“This is really good, Samantha.”
“Thank you.”
“You sound surprised.” Jason looked up at her from his place behind the desk and smiled.
“I … no, it’s not that I’m surprised,” Sam lied. “It’s just, it’s the hardest issue I’ve ever had to work on and I wanted it to get the message across.”
“It did.” Jason handed her the two sheets of paper he’d been looking over.
Taking it from between his fingers, Sam quickly glanced over it. There were barely any notations in the margins. And the ones she saw were comments, not corrections. When she looked up again, Jason was studying her.
She had been working for him for a few years now, ever since she graduated from Georgetown. It was supposed to be the starter job, the one she used to bide her time until she decided on her next move. But the next move had never come to fruition and Sam found herself becoming more absorbed by the legislative process, and the art of influencing legislators.
The public-at-large tended to think of lobbying as a dirty, bottom-feeding business, and it could be. But it was also an opportunity to give voice to the voiceless. If you worked for the right kind of firm, it could be rewarding, and not just financially.
Jason, and his two partners, Paul, and Owen, were themselves Georgetown grads, but they had also gone to Georgetown Law. And in a legal clinic there, had all caught the bug for getting the interests of the underserved in front of Members of Congress.
Their client base was comprised mostly of non-profits and international NGOs who found it difficult to get the access that big corporate lobbyists took for granted. After a decade of working personal connections, their alumni association and even family friends, Jason, Paul and Owen had built a political consultancy that had a reputation for taking the tough, bleeding-heart issues to the even tougher, conservative legislators; and getting results.
Jason was the only one among the three partners who was Black, and had a reputation for seeking out and hiring talented, young people of color and mentoring them in their career in lobbying. When he gave her the job, Sam hadn’t even been aware of that reputation but now that she’d been with him for a spell, she saw the respect he commanded around town, and felt lucky to be learning under his tutelage. He was only about thirty-six, but carried himself with such confidence and self-possession that it was difficult not to look up to him.
“I’ve been thinking,” Jason said, idly stroking his goatee, “that maybe you might want to come along for a few of the Hill visits on this one.”
Samantha took a step back and sank into one of his guest chairs. “Hill visits?” she echoed.
“Yeah,” Jason said. “I mean, you’ve been with us a while. How old are you, if you don’t mind me asking?”
“Twenty-seven.”
Jason shrugged. “It’s past time for you to start cutting your teeth up there. Why don’t you plan to come with me when we start these meetings?”
“You’re lobbying this yourself?”
Jason and the partners seldom did the legwork anymore, unless the Member they were targeting was very high-profile, or the issue was particularly tricky.
“Yeah,” Jason said. “This one means a lot to me. Not sure I could trust it to someone too junior.”
“But you’d trust me to come with you on the visits? I mean, I’m not even a lobbyist.”
“True. But I read what you wrote, and it’s clear you feel strongly about it.”
Sam nodded. “I do. And I guess if you think I could …”
“You can,” he said. “You know this material better than I do, at this point. I’ll take the lead, and when questions come up that get into the weeds, I’ll turn to you. We’ll tag-team it.”
He made it sound so easy. The firm had two dozen lobbyists, most of whom were lawyers who, on average, were about thirty-two. They had specialized issue areas that they worked on—international trade, immigration, criminal justice, energy policy, climate change and the environment—and if a client came to the firm, work was assigned according to whichever issue the lobbyist specialized in. Sam, as a policy analyst backstopped their work.
She did the research, helped write the position papers, one-pagers and background material that was shared with staffers on Capitol Hill, and Members of Congress. Most of her work involved dumbing-down complex issues, making them digestible, and making a specific policy ask—vote for this bill, decline to support that one, co-sponsor this one—sound like a no-brainer; or better yet, presenting it as a surefire winner for the Member of Congress and their state or congressional district.
The lobbyists’ job, once Sam had done hers, was to be the front-men or -women. They were the ones who showed up on Capitol Hill in their blue suits, and smooth-talked or schmoozed the Members and their staff into taking a particular action. If they needed data to support that position or action, Sam’s work provided it. If they needed vignettes, or personal interest stories, Sam was tasked with finding them. It was important work, but mostly done in carrels and at computers. She had never envisioned herself as one of the hotshots in a dark suit who actually went to the Hill.
“But, I’m not a lobbyist,” she said again.
“Is that something you’d be interested in doing?” Jason asked.
