with my political campaign, that she’d turned to passive aggressive techniques to remind me that I’d yet to place an engagement ring on her finger.
It was coming, but it had to be at the right moment. It had to be timed at a moment that would surge my career forward. There was nothing more trusting in the public eye than a man with a wife and family, and especially a man that had secured the daughter of the nation’s most beloved four-star general. At least, the sane daughter. If it weren’t for their matching complexions, dancing brown eyes, and nearly identical smiles, I would have been the first in line to argue that Gia and Alexandra were not truly related.
I called a sixth time and cursed under my breath when I heard Alexandra’s voicemail cut in. If this was the game that she wanted to play, I would go ring shopping next week. The name Alexandra Hamilton sounded more founded in our nation’s history anyhow.
“I look forward to beating you in our golf game next week,” George Waldorf, a real estate development tycoon, said as he patted me on the arm. His political contribution alone was in the six-figures.
“I could say the same,” I tossed back.
He roared a laugh and then gave me another pat before walking off to schmooze with other bigwigs, and a woman who I was certain was a paid escort.
“Good job tonight, Roderick,” James Miller said, walking up behind me. “Everyone loved you.”
“Thank you sir,” I replied. “I think that we might be on our way.”
“Next stop, the White House.”
I grinned. “A man can only dream.”
“Come on and let me buy you a drink.” He flicked his thumb towards the bar behind us. “What’ll you have, a scotch on the rocks? Scotch is a man’s drink, you know.”
Admittedly, I hated the taste of scotch, but it was undoubtedly necessary to drink in order to be indoctrinated into the political boys club. I also enjoyed being in the General’s good graces.
“Then scotch it is.”
I started to follow him over to the bar but then stopped. He turned to look at me, brief concern washing over his face before it manifested into anger. His face became hard granite and he discreetly glanced around before pulling me off to the side.
“She’s doing it again?”
“Yes sir,” I answered. “I tried calling her six times tonight and nothing.”
“Call Gia.” He pointed to the pocket where my phone was tucked. “I’ll be right back.”
He walked off and I pulled out the phone while sucking in a tolerating breath. I never liked talking to Alexandra’s sister, but indulged her for the sake of the public eye and my relationship with Alexandra.
Gia was one of those bohemian tropes. A feminist, if you will. In her head, most of the women in the world were secretly just like she was, but spent the majority of their time wishing for liberation from some kind of male privilege that only they could see. While she didn’t say these words outright, I still got that vibe from her. That “I’m every woman” vibe. She had a difficult time seeing herself as the harlot she truly was, married or not. All those bright clothes and that wild hair was just a substitute for a scarlet “A” on her clothing. As a successful businessman, what Elliott saw in her was beyond my logical comprehension.
I groaned as the phone rang, hoping that he picked up instead to tell me that she wasn’t available. Only heaven knew what was in store for their daughter, but her unusual name was a portentous indicator of a troublesome future.
Unfortunately, her cheery voice rang through the line. “Hello?”
“Gianna. Good evening.”
“Why do you insist on calling me exactly what I asked you not to? Call me Gia like everyone else.”
“I am actually calling to speak to Alexandra,” I quickly deflected. “She’s not picking up her phone, so I assume that she’s with you.”
“You’re also assuming that she doesn’t have friends.”
“Alexandra knows that right now is not the best time for her to have friends. We agreed on her postponing that until after we get married. That way, our social circle won’t be tainted by people who won’t be important to our rise in political status.”
“Have you ever recorded yourself and played it back just to hear how you sound?” she asked. “Or better yet, how much lubricant do you think it would take you for you to get that stick out of your ass?”
Crass language. Another indicator