I glare at her. Hayden resumes in her normal voice, “Look, Mr. Marshall. With all due respect, you’re too picky. I could go on and on listing reasons you’ve given me regarding the unsatisfactory qualities of some pretty amazing women. Any of them would make a fine wife and first lady. I can’t do my job appropriately, which is to manage your campaign, because you have me on this hopeless task of finding a woman who meets your standards. Yes, I’m your campaign manager, but I am not your press secretary. I’m not here to fix your image.”
“Miss Bennett.” I tap my fingers on the arm rest, one by one, thinking through my next words. “The women you have set me up with are…chasers. They all chase money, titles, and social status.”
“But—”
I hold one finger up. How do I explain to her, someone who is not concerned with chasing money and fame, that I need a woman who is just that—not a chaser?
“I need a wife I can fully trust. A woman who not only understands my world, but can also be of assistance. I don’t need a trophy wife, and I donotneed love. I need trust, skill, and intelligence.” I pause, watching Hayden’s wheels turn. “You have yet to deliver that woman to me. We are in a pickle, it seems.”
She narrows her eyes. “You got yourself into this mess, and there are a million other things I need to be doing to get you successfully elected to office. You need to get yourself out of this pickle jar. I’m the fork who keeps missing the mark, apparently.”
My head pounds with the beat of my heart. Hayden Bennett is as vexing as she is good at her job, which is the only reason she is still here. That, and I know Stella trained her. Stella Harper was a phenomenal human to have around.
“Two more weeks, Hayden. I’ll double your pay this month for the extra work and the previous time you’ve put into this.” I know she isn’t after money, but money can still talk.
Her narrowed eyes snap open, and she straightens. “Fine. I’ll scrounge the earth for a few more women. But that’s it. If you still haven’t chosen one by then, I can’t help anymore, Mr. Marshall.”
Finally.
I hold out my hand to shake hers before realizing the hand she would grab mine with is the cut one. Instead of switching, I nod, rise out of the chair, and take my leave. I need time away from the woman—and campaigning in general. Just a few minutes alone would be satisfying.
“Mr. Marshall, come quick. The Republican candidate said that you were…” Micah skids on his heels as he rounds the corner of the hallway.
A few minutes alone…
Chapter Three
Hayden
I’m an orphan, a product of the broken foster care system in the United States, a Black woman in conservative politics, and a single twenty-nine-year-old.
Regardless of all that, nothing—let me repeat, NOTHING—makes my skin itch and crawl with irritation quite like Darcy Marshall. My mind seethes as I clench the steering wheel to my car. The horns of cars stuck in five o’ clock traffic vibrate my soul.
It’s in the way he saunters—a cheetah on the hunt for the gazelle. He never smiles, unless he’s doing an interview or event. No, that’s not true. He also smiles when leading a meeting or talking to strangers. But with me, he wears his permanent scowl like a badge of honor. The scowl is simply an outside manifestation of his foul, filthy soul. Granted, his mind is sharp as a whip, which annoys me because it makes me like him. Something else that annoys me? Darcy never slumps, but always sits as straight as the Space Needle in Seattle. His eyes, though one may mistake them for the heat ofa blue-flamed fire on a chilly night, are as cold as an early spring snow. And he’s too tall for his own good. Seriously, the man looms over everyone. He’s not human.
But enough.
Darcy Marshall will NOT steal my joy. I’m better than throwing a mental tantrum like a hormonal middle school girl. Been there, done that. Bright side: my weekend has officially started.
Against my better judgment, I pull my hair free from its ponytail holder and black coils spring loose. I don’t have to check the mirror to know I look like a dark-haired lion with what’s bound to become scars coating my face, but that’s okay. Because I am happy, joyful, ecstatic, confident… All the things. I even crack my windows and let the cool March air kiss my cheeks.
My personal feelings toward Darcy aside, I’m ecstatic to be heading his campaign. He may not be a treat to deal with one-on-one, but his Christian morals, conservative ideals, and personal freedom-centered philosophical outlooks are worth backing. Throughout college, I changed my major more than politicians change positions on important issues to appease the culture. You could say I’m a multi-passionate person. With each new elective class I took, I became infatuated with a new career option: becoming an FBI agent, a forensic scientist, and even a brain surgeon. But after my first political science class—a basic American government class—I knew I found my home. My calling.
As they say, the rest is history.
My best friend is awesome; I love her and would give her my kidney. But when she stepped down as Darcy’s campaign manager and recommended I take her place, I was popping likemarvelous fireworks on the Fourth of July. Then, a thought drenched my fuse: there’s no way Darcy is going to letmemanage his campaign. I was done for. However, Stella Harper is a magical being, and in her unknown ways, she convinced Darcy to let me take the reins. Cue the fireworks again.
Personality-wise, he’s the literal incarnate of the romance hero he’s named after, but he’s also my ticket into the world I was born to live in. I pull into the parking lot of my apartment, get out and lock my car, and head toward the elevators to my eleventh-floor room. Glancing at Stella’s old apartment brings a flood of emotions, but I shake it off and unlock the door to 11H.
The rotten stench of an empty chicken package assaults my nose, and I chastise myself for not taking the garbage out sooner. Blankets are thrown haphazardly across my couch, used cups sit on every coaster in my living area, and I know if I walked to the kitchen, a pile of dirty dishes would beg me to wash them. I would staunchly say no because I’m the girl who washes as she needs a dish. Takeout is my go-to for the most part, so dishes aren’t required on the norm.
Once I’m in the bathroom and opening the burn cream I stopped and bought right after leaving Darcy’s, I dare a glance in the mirror. My face is bubbled and blistered, and when I take my shirt off, I realize my chest and parts of my stomach match my face. I gently and lavishly apply the cream, wincing at every touch. Baggy clothes it is for the foreseeable future.
With a sudden wave of exhaustion—eighty percent emotional, twenty percent physical—I zombie-walk to my bedroom and collapse backside down on the queen size of downy softness, wincingat the movement of the burns on my stomach. If I splurge on anything, it’s my bath time needs and my bed. The moment my head hits the pillow, I close my eyes and let out a tired breath, followed by a sigh of contentment at ignoring my responsibilities in favor of sleep.
Make it stop, make it stop, make it stop!I jolt upright, chest heaving and breath heavy, as I desperately attempt to find her in the dark alley. My hands search my body, and I realize I’m in my bed, clothed in my pajamas, and wholly frazzled. The cold, haunted streets of my dream fade away with each breath in through the nose and out through the mouth.
A succession of knocks on the door startle me again. I check my phone for the time and realize I’ve only slept for forty-five minutes, though it feels like an eternity. Wrapping my robe tightly around me and snuggling into my house slippers, I head for the door.