“I hadn’t really thought of it,” she admitted.
“You should. Because if you want that, now would be the time. In two to three years, if you stay on the track you’re on right now, you might be a senior policy analyst, and then a couple years after that, a director of policy, or something like that. But if you want to get out there, and get in the fray up on the Hill, you’ll need to get that experience now.”
Sam nodded.
“This is a relationships business,” Jason continued. “You’ll need people to recognize you, you’ll have to do some networking. It’s not for everybody, but the point is, you have to be intentional about it. Good lobbyists don’t happen overnight. You have to till some serious ground and cultivate important relationships.”
“Do you see me doing that?” she asked.
“I think you’d be good at it.” Jason nodded. “Especially because you’ve had some time to get exposed to a lot of issues. Most of our folks out there …” He indicated the outer office where all the lobbyists were visible through the glass walls of his office, meeting in the conference room with one of the partners. “They’re good, some of the best in the business. But they’re one-trick ponies. Talk to our criminal justice guy about immigration and he’s useless. But you? You’re a generalist but with deep knowledge on more than one issue. Not a whole lot of those around, so that could make you a very valuable player.”
Sam smiled. “Thank you,” she said.
“It’s the truth,” Jason said, shrugging. “And the way you distilled that issue? Something that complex? If you can communicate that way in person, the way you did on paper, the sky’s the limit.”
“He said that?”
Sam nodded, reaching for a slice of the pizza Colt had brought over for their dinner. She took a bite so large, her cheeks were puffed out as she chewed.
“Even though you were two days late getting it done?”
“Yup. Even then.” Sam spoke around the food in her mouth.
“You gon’ do it?” Colt asked. He had stretched his long legs out and was resting his feet on the coffee table, not too far from the pizza box. Sam reached over and shut it, both to keep the heat in, and the lint from Colt’s gym socks out.
“I don’t know. I have to make sure I’m not reacting to his flattery. And that I really, actually want to be a lobbyist.”
“You’ve been workin’ there for almost six years. You don’t know yet if you want to be a lobbyist?”
“It’s complicated. Lobbying is an easy job to make you think you want it. It’s fast-paced, high-pressured, exciting. You meet people that most folks only ever see on CNN … it has a kind of daredevil appeal. But I don’t know …”
“What aren’t you feelin’ about it?”
“The … lying, I guess.”
Colt spluttered into laughter. “Oh shit. The lying. Don’t hold back, Sam. Tell me how you really feel.”
She laughed with him a little. “No, that’s kind of harsh. But there’s this part of it that’s … I don’t know. Dishonest. Even for the good causes. You kind of have to oversimplify a lot. I mean, every issue has shades of gray, but that’s not how lawmakers think. That’s not what moves them. That’s not what moves the public. So, you have to paint everything in black-and-white terms. Like your argument is the only legitimate argument. Like your conclusion is the only reasonable conclusion. You know what I mean?”
Colt shook his head.
“Like, take … abortion for instance,” Sam swallowed the food she had been chewing. “If you’re lobbying to get someone to support an anti-abortion bill, you can’t allow them to focus on the fact that it’s complicated, that there’s many reasons women might make that choice, even when it’s a choice they’d rather not make.
“You can’t dignify the argument that even if they think abortion is wrong, they shouldn’t outlaw a morally difficult choice. Instead, you just hammer home that abortion is wrong, and so banning it is right. That’s what moves lawmakers. That’s the kind of argument that moves the public. But it’s an oversimplification. And it’s also kind of …” She grimaced. “A lie.”
Colt nodded, and Sam could see that he got it. He put down his slice of pizza and wiped his greasy palms on the legs of his sweatpants.
“C’mere,” he said.
Sam swallowed hard, wiping her own hands clean on a napkin.
She stood and went toward Colt, walking slowly because it was still hard to fathom, the newness of this thing between them. They hadn’t seen each other since their lunch at the Chinese restaurant. Throughout the rest of the week, they’d spoken on the phone the way they always did and texted a few times a day. But they both avoided talking about the big change they had both agreed to.
Sam was busy trying to finish her position paper, so she hadn’t taken the time to revisit the conversation they had about “doing things right” and Colt hadn’t pressed her on it. She knew that as far as he was concerned, it was a done deal. It was only now that they were alone in her place—just like last Friday night—that the whole thing was starting to feel like something of consequence.
