Page 6 of Notorious

“What do you suggest for someone who’s just hammered the final nail into the coffin of their career?”

She gives me a sympathetic smile. “I’ll get you a triple shot of whiskey.”

“Sounds good.” I watch her pour the drink and keep a careful eye on it as it goes from her side of the bar to mine.

I give her my debit card, open a tab, then down the liquor.

I’m gonna need all the help I can to make it through the rest of my evening.

The last one of my life.

CHAPTER 3

Kurt

You want to do this, I tell myself for the seventh time in the past ten minutes. This is a way to help people. Think of all the lives you’re going to make better. You’re going to effect positive change in the world.

Although if I have to keep reminding myself why I’m going through this crap, it may not be exactly true that becoming a politician is meant to be my life’s work.

Better than not having any purpose.

Better than doing nothing when I should’ve done something. Maybe this time I won’t be too late.

I’m standing in one of the ballrooms of the Las Vegas hotel I’m staying in. A string quartet in the corner plays classical music. Given how dressed up everyone is, the exuberant flower arrangements, and the empty dance floor, it’s like a very weird wedding—one that costs $20,000 a plate and where a silent auction offers the use of a staffed yacht for a week and rare bottles of wine.

These people live so far above upper middle class, they’ve forgotten what it’s like to lack anything. Remember your roots, Kurt.

I need to remember more than that, since I’ve forgotten the name of my companion. She’s a potential donor at this fundraiser run by an LGBTQIA+ super PAC that’s giving major funding boosts to various campaigns in the upcoming elections. But it’s a popularity contest.

I smile at the short-haired woman and say, “Still. I can’t stand by while more and more of this homophobic, transphobic, misogynistic, racist, xenophobic, ageist, ableist, anti-immigrant, classist … okay, I could go on, but let’s sum it up as political bullshit … keeps happening, threatening people who don’t deserve to be threatened.”

“I agree,” she says. “That’s honorable.”

“I know I’m … not favored, because going up against an incumbent is always a long shot. Even with the top-two system, I’ll be lucky to make it past the primary. But I don’t think Santangelo is doing enough, and maybe I’m an incurable optimist. I just feel like someone could do much better than him, and it might as well be me. He’s been at this for thirty years. He should give someone else a shot.”

“Do you think you have a chance?”

I shrug and give her my winningest grin. “While I’ve never run before, I’m passionate about the political process and current events, and I’ve been developing a plan for once I’m in office. Plus, I mean, I’m electable. No skeletons in my closet.”

At least none that anyone could ever find.

A lump forms in my throat, but I swallow it down.

“I’m sure your political connections will help you,” she says.

“They definitely will,” I say. “Gotta use every advantage.” My momther’s the lieutenant governor, with all the Sacramento connections I could ever want. (Not “monster,” as the autocorrect on my phone wants, but “momther.” I came up with that in my late teens, and it’s stuck. Most of the time, she’s not distant enough to be “mother” nor is she cozy enough for “mom,” so “momther” is my solution.)

“I wish you luck,” my companion says. She shakes my hand and walks off, leaving me standing alone, surrounded by people I don’t know. What should I do next?

I need money for ads and posters and signs and office space and mailings and all the other shit involved in running for office, and it doesn’t seem great to self-fund my campaign, even though I could. I’d like to have outside support to validate my choice of running for office. Is that too much to ask?

I hadn’t reckoned with all the stresses of the campaign, though. My brain’s so full, I almost can’t deal with life. Nonstop events, ceaseless self-promotion. I’m tired, and, as I look around at everyone else having a fucking fantastic time at this event, I want to throw up my hands in frustration.

Approaching people at political events and charming them was so much easier when I had Sam by my side.

I adjust the bow tie of my classic black tuxedo and approach a group of snazzily dressed men who appear to be in their forties and fifties. They’re standing near my seat, which is my ready excuse, but I believe they’re all potential donors.

“I’m Kurt Delmont,” I say, shaking the hand of the first man, who’s wearing a skintight dark green plaid tuxedo. “I’m running for the US Senate in California. Love the suit.”

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