Chapter Two

 

Linda's home life, unlike her job, was easy. A cute little sweetheart of a dog that wasn't looking for any trouble. He never yapped. At least, not in front of her.

She flips on the news, because there's no time when the news cycle isn't going. Pizza could be great. She's already dialing the numbers into her phone by the time that the audio really kicks in from the television.

And as usual, it turns her stomach.

There's got to be some law out there about exactly how little the news knows what they're talking about. There's internet 'laws' that claim to govern and describe scientifically how internet discussions will go. Poe's law, for example, suggests that all arguments will eventually end in someone being compared to Hitler.

And sure, Adam's been compared to Hitler by several internet commentators. That's not Linda's concern. That's a perception problem. They just have to re-frame the situation. Right now, things look bad, but they always look bad at first.

Donnie jumps up into her lap and pushes his head under her hand. She scratches his head absently. The pizza should be here in about half an hour, which is plenty of time to catch the rest of the evening news.

The new boss is something else. This is her first time on the biggest stage of them all, of course. Maybe they're all like this. Certainly, there are horror stories about every candidate. Stories about people insulting all their staff, treating them like garbage.

Stories about candidates who have had hundreds or thousands of their acquaintances 'mysteriously disappear' and wind up dead in a bathtub in Tijuana. But whether it's luck or skill or just picking the right people, Linda doesn't have to deal with those people.

No, she just has to deal with a man who's never been political about anything in his life.

Married four times. Four. All of the wives, of course, still alive. It's not hard to get ahold of them, either. And they're all ready to talk about it. No secrets, whether you like it or not.

Then there's the girlfriends. Some of them during the marriages, some of them before, some between. There may have been a few since the most recent divorce, but Linda doesn't know about them. And since Mr. Quinn's There's something almost charming about it, because you know he's not doing it on purpose. It's right there on his face.

He likes dating. He likes women. He likes going out with women. Presumably, he likes fucking them, and they're not afraid to admit that they liked fucking him too. The phrase 'couldn't walk right for a week' had been uttered at least twice in the past thirty years, since he'd jumped to the front of the papers with his front-page breakup with the Princess of Spain.

If he'd known, thirty years ago, that he was planning to run for office, maybe he should have managed his life more quietly. Politicians are people, too. They're men, and women, with needs and the money to get what they want. To get what they need.

The reason it's a big deal when someone gets caught cheating on their wife isn't because they were cheating on their wife, after all.

It's because they got caught.

Adam Quinn has gotten caught so many fucking times that it's unbelievable. More unbelievable, still, is the fact that he's doing as well as he is in the polls. Which is why it's absolutely imperative that he turn this ship around as soon as possible.

The sleeping around, fine. Do it quietly, if you have to do it. But there's no stopping him, so he's going to keep doing it.

The brash boldness is great, as long as it's under a little bit of control.

But for God's sake, please, Adam, stop getting caught doing shit and stop throwing curve-balls to your team. Her face appeared on the TV. She looks like hell. She felt like hell at the time. Three cups of coffee and she was jittery, and never mind the need to use the lavatory, she had to give a little impromptu press statement.

Of course Mr. Quinn hadn't been worried about why she was leaving. Of course he wasn't. That would be too convenient, too polite.

No, he was just doing what came naturally. There was some charm in that. And Linda had to admit, if she hadn't been in exactly the position she was in, she wouldn't have minded.

He sounds just like he does on TV. Sounds incredible. He's got a voice for radio, and he always knows what to say in order to get himself plastered all over the evening news, whether he's running for President or not.

What nobody had so-far managed to capture was his looks. The hair looked too tight, too square, too boring on TV. They had to fix his glaring eyes, his military hair-cut. They had to make him look charismatic and like a leader. He had to look like a movie star, or nobody was going to be remotely impressed.

What the cameras utterly failed to capture was the look that he had in person.

The doorbell rings, pulling her halfway out of her reverie. Linda mutes the TV and stands up. Donnie jumps down obediently and follows her to the door. No barks, so different from all the other yappie dogs that she's known. A sweetheart.

A boy on the other side of the door has a pizza in his arms and a blue and black uniform shirt on. Linda fishes out the money that she's going to have to pay, along with a respectable tip.

The cameras didn't manage to capture his look at all. She'd been watching him since she was ten years old. He was all over the TV, then, and he'd been all over it ever since. A man with presence, with personality, with a voice to die for.

And the one thing that she hadn't realized, a gaze that made a woman's knees go weak. She thought she was prepared for this job. She was a professional. She'd dealt with philanderers before. With serial adulterers. They get what they want because they've got enough money to buy it.

That wasn't the case for Adam Quinn. The way he looked at her, she'd have dropped to her knees right there in front of the press, God, and everybody, and she'd have done it for free.