Twitter Girl

NIC TATANO

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First published in Great Britain by HarperImpulse 2014

Copyright © Nic Tatano 2014

Cover images © Shutterstock.com

Nic Tatano asserts the moral right

to be identified as the author of this work.

A catalogue record for this book is

available from the British Library

This novel is entirely a work of fiction.

The names, characters and incidents portrayed in it are

the work of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to

actual persons, living or dead, events or localities is

entirely coincidental.

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and Pan-American Copyright Conventions.

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Ebook Edition © September 2014

ISBN: 9780008113117

Version 2014-09-01

Digital eFirst: Automatically produced by Atomik ePublisher from Easypress.

For Myra, who always sets my heart atwitter…

Contents

Cover

Title Page

Copyright

Dedication

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fifteen

Chapter Sixteen

Chapter Seventeen

Chapter Eighteen

Chapter Nineteen

Chapter Twenty

Chapter Twenty-One

Chapter Twenty-Two

Chapter Twenty-Three

Chapter Twenty-Four

Chapter Twenty-Five

Chapter Twenty-Six

Chapter Twenty-Seven

Also by Nic Tatano…

Also by Nic Tatano…

Nic Tatano

About HarperImpulse

About the Publisher

CHAPTER ONE

@TwitterGirl

Tornado whips through Mississippi trailer park, causes three million dollars worth of improvements.

Yeah, that’s the tweet which got me fired. Unless you’ve been living under a rock, you know that it made me America’s most polarizing figure overnight. I, Cassidy Shea, former network reporter (handle: @TwitterGirl) whose stories included a snarky attitude that attracted more than one million followers, let her 200 IQ ass do the talking once too often. Who knew that one hundred and fourteen characters could sink my career like a stone, but, then again, when something goes viral on the Internet… well, the thing whipped around the country faster than the tornado that inspired it.

Oh, and before you think I’m some insensitive New York snob who makes fun of those less fortunate, let me remind you of the follow-up story that hardly anyone saw. That tornado only touched down for a minute and it wiped out an abandoned trailer park that was about to be bulldozed by the government for a pork barrel project. It actually saved the feds millions in demolition costs and enabled them to start construction early on the desperately needed Museum of American Macramé. (Slogan: ‘Got Knots?’) Not one person was injured by the tornado, nothing else was damaged, nobody was left homeless. It simply whooshed a bunch of ramshackle mobile homes outta there and was done. But nooooo, you didn’t pay attention to that story, did you? You had the same knee-jerk reaction as the network president, who was deluged by angry tweets from flyovers (a network term for people the airlines zip over between New York and Los Angeles.) So even though I got canned three days ago, Twitter Girl still gets bushels of nasty comments collected in one convenient location by a very genteel hashtag:

#FireTheRedheadBitch

Merry Christmas, Cassidy. Enjoy the pink slip in your stocking?

Most of these tweets contain lovely terms of endearment and suggest I perform various impossible anatomical acts that I won’t share. Suffice it to say I will never be able to set foot in the State of Mississippi again, which won’t exactly break my heart. Or, more importantly, a television station. Which will.

So for the first time in my professional career, I have absolutely no idea what to do with the rest of my life.

“Hey, Caz, come look at this!”

The voice you hear belongs to my twenty-five year old kid brother Sam, with whom I share a home here on Staten Island, often called the forgotten borough of New York City. He’s been a saint through all this, compiling all the nice tweets and direct messages of support so that the redhead bitch might cheer up during the holidays. Every night after dinner he cuts and pastes them into one document, prints it out and makes me read them aloud. But with three days to go before Christmas, I’m unemployed and not in the mood. I shuffle down the hall and find him rolling toward me in his wheelchair, iPad in his lap. “Sam, you don’t need to keep doing this. I’m okay, really.”

He smiles, making the dimples in his lean face pop. His green eyes brighten as runs his fingers through his mop of black hair to get it out of his face and points at the screen. “Caz, you really need to read this.”

I roll my eyes. “I just want to forget about it, Sam. Look, I appreciate what you’re doing—”

“I think it’s a job offer.”

His words make my jaw drop. For the past few days I’ve been radioactive, so much so that my agent dropped me right after she told me my television career was toast and I had not only burned every bridge but napalmed them down to the molecular level. “Some television station wants to hire me? You’re kidding.”

He shakes his head. “It’s not a station.” He hands me the tablet and I read a direct message sent to @TwitterGirl:

Cassidy, your voice mailbox is full and need to talk. We have a position for you in the campaign. - Frank Delavan

My eyes widen and I feel myself smile for the first time in days.

Sam is wearing his eyebrows-up-I-told-you-so look, which I get a lot since he’s much smarter than I am. “So, Twitter Girl, still pissed at me for reading your mail?”

I hand back his iPad, lean down and give him a hug, then muss up his hair like I did when he was little. “Hell, no. I owe you big time. You know who Frank Delavan is?”

He nods. “Duh, my sister works in the news business. Of course I do. He’s Will Becker’s point man. And apparently he wants you to be a part of the team.”

Me. Twitter Girl.

Working for the Will Becker. And unless you’ve been living under that same neighborhood of rocks for a while, you know he’s America’s most eligible bachelor and odds-on favorite to be the next President of the United States.

My euphoria is interrupted by the doorbell. I run across the living room to answer it, as I already know it’s my boyfriend Jamison back from a long trip to China. I’ve barely been able to get in touch with him since I got canned and now I can’t wait to share the good news. While Sam has been doing his best to comfort me, it’s brotherly love, and I really need a hug from my significant other. (Well, okay, more than just a hug.)

When I open the door I see that he’s carrying something other than a Christmas gift. It’s a metaphorical box of relationship coal for my stocking as a peek inside tells me it’s my stuff from his apartment. My smile disappears.

“Hi,” he says, looking at the box he’s holding instead of my face.

“What’s this?” I ask, even though my romantic GPS has already told me.

Your relationship has hit… a dead end.

Recalculating…

He walks inside, accompanied by a blast of frigid December air and I close the door. “I’m… uh…”

I bite my lower lip and feel my emotions well up. He’s still not looking at me and I’ve been around the block enough times to know why. “You’re breaking up with me?”

“I’m sorry, Cassidy.”

“This why you didn’t get back to me?”

No response.

“Look at me, dammit.”

He looks up and I see very little emotion in his eyes. “I’ve been doing a lot of thinking since… you know. The incident.”

“And?”

“I… don’t think I can be with someone who is disliked by so many people.”

In a flash my emotions switch gears. Upset to pissed off. My blood pressure zips past elevated, leaves dangerous in the rear view mirror and goes directly to Irish-girl-wanna-hit-someone level. I see Sam wheel to the edge of the living room and peek around the wall as he’s obviously heard the conversation and is standing by in case I need him, which I will shortly. I slowly nod and fold my arms. “Wow. And here I thought you came over to support me. Alas, I incorrectly assumed you had a spine.”

“The people at the firm today…” He shakes his head as his face tightens. “God, it was just brutal what I went through.”

“What you went through? Excuse me, but are you actually playing the victim card here?”

“Cassidy, my reputation is at stake. How many clients will want to hire me if I’m in a relationship with someone like you.”

Like me? LIKE ME???

His words push me over the edge and send Sam heading in my direction. I yank the box from his arms, put it on the floor, open the door and point out at the street. “Get out.”

He reaches out and takes my shoulders but I twist away like his hands are on fire. “Cassidy, don’t take it personally—”

“You heard my sister,” says Sam, rolling to a stop a few feet from Jamison and glaring at him. “Get the hell out of our house. Now.”

My boyfriend looks at my brother, who was a six-foot-two black belt in karate before the accident and has tremendous upper body strength from life in the chair. Jamison knows Sam would have no qualms about kicking his ass. He nods and turns back to me. “Well, know that I wish you the best.”

“Yeah, right,” I say, as he heads out the door. When he’s on the way to his car I turn to look at Sam who has a gleam in his eye. He cocks his head at the pile of snow on the porch.

“Do it, Caz.”

I know exactly what he’s thinking. I step outside, grab a handful of the white stuff which has almost turned to ice, pack it into a ball, rear back and fire. It nails Jamison in the head.

“Ow!” He turns around. “What the hell was that for?”

“That’s for the snowball’s chance you ever have of coming back to me!” I flip him the bird, throw in the Italian salute for good measure (that’s the hand slapped in the crook of the opposite elbow, for those not versed in Sicilian sign language), step back inside, slam the door and get a high five from Sam.

“Feel better?” he asks.

“A little.” I feel my eyes start to well up. “Not really.”

Sam reaches his arms up, I lean down and accept his warm hug. When we break the embrace we start the rehab ritual, which, unfortunately, I have gone through too many times.

Like I said, I’ve been around the block known as Breakup Square.

He rolls into the kitchen, I follow him. He reaches into the freezer, grabs a pint of Haagen Dazs rum raisin and hands it to me, already sitting at the kitchen table with a spoon. He wheels his chair next to me and starts stroking my hair. I lean my head on his shoulder as I savor the rich ice cream.

Sam kisses the top of my head. “Hey, wait till he finds out you got another job.”

And wait till he finds out who I’ll be working with.

***

“Yo, Twitter Girl!”

The words from a young hardbodied bike messenger greet me as I emerge from the cab in Brooklyn. I smile and wave at him as he pedals by, slows down to check me out head to toe, and returns a sexy grin. (If I didn’t have an important meeting I’d grab a CitiBike and go after him.)

I head into the seriously out of the way tavern and pause a minute so my eyes can adjust to the very dim light. I walk past the ancient oak bar, empty except for a burly bartender wheeling in a keg, and spot Frank Delavan at the last table near the kitchen door. He stands up, much shorter than he appears on television, maybe five-six, and extends a hand. “Cassidy, nice to meet you. Thank you for coming.”

I return the handshake. “Thanks for inviting me.” I take a seat and adjust my chair as I take a look at the New York sports photos that cover every inch of paneled wall space. “This place is a little off the beaten path for you, huh?”

“Well, I thought in light of the publicity you might want to keep a low profile.”

“That’s not really possible when you’re a six foot tall redhead who’s been on network television for seven years, but I appreciate the thought.”

He laughs a bit. Delavan has a nice smile which goes well with his short and portly look, but I know his reputation as a gunslinger. He may look like a bald, middle-aged lawn gnome, but every politician wants him in a foxhole. “Well, the food’s excellent here. I actually try to get by once a month. This is one of the city’s best kept secrets. I grew up down the block. Used to come here as a kid for the cheeseburgers and never stopped.”

A young waiter arrives at our table, hands me a menu, and his eyes light up with recognition. “Hey, you’re Twitter Girl!”

I put my palms up and shrug. “See what I mean?” I say to Frank.

“Nice to have you in our restaurant,” says the waiter. “For what it’s worth, I thought you got a raw deal from the network. I sure miss those tweets. You’re funny as hell.”

“Thank you.”

“Well, I wish you’d start again. Anyway, I’ll give you guys a few minutes to decide.” He turns and heads back to the kitchen.

