Burned by the Spotlight

Chapter One

"You should really call your mother."

My heart rate shot up through the roof when I thought the comment was directed at me, probably from defensive indignation that usually curdled at the bottom of my stomach at the thought of my mother. Or maybe it was because they were right; I mean, I hadn't called her for a while. Once it turned out just to be an old man talking a little too loud on his cell phone, a sigh of relief escaped in a whoosh from my lungs. Then my teeth clenched because, despite being on the other side of the country, she was still able to get under my skin without even so much as lifting a finger. 

"Reagan," one of my coworkers snapped in a whisper, jerking my focus back to the conversation I was supposed to be having. 

I cleared my throat, "I'm sorry, what were you saying?" 

"I was saying to have fun this weekend because starting Monday, it's balls to the wall until elections are over," Amanda, the boss-lady, forewarned. 

Ah yes, nothing made me want to take a shot more than my 43-year-old boss saying 'balls to the wall'. Downing the rest of my Manhattan, I was just about to signal the waitress to order another drink but Amanda had already beat me to the punch. Almost like she could read my mind. Or maybe she was an even bigger alcoholic than I was (a highly functioning one, thank you very much).

On Monday, we would all be jetting off to different corners of the country as campaign managers. Yes, I and everyone else that I've ever told about my job have noticed the irony of me being a campaign manager while having the namesake of a president. 

I reluctantly held off on downing my fourth Manhattan of the night as Amanda made a toast about influencing the politics of the country for decades to come and the fact that she wouldn't entrust this task to a group of more well-deserving people. To be honest, I was mostly in it for the money and it was quite frankly one of the only things in life that I had found myself to be good at. Luckily Amanda let me take on candidates that I didn't find completely morally bankrupt, but I wasn't in kindergarten; anyone who runs for office is at least slightly narcissistic. And if they aren't when they first start off, they will be by the time they climb the ladder to an elected position in D.C. 

My drink was already half done before my campaign partner (the closest thing I had to a best friend with my work schedule and constant travel) yanked me aside and leaned in to whisper in my ear. 

"She's totally sleeping with her new assistant," Yasmine suggested. "Right?" 

As much as I adored Yasmine, goddamn was she the biggest gossip I'd ever met in my life, even topping my Aunt Lynn who my mom referred to as the 'human facebook'. But, my social inhibitions had been melted away by the whiskey. 

Amanda was pretty much the lesbian version of Miranda Priestly (Meryl Streep's character in Devil Wears Prada), down to a similar hairstyle and work being her entire life. The only difference was that she actually had a bearable personality 90% of the time, although in November she turned into a hawkish demon breathing down your neck. Typically, you hear about men sleeping with their female assistants being the reason for the divorce. Well, Amanda was the one that slept with her assistant ten years ago that broke her marriage. Since then, her assistants had been getting hotter and younger.  

"Definitely," I agreed, my tongue already starting to feel heavy in my mouth. Looking around, my nose scrunched at the idea of Yasmine and I being the youngest people here by 5 or 10 years. "We need to get the fuck out of here." 

She seemed to have the same idea because she was already getting an Uber on her phone. "Where do you think we should go?" she asked me. 

I pressed my lips together, which were already slightly tingly, while I pondered for a second. "We could check out that new club, Lust or Lusty or whatever."