Total pages in book: 113
Estimated words: 108242 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 541(@200wpm)___ 433(@250wpm)___ 361(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 108242 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 541(@200wpm)___ 433(@250wpm)___ 361(@300wpm)
Hope generates a unique energy, and that’s what I sense in these crowds, in these people as we travel the country and lay the groundwork for what will be a massive campaign. Hope that Owen is as good as he looks. That he might effect change to actually make life better for them. That he’ll make this country better. No matter how many campaigns I manage or scandals I have to spin or counterfeit candidates I meet, on the inside, I’m still like every eager face crowding the front of Owen’s stage.
I still hope for the real thing.
“There’s a long road ahead,” Owen tells the people huddled into their coats and scarves in the February cold. He leans into the mic, his blond hair disheveled by the bitter wind. “But that just gives you more time to get to know me.”
With that boyish grin, he’ll be collecting hearts and votes for the next year and a half, all the way to the booth next November.
“And I hope when it’s time to pull that lever,” he continues, “you’ll remember Owen Cade. For the people.”
The applause is thunderous when he steps away from the podium, waves, and walks offstage. Never far away, his two security plain suits flank him as soon as he hits the ground and starts signing autographs, air-kissing babies, and posing for selfies. We often make rock stars of our politicians. Large crowds, theme music, slogans. Owen, with his three-hundred-dollar haircut and five-thousand-dollar suit, somehow makes people struggling to pay rent feel he understands their pain. Never having gone a day in his life suffering any lack, he does seem to understand the plight of working people. I marvel again that Warren Cade raised Maxim and Owen. From such a privileged background and with such a jerk for a father, they both managed to become good men, empathetic and caring about others who have a lot less.
“Must be the mom,” I mutter, pulling out my phone to double-check the itinerary for what comes next. A text grabs my attention right away.
Maxim: This shit isn’t funny. It’s been two weeks. I want to see you.
My heart does that little hiccup he always inspires, accompanied by the ache of missing him. It has been two weeks since we saw each other. I’ve been on the trail. He went to Paris and then Prague for business. We’re just beginning, but the pace is already hectic, and at the end of every day, alone in whatever unfamiliar bed the hotel provides, I think of Maxim. We talk every day, even if only for a few minutes with time differences and schedule demands, but he’s right. It’s been too long.
Me: I know. I miss you, too. We’re in DC next week because Owen has to come home for a vote. Then?
Maxim: Then. I was scheduled for Germany, but I’ll have Jin Lei rearrange.
Me: You sure? I don’t want to disrupt your business. I know how crazy your schedule is.
Maxim: I need to fuck you. I haven’t jerked off this much since I was fourteen.
I giggle and start my reply when Owen walks up. I shove the phone into my pocket and tune back in.
“Ready?” I ask him. “The car’s waiting.”
“Yeah.” He gives me that auto-smile he’s probably defaulted to after a full day of photos and questions and rally stops, but then I see the shift. He dips his head to look directly into my eyes, his smile softening and turning genuine. “You look tired.”
“Says the pot to the kettle.” I fall in step beside him, the two guards not far behind us. “It’s been a grueling day.”
“Yeah, but it’s Pennsylvania. How many times will we come through this state over the next year and a half?”
“Oh, you’ll lose count. Pennsylvania, Ohio, Michigan, Florida. We have to hit these swing states hard and often, starting now. They went red last election, and we need to turn them blue again if we have any hope of winning in the general.”
“Don’t get ahead of yourself.” He glances down at me from the same great height his brother has. “We have to win the nomination first.”
“I’m not worried about the nomination. You’re so far ahead in the polls for a reason, Owen. There’s not a candidate from the party who can touch you, but you’re right. The Iowa caucus is our first proving ground. We’ve got a year to ensure it’s a knockout punch. I want as many of those delegates as possible. I want to debilitate the competition—steal their hearts right out of the gate. Make them feel it’s a lost cause before they even start fighting in the primaries.”
“Ruthless little thing, aren’t you?” Owen asks with a smile as we approach his black SUV at the curb.
“If politics doesn’t make you at least a bit ruthless and, in my case, at least a little bit of a bitch, you aren’t doing it right.”