“See,” says Frank, dark eyes gleaming. “Not everyone is mad at you.”

“Nah, only about four hundred thousand people. And everyone in the state of Mississippi.”

“Well, I’m not one of those people. And neither is my candidate. He’s a big fan.”

“Really? Will Becker’s on Twitter?”

“Yep.”

“I thought politician’s accounts were actually managed by staffers.”

“Most are, but he actually likes being in touch with real people. He feels it’s more accurate than an opinion poll and it’s instant. Anyway, he loved your television stories and your Internet sarcasm. That’s why I asked you here today. You have a unique talent the campaign needs.”

“Not sure I understand.”

“Cassidy, I don’t know where your political views lie…”

“Well, I’m one of those old school journalists who actually keeps my opinions private, so I’m not gonna tell you. I know it’s fashionable to be biased, but that’s not me.”

“That’s very admirable in this day and age and the Senator will respect that. But he’s hoping you like him enough to join the campaign.”

“Let’s just say that considering his views I wouldn’t mind working for you. But I’m not sure you need someone who’s toxic with half the general public for your press office.”

Frank leans back in his chair and folds his hands in his lap. “That’s not the position we have in mind for you. And, as I said, it’s your unique talent we need. In fact, it’s a position that’s never existed in a campaign, and you’re the only person who could do the job. This new digital world offers interesting opportunities. If you don’t accept our offer for this position, one will not be made to anyone else.”

Now I’m getting confused. “I’m not sure where you’re going, Frank. If you don’t want me for your press office, what would I do? Produce videos?”

“We need Twitter Girl.”

I furrow my brow. “Okayyyyyy…”

“We need your unique brand of snark. Those wicked, sarcastic one liners that can cut people down to size and go viral. You may have lost four hundred thousand followers the first day after that tweet but you’ve picked up a quarter million new people since. Sarcasm is a valuable currency on social media. We want to hire you to do what you did for the network, only your targets will be the people we’re running against. We could spend millions on TV ads but 140 characters from you could be more effective, cheaper and a lot faster. And let’s face it, politicians are fair game. You couldn’t possibly offend anyone.”

“And those targets you mentioned would eventually include the current President.”

He nods. “Assuming the Senator wins the party primary. But until he does, there are a host of candidates challenging him who need to be taken down a notch by Twitter Girl. And of course, the President will need constant tweaks along the way while we’re going through primary season.”

“Your candidate is a stone cold lock for the nomination.”

“No such thing. You never know what sort of land mines will explode.”

“C’mon, Frank. He’s never had a scandal and just got named to a certain magazine’s most beautiful people issue. Can’t say I disagree with their judges.”

His face turns serious for a moment. “Still, there are plenty of wild cards in the deck you can’t anticipate in politics. A lot of people still might feel funny electing a President who’s single.”

“Yeah, but he’s a widower. He didn’t get divorced. Big difference. The man can’t help it if his wife got sick and died. And plenty of women would want to vote for the country’s most eligible bachelor. Or date him. Think about it, you go from dinner and a movie to First Lady. It’s the American version of marrying a prince. The only thing we don’t have is Buckingham Palace.”

He smiles and nods. “So, you get that part, huh?”

“I’m a single woman, he’s unattached, and, no offense, the man is smoking hot. Hell yeah, I get it.”

I almost regret saying that but Frank laughs as he reaches for his water. “You’re certainly not subtle.”

“Hey, you want Twitter Girl, this is what you get.”

“Good, because that’s the attitude we want. But Becker doesn’t need a girlfriend right now. He needs a Vice President of snark. Help get him elected and then you can take your best shot at the Lincoln Bedroom.”

***

One hour, two beers and a killer cheeseburger later, I’m seriously intrigued. Frank has laid the cards on the table and they’re all aces.

“There is, however, a catch,” says Frank, as he leans forward.

“Ah, I thought this was too good to be true. What’s the catch? I gotta pay for my own lunch today?”

“Cassidy, the campaign is a long, exhausting road. Even though our main campaign headquarters will be in Manhattan you’ll be away from home a lot, sometimes for a week at a time. From now till November.”

I shrug. “I figured as much. What’s the big deal?”

“I say that because… I, uh… read about what happened with your brother. We didn’t know if you could be away or if… you know. You needed to be here in town all the time.”

I lean back. “Nah, Sam is more self-sufficient than I am. He drives, has a good job. He’s an advertising copywriter. Does all the cooking, grocery shopping. The network already sends me out of town a lot. Or at least they did. Sam is fine when he’s by himself. Honestly, I don’t even notice the wheelchair anymore. He sure doesn’t.”

“Oh, I just thought since you two shared a home.”

“I was twenty-five when my parents died in the accident and Sam became unable to walk. He was fifteen. He needed a legal guardian and extensive rehab so I moved back home. My boss was very understanding and gave me a leave of absence. But he doesn’t need my help anymore for physical stuff. And he’s got some girls he hangs out with if he misses female companionship.”

“That’s good to hear. So, you never wanted a place of your own after he got better?”

“I originally thought I would but the accident made us incredibly close. Before we were always on different wavelengths because of the ten year age difference. We don’t even look alike, except for the green eyes. He got my mom’s black hair and I got the red hair and freckles. But Sam’s like an extra best friend and I wouldn’t want to have any other roommate. Until I meet Mister Right, that is.”

“It’s great that you have such a good relationship with your brother. My sister is the devil’s spawn. I think if you shaved her head you’d find three sixes.”

I laugh, already on the same sarcastic wavelength with Frank. “It’s funny, but originally I moved back home because he needed me. Now I can’t leave because I need him.”

“How so?”

“It not just that he’s my emotional rock and in some ways older than me. Sam’s got a built in bullshit detector. He meets the guys who come to pick me up on dates. Let’s just say he’s saved me from a lot of heartache. The man is an incredibly accurate judge of character.”

“I see.”

“And Sam’s my hero. He went through a whole bunch of surgeries and I know he’s occasionally in a lot of pain, but he never complains and hasn’t let his situation hold him back. I admire him more than anyone I know.”

“That’s nice.” Frank smiles and takes a sip of his beer. “Cassidy, one more thing. I know this is another personal question, and I apologize for asking, but a Presidential campaign is unique. We need your total commitment, so would this job cause any problems with a relationship?”

“It might if I had one. My boyfriend left skid marks last night. Apparently an attorney cannot have a girlfriend who has attained national redhead bitch status.”

“My, how supportive.”

“He shoulda just broken up with me on Twitter. I’m thinking of writing a book. Dumping your significant other in 140 characters or less.”

“Was this a serious relationship?”

“I thought it was. You would think a lawyer would have a set of brass ones and stand up for his girl. But I got even. The coward forgot he’d left a whole bunch of legal documents at my house for some cases he was working on. It made wonderful kindling for the Yule log.”

“I’d better not get on your bad side. Sounds like you’re not exactly broken up over it.”

“Hey, better I find out now than when I’m walking down the aisle. Sam had warned me about him and turned out to be right again. Anyway, that catch of yours is no problem. I am unattached and not ready for another relationship, even if it was Will Becker.” (Yes, my fingers are crossed behind my back. Bless me, Father, for I have sinned. I lied through my teeth while thinking about having sex with my new boss.)

He nods and smiles.

C’mon, we’ve gotten all the details out of the way. Get to the good part. How much?

“You seriously want to pay me just to be sarcastic? Travel with the campaign and play on Twitter? That’s all?”

He nods. “That’s all. And we’re prepared to pay you fifty percent more than you were making at the network.” He reaches inside his jacket, pulls out an envelope and slides it across the table.

I open it, take out a small sheet of paper and my eyes bug out at the figure, which is exactly fifty percent more than I was making. “How the hell did you know what my salary was?”

He cocks his head to the side. “Really, Cassidy? I do work in politics. Your tax dollars at work. By the way, your return shows you’re very generous with your charitable dollars.”

“Right, I forgot Big Brother knows all.” I pick up the ketchup bottle and look underneath it.

“Problem?”

“Just checking to make sure the condiments aren’t bugged.” I look at the slip of paper again, knowing this is the only lifeline I’m about to be thrown and someone actually wants to pay me a ton of money to be, well, my snarky self online. I can work for Will Becker. I agree on some of his issues and don’t on others, but I wouldn’t have a problem if he were President. I like him better than the current reptilian occupant of the White House. And, of course, there’s that little thing about him eventually needing a First Lady and perhaps he might like a skinny, spunky redhead for that position. “Okay.”

“That mean you’ll do it?”

“Yep. But I don’t want to be VP of Snark. I want to be the CEO.”

“Done.” We shake and I pull out my cell.

“Calling your brother with the news?”

“Not yet. Right now Twitter Girl’s gotta dish out some payback.” I quickly tap the keys on my phone.

#FireTheRedheadBitch

@TwitterGirl The bitch is back. Stay tuned.

CHAPTER TWO

#FireTheRedheadBitch

@TwitterGirl

Returning to work in January! Details coming up!

@TwitterGirl

Eating lobster, shrimp, scallops, calamari, crab, sole and crawfish. Merry Christmas Eve!

“Can I be your intern?”

I knew the question was coming.

“It can be my Christmas gift. You don’t even have to wrap it.”

“That’s because you simply want to unwrap it,” I say.

“Hey, ‘tis the season.”

My best friend Ripley DeAngelo is drooling at the dinner table, and it’s not over the massive amount of seafood available at her family’s traditional Christmas Eve dinner.

She wants a shot at my new boss and the possibility of becoming the next First Lady.

Honey, take a number.

“Haven’t even met the guy yet, but I’ll see what I can do,” I say, as I reach toward the middle of the table and ladle another round of shrimp scampi onto my plate. “Boy, I really love this Italian tradition, Feast of the Seven Fishes.”

“Don’t change the subject,” she says, her caramel eyes narrowing as they fill with lust. “All I want for Christmas is a chance at Will Becker. I’ll work nights, weekends.” She licks her lips and raises both eyebrows. “Overnights.”

Her mother gently slaps her on the shoulder. “Young lady! It’s Christmas Eve!” she says, busy clearing one empty dish and replacing it with another.

“Ma, I’m entitled to a Christmas list. Besides, I’ve been nice all year. I wanna be naughty for a change.”

Ripley’s mom rolls her eyes while her dad laughs. I really want to get back to stuffing my face with crustaceans, so I need to keep her at bay. I fold my arms like Barbara Eden in I Dream of Jeannie and snap my head down. “Poof, you’re an intern!”

She shoves her hair behind her ears and smiles. “Thank you, dear friend.”

And dear friend she is since high school. The girl with the booze and food heritage (half Irish, half Italian, one hundred percent Catholic) is named after Sigourney Weaver’s kick-ass heroine and seriously has the balls to take on acid-bleeding aliens. And with her looks she might actually turn Will Becker’s head. A five-nine stunner with chestnut tangles just past her shoulders, classic high cheekbones and a slender, stacked Barbie doll body that would put a twenty year old to shame, she’s a girl who could have her pick of the litter. But Ripley is so damn particular, she remains, like me, unmarried at thirty-five. She spends more Saturday nights with me or a bottle of wine (or frequently, both) than out on a date, and I can tell it’s getting to her.

