“...a man who needs no introduction, Senator Harwell Bosworth!”
The public address system crackles with the roar of the crowd, thousands of people applauding, stage lights blinding but necessary. I look across the dark back of the stage and see Lindsay standing next to Gentian, blinking furiously, her face a slab of granite.
No emotion.
You’d never have guessed what happened yesterday ever occurred. We’re all professionals. We are about action, not emotion. Control, not impulse. Every calculated move is designed to support the man on stage right now, the guy with both arms in the air waving, and that’s when it hits me.
I’ve been hired to control.
To control Lindsay.
To keep her in a state of agitation and worry.
If I weren’t here, in charge of her, she wouldn’t be constantly – viscerally – reminded of my role in the massive clusterfuck of four years ago.
The senator and Monica want her to be uncertain. They want her to be unsteady. If she were centered and grounded, she’d be powerful.
A force.
Demanding.
And the last thing a man who’s leveraging his way up the ladder to become the leader of the free world wants is a daughter with a sense of her own true strength.
The blood drains out of my face as I watch Lindsay touch Gentian’s arm, stand on tiptoes, and try to get him to step out of his role and smile at her.
He’s steady as a Beefeater.
Good man.
All across the country, over the next few months, similar stage displays will happen. Republicans and Democrats and Libertarians and Independents and Greens and smaller political parties will have people declare their candidacies for the primary runoffs, to become the party candidate in the actual national election in November, two years from now.
Harwell Bosworth isn’t all that special.
He’s been in politics for most of Lindsay’s life, but he’s at the beginning of the long slog to the White House. So are all his rivals, each competing for the top spot.
A position people would kill to have.
How far would you go to be leader of the free world?
“Drew?” It’s the dispatcher at my call center. “Ready for a transmission?”
“Bad timing.”
“You said if anything came in from that number -- ”
“Scarves?” That’s our code for Stellan, John and Blaine.
“Yes.”
“Go.”
“New text.” I watch in slo-mo as Lindsay reaches into her purse to retrieve her phone.
“What’s it say?”
“‘What color is your underwear?’”
“Not funny!” I shout, exploding.
“That’s what the text says, sir!”
“Fuck.”
“And a new one says, ‘We can’t wait to find out. And we will.’”
I tear off stage, knowing I can’t bullet my way across in view of the crowd, needing to get to Lindsay before she reads that fucking text. They’re toying with her, mindfucking her before the biggest performance she’s faced in four years, and I don’t care how much she’s hurt me in the last two days, or how angry I am at her for stealing my gun and lying to me, she’s still a human being.
And my client.
And I still love her.
“Gentian,” I snap into my headpiece. “Don’t let her read her phone. Repeat – don’t let Lindsay read her phone.”
“Yes, sir.”
I can’t see anything, can only thread my way through the overcrowded backstage area and hope Harry drones on and on in his speech about how wonderful America is and he buys me enough time. Gentian can take the emotional hit of having Lindsay get pissed at him.
But if she reads those texts...
“I’m not allowed to have a phone anymore? What are you talking about, Silas?” Her voice is high and hysterical, at a pitch that says she’s beyond irritated, anxiety in full force.
“He’s following orders,” I say, gasping, winded not by the effort of getting here but by the sheer power of the mess unfolding before me.
“Why?”
“You don’t want to read what’s on your phone.”
Alarm fills those gorgeous brown eyes and she stands, frozen, like she’s made of wax. Monica’s watching us from her side of the stage, shaking her head, mouth a firm line of carefully painted lipliner. Her anger is justified.
So is Lindsay’s terror.
“They texted me again?” Lindsay gasps.
Can’t lie to her.
“Yes.”
“Are they here?”
“They can’t hurt you.”
“That’s not an answer!” Her voice is shrill, like an air raid siren.
“I don’t know. But we have you covered.”
“Covered?”
“Lindsay.” I reach for her elbows, cradling her trembling bones in my hands. “They. Are. Not. Going. To. Get. You.”
“...and I couldn’t be the effective senator without my lovely, extraordinary wife, Monica Bosworth!” Harry’s arm sweeps toward Monica in that exact moment. The crowd goes nuts, cheering, as Monica moves with catlike grace across the stage, into Harry’s arms for a carefully rehearsed cheek kiss, followed by a kiss on the lips. Not too racy, but not stodgy.