Lost in our kiss, I let all worry fade away into nothingness.
At least for now, we’ve escaped the real world; our hiding place is both of our naked bodies.
18
Parker
It's been three days since Susan Duran left. Three days since she detonated that bomb in my lap and said she was quitting this campaign and left me scrambling.
Luckily, I'm not one to take things sitting down. I'm fucking proactive.
I'm standing at the podium, and I look over at my new campaign manager, Megan Wright. She's standing off to the side, giving me a secret thumbs up, as if that's supposed to make me feel any better about this press conference.
Megan is Susan Duran's opposite in every way. She has a head full of big curls that sway like the ocean when she talks.
Susan was a planner, the kind of person who ate checklists for breakfast. Bounced bullet lists instead of basketballs.
Do you see where I'm fucking going with this?
Megan is a planner too, I suppose, but on the opposite end of the spectrum. With her, we make a plan by throwing it up in the air, and then sort of wing it through the details falling all around us.
This is one of those 'just winging it' moments, and she's smiling and sipping a Pepsi and I'm over here, in front of hundreds of eager reporters, hoping I can pull this off.
But I think Megan's vision is good. It should work. I've just got to pull it off.
She's advised me to remain focused on the issues. The fucking things that matter to the people of this city she says—jobs, taxes, infrastructure, family.
I can practically hear Megan's words echoing in my brain as I straighten my tie. "Whatever you do, stay away from your private life," she repeated to me just minutes ago, as I watched her hair sway. "I mean it Parker; don't let the conversation go there."
I take a deep breath, straighten my tie, put on my game face, and begin.
"Thank you all for joining me here today," I say. "I think we can all agree that Congress should hear your concerns as it pertains to increasing jobs in this city we call home, fixing our IT infrastructure, and cutting taxes. I'm prepared to be your voice in the Senate."
I give this opener and look around at the crowd. Normally, I hear a few cheers, and maybe a few claps, but right now, it's crickets. People are staring with blank faces. The silence is unnerving. It's a completely different vibe than the last press conference I gave.
I continue, "Today, I'd like to talk about—" but a red-faced reporter wearing square, black-rimmed glasses immediately interrupts me.
"Excuse me, Mr. Trask, what is your relationship to your advisor, Amy?"
I look over at the report in question, immediately spotting him in the crowd. "I'd like to keep the discussion on the issues that matter," I reply.
The reporter pushes back, "I think I speak for everyone when I say that's an issue that matters to all of the citizens of New York City."
"I've said this before, but I want to make it clear that my private life does not concern the public. That's final. I don't give a fuck about what the media thinks about me. As you all know, at the end of the day, I'm a mayor who get results for this city."
Another reporter chimes in, ignoring my stance on privacy, and says, "Mr. Trask, is it true that Amy is your daughter, and that she's been staying with you at Gracie Mansion?"
"That's incorrect," I say. "She's my stepdaughter and—"
The red-faced reporter cuts me off before I can get another word in. "Wouldn't you agree that having personal relations with your stepdaughter sends the wrong message to citizens?"
"Well, that's not what—" I try to say, adjusting the microphone, but am cut off again.
"Isn't it against state rules to be undergoing such an affair within the walls of Gracie Mansion? Not to mention, don't you agree it's morally corrupt?"
"No comment," I say, trying to move on. This is going downhill fast. This definitely isn't where I wanted our discussion to go today.
"Mr. Trask, just answer the question," the reporters continue to chime in.