Page 2 of Primary Season
“Don’t talk too long at the podium tonight,” I said, going through the victory speech plan I’d filed in the back of my head for just this moment. “Keep them wanting more. You don’t have to give too much in the way of policy tonight. Just be you.”
“Right. Be myself.”
Patrick strung out the words, and I took the opportunity to size him up again, something I found myself doing a lot those days. Fine, black woolen pants wrapped around a tight ass. White button-down shirt. Cobalt-blue tie. A small hint of boyish stubble to frame a sharp jaw and eyes that always seemed as if they knew a secret others didn’t. Thick lips. Flat stomach. The kind of lean muscle only developed at CrossFit.
“Are you enjoying yourself, Alex?”
I recoiled. “What? Enjoying myself?”
“Tonight.” Patrick pulled away from the doorway and walked inside the hotel room. I followed. “At the victory party. Are you enjoying yourself?”
I caught a glimpse of myself in the large, gold-rimmed mirror across from the bed, and I nodded. “I think everyone is.”
“I didn’t ask about everyone else.” He paused, and it made me glance back at him. Patrick’s next words came out slow, steady, and loaded. “I asked about you.”
“I’m having a fantastic time. It’s an important night.”
“But it could be better, right?” Patrick stared at me. A small surge of heat slowly built inside my stomach, and I wondered if he felt the same energy that I did. “Maybe if you had a decent date?”
My cheeks warmed, and he laughed.
“I’m sure you wouldn’t have any problems finding one—if you wanted,” he said. Something flickered across his face, but then, a moment later it was gone. “Kathryn,” Patrick called in the direction of the bathroom. “Are you finished in there?” He walked over to the chair next to the desk and took a black sports jacket off the back of it. “We don’t want to be too late.”
After a muffled reply, the bathroom door opened and Kathryn sauntered out in a blue sheath dress with black leather trim.
“What do you think?” She flashed Patrick a mouthful of blinding white teeth as she picked up her Louis Vuitton monogrammed handbag from the bed. “Do I remind you of a first lady?” Patrick shot me a knowing expression, and my jaw tensed as I watched her. Kathryn Van der Loon had the Pilates-toned body I had always wanted, a last name that opened every door on the East Coast, and a billionaire father. She was Patrick’s current girlfriend, and she hadn’t left his side since he lost in the Iowa Caucus.
“Let’s go,” Kathryn said with a flip of her auburn hair.
“Perfect outfit.” Patrick took a few steps and kissed her cheek. “And you’re the best. The very best.”
The three of us left the hotel room and made our way back to the conference room, which by then teemed with even more people.Everyonewanted to get a piece of the moment. Already, this election captivated the nation, and Patrick’s victory only ramped up the excitement in Burlington and beyond. Four male Democrats wanted to be president. One billionaire Silicon Valley tech mogul. A TV star and former host of a popular CNN show. One senator. One governor. I wondered how many of them would follow Patrick to South Carolina.
If we got lucky, not many.
Patrick took the podium after a short introduction from Doug, the campaign’s chief of staff. Kathryn flanked his left, a plastic, pleased smile adorning her face. She nodded and clapped as the crowd roared from the excitement of their candidate’s unexpected victory.
“Friends, I just want to take a moment to thank all the wonderful voters of New Hampshire…”
Patrick descended into his speech. For the next fifteen minutes, he held the voters, the volunteers, the campaign staff, the media, Kathryn, and myself at attention. He moved from thanking the audience to regaling them, painting a hopeful picture of the country that he intermittently wove with one-liners and jokes. I monitored the room, pleased that all three of the major cable stations were carrying his speech live. Up until that night, we’d operated on a shoestring budget, self-financed by Patrick’s savings and generous, in-kind donations from Kathryn’s endless blank checkbook.
After that speech, things would be different.
“And in closing, I just want to say that tonight proves just how much anything can happen through hard work and perseverance. This is about you, the voter. We don’t have to accept the status quo in America. We don’t have to settle. We can dream, and here in Burlington, those dreams have come true.”
The crowded stirred, and shouts of “Patrick, Patrick, Patrick!” echoed through the conference room as his exit music played. Patrick kissed Kathryn on the cheek again and walked away from the podium. As the two came closer to me and the other staffers, Patrick paused to shake hands and pose for photos with some of New Hampshire’s most ardent voters. His smile could have come from central casting for politicians, and anyone could see how much the crowd loved him.
Patrick Blanco had them all whipped to a frenzy.
“Thanks for your vote,” he said to a woman next to me as she snapped a selfie on her phone. “And I look forward to your support in November.” She agreed, and he rejoined Kathryn a few steps ahead of me. He said something in her ear, then turned around.
“Alex,” he said. “I forgot to give you this earlier.” He held out his hand but kept moving through the crowd. I followed and took the small slip of folded paper. “Make sure you read that before you turn in for the night, okay? It’s important.”
“Right away, sir.” I always addressed him this way in public. Patrick wanted to keep up formalities in front of voters and the media at all times. “Consider it done.”
He nodded, still walking. We were about ten feet from a bank of elevators. One stood open, the “up” arrow lit on the wall next to it. “Excellent. And I look forward to your comments.”
Patrick strode into the elevator with Kathryn, turned to face some of the supporters who had followed him out of the conference room, and waved as the door closed. Just like that, what might have been the biggest night of our political lives was over.
Ended. Finished. The past.
A half hour later, exhausted and ensconced inside my own hotel room, I flipped my black, high-heeled loafers off my feet and fell onto the bed. I lay there for a few moments before remembering the piece of paper from Patrick, which I’d tucked into the hip pocket of my woolen dress.
What could be so urgent and important? I slid the folded square from my pocket and opened it.
My room. 12:30. We need to talk.
