Georgie
By the next morning, Jameson and I were back on the campaign trail, even if we didn’t know who our opponent was going to be. While the Republicans hemmed and hawed over their next nominee, Jameson worked hard to be seen. He put himself in front of crowds of people, unions, and veterans; anyone willing to listen to his message. Privately, he paced the floors of the countless hotel rooms we occupied, the constant worry of who would be picked written all over his handsome face.
He talked every day to Sean and a team of advisors, their speculation rampant. One day, they were adamant it was this governor or that senator. The next day, those names were no longer viable. It was maddening, and Jameson turned distant.
“Let’s go to dinner,” I begged Jameson during a campaign stop in Las Vegas. The glitz and glamour of the city called out to me, and I didn’t want to be cooped up inside a luxurious suite while Jameson planned and plotted against the unknown.
“I have to finish this,” Jameson mumbled. He sat at a table in the suite’s dining room with stacks of policy books spread out in front of him. I even saw a copy of The Art of War hidden under piles of papers. I wondered what Sun Tzu had to say about presidential campaigns.
“Fine,” I huffed, rolling my eyes. I grabbed my small clutch purse from a nearby end table and left the suite. If Jameson didn’t want to take advantage of the fine dining and even finer desserts, that was his choice.
I wandered around the casino floor, its cacophony of ringing bells and flashing lights filling all my senses. Slot machines tempted me, alluring me with their jackpots or pop culture gimmicks, but my money stayed firmly in my wallet.
I approached probably one of the fanciest and most expensive restaurants in the city and politely requested a table for one. The restaurant had a patio that overlooked the cascading fountains dominating the front of the casino.
“Can I sit out there, please?” I requested, pointing toward open patio.
“Of course, Ms. Washington.” I was still getting used to people recognizing me and using my name.
I followed the hostess toward a small table at the edge of the patio. It had a fantastic view of the fountains. I scanned the menu, but nothing tempted me. Or rather, nothing tempted my sweet tooth.
“What are you drinking tonight?” a waiter asked.
“I’ll have a glass of rosé,” I replied. “And could I have the dessert menu?”
The waiter nodded at my request, disappeared, and returned rather quickly with a new menu. I held up a finger, indicating that he should wait. It wouldn’t take me long to figure out which dessert to pick.
“I’ll have the devil’s food cake with strawberries.”
“Excellent choice,” the waiter replied before vanishing again.
I sat quietly, admiring the fountains which entertained the tourists with their choreographed dance show. Tonight’s show featured a number set to a classic rock song by the band Queen. Must have known I was coming.
“Can I join you?” Jameson’s familiar baritone filled the air, sending goose bumps shivering across my bare shoulder.
I nodded my approval and watched as Jameson moved gracefully around the table to sit across from me.
“I’m scared they’re going to pick Garcia,” he said plainly.
“I’m worried about that too, Jameson.”
“I feel like I have to work twice as hard now to prepare for the rest of this campaign. I feel everything slipping away from me.”
I reached across the table and grabbed his hand, holding it tightly in my grip. “Jameson, we don’t work if you shut me out. You have to let me do some of the hard work too.”
“Can you blame me for wanting to protect you?” His eyes flicked to my bare shoulder. The thick strap of my dress covered most of the scar, but little pink spider webs still crept out from beneath the fabric. Jameson’s eyes finally met mine, and the look he gave me nearly ripped me in two. This campaign nearly cost us everything, but I was even more determined to win now.
“No, I don’t blame you, but you know that’s not what I want, Jameson. I want to stand next to you, not behind you.”
“Then what do we do?”
I grinned because this is what I craved—equality, partnership. Over the next hour, we talked extensively about Elias Garcia and his brand of centrist politics. We shared devil’s food cake while I played devil’s advocate. Jameson needed to be pushed, and between glasses of rosé, I challenged him.
The restaurant emptied, leaving just us and a few other reticent diners. Who could blame us for not wanting to leave? The restaurant provided us with a secluded, intimate location among the glittering lights of the Las Vegas Strip and the cool breeze of the fountains.
“You seem more relaxed,” I noted. Jameson’s posture was less rigid and his face a bit softer.
“I needed this. I need you.” His eyes darkened to the color of the ocean, and a heat flared to life within them.
I stood and held my hand out to him. “Of course, you do.”