Chapter 10
Chapter Ten
DK
Iwasn’t exaggerating about the pounding in my chest. It took every ounce of discipline to keep my shock under wraps when I saw Luna standing there in a tapered skirt, side-swoop bangs curling in defiance, shaking hands with Diablo.
No warning. No lead-up. Just boom. There she was. Still sexy. Still beautiful. Still Luna.
What kind of twisted fate drops the woman I can’t stop thinking about straight into my professional orbit like that?
I hadn’t even heard of Bayside until a former colleague reached out about the job.
A friend of a friend who knew Diablo was running up against resistance over his expansion plans.
Pushback from business owners. The Waterfront Committee stonewalling him.
Half the town digging in their heels at the thought of Bayside’s coastline being handed over to developers.
Diablo didn’t just require a campaign strategist to handle his re-election.
He needed someone who could revamp his plan and reframe growth without swinging a wrecking ball through the soul of this town.
I have a legal background in zoning laws, I’d successfully guided a contentious redevelopment project in Maryland, and helped the governor regain public trust.
Diablo knew I could do this job. He knew I was, frankly, overqualified. But he didn’t question that too closely—more interested in having me on the team than interrogating my motivation for joining it.
I couldn’t go back to Washington. Though my therapist, Donovan Wright, said it wasn’t the place that mattered. It was me. Same as my father: it’s what you give—and what you keep for yourself.
Extreme workaholism mirrors other addictions. Same traps. Same dopamine hits. Same self-destruction—just dressed up as productivity. Going back would’ve been like opening my arms to another downfall. It would’ve broken the promise I made to my family… and to myself.
But not working felt like a slow death. I didn’t just need a paycheck—I needed to feel useful. Don said that was the problem. My self-worth had fused itself to output. To achievement. To never stopping.
I’d made work the biggest—the only—focus in my life.
I let it ruin relationships. Women got tired of last-minute cancellations and being the third wheel to me and my phone.
I rarely saw my family. Friendships were ignored.
All I did was go, go, go. Up at five, gym for an hour, office by seven, finish at ten or eleven at night—sometimes later.
Take my laptop to bed. Little to no sleep.
I was on a hamster wheel. Running harder, faster. Chasing the next agenda, the next task, the next win. Until that wheel finally flew apart.
Now, I have a fresh start. A chance to prove I could do this—balance. Moderation.
I hadn’t counted on Luna. Running for mayor. Against my candidate.
A woman I have feelings for… and who I believe still feels something for me too.
I can only imagine that my sudden appearance, just when she made her announcement, must have been like a collision she hadn’t seen coming. I expected her shock. What I hadn’t expected was the hurt in her eyes when she said, “So I wasn’t worth another shot?” Christ. That nearly undid me.
I wanted to contact her, but I let fear and self-doubt hold me back. She probably thought I was just another motherfucker who let her down.
My phone buzzes. A reminder that the meeting starts in three minutes. I duck into the restroom, splash water on my face, and get my head in the game.
I arranged for The Burbank Group to pitch an eco-friendly plan for the waterfront. For the next hour, I ask the right questions. Talk timelines, environmental reports, phased zoning. I do my job. I haven’t lost the laser focus my bosses always appreciated.
But for the first time, my attention is shared. Luna’s steadily there—not pulling me off task, just threaded through it.
After the meeting ends, Diablo and I debrief. He’s impatient to get on with expansion, but he now has an opponent when he’d expected to coast into his second term unchallenged.
“Good thing I’ve got you,” he says, grabbing a golf club from one of those executive office sets.
“Rayne hit me out of left field with her announcement.” He lines up a ball on the strip of green.
He swings, misses, curses, then lines up again.
“I know her. When she sets her mind to something, she operates at one hundred and fifty.”
Which means he’ll expect two hundred percent from me. Months ago, I would’ve welcomed that math.
“Gabriel,” I say carefully, “it might be better to hire a separate campaign manager and let me focus on the expansion project.”
He pauses mid-swing and laughs. “You must be kidding. You think I’m going to sideline a top-tier campaign strategist?”
“I’m just saying, campaigning is a full-time job. So is the project.” And if I’m not on the campaign, I’m not directly competing with Luna. “It’s too much for one person. Something will suffer.”
