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Mr. Garrett comes out of the back room to say hello. He claps Jase on the back and kisses me on the cheek, telling us there’s plenty of coffee in his office. He’s holed up back there, he says, doing the quarterly books. Jase whistles under his breath, sorting nails, scribbling amounts down on a pad. I hear a little repetitive sound coming from Mr. Garrett’s office. I flip pages in the prep guide, trying to identify the sound.
Click-click-click-click-click.
I look over at Jase inquiringly.
“Pen cap,” he explains. “My dad says clicking it always helps him add—or, in our case, subtract.” He opens a bag of bullet-head nails, letting them clatter into the clear plastic drawer in front of him.
“No better—the finances?” I come up to stretch my arms around his back, resting my cheek against his shoulder blade. He’s wearing a gray sweatshirt today and I inhale the Jase smell.
“But no worse,” he responds with a grin, turning to face me, cupping the heel of his hand to the back of my neck, smiling as he pulls me closer.
“You look beat.” I trace the dark bluish shadow under his eye with a slow finger.
“Yup. I am. That feels good, Sam.”
“Are you burning the midnight oil? Doing what?”
“I guess I’m burning the daylight oil, but it sure doesn’t feel like daylight at four in the morning.”
His eyes are still shut. I smooth my finger down his cheek, then slide it back up to the other eye.
“You’re getting up at four in the morning? Why?”
“Don’t laugh.”
Why does that phrase always bring out a smile? He opens his eyes and grins back at me.
I school my face into a somber expression. “I won’t.”
“I’m a paperboy now.”
“What?”
“I’m delivering papers for the Stony Bay Sentinel. Starting at four, six days a week.”
“How long have you been doing this?”
“Two weeks. I didn’t think it would be quite this bad. You never see paperboys in movies chugging down Red Bull and No-Doz.”
“Probably because they’re usually ten. Couldn’t Duff do it?” His hand slides up to tangle in my hair, to pull out my elastic, because that’s what he always does.
“Duff doesn’t hope to go to college next year. I do. Even though it’s damn unlikely, the way things are going. Hell, I shouldn’t have bought that car. I just wanted it…so badly. And it’s nearly ru
“I brought it up,” I remind him. “I’m your girlfriend. You’re supposed to be able to talk about this stuff with me. It’s not just about me making free with your hot body, you know.”
“Though that completely works for me,” Jase says, twisting his fingers in my hair and pulling me closer.
“Oh hell. Not more of this PDA crap.”
We turn toward the door as Tim stalks in, wearing his gray Impress Grace Reed suit and looking crumpled and extremely pissed off.
“Mason,” Jase greets, not letting go of me. “You okay?” He indicates the clock with a hitch of his shoulder.
“That would depend on what ‘okay’ is.” Tim yanks off his jacket and shoves it onto a coat hook. He untwines his tie as though it’s a boa constrictor with a chokehold around his neck. “Which I wouldn’t frickin’ know, would I?” Stalking over, he takes his place beside Jase, who surreptitiously checks his pupils and sniffs his breath. I can’t smell anything. I hope Jase doesn’t. Tim doesn’t look high…just furious.
“What’s up?” Jase hands him his time card.
Tim bends over to scribble the time in black marker. “Samantha? How the fuck much do you know about that Clay Tucker?”
“Tim, come on. Stop swearing.” I put a hand on his arm. He’s been easing up on the four-letter words lately, sometimes getting through an entire conversation without one.
“Why, Samantha? Why the fuck should I?” He gives me his fake-charming smile. “I get to say it. You guys get to do it. The way I figure it, you come out ahead.”
“Knock it off, Tim. This isn’t Samantha’s fault. What’s going on with Clay Tucker?” Jase leans his hip against the side of the counter, crossing his arms.
“I du
“What do you mean?” I say at the same time Mr. Garrett asks, “You going back there to work tonight?” He must have come into the room without any of us hearing.
Tim shakes his head, but a flush climbs up his neck. He’s never been late before, not here.
“Good, then. You’ll stay on after closing and finish that inventory of the stockroom you started the other day.”
Tim nods, swallowing. Mr. Garrett puts a hand on his shoulder. “Never again, Timothy. Ya hear?” He walks off down the hall to his office, his broad shoulders looking a little slumped.
Jase pulls a package of Trident gum out of his jeans pocket and offers it to Tim. “So go on.”
“So old Clay…” Tim takes six sticks of gum, half the package. Jase raises his eyebrows but says nothing. “He’s freaking everywhere. You lift a rock in this campaign and he crawls out from under it. Grace has this entire staff and Clay’s in charge of fuckin’ all of it. He says something and everybody jumps. Even me. The guy never sleeps. Even that little dude, your mom’s suck-up campaign manager, Malcolm, is looking bushed, but Clay’s going along like the friggin’ Energizer Bu
Realization smacks me hard, but I barely have time to process because Tim keeps going.
“He’s all about the photo ops too. Yesterday it was some poor bastard who lost both legs in Afghanistan coming stateside. Clay was on the spot, makin’ sure Gracie got a half-page spread in the Stony Bay Bugle kissing him hello.” Tim jams his hands into his pockets, pacing around the room as he talks. “Then we go to some day-care center where he gets Grace’s photo taken with six cute blond kids piled around her. He practically shoved this girl with one of those big red birthmarks on her face outta the way. I mean, he’s good at what he does. It’s amazing watching him work. But somehow, frickin’ scary too. And your Mom…she just says nothin’, Samantha. She snaps to attention like she’s working for him. What the fuck’s up with that?”
It’s not as though I haven’t thought all these things. But when Tim says them, I feel defensive. Besides, who is Tim to talk?
“Look,” I say. “It may seem like he’s the boss, but Mom would never back off completely like that. She loves this job and she’s totally committed to wi
“Yeah, and she’s ahead in all our internal polling. Even with the margin of error. Close, but ahead. But of course, that’s not enough for Clay. Clay has to hedge his bets. Clay has to have his little November surprise in the works, so he makes abso-friggin’-lutely sure that not only does she win, but her opponent fucking loses. Big. Not just the race. His whole career.”
Jase is absently sliding the palm of his left hand up and down my side, while still pulling plastic packs of nails out of the cardboard box. “And he’s doing this by…?”
“Digging up dirt that doesn’t matter. Making sure it matters. And sticks.”
We both stare at Tim.
“Ben Christopher, who’s ru