She stood in front of him, looking down at where he was reclined on her favorite armchair. He looked up at her with assessing eyes, his gaze running the length of her body. She was wearing her usual lounging get-up—leggings and a tank—and her hair was pulled back with a bandeau.
She hadn’t washed it tonight, because he called and said he was on his way, and Sam didn’t want to be occupied with hair when he arrived. Now, she wondered, idly, whether she would have to change her Friday routine altogether. If she could expect Colt on Fridays from now on, maybe hair-washing would become a thing for Saturdays, or Sundays. And would he want to stay over? If he did, what were the chances she would make it to spin class, ever?
Her mind was racing, the way her mouth did when she was nervous. But she was too jittery to speak.
Colt let his foot fall from the coffee table and parted his knees, pulling her forward by the hem of her tank so she was standing between his legs. Sam’s chest heaved as she tried to control her breathing.
“I love listening to you talk about your work,” he said. As he spoke, he lifted the tank so that her stomach was exposed. He leaned in. “The way you get all hype about it, and your little nostrils flare …”
Sam’s breath hitched in her throat, and then she resumed breathing again, this time much more unevenly.
She glanced down at Colt and saw that he was looking up at her, a cocky grin on his face.
“Is this me?” he asked, his voice soft. He ran the tips of his three middle fingers down her abdomen, now covered in goosebumps. “All this? Because of me?”
He sounded both proud and incredulous.
Sam nodded, and his smile broadened.
Leaning in closer, he kissed her lightly, just above her belly-button. Sam’s stomach quivered when she felt his warm breath, and the feathery touch of his lips.
He inhaled her. And that, as much as the kisses, made the fullness between her legs intensify.
“You smell so good,” he said.
Sam closed her eyes, loving the sound of his voice. It was different, heavy with need and unlike anything she had heard from him before.
Then he was standing, towering over her. This close, he always seemed taller. Colt cupped her face and bent to kiss her. Sam was trembling as though cold, her entire body vibrating in shivers. Without the liquid courage she had last time, it was hard to even pretend not to be terrified of this, and of how much she wanted it.
“It’s okay,” Colt said against her lips. “It’s just me. It’s just us.”
They were still kissing when he finally sat again. Their lips parted only for a few moments while he pulled her down so she was astride his lap. Sam leaned in.
This time neither of them had been drinking, so their kisses didn’t have the same frantic quality. Instead they were slow, and curious. But what was unchanged was how damned good at it they were, molding and meshing their lips together effortlessly.
When Sam tried to grind against him, Colt held her firmly by the hips. She felt him smile, but he didn’t relent. And when she shifted her focus from his lips to his jaw and neck, he let her, but only for a few moments before twisting around again, and recapturing her lips.
“Colt …” There was frustration in her tone.
Sam pulled back and studied him. She felt his erection pressed against her, saw the vein in his neck, pulsating.
“Y’know what?” he said abruptly, his tone brisk. “I think we should go out.”
“What? But we’re …”
“That’s what we need. Let’s go out. Find a spot with some good music, a good vibe …”
Sam stared at him blankly, hoping he was kidding around.
“C’mon.” He patted her butt. “G’on get ready. It’s Friday. I’m taking you out.”
Sam stared at him, not quite sure what was happening. One minute they were hot-and-heavy and the next …
Colt made as though to stand, and Sam climbed off him. “Seriously?”
“Yeah. Let’s go check out this African spot in Adams Morgan I’ve been hearing about.”
He couldn’t trust himself just yet. Sex with Sam, he was pretty sure would be off the chain. She was like an eel when he held her, slippery, pliable, smooth … limber, and moved in a way that made her seem boneless. And try as he might, he couldn’t get out of his head the memory of what she looked like when she was on her bed that night, lying back and waiting for him.
Once they started doing the deed, there was almost no doubt in his mind, he was going to want to do it all the time. And he couldn’t make it about that, because he knew from experience how easy that was to do. He had been with a lot of women. A lot. And one thing remained true—good sex was a smoke-screen. Behind it, everything else was foggy and indistinct. No matter how you tried, you just didn’t see right, after that.
That was what had happened with him and Alexa; Alexa Chang, the ESPN ‘It Girl’ who was the embodiment of the American melting pot. Black, Asian with a whole bunch of other stuff mixed in there. She had a Northeastern prep school accent and the body language of a sexy, streetwise chick from the Bronx; she was an easy woman to notice, to be attracted to.