Will Becker would be the ultimate catch for Ripley.

And for me as well. (Okay, so I’ve been daydreaming about giving a TV tour of the White House a la Jackie Kennedy. So sue me.) But I’m not even remotely in her league in the looks department. I’ll have to bring my “A” game to a “B” (padded bra) to get the attention of the Senator around her.

For a brief moment I find myself flashing back to high school, with two girls fighting over the same guy. I quickly shove the thought away.

Until, right on cue, Sam thoughtfully brings it up. “I haven’t seen you two look like this since I was eight.”

“What are you talking about?” asks Ripley.

“Remember that crush you both had on the quarterback?”

Ripley blushes, my freckles light up. “Ancient history,” she says.

“Really, dear brother, we’ve grown up since then. The Senator is just another guy. It’s not like I’m practicing the signature Cassidy Becker on top of my homework.”

“Yeah, right. You both have tells when it comes to men.”

Ripley furrows her brow. “Tells? What are you talking about?”

“Rip, whenever you talk about a guy who interests you, your eyebrows do this little jump.” He turns to me. “And you start twirling your hair. Like you’re doing now.”

I immediately drop my hand. “It’s a nervous habit. I do it all the time.”

“Hell,” says Sam, “if Becker was here for dinner tonight, you’d end up with a perm.”

***

Wednesday has been poker night for a few years, and I’m always the lone filly at the table. Since this particular Wednesday falls two days after Christmas, the usual beer and chips have been replaced with wine and enough leftover cookies and cakes to send anyone into a sugar coma.

Anyway, Sam always sits across from me, and despite the fact that he’s my brother he turns into a gunslinger when we play cards and cuts me no slack. Two veteran fortysomething photographers from my (former) network, Kevin Frost and Jake Helper, take up two seats while the fifth chair belongs to fifty year old network correspondent and my mentor, Dale Carlin.

And while I don’t have a poker tell, everyone has picked up on the fact that I’m upbeat about my new mystery job.

“Pot’s right,” says Sam, as he starts to deal. “Five card stud.”

“I hate this game,” says Kevin, leaning back and stretching out his lean frame while he smooths his thinning brown hair.

“That’s because you never win,” says Sam. He flips a card in front of me and I gently pull up the corner and see a king of hearts.

Dale turns to me as he runs his hand through his thick salt and pepper hair. “So, you’re not even gonna tell your mentor about your new job?”

I shake my head. “I’m a vault. I’m not allowed to tell.”

“I can tell,” says Sam. “She got a gig as a celebrity greeter at Wal-Mart. She’s going to enforce a strict four tattoo minimum.”

I crinkle my nose at him. “Very funny, dear brother.”

Kevin turns to Jake. “You watch. She’s going to another network and gonna kick our asses every night.” They turn and both look at me, their eyes widening as they study my face for any possible confirmation.

I shake my head again as my second card arrives, another king. “You’re not getting anything from me. If you see me out on a story in January, you’ll know you’re right. If not, I’ll be somewhere else.”

“Wish you were coming with us this year,” says Jake, as the huge teddy bear of a man takes a bite out of a peanut butter cookie with a Hershey kiss in the middle.

“Fifty cents,” I say, as I toss two blue chips into the pot. (Real high stakes game, huh?) “Why, where are you guys going?”

“Eleven wonderful months on Air Hump One,” says Kevin.

Both of my eyebrows shoot up. “You guys got the President’s campaign?”

Both photogs nod while wearing a look of disgust. “I can hardly wait for next week,” says Jake. “My travel agent tells me Iowa’s lovely this time of year.”

“And there’s so much to see and do,” says Kevin. He elbows Jake in the ribs. “Look, Jake, another cornfield!”

Sam smiles as he adds to the pot. “They really call the President’s plane Air Hump One?”

Everyone laughs as I turn to my brother. “Sweetie, our Commander-in-Chief makes Clinton look like an altar boy.”

Dale tosses his cards into the center and folds. “Yeah, and thanks to your little tweet, I get to join them in lovely Dubuque next week.”

“It was gonna be my assignment?” I ask.

He nods as his face turns red. “Sorry, kid, that slipped out. I know how much you wanted to cover a presidential campaign.”

Sam shoots me a wide-eyed look like a parent that tells me not to react.

“Yeah,” I say. “But the job I have is still going to be very enjoyable.”

“Would have been fun to watch,” says Jake. “President comb-over has a thing for redheads and he’s a leg man. He woulda been all over you like a cheap suit.”

My face twists like a dishrag at the thought of being groped by a sixty year old fireplug. “Guys, please, the thought of doing Jabba the President will make me throw up on the cards.”

Then it hits me. I have three close friends who will be covering a President they can’t stand.

Three close friends who wouldn’t mind helping me out when they find out what I’m doing.

It will be better than bugging the Oval Office.

***

“So, are we gonna have any ground rules on our campaign to be the candidate’s permanent running mate?” asks Ripley, as she refills my glass of champagne.

“Ah, so we really are back in high school.” I glance at the living room clock and see it’s five minutes till the new year. (Yep, dateless again as the Times Square ball gets ready to drop.) “What do you mean, rules?”

“Well, we both want him, and neither of us is the type to share. That’s too creepy, even if the guy being shared is Will Becker.”

“True. Though I think any final decision would be his. Let’s put it this way. If I don’t get him, I hope you do.”

“Same here, dear friend. It just doesn’t need to be like that time during senior year.”

She’s right. We were a couple of immature teenagers throwing ourselves at the star quarterback, and the competition strained our friendship for a short time. Of course, he ended up with the girl known as the head cheerleader anyway. (She wasn’t even on the squad, so you can probably guess the origin of her nickname.) So the flaunting of our wares went for naught. By the way, I googled said quarterback after that Christmas Eve dinner, and he’s now a bald, fat used car salesman. Gotta love it when the universe evens things up.

“He’ll go for you anyway,” says Ripley, “I don’t stand a chance if you wear a short skirt with those legs up to your neck.”

“Oh, bullshit. Have you forgotten you put yourself through college as a bikini model?”

“That was years ago.”

“And I’ll bet they still fit.”

Ripley smiles and sticks her nose in the air. “Of course they do. But you’ve got that gorgeous red hair and those cute freckles that make you look like a little girl. And you haven’t gained an ounce since high school either. You’re still skinny.”

“I needed to gain a few ounces above the waist. Just once I’d like to say My eyes are up here. Men never talk to my boobs. They have a complete conversation with yours.”

“You may be thin but you got the perfect mile long legs, so don’t complain. You can’t have everything.”

“You have everything.”

She shrugs. “Don’t have Mister Right. So are we going to spend the rest of New Year’s Eve arguing about how beautiful we are?”

“Don’t think we have enough booze. Tell you what, how about we do the opposite of what we did back then?”

“What, ignore him?”

“Ripley, you know that men always want what they can’t have. That’s one thing we have learned since high school.”

“Very true. So therefore he would have to make the first move.”

“Exactly. And then there would be no hard feelings between us.”

Ripley slowly nods and extends her glass. “Very well. May the lucky girl win.”

I clink her glass as the ball starts to descend in Times Square. “Just hope it’s one of us.”

CHAPTER THREE

#FireTheRedheadBitch

@TwitterGirl

Say bye to this hashtag, cause the bitch is back, joining Senator Becker’s campaign! #HIREtheRedheadBitch!

@TwitterGirl

About to meet my new boss, Senator (and next President) Will Becker…

“Welcome,” says Frank Delavan, extending his hand as I get up from the couch in the sparsely furnished lobby. “Great to have you on board.”

“Happy to be here,” I say, as I shake hands.

“Great timing, as we just opened this office. The Senator is very excited about meeting you.”

“The feeling is mutual.”

Mutual, hell. I’ll bet his heart isn’t hung up on his tonsils.

Frank leads me out of the lobby, down a hallway and through the campaign headquarters, a beehive of activity filled with mostly twentysomethings on phones dressed in jeans, probably volunteers. A few people are busy hanging political posters while a couple of teenagers are stuffing envelopes. I see several men in shirts and ties and a few women in expensive dresses moving about and figure them for the paid staff. Every one of the women gives me the once-over as I walk through the office.

Well, more than a once-over. More like a glare.

They see me as competition. They want the same guy I do.

Fine. Bring it.

For my first impression I’ve chosen a conservative long sleeved emerald green dress that matches my eyes with a hemline that hits just above the knee. My shoes take me up to six-three. I know a lot of tall women try to minimize their height, but hey, why should I pass up on great shoes just because I’m an amazon? Had my hair done this morning, so my red tangles bounce as I power walk, dusting my shoulders. I didn’t go overboard on the makeup as I don’t really have cheekbones to be accented anyway and I don’t like to cover up my freckles. Like Ripley says, they’re handy when I wanna play the little innocent girl card. (Okay, maybe not so innocent, but you get my drift. Add a pout to the freckles and it’s game over.)

The door to the corner office opens as we arrive and a thirtyish guy in khakis and a blue oxford shirt walks out, nodding at Frank as he passes. We walk into the office and find Will Becker leaning over a cluttered desk, talking on the phone as he makes a note on a yellow legal pad. He looks up and smiles at us. “I’ll have to get back to you on that,” he says. “Talk to you tomorrow.” He hangs up the phone, moves around the desk and extends his hand. “So, I finally get to meet the famous Twitter Girl.”

“Pleasure to meet you, Senator,” I manage to get out while we shake hands. I’m blown away by the real life version of America’s most eligible bachelor as photos and television don’t do justice to this man. His deep-set powder blue eyes lock onto mine, and the rest of the world seems to disappear.

“You can call me Will when we’re alone,” he says, placing his other hand on top of mine and sending a bolt of electricity through my body like a defibrillator.

When we’re alone…

“And you can call me anytime,” I say, before my filter has a chance to catch those words by the tail. I feel my face flush and know my freckles are catching fire.

“There’s that wit we need for the campaign!” he says, obviously not realizing I was being literal with one of the oldest bar pickup lines. He lets go of my hands and gestures to the chairs in front of his desk. “Please, Cassidy, have a seat.”

I sit down next to Frank as I take in this forty-three year old vision of masculinity. Becker is about six-four, slender with broad shoulders revealed by a tailored white shirt, an angles and planes face framed by thick black hair, a lock of which cascades over his forehead. The rolled up sleeves reveal sinewy, buffed forearms. A warm smile makes me feel like I’m the only one in the room. That smile, I can see, could easily melt a heart. The twinkle in his eyes makes him somehow incredibly handsome and unbelievably cute at the same time. A quick look at his slacks as he sits down confirms my suspicion that you could probably bounce quarters off his ass. He’ll probably moonlight as a Chippendale when he’s done leading the free world.

“So,” he says, as he adjusts his chair, “this is the woman with two hundred thousand more followers than I have. Maybe you should be running instead of me.”

“Yeah, but you’ve probably got more support in Mississippi.”

