“Don’t be crude.” He sighed. “It’s obvious you can’t remain with the campaign, if he decides to continue running as an independent. Your services are no longer required. I’ll speak to your boss and have you reassigned.”
Blood pounded in her ears. The walls of the small alcove seemed to close in on her, the room tilting and swimming around her. She closed her eyes and took a deep breath, striving for serenity in the midst of the storm of fear. His displeasure—the death knell on her career, the same way he had been killing off her dreams her whole life.
“Just because I wouldn’t marry him?” She forced the words out between numb lips.
“Don’t be stupid. You let him be embarrassed in public. His poll numbers tanked and he lost the primary. Clearly, you’re not ready for this level of campaign. Maybe after a few more years of experience, you can work on my campaign under my direct supervision.” The subtle emphasis ondirecttold her how much respect she had lost in his eyes.
The phone clicked, signaling the end of the conversation. She lowered the device, surprised to see her hand shaking. Someone reached into the booth, handing her a Kleenex. Sophie Duncan, campaign photographer and one of her few friends, peered around the corner.
“You okay?” The sympathy in her blue eyes almost made Stacia lose control.
She shook her head, struggling to contain her anger against the unfairness of the situation, her life really. “I’m good. You’ve been supporting me and drying my tears since we were six. You can’t help me this time.” She tried to stand but her legs shook.
Sophie pushed her back down. “Sit for a few minutes. You’re allowed to be human, you know, despite the robot who supposedly fathered you. What did the asshole have to say?”
Stacia smiled through burning eyes. “Your father would be appalled to hear you swear.”
She shrugged. “Not really. We’ve come to an understanding. He leaves me alone and I try not to embarrass him, at least not publicly.” She leaned against the small opening. “So, what’s the deal?”
Stacia stood up finally, shaking off her father’s words like water. “No, I’m good. Let’s go deal with Glazier. Then, I need a drink. Several.”
*
Stacia hesitated atthe door of the local bar, a hand resting on the brass handle. She shuddered at the memory of the vile accusations thrown at her from the campaign advisers and even her own father, all who were quick to point the finger, diverting blame from themselves to anyone else. Stacia was expendable, even to her father. Blood never mattered when it came to politics. She had had years of experience with that. Now all she wanted to do was crawl into a bed somewhere with a pint of Ben and Jerry’s finest, a bottle of wine and hide until it had all blown over.
Yet here she stood outside a bar, a block away from the scene of her defeat, about to celebrate the end of a long project with Sophie. Celebrate being the wrong word.
“Excuse me, miss. Are you going in?” Three guys stood to her right, looking like they had come from their job, probably construction, judging by their jeans and t-shirts coated in a fine layer of dirt. Not to mention their dark tans from working outside.
She shook her head and stepped aside. One of them held open the door and gestured for her to precede them. They were more gentlemanly than the people with whom she had spent the past seven months. Those guys in polished suits and designer clothes either tried to get in her bed or shoved her aside as a coffee girl. She let her eyes wander over the tight shirt and the muscles displayed in the working man clothes and a low hum of arousal started in her lower region, an area that hadn’t seen action since the beginning of the campaign, maybe longer. That feeling, and the tingling along her nerve endings, reinforced her intention to finally cut loose and enjoy herself, forgetting about the disaster that was her life.
Tomorrow was another day, as another famous Southern belle once said. Scarlett was a woman to emulate. Stacia wished she had Scarlett’s forthright, get-it-done-no-matter-what attitude. Hell, she had stood up to the Yankee army! Stacia only had to stand up to her father.
The man cleared his throat and exchanged glances with his buddies. Aware she was still standing in the doorway, she smiled quickly and slipped through the door. She stepped aside and let her eyes adjust to dim lighting. The guys pushed past her with barely a glance, shouting a greeting to friends gathered around a round, wooden table on what probably was the dance floor if a band was playing. On a Tuesday night, the TV showed a baseball game and the local major league team was playing, the Georgia Knights. She scanned the room, looking for Sophie amidst the groupings of mostly men hanging out after work. A group separated and she spied a lone man sitting in a corner booth in the dim corner. He was sipping what appeared to be scotch and scowling at the people around him. Despite the scowl and the go-away aura he was projecting, something drew her gaze, more than the group of young construction workers.
This man was older, experienced and something told the woman inside he knew his way around the female body. A girl would not be disappointed after a night with him, if she could break through the thick warning signs and barrier of foul temper. He was dressed different than many of the men in the bar. They were mostly blue-collar workers, blowing off steam from a long day in the August sun. Nice enough guys, but they tended to leave Stacia, who usually dressed in a Neiman Marcus business suit, alone, her armor that was as much a prison as a fashion statement.
Tonight, however, she had ditched the suit and dressed in an Ann Taylor blouse and Old Navy jeans, in which she was still too obvious in this bar. This man, this loner, was dressed in designer clothes, yet he wasn’t a businessman. Something about the clothes and the attitude didn’t scream business.
At that moment, his eyes shifted from the alcohol and met hers. The banked heat in them almost scorched her already raw nerve endings and electricity coursed along her skin, like the sizzle in the air before a summer thunderstorm. His gaze sent tingles of sexual awareness to areas she had ruthlessly suppressed for seven months because the campaign and her boss owned her body and her father owned her soul for as long as she could remember. Now they awoke, stretched, and stood at attention.
“Stacia, over here!” A blonde woman waved wildly from the bar area.
With one last regretful glance at the man, Stacia weaved her way to her friend. Sophie gave her a quick hug and, holding her shoulders, stared into her eyes, studying them for some hidden message.
“Those assholes. They fired you, didn’t they? What about your father?”
Stacia looked away, the hot sting of tears prickling just behind the eyes. “I think is the politically correct term is that I’ve been removed from the campaign effective immediately.”
Sophie steered her to the bar and slid a drink in her hand. “Southern Comfort sour. Thought you could use it tonight. He’s an ass. They all are. You’re the only reason Glazier had any chance at all after he was caught with his pants around his ankles humping that damn intern.”
She choked back a laugh. “Thanks, Sophie! I needed that.”
“Seriously,” Sophie continued her outraged tirade. “What did they expect you to do about it? Jump into bed with him and be his dick guard? He’s a dog. No wait, that’s an insult to dogs everywhere. What’s worse? A pig?”
Stacia avoided looking at Sophie, instead fixing her gaze on the television behind the bar where the candidate, her former boss, was about to give his concession speech.
“Can you change the channel, Deon?”