“What does her mom even have to do with her sex life, am I right?” Mr. Hipster says.

“You’re right.” I force a smile. I want to love this job, but I’d be lying if I said it was anything like what I expected. Essentially, I’m a grunt worker.

During the short time I worked for Mr. Bradshaw, I was able to write speeches and organize events. I was one of a small number of cogs in the very important wheel of his campaign. Here, for Governor Guy’s campaign, I’m one of dozens of staffers. Some days, the most important thing I do is fetch coffee for her campaign manager. That’s right. I’m not important enough to fetch the candidate’s coffee, but Erin McDaniel takes her coffee black.

It’s not that I don’t like my job. There’s something thrilling and energizing about being here with a woman who plans to change the world. I used to idolize Governor Guy, but now that I work for her, she’s not just some symbol of feminine strength, a political power. She’s become real to me, and I respect her.

But today, the job just sucks. All day long, I’ve been training volunteers how to “frame” the story of Sam and Sabrina’s kinky sex tape. I spent the first half of the day nauseated, but at this point, I’m just numb.

“I’ve got this, Liz,” the hipster promises. “Don’t sweat it.”

When he picks up his phone and gets back to work, Grace, one of my fellow staffers, sidles up to me and hands me a hot cup of coffee.

Grace is a year younger than me but with twice the spunk. She has an eyebrow ring and a penchant for wearing bright red lipstick. She wears her short black hair spiked half the time and under a do-rag the other half.

“I don’t know about you,” she says between sips of coffee, “but I’ll be glad when Sabrina makes a statement. Once she lets the world know she’s in love and they can fuck themselves and their puritanical obsession with and condemnation of kinky sex, our jobs will be a lot easier.”

I shake my head. “I don’t think she’s going to say Americans can fuck themselves.”

“No.” She gives a reluctant grunt. “I guess not. But damn, weren’t those pictures hot? I mean, that guy can tie me up any day of the week.”

Of course, it’s right as Grace says the bit about being tied up that the constant hum of conversation in the phone room goes quiet. Everyone turns to her, and she grins and waggles her eyebrows.

When the workers get back to their conversations, she turns to me. “Hey, I forgot to tell you—a family canceled for Sabrina’s event downtown tomorrow night. Probably because of that tape, but they made up some excuse. Anyway, you know how Ms. Guy feels about empty seats. Sabrina’s asking staff to fill in. Can you be there?”

I shrug. I’ve gone to any number of fundraisers, rallies, and black-tie affairs since I moved up here after Christmas. The only plans I had for tomorrow were to bandage my broken heart with a pint of Ben & Jerry’s. This will give me a better excuse to get out of girls’ night in New Hope. “Yeah. Of course.”

“Awesome! We’ll sit together. Oh, and be warned, sexy McBondage is going to be there with Guy’s daughter.”

Well, fuck.

She smacks her lips. “Think they have one of those open relationships?”

“I somehow doubt it.”

“Well, whatever. See you tomorrow night. Wear something hot. Maybe we can talk him into a threesome if he ever leaves Sabitchna.”

I adore Grace, but sometimes I want to take her into a corner and tell her she doesn’t have to try so hard. She’s not the only staffer who’s dubbed Sabrina Sabitchna, but Grace doesn’t dislike Sabrina as much as she likes calling her names for shock value. I’m not sure Sabrina actually deserves the title. She can be a little abrasive, true, but she knows what she’s doing.

“I’m sorry to break it to you,” I say, “but I’m not interested in a threesome with Sam Bradshaw.”

She gives a heavy sigh. “Okay, well, since that plan is shot to hell, feel free to bring a date.”

“I’m sure I’ll be all by my lonesome, but thanks.”

I spend the rest of my workday under a shroud of nervous anxiety about the possibility of seeing Sam, and by the time I’m driving back to my apartment, I’m a wreck. Traffic isn’t too bad, but I still feel as if I’m winding tighter with every block.

“It’s just for work,” I remind myself.

When I reach my floor, George is locking his door. We cross paths a lot and he’s always dressed well, but he looks especially nice tonight in an Oxford shirt and a tie.

“Hot date?” I ask.

He grins. “That depends. Are you available?”

I shake my head and wave away his question. “Have fun.”

“Will do. Hey, a guy was here looking for you this morning.”

My chest feels heavy and I turn around slowly. “Who was it? Are you sure he was looking for me?”

“Yeah. He wanted to talk to you about something important.”

My heart’s playing a game of cat and mouse in my chest, pulsing frantically forward and then slowing in fear. “Did he tell you his name?”

“No, but I recognized his face from the news.” He frowns, as if trying to figure out a puzzle. “How do you know Sam Bradshaw?”

* * *

Sam

Mom enters my office and closes the door behind her. My mom is low on my list of people I want to look in the eye the morning after my sex tape goes live.