CHAPTER THREE
Reynolds
“Who is Jasper Hill?” I asked Melda Rogers, my middle-aged campaign manager. I was bored. None of the people running against me for mayor were true competitors, so the weekly meeting she insisted on having felt pointless. Hell, I wondered if I even needed a campaign manager.
I studied her while she talked to me. She had one of those old lady perms and her hair was gray.
She dressed in very expensive, and old-fashioned, skirt suits.
I couldn’t help but compare her to my mother.
They were just a year apart in age, but Mom dyed her hair and dressed in current, fashionable clothes.
They practically looked like they could be mother and daughter when they stood next to each other.
I wondered why she didn’t update her look.
“Reynolds!”
I jumped. “Sorry. I was thinking about… something else,” I said guiltily.
“Well, pay attention. I was telling you about Jasper Hill. He could be a genuine contender if he gets any kind of financial backing.”
“Really?” I looked out the window and tossed a baseball up and caught it repeatedly. I was leaned back in my comfy leather chair, legs crossed at the ankle, my Oxfords perched on the side of the antique wooden desk that had been my grandfather’s.
“Yes, really. He’s a West Bay guy through and through. He went to public schools, then West Bay University, and he works for Jack Lancaster downtown.”
“Hmm. Okay.” I didn’t like that he’d never left West Bay. I’d gone to boarding school and then on to Harvard. I hadn’t wanted to, but my parents had never given me the option of staying in town. “He works for Lancaster. So, he’s a tech nerd?”
“Yes. Does coding or something for Lancaster Games.”
No matter how well Lancaster Games was doing, some guy who worked in coding wouldn’t be raking in millions of dollars a year. And that’s what it would take to win a campaign against me.
I’d inherited a bunch of money from both sets of my grandparents, but I’d invested heavily in technology stocks and made a killing on Wall Street.
I’d be a multi-millionaire in my own right, but with my inheritance I was a billionaire.
I didn’t like to flaunt it, but my parents did, so everyone knew about my family’s wealth.
“So, he’s just an average guy?”
“Exactly. And that could appeal to a large portion of West Bay. Yes, this is a wealthy town, but there are sizable pockets of middle-income and lower-income families. I think they would relate to Jasper Hill more than they would to you.”
Okay. Melda told it straight. “Are you saying I’m out of touch with how the ‘regular’ people live?”
“That’s exactly what I’m saying. And to make it worse, Hill’s parents are basically middle-class royalty.”
“What does that mean?” I sat forward in my chair, put my feet on the floor, and quit tossing my ball.
“His father has been the head football coach of West Bay High School for over twenty years, and he’s a deacon at First Baptist of West Bay.
His mother is the principal of West Bay Middle School, and before that she was Teacher of the Year for the entire city school system.
She also teaches Sunday School and oversees their Vacation Bible School program every summer. They are beloved.”
Shit. My parents were… not beloved. They’d cheated on each other for their entire marriage.
My mom had never worked a day in her life, and she was the kind of woman who doesn’t tip her hairdresser even though she’s had the same one for decades.
My dad had been a career-long figurehead in the corporate office of the spice company my great-great-great-grandfather had started. Other executives ran the business.
If they went to church at all, it was at Easter and Christmas. They went to the First Presbyterian Church in the old downtown of West Bay at those times of the year. And it was only to be seen, since that was where pretty much all the old, rich families of West Bay went.
I frowned. “Should I be worried about this guy?” I hadn’t been planning on devoting too much time to the campaign. I’d thought I was a shoo-in. My attention was focused on anti-crime initiatives. I hated to turn my attention away from that project to campaign, but I might need to do so.
“Maybe.” Melda said. She stood up and walked around the large office. She didn’t like to sit still long, I’d noticed. “If he gets any rich backers, he could give you a run for your money. He’s made his own money…”
“I don’t live off my inherited money. I made my own money. I barely even work at Taylor Spice.” I was defensive about this topic.
