Total pages in book: 128
Estimated words: 124320 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 622(@200wpm)___ 497(@250wpm)___ 414(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 124320 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 622(@200wpm)___ 497(@250wpm)___ 414(@300wpm)
“Oh, I’m so glad, boss,” Carla says. “We’ve all been worried about you.”
“You’ve all been worried?” I narrow my eyes and stare at them one by one. “Been talking about me behind my back?”
They exchange furtive glances and start stuttering and stammering.
“I’m kidding!” I laugh, leaning back in my chair at the head of the long mahogany table and swiveling back and forth. “God, am I that bad?”
The newest team member, Felita, lifts both brows and casts a look to the side that says weeeeeellll.
“I see you, Felita,” I say, pointing to her with a grin.
She chuckles. “You’ve just seemed tired and a little…” She tips her head back and forth like she isn’t sure of the right word, or rather, isn’t sure she should say it.
“A little bit of a bitch?” I offer, laughing at them and at myself. “Yeah. I know.”
If we weren’t in mixed company, two of my team members being men, I might have told them my ovaries have rebelled and deployed weapons of mass hormones. A trip to the specialist confirmed that I am indeed in perimenopause, but I’ll save that for a girls’ chat. Men practically dissolve into puddles at the mere mention of a tampon, much less menopause. I don’t have the emotional bandwidth or spare nerves for that today.
“This would be a good time for you all to consider a little time off, too, before we swing into high gear for the next round of campaigns.” I nod toward Piers, who’s been with the firm for years, one of our earliest hires. “You’re doing some recon on Mateo Ruiz, right?”
“Yeah, but has he actually hired us yet?” Piers asks, his gray eyes sharp.
“He will.” I keep my expression implacable. “We just had a great conversation. Only a matter of time. Now what’d you find?”
He runs a hand through his thinning brown hair. “So far he’s clean as a whistle.”
“Don’t believe the hype,” I say. “I wanna sniff his dirty laundry before we’re out on the trail or in front of a camera. Everyone has skeletons, but I mean, are we talking Bone Collector shit?”
The team laughs, and so do I. I need this. I need work that I enjoy and that feels meaningful. This mission to put people in power who champion the marginalized—it’s been the epicenter of my life since I graduated college to the neglect of everything else. With the very real possibility of never having my own children now, I feel the imbalance more than ever, but I can’t say I would have changed a thing. Kayla carries out Daddy’s legacy by overseeing our family’s foundation. This is how I perpetuate the principles by which he lived. As for how our brother does it…who the hell knows?
My phone vibrates on the conference room table.
Keith.
Well, speak of the player and he shall appear.
“I need to take this call.” I glance at the lunch we ordered spread out on the conference room table. “Go on and dig in. Carla, could you update everyone on our schedule for the next few days? I’ll be right back.”
I step into the hall and stride toward my office, phone pressed to my ear.
“Keith,” I say, closing the door behind me. “To what do I owe this rare pleasure?”
“Can’t a man just call to check on his little sister sometimes?” he asks, that liquid voice all the men of our family inherit pouring over the line. My grandfather and father put that compelling voice to use championing others’ needs. Keith wastes his on simple charm.
“Yes, a man can, but this man usually doesn’t.” I chuckle to let him off the hook because he’s that guy who makes everybody want to let him off. “I know you need something, but it’s good to hear from you. What’s up?”
“I heard you’re coming home and might stay for a while.”
“Maybe a couple of weeks.” I perch on the edge of my desk. “We’ll see.”
“I’d love to talk to you about something while you’re home.”
Here we go.
“Oh?” I ask, keeping my voice only pleasantly curious instead of I knew it. “What about?”
“I’m thinking of running.”
“From who?” I ask, laughing.
“Ha ha. Very funny. Running for office.”
My smile disintegrates. “Which office?”
“Congress. I’ve been putting some feelers out, and there’s real interest in me getting into politics.”
“Of course there’s interest. Your last name is on a dozen streets and schools and parks in that city. Name recognition alone means somebody wants to slap you onto a ballot. Doesn’t mean you should.”
“Wow. Tell me how you really feel, sis.”
“Oh, I always will. You know that. Why do you want to run for office? You’re making plenty of money practicing law.”
“It’s not about the money,” he says, his tone stiffening like one of his heavily starched shirt collars.
“What is it about then? Tell me.”
“It’s about…the people.”