Once she and Colt started screwing, she was like his Kryptonite. He had flown across country countless times—sometimes just for a single night—just to fuck her. And told himself they were ‘in a relationship’. But it wasn’t that. It never had been.
After the sex, he and Alexa struggled to find things in common besides sports and bickered about the dumbest shit. They just saw the world too differently. And of all the things about her that annoyed him, Colt could never quite get used to how much time she spent on her appearance. Always combing her hair, contouring her face, re-applying her lipstick. If he kissed her in greeting, moments later she would be looking for her compact, eager to repair the damage he had done.
One time that stuck out in Colt’s memory was when they hooked up in Los Angeles where he was playing the Lakers. Alexa met him in his suite after the game, and almost immediately they wound up in bed where they stayed for the better part of the next two hours. Afterwards, he suggested they go on a late-night burger run. They were sweaty and satisfied, and now, hungry.
‘Good idea,’ Alexa said, springing from under the sheets when he mentioned getting food. ‘Just gimme a minute.’
It took her forty minutes to get ready.
What Colt had in mind was that they’d pull on sweats and a t-shirt, still sex-sweaty, and roll up to the In-N-Out drive-through and come back for some more of that good-good. But nah. Alexa showered off the scent of their intermingled perspiration. She put on makeup. She even spritzed on a little perfume.
In retrospect, Colt should have known right then that they were dead on arrival. But he’d kept right on fucking her for another few months after that. And pretended to himself she was his ‘girlfriend’ with whom he had occasional differences of opinion, when really, she was just a highly-compatible bedmate with whom he had more differences than anything else.
Upstairs, Sam was banging around, obviously as sexually-frustrated as he was.
He’d take her to that African joint and they’d sweat it out to some reggae music, then he’d take her back home, drop her off at her door with a respectable goodnight kiss, and head home alone.
Sam came back downstairs wearing jeans and a frown. When Colt grabbed his car keys, she offered him a tight smile and waved him out the front door ahead of her, so she could lock up. Once they were settled in the SUV, he turned to look at her.
“You smell nice,” he said.
“You told me that already,” Sam snapped.
Colt laughed. “What’s wrong with …”
“Can we just be real for a minute?” she asked, speaking over him.
“Yeah. Of c…”
“By ‘doing it right’, were you thinking we wouldn’t be … having sex or something?” She sounded as though the very idea of it pained her.
“No, I wasn’t thinking that,” he said, no longer laughing.
Sam nodded and faced forward again, looking satisfied.
“Okay,” she said. “Good.”
Colt waited, but she didn’t ask anything further, so they pulled out of her driveway and drove into the night.
Dakar was a small storefront location, like many of the African clubs in the DC that were gaining a cult following—low-budget but high on culture. It was hot inside, and the crowd was close enough for Colt to wonder whether the owners might be violating a few fire codes. But there was a unique energy in the air, the smell of spices, and of men wearing too much cologne. The space was throbbing, and alive.
When they were admitted, Colt held tight to Sam’s hand and together they shoved their way toward the bar where he found a little patch of real estate to lean back, turn and survey the room. He ordered himself and Sam grown-up drinks, which they sipped as they watched the churning mass of people moving rhythmically on the dance-floor.
It was too loud to have a proper conversation, so Sam stood in front of him, swaying to the music, taking occasional sips from her drink. Even with the other scents permeating the space, Colt could clearly distinguish which among them belonged to Sam, and her buoyant mass of hair.
After a few minutes, he let his hand drop, putting an arm round her from behind and resting it at her waist. The swinging motion of her body, warm against his, was relaxing, and mesmerizing at the same time.
As he watched—and felt—her move, it seemed like the scales were falling from his eyes, because Sam was so fucking sexy. Colt lifted his gaze for a moment and saw that even with everything else going on in the club, a couple brothers nearby were glancing over in his and Sam’s direction, as absorbed as he was, by his girl’s sensual movements.
Colt lifted the glass to his lips and smiled.
That was who she was now. His girl. That was what this was. He would dance with her when their drinks were done and after a couple hours of that, take her out somewhere to eat. They might go to the harbor just to walk, and maybe eat something sweet. And then he’d take her home and say goodnight for now. There would be no more than that just yet. Because this part, the waiting part, felt way too good.