She gave me a ‘get real’ look. “You wouldn’t have had the money to invest if you hadn’t gotten an inheritance. And you’ll own Taylor Spice one day. No one will buy that you’re a self-made man, Reynolds.”
She was right. I’d sunk a large part of my inheritance into those tech stocks.
Without it, I wouldn’t have been the success I was.
I also stood to inherit the business, and I was on the board of directors.
I just went to meetings and made sure everything was running as it should be.
Most of my focus was on my political career and trying to make West Bay the best city of its size in the South.
“But, if he doesn’t have backers, he won’t stand a chance, right?”
“Right,” she agreed. “But there’s one other thing I want to talk to you about.” I could tell from the look on her face I would not like it.
“Hit me,” I said.
“You’re a playboy. So far that hasn’t hurt your career.
If anything, it’s helped it. Women love you and men want to be you.
But,” she held up a finger to stop the premature grin on my face, “Jasper Hill is the quintessential family man. He’s been married for fifteen years to his beautiful high school sweetheart and has three adorable children. ”
“Fuck.”
“He probably doesn’t curse, either.”
He probably didn’t, the fucker. He sounded like a saint. “What’s your point?” I was afraid I knew.
“You’re out with different women two or three times a week. You’re all over the society pages. You’re mentioned in the gossip segment of West Bay Today daily. And so are your friends. You’re players. All of you.”
“Byron’s not,” I said, bringing up my one friend with a steady girlfriend.
She rolled her eyes. “He’s the only one.”
She was absolutely right. I didn’t want to change, either.
“I think to win this election by the landslide you want to win by, you’re going to have to alter your behavior.
You can’t change that you came from money.
You can’t change that you went to private schools outside of West Bay.
You can’t help that your parents are…like they are.
But you can change your public perception. ”
She had my full attention now.
“Reynolds, you’re an excellent mayor. You care about your job. You’re trying to bring changes to our town that will help bridge the growth from mid-sized town to burgeoning city. And I’ve never met anyone who loves West Bay more than you do.”
“I sense a ‘but’ coming.”
“But,” she nodded, “you need to improve your public image. You need to pick one of these socialites that you’ve gone out with and date her for the rest of the campaign. I mean all the way through to the inaugural ball in February if you’re elected. It’s mid-April now, so only nine months or so.”
“If I’m elected?” I was aghast. Plus, nine months felt like a lifetime to me.
“Barring something unfortunate, you’ll win,” she amended. “But if you make this change, you’ll be almost bullet proof.”
I started tossing the ball again. This time I threw it harder and higher.
I was mentally running through the women I’d been out with and trying to think of one of them I’d be interested in dating for months.
There weren’t any. There were a couple of them that were at least good fucks, but they were probably not the socialites she was talking about.
I sighed. “What about Lindy Sommers?” I threw out the name of the only one I could imagine fucking for months at a time.
Melda snorted. She actually snorted with laughter. “You’re joking, right? She would make your reputation worse.”
I made a face. She wasn’t wrong. “Well, who did you have in mind?”
“Whitney Masters.”
I closed my eyes briefly. Whitney was a very pretty, very appropriate socialite. She would make a perfect politician’s girlfriend or wife. And she was one of the worst lays I’d ever had. It had been like fucking a mannequin. “You want me to date her?”
Melda nodded. “She’s perfect. No drama. Her family is stellar. She’s a West Bay girl. She’s smart, well-educated, a former pageant queen, a former model…”
“Okay. I get it.” I caught my baseball and put it back in its holder on my desk. I held my head in my hands for a moment. “You really think this is necessary?”
She nodded.
I sighed, stood up, and walked across the room.
“Where are you going?”
“To lunch. But on the way I’m going to call Whitney Masters and ask her to go with me.”
Melda clapped her hands with delight.
“But,” I pointed at her, “I’m telling her from the start that this is a fake relationship. And I’m going to have some women on the side.” I didn’t want to scandalize Melda too much by telling her the gentleman’s club I was a member of was, in part, a sex club.
“Fine by me,” she said. “As long as Whitney’s on board, signs an NDA, and you’re not seen with your side pieces in public.”
