knew her best in the entire world.
Before he releases my hand he squeezes, holding on until I meet his gaze.
He gives me a smile and a wink that I can’t help but return. He also hands off his personal and work cell phones to me to monitor. He doesn’t like having them on him during an event, because he’s too tempted to check them, especially if he gets a message or call from one of the kids and their special ringtone alerts him.
When we arrive, he does exit first without arguing with me about it. It’d look weird anyway, me climbing over him to get out, since the EPU officer opened his door for him.
Casey’s already there. I spotted her car parked in the field across the street from the house, where valets are ferrying them as guests arrive.
George switches on the smile when applause and cheers herald his arrival. The house is a mansion surrounded by several acres of manicured gardens. They have a long, circular driveway, and there are already at least a hundred people present.
Tonight’s fundraiser is a minimum of $250 a plate, with several people paying $1,000 a plate to sit at the dinner table with George and the hosts. I know many of the people in attendance from my law career, or from politics and being deputy chief of staff.
Casey and I count as George’s plus-one and a staffer, and we get free alcohol at the cash bar, even though we won’t drink tonight. Not while working. I do ask one of the officers in the security detail, who also shadow George, to please grab me two sealed bottles of water. One’s for me, one’s for George. Until we’re seated, he won’t eat or drink anything I don’t hand him. Or Casey, if she was right there with us and escorting him.
Upon spotting Casey and catching her eye, she tips her head toward George, her meaning clear—Shadow him.
With George’s phones tucked into my left jacket pocket, and my work phone in my hand so I can take notes as needed, I stay behind him, talking with people as we move through the space but also making sure I’m paying attention to George and what he’s discussing.
One of my jobs is to divert him if someone tries to hog his attention or talk to him about something inappropriate, to have another guest always in my sights to direct his attention to, should that happen.
The problem is no less than four people considering their own runs for office, for various positions, approach me and try to pull me aside to confer about strategy, or outright offer to hire me away from George.
Casey wasn’t kidding when she said she’d make me a political wunderkind. I have a reputation in this state of knowing my shit and being able to work miracles.
I turn them all down, obviously. Plus, I’ve learned how to politely and quickly disengage from people so I can stay with George. Tonight is about him making the rounds, making the fundraiser’s host look damned good so the man holds more of them for George, and making sure the people here want to throw more money at George’s campaign.
No sausage-making tonight. No deals being cut. No pork barrels being filled.
At least, not by George.
Schmoozing. That’s all.
There are some members of the press here, too, and I make sure each one gets some time with George. But before I let them talk to him, I make sure they all understand questions about his ordeal, and about Ellen or the kids, are off-limits.
Period.
We still have to remind the press of that even this far out.
Everything’s going great, his speech totally slays—it sounds like Casey made only a few subtle tweaks to it—and then they’re seating George for dinner at the special table.
That’s when the bottom falls out of my world and it takes everything within me not to launch myself over the table at the man seated directly across from George.
Terrance Ronald, Junior.
Chapter Seven