“Hey, six electoral votes aren’t gonna kill us. Look, I thought your tweet about the tornado was funny as hell and it was bullshit that you got fired, especially considering what really happened. But the network’s loss is our gain.”

“I’m happy the way things worked out. I can’t thank you enough for bringing me on board.”

“You’re going to be a unique asset, our secret weapon. Though after today it’s not going to be much of a secret. Nothing stays quiet on the Internet for long.”

“I’ve given her the basics of what we’re looking for,” says Frank. “But I know you’ve got some ideas of your own.”

“Right. Cassidy, you’ll be here about half the time working with our strategy team, and the other half you’ll be traveling with me. For instance, we’ve got the first debate in Iowa on Thursday and I want you in place with a laptop next to Frank. He knows the other candidates like the back of his hand and can help you push their buttons. It will be great to tweak the other guys during the debate the moment they make a gaffe or say anything that gives you an opportunity for a comeback.”

“Well, I was blessed with a quick wit.”

“Not just a quick wit, but a snarky one,” says Becker. “Some of your tweets were downright wicked and devastating. What was that one you had about the New York City Mayor shoveling his own driveway?”

“Politicians are used to shoveling something of a different color.”

Becker nods and smiles. “A classic. Anyway I want you to take the gloves off. Nothing is sacred.”

“Well, I don’t want to tweet anything that will come back to bite you. You guys need to let me know if I’m about to cross the line.”

“You let me worry about that.” He turns to Frank. “Did you tell her about the other part?”

Other part?

Frank shakes his head. “Figured it would be better coming from you.”

Uh-oh. My smile fades as my face tightens. “There something I should know about?”

Becker notices my worried look. “Oh, it’s nothing bad. Just that if I do become the next President, there will be a position for you in my administration.”

I exhale my worry and my adrenaline spikes.

I could end up working at the White House.

Of course, there’s one position I really want at 1600 Pennsylvania Avenue, and it’s not a job.

***

By four o’clock I’d been introduced to nearly everyone in the campaign. “I saved the best of our office staff for last,” says Frank as we walk past the Senator’s office. “Get ready to meet the smartest guy in the building,”

“Shhhh!” I cock my head toward Will Becker’s door. “The Senator—”

“Hell, even Becker will admit Tyler Garrity is the Stephen Hawking of politics. The Senator prides himself in hiring people who are brighter than he is. But Tyler is off the charts smart. We’re talking genius territory.”

“Sounds like a guy I wanna get to know.”

“Well, brace yourself, he’s quite a unique character.” Frank stops at a closed door and turns to face me. “This is the war room. Now, one thing you need to know about Tyler. He has a medical condition, some sort of rare fatigue syndrome, that only allows him to work every other day. Monday, Wednesday and Friday. And traveling wipes him out, he gets horrible jet lag, so Becker keeps him fresh here in New York. But even working on a limited basis, what we get from him is pure gold. Anyway, he doesn’t mind talking about his health, so you don’t have to tiptoe around him.”

“Sounds like my brother.”

Frank opens the door and leads me into a long rectangular room without a single window but with light provided by about a dozen flat screens that take up one wall, each tuned to a different channel. I see a guy in his mid-thirties opposite the monitors totally focused on a laptop. “Tyler, someone I want you to meet.”

The man is furiously typing something, locked in on the screen, and doesn’t look up. “Give me ten seconds.” He finishes banging the keyboard and hits one key with a flourish, then looks up and closes the laptop. “Done. Ah, I see Twitter Girl has arrived!”

He gets up and moves toward me bringing an incredibly bright smile. Tyler Garrity definitely has that boy-next-door thing going, with tousled dark brown hair and a matching two-day growth contrasted by deep-set olive green eyes. He sorta reminds me of Bradley Cooper. He extends his hand and I shake it. I tower over him as he’s not very tall, maybe five-nine, and slender. Still, he’s a seriously cute little thing. “Pleasure to meet you, Tyler.”

“Pleasure’s mine, T.G.”

I furrow my brow. “Huh?”

“T.G. You know, Twitter Girl.”

“Oh, right.”

“Tyler likes calling people by initials. Or nicknames,” says Frank.

“You got it, Viper,” he says.

I turn to Frank and raise one eyebrow. “Viper?”

He shrugs. “What can I say? I’m not exactly the warm and fuzzy type.”

Tyler pulls out the chair next to his. “Have a seat, T.G. You need coffee, soda, juice? I’ve got bagels, donuts, croissants, every kind of chocolate you can imagine—”

“I can always go for a chocolate bar,” I say as I sit down and he pushes in the chair. Hmmm. Gentleman. I usually only get this in an expensive restaurant.

“I’ll leave you two to get started,” says Frank, who leaves the room and closes the door.

Tyler opens a drawer on a credenza, pulls out a candy bar and hands it to me. “You look like a Dove bar kinda girl.”

“Very perceptive.”

He sits down and shoves his laptop out of the way as he swivels his chair to face me, wide-eyed with a look of excitement. “Well, your reputation precedes you. I must say I absolutely loved your tweets and cannot tell you how excited I am to have you on the team. I’ve been a fan for a long time.”

I start unwrapping the candy. “Well, that’s very kind of you to say. I’m excited to be here.”

“So, did Frank tell you what I do?”

“He basically told me you should be designing rockets for NASA or building a time machine.”

Tyler leans back and laughs as I take a bite of the candy and savor the smooth chocolate. “Actually the time machine is finished.” He leans forward and whispers. “Don’t tell anyone, but I’m from the future.”

I lean toward him and drop my voice. “Okay, it’ll be our little secret.” For a guy with a fatigue problem, Tyler is incredibly animated and talks fast with a ton of energy in his voice. He’s more full of life than anyone I’ve met in awhile. Frank’s right, he’s definitely a character.

“Seriously, I’m the chief strategist here. I try to keep my finger on the pulse of the general public and play devil’s advocate. Top Dog likes me to point out things he might be doing wrong.”

“Top Dog would be Senator Becker?”

“You catch on quick. Anyway, I’m only here Monday, Wednesday and Friday, but you can always reach me at home on Skype or Face Time. Or if you’re old school like me, call me on the phone. But I warn you I never shut up and may talk your ear off.”

“Yeah, I kinda get that.”

“Or drop by if you’re in the neighborhood. I’ll take you for a ride in the time machine back to the seventies and we can hit a disco.”

“Sounds like fun.”

“Frank probably told you that my body can’t handle work two days in a row, but thankfully God blessed me with a decent brain.” He looks at the clock, grabs a television remote and fires it at the wall of flat screens.

“Well, if you’d like a little help when you’re not here my best friend has her own ad agency and she’s incredibly clever. She mentioned she wanted to volunteer for the campaign.”

“I’d love someone to bounce ideas off. Bring her in.” He looked at the television. “You ready?”

“For what?”

“Showtime, T.G. Time to pop your political cherry.” I can’t help but laugh. Tyler is a free spirit unlike anyone I’ve ever met, and newsrooms are loaded with quirky personalities. He opens up his laptop and slides it in front of me. “President has a press conference. Watch, wait for the usual gaffe, and send a sarcastic tweet his way.”

“Right now?”

“No time like the present and you’re on the clock.”

He turns up the sound as I log into my Twitter account. I look up at the flat screen just as President Gavin Turner arrives at a podium. A graphic fills the bottom of the screen with Dubuque, Iowa while a diagonal red Live banner stretches across the upper left corner.

“Good face for radio,” I say as the high-def television brings the President into uncomfortable clarity.

Tyler leans back and laughs. “Never heard that one. A TV term?”

“Uh-huh. Suppose he doesn’t screw up?” I ask.

Tyler leans his head to the side as he gives me an incredulous look. “Seriously?”

“Yeah, you’ve got a point.”

The President waits for applause to die down before he begins. “Thank you all for coming out on this very cold day.” He looks to the side at two men seated next to the podium. “Nice to see my good friends, Governor Lovegood and Senator Bracken… two great public servants.”

“Wait for it…” says Tyler.

The President goes through a laundry list of people to thank, then looks out at the crowd. “As always, it’s great to be in the Buckeye State!” The crowd groans.

“There it is!” says Tyler, pointing at the screen. “Ohio is the Buckeye State. Iowa is the Hawkeye State.” He points at the laptop. “Go!”

I pause for a few seconds, and then my snarky muse hits me with a gem.

@TwitterGirl The President got a GPS as a Christmas gift. Obviously he returned it.

“Ha! That’s terrific!”

“Thank you.”

He points at the screen. “Look at him. He knows he screwed up. But he may not be done yet, so stand by.”

***

Thirty minutes and two scathing tweets later, Tyler and I are whooping it up in the war room as the President wraps up a gaffe-filled speech.

“I’d say you had a great first day,” he says.

“Well, most of what the President said were hanging curve balls over the middle of the plate.”

“Ah, baseball fan. Mets or Yanks?”

“Long suffering Mets fan.”

“Me too. We should catch a game sometime. Nothing but obnoxious Yankee fans around this office and the majority aren’t even from the area. Damn bandwagoners.”

Frank enters the room wearing a big smile. “Great job, Twitter Girl.”

“Ah, you were monitoring.”

“I wasn’t the only one. Those little barbs of yours have already been re-tweeted hundreds of times. The one about the GPS will probably end up as a joke on a late night talk show.”

“Glad you liked ’em,” I say.

“Well, Tyler’s got a conference call.”

Tyler looks at his watch and nods as he gets up. “Yeah, need to hit the phone. Great working with you, T.G.”

“You too, Tyler. See you tomorrow.”

“Won’t be here, remember? Besides, you’ll be on your way to sunny Iowa. If you need me, I’ll be in cyberspace. Operators are standing by.”

***

Dinner is with Frank’s Deputy Campaign Manager, Roberta Willis, a mid-thirties sharp looking gray-eyed dishwater blonde I’ve seen on a few talk shows. While Frank Delavan is running the show, Roberta is the face of the campaign, being a lot more telegenic with a sharp wit. We are quickly bonding, as she also has a background in broadcasting, though she had bailed out of a dysfunctional newsroom (somewhat redundant) five years ago. In two hours she’s covered just about everything I need to know about the campaign.

Of course, I want to know about the candidate. Ripley has already texted me twice to remind me.

What’s the 411 on our objective?

“So, what’s he like?” I ask.

“What, you mean away from the campaign?”

“Yeah, you know. When he’s not the next President is he a regular guy? What’s he do when he lets his hair down?”

“You haven’t been around national politics a lot, have you?”

“I follow it closely, but that wasn’t my beat as a reporter. I’ve covered a bunch of state campaigns, but nothing like this. Ironically I was set to cover the President’s campaign before I got the boot.”

She nods slowly, then takes a sip of wine. “Well, I’ll give you the quick Cliff Notes version of Washington politics 101. There’s one thing that is the common denominator with Democrats and Republicans.”

“Getting re-elected?”

“Very perceptive, Cassidy. They all talk a good game about being public servants, but that term is an absolute joke. They have no more interest in serving the public than we have in washing these dishes after dinner. Most of them are incredible egomaniacs who are turned on more by power than everything else.”