“Right.” I was a little startled. Melda seemed to know her way around a little better than I’d thought. “Let me go get this done.” I turned to her. “Thanks for the advice.”
“We’ll meet again this time next week?”
“Sure.” I walked out the door and hurried down the shiny wooden stairs of city hall.
I had to convince a socialite to fake date me.
***
“So, it wouldn’t be real?”
Whitney Masters sat across from me at the breezy outdoor table we shared at the restaurant.
“No.”
“But what if you win? I’d make a fabulous politician’s wife. I’d kind of always hoped to be one,” she confessed.
I ignored that. “We’ll break up after the inaugural ball in February. Then you’re free to date whomever you’d like.”
She looked a little downcast.
“Just think of all the men in politics you’ll meet over the next few months. You could marry one of them.”
She gave me a tight little smile. “But what if you run for governor?”
Damn. I hated that rumor. I was pretty sure my parents had started it. They wanted nothing more than to have their son be Georgia’s next governor. I preferred to stay in West Bay and be mayor. That was as far as my personal political aspirations went.
Though I guess I shouldn’t rule it out.
“If I decide to do that, we’ll talk about it then.”
She perked back up. “Great.”
“We’ll go to all the social events together, of course. Get several gowns just to be ready. Charge whatever you get to me. Just let me know what stores you frequent so I can make arrangements.”
Her eyes lit up.
“I also have tickets for local theater, the orchestra, and some other things like that.”
She nodded, happily.
“And I like to go see the Braves in Atlanta from time to time.”
Her face fell. “Ugh. I hate sports. And sweating. You couldn’t pay me to go to a Braves game.”
Good to know. “I’ll take a friend, then.”
“But not another woman,” she clarified, leaning in and lowering her voice.
“No. I won’t be seen in public with another woman. But, um…” my voice trailed off. How did I tell her I was going to fuck other women? Would she freak out?
“You want to have relations with other women, though, right?” she whispered the question.
My eyebrows shot up. She seemed…fine with it. “Yes.” I decided to keep it simple.
“That’s fine as long as it’s private.” She waved her hand like it was nothing. “I don’t really like sex,” she confessed as she wrinkled her nose. “I’m fine if we don’t do it.”
“You don’t say,” I said, thinking back to our only date. She’d insisted on laying a towel down on her bed before we ‘did anything.’
We were interrupted by the waiter asking to take our order.
“Chicken salad croissant, please.”
“Excellent choice, sir. And for your two sides?”
“Potato salad and fruit salad. I’ll have a Coke Zero to drink.” I gave him a smile.
“And for you, ma’am?” he asked.
“Oh, I’ll have your garden salad, no cheese, no bacon, no croutons, low-fat raspberry vinaigrette on the side. And a glass of bottled water, no ice, lemon on the side.” She didn’t even look at him while she talked.
Oh my God. I had to fight to keep from rolling my eyes.
I hated it when a woman didn’t like food.
I mean, we all had to eat to survive. You might as well enjoy it.
Also, Whitney didn’t smile or say please to the waiter.
Those were red flags to me. If a person didn’t treat the waitstaff with basic manners, there was a good chance they weren’t someone I was going to enjoy spending time with.
Then things got worse.
“Do you know how much fat and calories are in the meal you just ordered?” She asked after the waiter left. She looked horrified.
“It tastes amazing, though. And I got fruit salad and a Coke Zero,” I defended.
“They probably put bananas in the fruit salad, and carbonation is terrible for you.” She shook her head. “I can see I’m going to have to work on the way you eat.”
I frowned in alarm. “No. There will be no ‘working’ on me.” I thought for a minute. “And what’s wrong with bananas? Or carbonation?”
“Bananas are the worst fruit you can eat. And the bubbles in carbonation are bad for your skin. I read it somewhere.”
“Well, I don’t give a rat’s ass,” I said.
“You should.” Her lips settled into a thin line, and she crossed her arms. “And I don’t like cursing.”
Jesus. This was going to be a long year.