He sinks the next shot, then turns back to me.
“I don’t want that, so for the next four months, you’ll prioritize the campaign and keep the project on mid-boil until we win—and we will,” he adds, convinced.
“Rayne’s smart, but she has no political experience.
There’s not enough time for her to ramp up.
I gotta believe her run is a Hail Mary to try to stymie expansion. ”
“I don’t get the impression she acts on impulse or chance.
” No. Luna is structured. That’s not just my read on her, that’s what she told me.
She wouldn’t embark on something this big without it being well thought out and strategically executed.
“She’s got vision and passion. That’s arguably just as valuable as experience.
Sometimes more. She’s visible through her leadership on the Waterfront Committee.
She’s charismatic, confident, and has a gravitational presence. ”
“You got all that in ten minutes?”
“I read people and situations for a living.” That much is true, even if much of that insight came from spending a night with Luna. “Her advantage is no political baggage. No record to defend. Some voters will like that she’s not a politician.”
He eyes me over his shoulder. “Sounds like you prefer her chances.”
“I’m giving it to you straight. You’re sitting at a fifty-three percent favorable rating. That was fine when you were the only option. It’s less comfortable now. There’s work to be done.”
“Then let’s get to it.” He returns the club to its case and rubs his hands together. “I’m actually looking forward to this. Gives me a chance to remind voters why they picked me in the first place.”
I nod. Short of quitting—this is the job. My responsibility is to Diablo.
But how am I supposed to go up against a woman I still want?
How am I supposed to live in the same town and stay away from her?
Or act like I don’t know what it feels like to kiss her, to hold her, to be inside her.
How is any of that possible?
At six, I’m back at the campaign office off of Main Street. It’s an old storefront Diablo used for his first run. I pack up for the evening, logging off before my work app blockers start counting down until morning.
Sometimes it feels like I have a probation officer, protecting me from falling back into dangerous habits.
The communications director and field manager have already cleared out, a reminder that I’m no longer in Washington.
“Hey, Dakarai,” Ash Reddy, CFO and the campaign’s treasurer, knocks on my open office door. A South Asian brother in his mid-thirties, beatnik style—rolled jeans, canvas sneakers, a man bun, and Van Dyke beard.
“How was the first day?” he asks.
“I mastered the coffee machine, so I’d call that progress.”
“You passed the first test then.” He laughs. “That thing should’ve been put to rest long ago. Pro tip…” He leans in conspiratorily. “Get your coffee from The Acoustic Café. Chaz will hook you up with the newcomer special. Breakfast and free refills. Best espresso you’ll ever have.”
“Good to know,” I say, remembering a time when caffeine was my life. Now I settle for decaf—another non-negotiable limit.
“Have you seen much of the town?” he asks, making conversation.
“No.” I shake my head. “Just got in yesterday.”
“Then we have to do a beach initiation,” he insists. “A few of us are meeting up a little later for volleyball and beer. Swing by.”
I hesitate. Aside from not being much of a joiner, hanging out at the beach isn’t something I would ever have done while running a campaign.
I’d consider that slacking. But small-town life is different from D.C.
, and I can hear Don’s voice reminding me to be “human.” Before agreeing, though, I check the location.
It wouldn’t be fair to show up in Luna’s space again so soon.
“Do you play near the dunes?” I ask.
“No. That’s way on the other side of the pier. Just come down the boardwalk to the center. You can’t miss it.”
“I might be rusty,” I say. “Haven’t played since a Cancun trip in college.”
“It’s casual. No talent required. We’re mostly there for the beach and beer.”
“Sounds good then. Thanks.”
“Let’s exchange numbers, just in case you ever need anything.”
This is new. No sizing me up… just acceptance. I go with it and tap his number into my phone, and send him a text.
“Got it,” he says at the sound of the ping, then gives me a two-finger salute. “See ya later.”
I leave soon after. The bungalow Diablo provided is a ten-minute walk from the office. Clean, spacious, minimalist furnishings, and neutral tones. Exactly my speed. I don’t like a lot of fuss.