“But Becker’s not like that, right?”

“In some ways he is, but in many ways he’s different, and losing his wife changed him. Humbled him in a way. Most politicians think they’re bulletproof and when his wife died that was a huge dose of reality. It softened him, but in a good way. Made him unsure of himself when before he was always dead certain he was in control. I mean, of course he has a huge political ego… you can’t be shy and modest on the national stage. He desperately wants to be President and he does honestly want to make things better for the country. But he’ll also do just about anything to get there.”

“Just about anything meaning…”

“Very little is off the table in politics. Despite his reputation he can get down and dirty like anyone else. What makes Will Becker different is the way he does it. Or, in his case, how he has other people do it for him. He’s very well insulated.”

“What about his personal life now that he’s single?”

Her face tightens slightly and I can tell I’ve pushed a bit too far. She looks at her watch and turns to wave at the waiter. “I think it’s time for the check. Got some calls to make.”

CHAPTER FOUR

@TwitterGirl

Boarding Air Becker for the Iowa debates. Hope someone told the Prez they’re not in Ohio this year.

I wheel my suitcase toward the steps of the private jet that will carry Senator Becker and his staff to the wilds of Iowa, which is currently experiencing the effects of one of those dreaded polar vortexes. Or vortices. Or whatever the plural of vortex is. In other words, it’s friggin’ cold. The people in Iowa are freezing their asses off cause it’s ten below. Luckily I won’t be working outside as I would be if I were a reporter, so it’s no big deal. Still, I wish the primaries were in the Caribbean.

A middle-aged white haired gentleman in a suit walks toward me and smiles. “I’ll take that for you, Ms. Shea.”

“Wow,” I say, as I pass the handle over to him. “Beats flying commercial.”

“Have a nice trip,” he says, as he turns and takes my bag toward the rear of the plane.

“Thanks.” I’m filled with energy as I bound up the steps and am greeted at the top by the first really attractive flight attendant I’ve seen in years, since these days most are people deemed not cheerful enough to work at the Department of Motor Vehicles. And, she’s the first one I’ve seen smiling in years. “Good morning.”

“Welcome aboard, Ms. Shea. I’m Jessica. May I take your coat?”

“Thank you, and please call me Cassidy.” I take two steps into the cabin and my jaw drops as I start to remove my coat. It’s a private plane, all right, but it’s seriously decked out. A half dozen staffers on cell phones fill huge reclining tan leather chairs and I see Frank Delavan sitting in the back, reading a newspaper. “Guess I’m not in a middle seat in coach.”

“It’s the only way to fly,” she says, as she hangs my coat in a closet. The woman is an absolutely breathtaking brunette, early twenties if not younger, tall with a mound of gentle curls framing huge pale green eyes and a tight body wrapped in a short red dress. If I’m going to turn Becker’s head on this flight, my “A” game just got graded on a curve and marked down to a C-minus. “I think Frank is waiting for you in the back. Can I get you something to drink before we take off?”

“If you’ve got coffee made, I’ll take a cup. But don’t go to any trouble on my account.”

“We have almond amaretto, raspberry chocolate, and creme brulee.”

“And this obviously isn’t the drive-thru at Dunkin’ Donuts. I’ll take some of that amaretto concoction, cream and sugar.”

“Coming right up, and we’ll have eggs Benedict once we’re airborne,” she says, as she extends her hand toward the back like a game show hostess.

I want to tweet I have died and gone to airline heaven. But probably not a good idea to let the voters know we’re traveling like kings. If anyone asks, I’ll say I was stuck in a middle seat next to a crying baby. No parent, just a baby.

I head down the center aisle passing three incredibly attractive men who are all on cell phones and look up to smile at me. Frank Delavan has a laptop open and is looking serious while on the phone. Behind his seat is a wall with a door, so I assume there’s a meeting room or something since this part of the cabin only takes up half the plane. He wraps up the call as I arrive and plop into the soft leather seat next to him. “Morning, Frank.”

“Cassidy, great to have you along with us. I’m really looking forward to breaking new ground in this campaign.”

“Sarcasm is new ground? I thought that road got paved with the first television commercial.”

“Not Twitter sarcasm and not your brand of it.”

“So what’s on the agenda today?”

“Soon as we’re airborne we’ll have something to eat, then have a planning session.” He cocks his head toward the back wall.

“So the rest of the plane is a meeting room?”

“Just part of it. There’s also a TV room where we can monitor stuff and a few beds and couches in the back if you ever need to crash for a bit.”

“There are bedrooms on this plane?”

“It’s a long haul, Cassidy. Trust me, by August you’ll need a GPS to remind you what city we’re in. Anyway, we’ll do some brainstorming, then the Senator has a full agenda as soon as we land.”

“So I’ll be with him?”

“Not till tonight. I’ve got you down for lunch with our advance man, Andrew Shelton, before he heads out to our next stop. He’s the guy who has his finger on the pulse of the local voters. You’ll see him briefly each time we arrive at a new city.”

“You sound incredibly organized, Frank.”

“Trust me, one look at my desk and you wouldn’t want me to do logistics. We have a seriously anal retentive person for that.”

I hear the engines fire up as the flight attendant comes over the loudspeaker and tells everyone to buckle up.

“And buckle up is literal in a campaign,” says Frank. “You also need to hold on tight. This is the world’s wildest roller coaster.”

***

Two hours later Jessica walks toward us carrying a coffee pot and smiles. “We’ll be landing in about half an hour. Bundle up, Frank, it’s twelve below.”

“Whoever put the Iowa and New Hampshire primaries in the middle of the winter obviously flunked geography,” says Frank.

Jessica taps on the door to the meeting room and I hear the Senator tell her to come in.

I assume she’s bringing him a cup of java. But she doesn’t return.

Five minutes go by, no Jessica.

Ten minutes, no Jessica. Now I’m starting to worry about what’s going on behind that door between the probable next president and a seriously hot babe young enough to be his daughter. Sure, he’s single and entitled to have a relationship, but this doesn’t look good.

Twenty minutes later she comes out.

My eyes widen as I watch her move to the front of the plane, smooth her dress, grab her purse from a shelf and touch up her lipstick.

The Senator then emerges from the back room, buttoning his shirt and tying his necktie as he heads for his seat at the front of the plane.

No one says a word or even gives this a second look.

And now I’m wondering what’s really true about the guy I’m now working for.

Is Will Becker simply a product?

And is the race over before Ripley and I have even left the starting gate?

***

As I have lunch with advance man Andrew Shelton, I’m beginning to see a pattern.

This campaign, with the exception of Frank Delavan, is loaded with seriously cute guys.

And after what I saw on the airplane with our flight attendant, Becker may be off the table, so I may as well lay the groundwork for Plan B.

Andrew is probably in his early forties, maybe six-two and built like a male model. Broad shoulders, slim hips, and a chambray shirt which is no doubt covering a ripped torso. A pair of jeans has never looked better. He’s obviously dressed down for the locals, but I know he could seriously do justice to a tuxedo. Thick sandy hair and deep-set pale blue eyes give him a bit of a beach boy look, while huge dimples come into play when he smiles.

Which he does as he gives the waitress a soulful look with those eyes. He gives his order with a deep voice smooth as silk. She turns while staring at him and walks right into a table. Her face flushes as she scurries back to the kitchen.

“You’re a natural flirt, you know that?” I say.

He shrugs and furrows his brow. “What did I do?”

“Oh, nothing, you just make a patty melt sound like phone sex. If the waitress was named Patty, she’d melt.”

“Well, Frank was certainly spot on about you.”

Now it’s my turn to shrug. “What did I do?”

“You’re not shy about saying anything, even to people you just met.”

“Part of my charm. That’s why you guys hired me. I basically have no filter. Although, as you’re aware, the lack of said filter got me fired from the network.”

“Well, we’ll make sure that doesn’t happen here. Anyway, in regard to your phone sex comment, I used to do commercial voice-overs before I got into politics. I was blessed with a good voice, which will come in handy when I’m too old to do anything else.”

“Hey, I know how you can lock up the election. Call up registered female voters and ask, What are you wearing?”

He leans back and laughs. “Twitter Girl, you are something else. I’ve run into some characters in politics, but you are definitely one of a kind.”

“I’ll take that as a compliment, Andrew. So, how does one become an advance man?”

“I was working in the Senator’s office and a few times he was late for a few events so I had to basically keep the crowd warm.”

I’m sure he could keep any girl warm…

“Anyway,” he continues, “Becker thought I’d be good at getting the locals primed before his arrival because I’m from a small town and can relate to Joe and Mabel Sixpack. He calls me the redneck whisperer.”

“Cute. Though you sure don’t look like one.”

“Well, for whatever reason, people open up to me. I grew up on a farm with a lot of blue collar folks. A lot of advance men show up in thousand dollar suits, and that screams New York carpetbagger. I try to blend in and get a sense of the mood so I can brief him before he gets here. I spend a lot of time in coffee shops and diners.”

“Interesting. So you’ll always be one day ahead of me?”

“Yep. Soon as we’re through with lunch I’m off to Cedar Rapids. So I’ll always have a little time to brief you when you arrive, but we’ll always be sleeping in different towns.”

So much for Plan B…

“Does that make you feel detached from the campaign?”

“In some ways, yes, but I do get back to the New York headquarters quite often, since I live in Manhattan.”

What the hell, take a shot. “So at some point when we’re both in town we might actually have dinner instead of lunch.”

“Or… breakfast.”

Talk about not being shy about saying anything to someone you just met. His last words are followed by a smile that makes my heart flutter. Until he follows it up with…

“I love having meetings over a good power breakfast. I get a lot of ideas late at night and need to get them out of my head right away. And I know every great pancake and Belgian waffle place in the city. The way to my heart is covered with pure maple syrup.”

Oh.

My phone chimes. “Excuse me,” I say, as I pull it from my purse and see it’s a text message from Ripley.

Not fair. You’re getting a head start on Becker.

I quickly tap the keys and write back.

Don’t worry, the runner-ups are spectacular.

I slide the phone back into my purse. “You getting all snarky already?” he asks.

“No. Quick note to my best friend. She, uh, wanted to make sure I’m keeping warm out here.”

“Stick with me, I’ll keep you warm.” Another sly smile.

Aha.

“I grew up in Minnesota, so I know everything you need to know about dealing with seriously cold weather.” He cocks his head at my coat. “You need something like a down coat from Eddie Bauer. It’ll make you toasty even when it’s twenty below. The one you’ve got isn’t gonna make it.”

Oh, again.

***

Frank and I are in a small room just off the auditorium stage, seated at a table in front of a monitor as the Iowa debate is about to begin. He has a yellow legal pad in front of him along with a laptop while I have fingers at the ready next to my own laptop, Twitter account already open and buzzing. My followers have been burning it up waiting for whatever darts I’m about to throw at the other candidates.

A digital clock shows there’s one minute to go till the ninety minute debate begins. “You ready?” asks Frank.

