down silently, fingers extended in the air, then the theme music plays indicating a commercial break.
“Thank you so much, Mr. Walker,” Harriet, the news anchor, says, shaking my hand. “That was a great interview. I look forward to seeing your plans take shape in the city.”
“Thank you.” I dip my head to her as I’m invited to stand by another studio assistant and shown off set before the live feed picks up again.
I button the top button of my jacket with one hand and walk over to Stuart. He nods at me, his lips stretching into a satisfied smile. He’s happy with how the interviews have gone today. So am I. Of course, I’ve been asked about my opinion on Dennis and Graham in light of the revelations this morning, but I successfully managed to steer the conversations back to my plans for the city. Stuart has been attached to his phone all day checking social media and public comments on the news channels, and from the updates he’s given me, we’re doing okay.
The city might not trust Dennis any more than they would the authenticity of a purse from Canal Street. But feedback indicates I’m doing something right.
Pride swells in my chest. People can see I am genuine. They can see I really care about this city. I can’t let them down. They’re giving their trust to me. I need to do the same.
“One more to go,” Stuart says as we exit the live set and can talk again without needing to whisper.
“Yep.” I run a hand around the back of my neck, stretching my shoulders out at the same time with a groan. I can count the combined hours of sleep I’ve had over the past three nights on one hand.
“You ready for the final stop?”
I roll my lips over my teeth and nod. “I am. It’s time.”
Stuart studies me, his eyes pinching at the corners as he falls serious. “You’ve got this, you know.”
I clap a hand on his shoulder and give it a squeeze. “Thanks, bud.”
“Lucky for you, we don’t have to race our asses across the city for this one.”
I smile at him as we walk through the building toward the elevator bank. A few floors up, one final interview, and that’s me done for the day. Exhaustion could so easily win if it weren’t for the adrenaline surging through my bloodstream.
One more to go.
Save the best for last.
We ride the elevator up and step out into a large, modern reception area. I don’t have a chance to run through what I want to say in my head, because we’re already being approached.
“Reed. It’s so good to see you. You’re looking well. And Stuart, so nice to see you again.”
Tom Coulter shakes both of our hands, then steps back, his kind eyes creasing in the corners as he smiles.
“Don’t lie.” My shoulders shake with a small chuckle, and I run a hand through my hair. I know how I look—tired. It greets me in the mirror each morning. Dullness in my skin and eyes. But it’s wrong for me to call out Tom for a polite lie when I’m being dishonest with everyone around me.
I’m not tired. I’m fucking exhausted.
But it’s not the lack of sleep that’s to blame for my lackluster appearance.
It’s her.
It’s the void I’ve been in since she left.
And it’s all my fault.
Dennis and Graham would have always had their shady as fuck plan for whoever ended up being mayor. But Bea was their key to getting to me. To using Harley. Maybe it was all just, right place, right screwed-up past, that Bea took advantage of when they were planning it all. That’s what Stuart and Griffin think.
But I know differently.
Bea didn’t have to tell them about what happened to me twelve years ago. She didn’t have to give them that. But most of all, she didn’t have to bring Harley into it.
It’s my fault. I was the one who asked her to pose as my girlfriend. I was the one who brought attention to her. Harley is hurting because of me. Because of my past.
This is crushing her.
Tom’s laugh echoes off the walls.
“It’s no lie. Wait until you’re my age, then you’ll dream about the days you could look as put together as you do now, even with no sleep.”
I curl my lips into a smile. He may be in his sixties, but he doesn’t look much over fifty, and I’m sure he knows it and is being polite.
“I’m sorry to hear the news that you and the young lady we met at the dinner have parted ways,” Tom says.
I fight to maintain the easy smile that was on my face seconds ago, but it’s already sliding away, like ice cream off a cone on a hot day.
“Harley, wasn’t it?”
“Yes.” I nod once. “That’s her.”
Tom looks into my eyes with a knowing look only someone his age with his wisdom possesses. “Sometimes the greatest things happen the second time around. Like you, here, back in New York. And now you’re going to be mayor. You’ve done well.”
“Thank you,” I reply as Stuart and I follow him down a long corridor until we reach a set of double doors.
Talking about Harley brings both a lump to my throat and a fire to my stomach. I’ve let her down. It’s my fault her eyes were full of turmoil last night at Suze’s. It’s my fault that she looked so confused and anxious when I left.
I’ve allowed a situation that’s now tearing away at her.
I’ve allowed it to tear us apart.
She ran thinking it would hurt me less than the alternative. She did what she thought she had to.
My Angel is a lover, not a fighter. But right now, she’s fighting. She’s fighting to save me when she shouldn’t have to. It’s the wrong battle. The fact that she can’t see that already means I’ve let her down.
But not anymore.
Tom turns to us both over his shoulder. “I’ll show you the studio, and then you can get ready.”
He pushes open the doors and Stuart and I follow him onto the informal set. Two deep blue sofas are angled together around a low coffee table with a jug of water and two glasses already laid out.
“Cozy.” Stuart smiles his approval.
“Just let me know when you’re ready, Reed.” Tom pats me on the back. “And we’ll get started. No rush.”
I nod in response, taking in the set up. It’s a direct contrast to the news channel sets I’ve been filming on all day. They’re all chrome, glass, giant screens, and electronic cue readers everywhere. This screams Tom. He may have started out as a political reporter, but his career has grown, and his interview style evolved into a more relaxed, informal arrangement.
The perfect battlefield for a surprise attack.
Because it’s time to win the war.