I text the family group chat:
Me: The pace is quiet and slow. Everyone clocks out by five. My candidate has an unexpected opponent.
Just typing that without mentioning her name makes my heart beat triple-time.
Me: The expansion project is on pause. I’m not trying to manage both. I’m doing ok. Going to play volleyball this evening.
I give them all the right soundbites to ease their worry. Then I change into a T-shirt and board shorts patterned with palm trees. Reheat the leftovers Gogo packed, bring my plate to the couch, and eat while watching the news.
Washington’s still a mess. I don’t miss any of the politics, just the hectic pace and familiarity of chaos.
But that’s not my life anymore. I click a few pieces of Lego into place. I’m building the Statue of Liberty. A symbolism of freedom while my life is governed by work-hour restrictions and app blockers.
The irony isn’t lost on me.
The walk to the lake is short. I make a conscious effort to filter out work—the dozen things waiting for me tomorrow—and let my mind drift instead to being at the beach.
I can see why the waterfront is worth protecting.
Soft beige sand stretches for miles, the tiny grains catch the sun and make it glitter.
Lake Michigan is clear turquoise, resembling the Caribbean at this time of year.
With the tourist season in full bloom, there are many people in the water, others lounging under umbrellas, kids getting snow cones and ice cream from the truck parked right on the beach.
Someone’s boombox leaks rap into the humid air.
I kick off my shoes and head toward the volleyball net, aware of my feet sinking into the sand. It’s warm, grounding. The kind of thing Don would approve of.
Be present, he’d say. Let your body relax. Your mind will follow.
I notice Ash standing in a loose circle of people—men and women, twenties to forties. No phones glued to their hands.
“Hey.” He waves me over. “You made it.”
“I brought beer.” I lift the twelve-pack.
“Sweet.” He takes it from me, drops it into the cooler, and introduces me to a dozen people whose names I start filing away by association. Long-haired Lydia, Blue-shirt Bryan. That kind of thing.
The game soon begins. It’s comically uncompetitive. Serves go long. Dives like belly flops. More jokes than clean returns. I resist the instinct to keep score. It doesn’t matter. No one came out for that.
After a while, I find myself laughing, my shoulders loosening. I get in a good line shot. Sweat beads down my back. No thoughts crowding my head. Just net, sand, and ball.
As the sky softens, the sun dipping low enough to spill gold across the water, someone calls time. Ash cracks open the cooler.
That’s when I see her.
Not near the dunes where she told me she loves to walk.
Right here. Near the pier, strolling the shoreline barefoot, sandals dangling from one hand.
In a suit, I might’ve had some hope of seeing her as Rayne Webber—mayoral candidate.
But with her hair piled into a careless top bun, the warm breeze teasing curls around her face and tugging at the hem of her gauzy sundress, outlining the generous curve of her hips—
She’s the woman from five nights ago.
Mnandi Luna.
My eyes eat her up, and the memories follow.
Her laugh. Her smile. Her full breasts filling my hands.
The way she liked them squeezed hard and not-so-gently bitten.
Our bubble bath. Our connection. The way she curled into me, a soft, perfect weight, and fell asleep.
It takes me right back to the hotel. I wish I could redo it all. I never would have left.
Ash holds out a beer. I barely notice it.
She looks over. A slight gasp that I can see but not hear. Our eyes meet. One, two, three seconds.
Then her gaze drops away, her pace quickens, widening the distance between us, that feels more than just physical.
“Here you go, man.” Ash nudges the bottle into my hand.
“Thanks.” I drag my eyes away from her retreating back.
“Better forget that.”
“What?”
“Rayne. Rayne Webber. She’s the one running for mayor.”
Forgetting is easier said than done, but could I be any more obvious? “I met her today at Gabriel’s office. Just checking out the competition.”
My pulse recognizes the bullshit. And I’m not sure Ash buys it either.
We switch sides of the net and play another hour, until the sun finally slips away and the air cools.
Walking back to my place, sweat and sand cling to my skin. I already know what’s in store for tonight.
Lights out. White noise on. Meds beside the bed—a last resort.
And my mind replaying every moment with Luna… and the way she looked with the sun on her face.
Sleep’s going to be a fight.