I crack my knuckles. “Absolutely.”

And then something happens that has never, ever happened to me on television.

My heart starts pounding.

Talking live in front of millions, I’ve never had a problem. Seated in a room with one guy ready to launch barbs at a bunch of sleazeballs with no souls, and for some reason I’m nervous as a virgin on prom night.

Probably because there’s more at stake here. Let’s face it, television news aint gonna cure cancer and if you screw up on the network no one is going to die. But what I’m doing could conceivably affect the future of the country. If you look back at previous presidential races, you’ll often find one sentence that defines a campaign. The famous headline in the New York tabloid (“Ford to City: Drop Dead”) during the race between Jimmy Carter and Gerald Ford is widely accepted as having had a huge influence on the outcome. “Read my lips” sank the first George Bush like a stone. A few words, history changed. Just like that. And if I end up providing what turns out to be the key words of the campaign, that’s a potentially large gorilla on my back.

Luckily Frank is here to act as a filter in the unlikely event that I need one. (Oh, stop laughing.)

The monitor fills with a red, white and blue graphic and Frank says, “Here we go.”

The music fades as the face of the moderator, public television anchor Jarvis Jones, greets the audience. Jones, who is probably in his mid sixties with a personality as dry as a rice cake, shows no emotion at all as he announces the names of the candidates.

“Hey, Frank, why do they always have these public TV bores as moderators?”

“Yeah, I hate it. Supposedly they’re unbiased, but that’s a bunch of bullshit. They’re liberal as hell.” He cocks his head at my laptop. “Go ahead. Fire away.”

“The debate hasn’t started yet.”

“I meant throw a zinger at the moderator.”

“Really?”

“Sure. His eleven fans probably won’t mind.”

I lick my lips as my eyebrows do a quick jump and I begin to type.

#IowaDebates

@TwitterGirl

Jarvis Jones died in 2011, but hasn’t gotten the memo yet.

I look at Frank for permission before I post it. “Do it,” he says, laughing. “It’s funny as hell. And probably true.”

I post the tweet and watch the LOL and ROFL responses fly by at blinding speed.

“See, they love that kind of stuff,” says Frank. “And regardless of who people are supporting, you’ve said something they all can appreciate.”

The moderator pulls an index card from a stack and says, “So, let’s begin the first debate on the road to the 2010 election.” Snickers fill the room and Jones doesn’t react, clueless that he hasn’t changed refrigerator calendars in awhile.

“Good God, he doesn’t even know what year it is,” says Frank. He points at the laptop. “Hit him again.”

#IowaDebates

@TwitterGirl

Re: Jarvis Jones death in 2011. I rest my case.

“Damn, you’re quick,” says Frank, wearing a big smile. Again, the responses fly by, and within seconds someone has created a new hashtag:

#RIPJarvisJones.

“Jump on it,” says Frank. I start typing again.

#RIPJarvisJones

@TwitterGirl

In lieu of flowers, mourners are asked to donate a personality to the Public Broadcasting System.

“You think he’ll be upset?” I ask.

“You really think he even knows what Twitter is?”

“Good point.”

***

The debate begins, with six other challengers flanking Becker, who, as the front-runner in the polls, is at the center podium. Nothing “tweet worthy” happens as the first four candidates answer a question about foreign aid. But then we come to Marvin Hensler, a sixty year old extreme whack job with an extreme following. The walking definition of “lunatic fringe.”

“Stand by,” says Frank. “He’s bound to say something stupid.”

Hensler, a wealthy private citizen who made his millions the old fashioned way (by inheriting it), has the classic look of a good ole boy politician; bloated, bulbous nose, grey hair styled in a helmet. He starts off rambling about cutting foreign aid completely. “If third world countries like England can’t get by without help, well, that’s not America’s problem.”

“Go!” says Frank.

@TwitterGirl #IowaDebates

Please give to the United Kingdom indoor plumbing fund, Hensler has designated the UK as a third world country.

“You’re on a roll tonight,” says Frank.

“Honey, I’m just gettin’ started.

***

The phone rings just as I hit my hotel room at midnight. I’m tired but exhilarated, and when I see it’s Ripley I take the call. “You’ve reached Twitter Girl. For sarcasm, press one—”

Beep. “Damn, Cassidy, you were hilarious tonight.”

“I guess a few days off from being snarky will pay dividends.”

“It must have built up while you were out of a job. God, that tweet about the moderator… I couldn’t stop laughing.”

“Well, the campaign people were very pleased.”

“Okay, enough about your new job. You turned Becker’s head yet?”

“It might already be spoken for.”

“You’re kidding me! Say it aint so! Who is it?”

“The drop dead gorgeous twenty year old flight attendant on our plane. She disappeared into his office for twenty minutes then came out needing lip gloss. Don’t think she was inflating his life jacket for use as a flotation device.”

“Well, shit, Cassidy. So I’m out before I even get there.”

“I wouldn’t say that. There’s a huge age difference between her and the Senator. What could they have in common?”

“Duh-uh. You’re seriously asking what might attract a middle-aged guy to a hot younger woman? Earth to Cassidy…”

“Sorry, it’s late. But anyway—”

“You said something in your text about runner-ups?”

“No shortage of seriously attractive guys in this campaign. Between the adorable strategy guy in New York, the hunky advance man and the hotties on the plane, it’s like a cute guy buffet.”

“Okay, see you when you get back. At least now I know who the competition for Becker is. I’ll have to go to DEFCON 1.”

And where Ripley is concerned, that means seriously dressing up for her volunteer job. Her “A” game will turn mine into an “F”.

***

I’m already buckled in for the flight home and watching through the window as the Senator gives a last minute interview on the tarmac to a TV crew with Frank standing at his side. Becker wraps it up and shakes hands with the reporter and photographer before heading toward the plane. Frank enters first and walks toward the seat next to me.

But I’m laser locked on the front of the cabin. Senator Becker steps into the center aisle and hands Jessica his coat. She hangs it up, turns around and gives him a big hug.

He hugs her back with a big smile on his face, then kisses her on the cheek as Frank plops down next to me.

“They’re not terribly discreet, are they?” he says, shaking his head as he stares at them. “Someone should say something.”

“No kidding.” I’m still looking at the front of the plane where they’ve broken the embrace but Becker is now holding her hands. “Frank, I realize I’m new and this is probably not my place to say this, but don’t you think you should be the one to do something about it?”

“Yeah, I know.”

“I mean, it’s only a matter of time before we have reporters on the plane and they see it. Aren’t you worried about his image? How old is she?”

“Nineteen.”

“Good God, Frank, people can’t see the next President running around with a teenager.”

“What can I say, he likes ’em young.” Frank leans over and lowers his voice as the Senator heads toward the back of the plane. “No one’s had the guts to talk to him about it. Including me.”

Becker smiles at me as he passes. “Great job last night, Cassidy.”

“Thank you, Senator,” I say. He opens the door behind me and disappears into the meeting room. (Or should we call it the multi-purpose room?)

“You know,” says Frank, “I think we’d all consider it a personal favor if you’d say something.”

“Me? Are you out of your mind? I’m not going to tell the Senator he’s looking like a cradle robber. I hardly know the guy.”

“I meant say something to her. Maybe coming from a woman she doesn’t really know it might sink in. Go on, you’re not shy about saying anything. Go talk to her.”

I’m not wild about the idea, but I know how reporters think. And if a member of the media sees that kind of behavior with a woman that young, Becker is done. Besides, we need to keep the dream alive for American women that he’s available. I get up and walk toward Jessica, who is busy locking things away for takeoff.

She turns to face me and smiles. “If you want something to drink, I’ll bring it to you as soon as we’re airborne.”

I shake my head. “It’s not that.” I gently take her arm and pull her away from the aisle into the doorway so no one can see us. “It’s your… behavior.”

She furrows her brow. “Excuse me?”

“Look, I know you’re young and all but if the media sees you in a clench with the Senator, it won’t be good.”

Her face tightens a bit. “Really?”

“Sweetie, the media would eat it up, and not in a good way. It would be a huge scandal.”

“So I’m not allowed to hug my own uncle?”

To say my face is turning beet red is putting it mildly. “Oh my God…”

Jessica studies my expression for a moment, then smiles and starts to laugh. She grabs my hand. “You thought… Uncle Will and I—”

“Please ask the pilot to make an emergency landing at the nearest hospital so I can have my foot surgically removed from my mouth.”

She slowly nods. “Yeah, I know what this is about. Frank told you to say something, didn’t he?”

“How’d you know?”

“He basically initiates new people into the campaign with a practical joke. I’ve seen some good ones but this takes the cake.” She looks around to make sure no one’s listening. “You gotta get even.”

“Oh, trust me, Jessica, I will. Payback will be a stone cold bitch.”

“And just so you know, we’re a really close family. Uncle Will is my mom’s brother, and when my dad passed away he helped raise me. He’s been like a father to me. I really don’t want to be a flight attendant but he only wants people he can trust on the plane.”

“That’s nice to hear. Anyway, I’m sorry this happened.”

“Nothing to apologize for. I’m used to it. Nothing is sacred on this campaign so it’s good preparation for the real world.”

“By the way, may I ask how old you are?”

“Twenty-five. Why?”

“You’re mature beyond your years.”

“Thank you. Oh, we’re about to take off, so you need to buckle up.”

“Sure thing.”

“And please let me know if I can help you get some revenge.”

I turn and head back to my seat staring daggers at Frank, while the rest of the passengers are biting their lips and doing their best not to laugh. “Okay, guys, you’ve had your fun.” Everyone bursts into laughter as I pass them and take my seat, then look at Frank. “I will get even.”

“I would expect nothing less.” He extends his hand. “Welcome to the campaign, Twitter Girl.”

Jessica’s voice comes over the intercom as the plane’s engines fire up. “Please fasten your seat belts as we’re about to take off. Once we’re at a cruising altitude I’ll be bringing coffee through the cabin. And I cannot guarantee what will be in it… Frank.”

Oh, I like this gal.

I sit back and melt into the soft leather seat and just as I’m about to flip my phone to airplane mode, it beeps with a text.

And as I read it, my blood runs cold.

CHAPTER FIVE

@TwitterGirl

President Turner in NYC today. Over/under on gaffes is four. Bet the mortgage on the over.

“Cassidy. All is not as it seems. You’re still a reporter. Start digging.”

The text did not list a sender. In fact, when I hit reply button I saw something I’d never seen before.

Sender unknown.

This of course had made for a very stressful plane ride home.

After my blood pressure calmed down, I considered the possibilities. The text was from someone in another campaign. It was from a former employee of the Senator who had an ax to grind. Those were the most likely.

Or the worst possibility, it was someone who knew the truth. What that truth might be was anyone’s guess.

But when journalism gets in your blood, it’s as addictive as any drug. Tell a reporter there might be a story, and the reporter will always check it out, no matter how lame the tip might seem. The thought of another reporter getting a scoop because you didn’t bother to do a little legwork drives everyone in the news business. It’s not fear of failure, but fear of getting beaten.

