He clears his throat, a small smile twisting onto his lips.
“You’re welcome… Harley.”
Chapter two
Reed
“Questionswiththepanelat ten, interview with Vogue magazine at noon. That takes us into lunch at one. Then back to HQ this afternoon. We need to run through the order for the televised presentation tomorrow.”
“Hm, yes, fine,” I mutter as Stuart, my campaign manager, makes notes in his folder.
We’ve been sitting in our makeshift campaign office most of the afternoon, working on speeches, policies, etcetera. The rest of the team are out on the street taking surveys, talking to people, finding out what New Yorkers want to see from their new mayor. I was with them this morning, and then Stuart and I headed back here to crunch numbers, read and prepare.
I’d rather be back out there, in the community, where it really matters.
“Perk up, Walker. We’ve got this. You’ve got the panther working with you.” Stuart snaps his fingers in the air in some weird self-appreciation thing he does that I let him get away with because, frankly, he’s the most capable campaign manager around. He’s unrivaled.
And he knows it.
I snort at his panther description of himself.
“You can’t tame this wildcat, Walker. You’d better believe it.”
“You’re a pussycat, Stu. I know it. You know it. The world knows it.”
“Fuck you. I’ll make sure the photographer makes your ass look all ways of ugly for the campaign shots if you’re not careful.”
I laugh as he smirks at me, then I pull my glasses off and drop them on top of the pile of city policies I’ve been reading. Statistics for gender related crime being the top one. It draws me back to Harley’s comment the night I found her with that asshole’s hands all over her. I clench my fists, cracking my knuckles.
Stuart sifts through some paperwork before tapping his pen against his chin.
“We need to go over your principal objectives again, make it really hit home with the voters. We want to appeal to as many different demographics as we can: families, working parents, single men, women, retired folks, Marge, and Homer fucking Simpson. You name them, we want them. So I think we really ought to home in on a few main areas that will cover some of the larger voting groups.”
Stuart knows his shit. I’ve seen him work with previous candidates. He’s swept things under a rug, dodged bullets, and thrown curveballs at the opponents. Whatever is needed to win. Ruthless, but with a sense of decency still attached. That’s what I respect most about him. He gets the job done. But he does it the right way.
Mostly.
He’s a force to be reckoned with. Especially on the New York scene. I knew him before, back when I lived in LA. We had some lively debates at some national conferences. I think secretly he was as pleased to work with me on this campaign as I was when he said yes to being my campaign manager.
Together, with the rest of the staff, we’re the dream team.
Mayor of New York, here I come.
“Who are you screwing right now?”
“Excuse me?” I splutter at his bluntness. I remove my thumb and finger from my eye sockets where I am rubbing away the memory of page after page of statistics about women being attacked at night—on the subway, walking down the street, in their own homes—and stare at him.
“Screwing?” He glances up from the note he’s writing. “You know your dick—”
“Yes, all right, Jesus. What’s that got to do with anything?”
But I know why he’s asking. It has everything to do with anything. While I’m running for mayor, everything about me, including my personal life—especially my personal life—will be subject to thorough scrutiny from the world’s press. Those loveable vultures will literally rip meat off a bone until it’s dry. Regardless of if the creature is still breathing. All for the sake of a good story. I know too well what they can be like after Griffin had his fair share of trouble a while ago.
“Does it start with an ‘A’?”
“What?”
My brow creases as I look over the top of the large wooden table at him. We were lucky to find such a great space. Views over the city, in the heart of downtown, handy for all the press conferences and publicity we will be doing. Plus, I can’t help feeling smug as shit knowing my opponent, Harry Ellston—who I have a good relationship with, despite competing for the same role—had to take an office in the old meat-packing district, next to an unused dildo factory. I joke every time I see him about whether he’s using the back entrance to get into his office. He looks more and more like he wants to knock me on my ass each time I say it.