My brother Sam, who is also a digital whiz, said the text was obviously from what is known as a “burner phone” which is disposable and therefore untraceable. He also thinks it’s from someone in another campaign, but wants me to keep my eyes open. Gotta love my brother, he’s always trying to protect me.

Between that text and the quick end to my dinner with Becker’s deputy campaign manager, my reporter radar is up. I’m going to start quietly poking around.

Is Will Becker all that he seems?

Inquiring minds wanna know.

***

Meanwhile, after the “Will Becker is off the table rollercoaster” I went through last week thanks to a combination of my own suspicions and Frank’s practical joke, Ripley and I are officially kicking off our own campaign to turn the Senator’s head by ignoring him. My best friend had been disappointed after hearing that he was spoken for, but she perked up when I told her that he was not in a relationship with his niece. (Of course, had they been from Arkansas, an actual uncle–niece romance would not have raised an eyebrow.)

Anyway, Ripley is dressed to the nines (as far as office attire is concerned) as I lead her into the Manhattan campaign headquarters for her first day as a “volunteer.” She removes her coat with a flourish and this brings every male in the room to a screeching halt. Jaws drop and eyes widen as they lock on her like a heat-seeking missile. The women who had simply glared at me give her the death stare. She follows me toward Becker’s office, sashaying in a form-fitting red dress that shows off her bikini-perfect body even though it has a high neck, long sleeves and a knee-length hemline. Cut-out shoulders offer a little tease of perfectly toned skin while four-inch matching stilettos complete the package. Her outfit is sort of a combination between conservative and slutty, which only Ripley can pull off. I’m thinking I wasted my head start. She has taken ignoring a man to a new level, as no red-blooded male could possible feel indifferent looking at her in that outfit.

Becker’s office door is open and he’s on the phone as we arrive. “Yeah, I think we have more work to do in New Hamp…(long pause) shire…”

Said long pause was caused as he looked up and saw Ripley. She flashes a smile at him as his eyes bug out and jaw drops.

Yep, I’ve seen it before. He’s been hit by the DeAngelo thunderbolt, which renders men momentarily speechless and unable to function, like some sexual Star Trek phaser set on stun.

I hear a voice on the other end of the phone. “Will? Will, are you still there?”

“Huh? Oh yeah,” he says, as he turns his attention back to the phone call. “I’ll get back to you this afternoon as soon as I run this by the staff. Talk to you then. Bye.” He tries to hang up the phone but misses the cradle.

I turn to Ripley and roll my eyes. She bats her lashes and smiles.

Round one to my best friend, no contest. A knockout by a knockout. The judges are unanimous.

Becker hangs up, moves around his desk toward us and extends his hand toward Ripley. “You must be Cassidy’s advertising friend I’ve heard so much about.”

She shakes his hand as I handle introductions. “Senator, this is Ripley DeAngelo. Ripley, Senator Becker.”

“Great to meet you,” she says. “I really admire what you’re doing and hope I can contribute in a small way.”

“Hey, it’s great to have another person to brainstorm with our team,” he says, eyes locked on her as he still hasn’t let go of her hand. He places his other hand on top. “Should help to have someone who’s not in politics. Sometimes we’re too close the problem. I really appreciate you volunteering.”

“Well, my agency can spare me from time to time. Of course, you can do that if you own it.”

“I guess so.” He turns to me. “Oh, Cassidy, Tyler is waiting for you in the conference room. Wants to run some stuff by you this morning.”

“Sure.”

He turns back to Ripley and gives her that famous smile. “And I’ll give our newest volunteer a tour.”

They head out the door as I watch for a moment before I’m off to see Tyler. I have to admit, they look like a couple on the top of a wedding cake right off the bat. There’s some obvious sexual attraction there by the Senator.

Hey, she’s my best friend. I’m happy for her.

Yeah, let’s go with that.

***

“T.G., welcome home!” Tyler’s face lights up as I enter the conference room. “You kicked ass in Iowa.”

“Thank you, but it was the Senator who kicked ass in the debate.”

“Yeah, but you started closing the lid on Marvin Hensler’s coffin. A few more tweets like that and he’ll be dead and buried.”

“Hell, Tyler, he doesn’t have a shot anyway.”

“Yeah, but the best way to wake up his followers is to show that he’s stupid.”

“I think he does that on his own quite well.”

“But you help take it to another level. You’ve heard the term national joke?”

“Yeah. What about it?”

“That’s what you’re doing to candidates like him. Some of the late night talk shows used your line. You should demand royalties.”

“Hey, a job in the White House would be payment enough. So what are you up to this morning?”

“Wanted to go over some homework for you.”

“Homework?”

Tyler reaches over to the next chair and grabs a bunch of manila folders stuffed with papers. “The staff has compiled all the stupid things the other candidates and the President have said over the years.” He plops them down in front of me.

“I would think it would fill an entire library.”

“Good point. Perhaps if Top Dog gets in office we can get a pork barrel project for that. National Museum of Idiocy. Anyway, familiarize yourself with this because you can make these little sound bites rear their ugly heads and nip the candidates in the ass.”

“Okay, it’s a lot of reading but it will be fun.”

He pulls a zip drive out of his pocket and hands it to me. “Here’s your travel version. I printed it out so you can make notes in case you’re old school.”

“Actually, I am when it comes to journalism. I may be Twitter Girl but I’m like Robert Redford in All the President’s Men when it comes to investigating a story.”

“I love that movie! That scene where he works the phones and writes stuff on the legal pad—”

“That’s me. And that’s the most accurate film you’ll ever see about how reporters actually work.”

He nods and pulls his laptop in front of him. “Now to something fun. Do you have any plans Sunday afternoon?”

“Well, like most New Yorkers I was gonna sit down and watch the Giants playoff game. Why, do you guys need me to come in?”

“No, not at all. So you like football?”

“I love football.”

“Great. I’ll put you on the ticket list.”

My eyes light up. “You guys actually have playoff tickets?”

“Top Dog is a season ticket holder and he likes to take the staff on outings. A team building sort of thing to get away from the campaign.”

“But I just started here. Surely some people who have been here awhile are entitled to them.”

“Most of our people aren’t from this area. Not a whole lot of Giant fans on staff so the ticket is yours. By the way, this isn’t a private box, so you’ll be sitting out in the cold.”

“Fine with me. After Iowa it will feel like the beach. You going?”

“Unfortunately I have to go to a wedding.”

“Who the hell gets married on a Sunday during playoff season?”

“Jets fans. They knew their team would be awful, as always. Anyway, I’m taping the game so don’t you dare call me and tell me how it went. Big Blue all the way.”

***

Sam rolls toward the dining room table on this Saturday night carrying a bunch of dishes like a seasoned waiter along with a bottle of wine in his lap. I lick my lips as he slides a plate of cajun seafood Alfredo in front of me. Ripley already has her fork and spoon at the ready as she adores his cooking. Sam leans over and starts carpet bombing her fettuccine with freshly grated parmesan, as he knows she’s a cheese fanatic. She digs in immediately, twirls a ball of pasta with a shrimp and pops it in her mouth. She closes her eyes as she savors it and licks her lips like a cat. “God, that’s better than sex. Sam, you’ll make someone a great wife.”

“Cute,” he says, as he moves to the head of the table. I’m older but he’s the man of the house, so he sits at the head. I like tradition that way. By the way, Sam has had a major crush on Ripley since he hit puberty and says he would die if she ever knew. Of course it’s so obvious the way he dotes on her that she figured it out long ago, but thankfully he doesn’t know she knows. (Even my brother the genius is a typical man in that when it comes to women he misses the obvious.) I’ve always wondered if there weren’t such an age difference if those two would make a good couple.

“So,” says Sam, grabbing the bottle opener, “how’s the political version of The Bachelor going? Has there been a rose ceremony yet?”

I cock my head at Ripley. “She’s out of the gate like Secretariat,” I say, just before I stuff my face with pasta.

Sam turns toward Ripley as he pops the cork on the wine and beings pouring her a glass. “Ah, do tell.”

“Nothing to tell,” says Ripley, too busy shoveling food in her mouth to bother looking up from her plate.

“Horseshit,” I say. “Becker nearly tripped over his tongue when he saw her in that red dress.”

“The one with the high neck and the cut-out shoulders?” asks Sam. I nod. “She looks great in that. Of course, she looks great in everything.”

Ripley looks up and smiles at him. “You’re sweet,” she says, talking through the pasta, though it comes out, “Yur sreet.”

I point my fork at her. “Becker gave her a personal tour of the office.”

“And that’s all it was,” said Ripley, coming up for air and a sip of wine.

“Oh, come on, I could tell you two had a connection.”

“Maybe so. But all he did was ask about you.”

My fork is suddenly suspended in mid-air inches from my mouth.

“And the plot thickens,” says Sam.

“Continue,” I say. “What did he ask?”

She puts her utensils down and dabs her lips with a napkin. “Let’s see… has Cassidy ever been married? Is she seeing anyone? What does she like to do for fun?”

“You serious?”

Ripley nods. “Yep. Anyway, I didn’t react in a jealous high school manner because I am keeping the pact.”

“You two have a pact?” asks Sam, putting down his utensils and resting his chin on his hands. “Oh, I can’t wait to hear the details of this.”

“We’re both supposed to ignore him,” says Ripley.

Sam furrows his brow. “I don’t understand. I thought this guy was the ultimate catch for you guys. Why would you both ignore him?”

“Men always want what they can’t have,” I say, reaching for a piece of hot Italian bread. “Dating 101.”

“Yeah, you have a point,” says Sam. “But you two aren’t exactly shrinking violets. What constitutes ignoring him? Grabbing his ass only once a day?”

“Hush, little brother.”

“I’d agree to that,” says Ripley, “if you wanna amend the pact.” She goes back to attacking her food. “I almost forgot. After I basically gave him a dossier on the care and feeding of Twitter Girl he did invite me to the football game this weekend.”

I drop my fork. “You’re going to the Giants game? You hate football.”

She shrugs. “Thought I’d give it a shot.”

“Hell, Ripley,” says Sam, “you think a tight end is one of your requirements for a boyfriend.”

“That’s why I got this,” she says, as she leans down, reaches into her purse and pulls out a paperback titled NFL Football for Dummies. “I’ll be cramming tomorrow morning.”

I roll my eyes. “You can’t become a football fan in a day. Name one of the Giants.”

She searches the heavens for an answer, then looks at me and smiles. “Frank Gifford!”

“He retired in the sixties and he’s eighty years old! You only know him ’cause he’s married to Kathie Lee.”

“You said name one Giant and I named one. So there.”

“Name a current one.”

“I’ll know them all tomorrow.”

“Really. How much is a touchdown worth?”

“Uh… ten thousand dollars?”

Sam shakes his head and laughs. “Man, I’d love to be a fly on the wall when you talk football with Senator Becker.”

“I’ll record it on my cell,” I say. “I can sell it to ESPN for a fortune.”

***

The cold wind slaps us in the face as Ripley and I head down the concourse toward our seats. One look at her face tells me my best friend is not at all wild about dealing with the elements in pursuit of the ultimate catch. (Her idea of camping out is taking a nap on the sun porch in May.)

“Why couldn’t we have gone to a Broadway show?” she asks. “At least there’d be heat.”

“You can go home if you like, I’ll tell him you weren’t feeling well.”

“Hell no, dear friend. I’ll freeze my ass off for a shot at Becker’s.”

“Thought so. We’ll get you some hot chocolate when we get to our seats.”

“I think I’ll need a stronger antifreeze,” she says, pulling her suede coat tighter around her. “Couple of dirty martinis should warm me up.”

I stop and turn to face her. “Oh, would you like some paté to go with it?”

“Great idea—”

“You’re at a friggin’ football game in New Jersey! You can have a hot dog and a beer!”

She face tightens. “Really? There’s no place serving hot hors d’oeurves?”

I roll my eyes and continue toward our section, which is around the forty yard line. I pull the tickets out of my pocket and see we’re both in odd numbered seats. “Hey, we’re not sitting together. We’ve got seats nine and eleven.”

She shoves her hands in her pockets and adjusts her hat. “Let’s just get there.”

We turn into the tunnel and I hand my tickets to an usher who points to our row. We head down the steps and I see the seat between nine and eleven is occupied.

By the Senator.

I stop, grab Ripley’s arm and lean over to whisper in her ear. “Becker’s sitting between us.”

“Really? Hmmm, interesting. You think he planned it or that’s just the tickets we got?”

“Guess we’ll find out.”

“Maybe he wants a three-way with the hottest members of his staff.”

“Yeah, that will get him elected.”

We head down the steps to our row. The Senator spots us as we arrive and stands up. “Hey, you made it. Hope it wasn’t too much of a hassle getting here.”

“Nah, no big deal,” I say, as I slide past him and grab seat number nine as Ripley plops down in number eleven. I turn to face Becker and take in his outfit. Jeans, Giants ski jacket, stocking cap, wire-rimmed glasses. “You dress down really well.”

“I can blend when I have to. If I sat in a private box people would bend my ear for three hours and I’d never get to watch the game.”

“I never would have recognized you,” says Ripley.

“By the way, we’ll have a limo to get you guys home.”

We’re interrupted by two new arrivals, Andrew and another hot guy I haven’t seen. Ripley hasn’t met either one, and when she looks at me I gather by her “tell” (according to my brother) that she’s not at all disappointed by the runner-ups.

The Senator introduces them. The new contestant in hot guy roulette is a political consultant named Vinnie Franco and looks as Italian as his name. Tall with black hair, deep-set dark brown eyes, a rugged face. One of those guys with a heavy beard who always looks like he has a five o’clock shadow. The jury’s out on the rest of him until I see what’s under the goose down parka. Vinnie grabs the seat next to Ripley while Andrew slides by and sits next to me.

This is one helluva hot guy sandwich for two gals from Staten Island.

Ripley no longer looks cold.

***

The Giants are up by ten as we get close to halftime. I don’t think Ripley’s watched one single play (not that I expected her to) as she’s bounced her conversation between Becker and Vinnie. She’s also managed to hide her lack of football knowledge by jumping up and cheering whenever everyone else does. I’ve been talking football with the Senator and Andrew as the game hits the two minute warning.

“Okay,” says Becker, eyes riveted on the field, “if they can just avoid a mistake in the last two minutes.” He’s obviously a true fan as he hasn’t mentioned politics once.

“Wow, the game is going fast,” says Ripley.

“Not too much passing in this wind,” says Vinnie. “Ground game eats up the clock.”

“True,” says Ripley. She looks at me and shrugs.

I give her an eye roll and she shoots back a Cheshire cat grin. She’s actually pulling it off. As we say in television news, if you can fake sincerity you’ve got it made.

“Oh, we’re going out to eat after the game,” says Becker. “A friend of mine has a restaurant with a private back room. Hope you girls like Italian.”

“Who doesn’t?” I say.

“Cassidy, you want a snack during halftime?” asks Andrew.

“Hey, I’m a growing girl. I’ll have whatever you’re having. Long as it’s something hot.”

The Giants are stuck deep in their own territory as the game resumes and decide to run out the clock for the first half with three straight runs. The gun sounds and the crowd cheers as they head into the locker room with a ten point lead.

And then Ripley blows her cover as she jumps up and yells, “Yay, they won!”

The guys start laughing and I’m biting my lip. “Ripley, it’s just halftime,” says Vinnie.

She sits down. “Oh, right. I knew that.”

But the men aren’t buying it.

“Ripley,” says Becker, turning to face her as he tries to hold back a grin. “Look at me.”

She turns to face him and smiles.

“Who are the Giants playing? And don’t look at the scoreboard.” He puts up his hand to block her view.

Her smile slowly fades. “They’re… obviously playing a team that isn’t worth a damn.”

“Who are they playing? Name the team.”

“Thuuhhhhhh… Red Sox?”

We all double over in laughter as her face turns red. “Sweetie, the Red Sox play baseball,” I say.

“Oh.”

“You’ve never watched a football game?” asks Becker.

She thrusts out her lower lip in a pout and extends her arms like she’s waiting to be handcuffed. “Guilty as charged.” (Of course, when she uses this bad little girl look it turns men into quivering globs of flesh.)

“Not a problem,” says Becker, now smiling at her, obviously charmed by this.

Another eye roll from me.

“Thought I’d try something new and get to know everyone a little better,” she says, doing some damage control. (The girl is in advertising, after all.)

“I think this might be a good time for a trip to the ladies room,” I say as I squeeze by Becker, grab Ripley’s hand and lead her up the stairs. When we’re out of earshot I stop and turn to face her. “I thought you were gonna read that book?”

“I did, but it was confusing. I mean, a fly pattern is in a Simplicity catalog, what’s it doing in football?”

“What’s even more bizarre is the guys think it’s so cute.”

“Part of my charm, as you like to say.”

***

Ten minutes later we return to our seats and find two of the guys have played musical chairs. Andrew and Vinnie have switched seats.

“Excuse me, Sir, may I see your ticket stub,” I say to Vinnie as I sit down.

“Hey, not fair for Andrew to hog you the whole game. Besides, he needed to get to know Ripley and I wanted to spend some time with you.” He locks those dark eyes with me and my heart flutters.

Day-umm.

I glance over at Ripley and she’s beaming. And after being her best friend for so long, I know what she’s thinking.

Can this get any better?

And after the game, it does.

***

We’re in good spirits after the Giants win, and need some real spirits because we’re all frozen. A limo is waiting outside the stadium, exhaust coming out of the tailpipe and a chauffeur standing by the door. He smiles and holds the door as Ripley and I quickly get inside. We take seats on opposite sides as the guys slide in next to us. Thankfully the thing is toasty warm with the heat blowing full blast and we both whip off our gloves and hold our hands next to the vents while I eye the fully stocked bar. Becker and Andrew are on my side with the Senator next to me while Vinnie grabs a seat next to Ripley.

“Little cramped on this side,” says Andrew, the only guy stuck not sitting next to a woman. He moves across the compartment and sits on the other side of Ripley, leaving her between two cute guys while I share my side with Becker, who starts taking drink orders. He leans over to play bartender as the limo pulls away. Ripley and I lock eyes for a moment, exchanging non-verbal best friend communication as we both do our best not to beam.

Three hot guys, two girls. Do the math.

CHAPTER SIX

@TwitterGirl

Air Becker off to frozen New Hampshire this week. Will try to convince Marvin Hensler to stick his tongue to a flagpole.

There’s a definite spring in my step on this Monday morning. The Giants won, Ripley and I had a great dinner and drinks with three very eligible men last night. (Vinnie and Andrew helped pour us out of the limo when they dropped us off at my place. Becker couldn’t exactly do it, as he didn’t need to take a chance of ending up on the Page Six of The Post helping a couple of drunken staffers to the door.) Vinnie, whose body did not disappoint when he removed his parka at the restaurant, asked for my phone number while Andrew got Ripley’s. So even though we’re still in the Becker sweepstakes, our dance cards are not empty.

However, this semi-intoxicated conversation after we got inside had Sam howling:

Ripley: “So, you got a date with Vinnie?”

Me: “And you got a date with Andrew.”

Ripley: “Who do you like the best?”

Me: “Of the three guys? All of ’em.”

Ripley: “Yeah. I like them all too.”

Me: “And I think they all like both of us.”

At this point Sam interrupted by saying, “Ladies and gentlemen, welcome to America’s newest dating show… Caligula’s Palace!”

While this three guys and two girls romance polygon sounds like some sort of sixties commune, right now it makes for a very pleasant working environment.

Ah yes, back to the task of getting Becker elected president. This job, as you may have noticed, could seriously play havoc with my social life.

Frank wants me to check in first thing every Monday with Tyler, so I bounce into the conference room where I find him slumped in a chair yawning. “Late night?”

“Yeah, T.G. Didn’t get done watching the game till one. Wedding went on forever.”

“How was it?”

“The over and under is two years. Though I personally give it nine months.”

“That bad of a couple, huh?”

“Well, not many people know it but she got herself knocked up to trap him into marrying her.”

“I thought women were past that.”

“Most are, the bride was not. If you knew her, you’d understand.”

“Let me guess… bitchy and unattractive?”

“Correct on both points. One of her cousins was at my table and referred to her as Hannibal Lecter with boobs.”

“Why do men put up with that?”

He smiles, flicks his wrist and makes a whip noise.

“Oh, that.”

“And, as you would say, she has a good face for radio. You oughta see her complexion. Had to apply makeup with a paint roller. I think she was goalie on her high school dart team.”

I crack up at that line as he offers a soft smile. His eyes are a little droopy, and I can tell he’s not his usual upbeat self. “If you don’t feel well I can come back after lunch—”

“Nah, I’m okay. I’ll just pace myself today. I’ve been through this before. But I always remind myself it’s a blessing.”

“What’s a blessing?”

“My condition.”

“Not sure I understand, Tyler.”

He sits up straight and his eyes get a little misty. “My first job was in lower Manhattan, in the World Trade Center. On my usual Monday, Wednesday, Friday schedule. The 9/11 attacks were on a Tuesday. That’s the only reason I’m still around. I had always wondered why God gave me this condition and that day I got my answer. Ever since, I’ve known He put me here to make a difference. If I’d been born with a normal metabolism I’d be dead like a lot of the friends I lost that day.” He gives me a soulful look that makes my eyes well up a bit.

“Well, they say God works in mysterious ways. You have such a positive way of dealing with challenges, Tyler. You’re a lot like my brother.”

“Mine is no big deal compared to your brother, from what I read. Anyway, we all have certain gifts, even if we don’t know they’re good for us sometimes. Maybe God blessed you with sarcasm to change the direction of the country.”

“Interesting way of looking at things.”

“Speaking of which, that little town hall thing up in the Live Free or Die state offers all sorts of possibilities.” He hands me a manila folder with two sheets of paper inside. “We’ve got a few plants in the audience and those are the questions they’ve been given.”

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