Twitter Girl

He nods and smiles.

C’mon, we’ve gotten all the details out of the way. Get to the good part. How much?

“You seriously want to pay me just to be sarcastic? Travel with the campaign and play on Twitter? That’s all?”

He nods. “That’s all. And we’re prepared to pay you fifty percent more than you were making at the network.” He reaches inside his jacket, pulls out an envelope and slides it across the table.

I open it, take out a small sheet of paper and my eyes bug out at the figure, which is exactly fifty percent more than I was making. “How the hell did you know what my salary was?”

He cocks his head to the side. “Really, Cassidy? I do work in politics. Your tax dollars at work. By the way, your return shows you’re very generous with your charitable dollars.”

“Right, I forgot Big Brother knows all.” I pick up the ketchup bottle and look underneath it.

“Problem?”

“Just checking to make sure the condiments aren’t bugged.” I look at the slip of paper again, knowing this is the only lifeline I’m about to be thrown and someone actually wants to pay me a ton of money to be, well, my snarky self online. I can work for Will Becker. I agree on some of his issues and don’t on others, but I wouldn’t have a problem if he were President. I like him better than the current reptilian occupant of the White House. And, of course, there’s that little thing about him eventually needing a First Lady and perhaps he might like a skinny, spunky redhead for that position. “Okay.”

“That mean you’ll do it?”

“Yep. But I don’t want to be VP of Snark. I want to be the CEO.”

“Done.” We shake and I pull out my cell.

“Calling your brother with the news?”

“Not yet. Right now Twitter Girl’s gotta dish out some payback.” I quickly tap the keys on my phone.

#FireTheRedheadBitch

@TwitterGirl The bitch is back. Stay tuned.

CHAPTER TWO

#FireTheRedheadBitch

@TwitterGirl

Returning to work in January! Details coming up!

@TwitterGirl

Eating lobster, shrimp, scallops, calamari, crab, sole and crawfish. Merry Christmas Eve!

“Can I be your intern?”

I knew the question was coming.

“It can be my Christmas gift. You don’t even have to wrap it.”

“That’s because you simply want to unwrap it,” I say.

“Hey, ‘tis the season.”

My best friend Ripley DeAngelo is drooling at the dinner table, and it’s not over the massive amount of seafood available at her family’s traditional Christmas Eve dinner.

She wants a shot at my new boss and the possibility of becoming the next First Lady.

Honey, take a number.

“Haven’t even met the guy yet, but I’ll see what I can do,” I say, as I reach toward the middle of the table and ladle another round of shrimp scampi onto my plate. “Boy, I really love this Italian tradition, Feast of the Seven Fishes.”

“Don’t change the subject,” she says, her caramel eyes narrowing as they fill with lust. “All I want for Christmas is a chance at Will Becker. I’ll work nights, weekends.” She licks her lips and raises both eyebrows. “Overnights.”

Her mother gently slaps her on the shoulder. “Young lady! It’s Christmas Eve!” she says, busy clearing one empty dish and replacing it with another.

“Ma, I’m entitled to a Christmas list. Besides, I’ve been nice all year. I wanna be naughty for a change.”

Ripley’s mom rolls her eyes while her dad laughs. I really want to get back to stuffing my face with crustaceans, so I need to keep her at bay. I fold my arms like Barbara Eden in I Dream of Jeannie and snap my head down. “Poof, you’re an intern!”

She shoves her hair behind her ears and smiles. “Thank you, dear friend.”

And dear friend she is since high school. The girl with the booze and food heritage (half Irish, half Italian, one hundred percent Catholic) is named after Sigourney Weaver’s kick-ass heroine and seriously has the balls to take on acid-bleeding aliens. And with her looks she might actually turn Will Becker’s head. A five-nine stunner with chestnut tangles just past her shoulders, classic high cheekbones and a slender, stacked Barbie doll body that would put a twenty year old to shame, she’s a girl who could have her pick of the litter. But Ripley is so damn particular, she remains, like me, unmarried at thirty-five. She spends more Saturday nights with me or a bottle of wine (or frequently, both) than out on a date, and I can tell it’s getting to her.

Will Becker would be the ultimate catch for Ripley.

And for me as well. (Okay, so I’ve been daydreaming about giving a TV tour of the White House a la Jackie Kennedy. So sue me.) But I’m not even remotely in her league in the looks department. I’ll have to bring my “A” game to a “B” (padded bra) to get the attention of the Senator around her.

For a brief moment I find myself flashing back to high school, with two girls fighting over the same guy. I quickly shove the thought away.

Until, right on cue, Sam thoughtfully brings it up. “I haven’t seen you two look like this since I was eight.”

“What are you talking about?” asks Ripley.

“Remember that crush you both had on the quarterback?”

Ripley blushes, my freckles light up. “Ancient history,” she says.

“Really, dear brother, we’ve grown up since then. The Senator is just another guy. It’s not like I’m practicing the signature Cassidy Becker on top of my homework.”

“Yeah, right. You both have tells when it comes to men.”

Ripley furrows her brow. “Tells? What are you talking about?”

“Rip, whenever you talk about a guy who interests you, your eyebrows do this little jump.” He turns to me. “And you start twirling your hair. Like you’re doing now.”

I immediately drop my hand. “It’s a nervous habit. I do it all the time.”

“Hell,” says Sam, “if Becker was here for dinner tonight, you’d end up with a perm.”

***

Wednesday has been poker night for a few years, and I’m always the lone filly at the table. Since this particular Wednesday falls two days after Christmas, the usual beer and chips have been replaced with wine and enough leftover cookies and cakes to send anyone into a sugar coma.

Anyway, Sam always sits across from me, and despite the fact that he’s my brother he turns into a gunslinger when we play cards and cuts me no slack. Two veteran fortysomething photographers from my (former) network, Kevin Frost and Jake Helper, take up two seats while the fifth chair belongs to fifty year old network correspondent and my mentor, Dale Carlin.

And while I don’t have a poker tell, everyone has picked up on the fact that I’m upbeat about my new mystery job.

“Pot’s right,” says Sam, as he starts to deal. “Five card stud.”

“I hate this game,” says Kevin, leaning back and stretching out his lean frame while he smooths his thinning brown hair.

“That’s because you never win,” says Sam. He flips a card in front of me and I gently pull up the corner and see a king of hearts.

Dale turns to me as he runs his hand through his thick salt and pepper hair. “So, you’re not even gonna tell your mentor about your new job?”

I shake my head. “I’m a vault. I’m not allowed to tell.”

“I can tell,” says Sam. “She got a gig as a celebrity greeter at Wal-Mart. She’s going to enforce a strict four tattoo minimum.”

I crinkle my nose at him. “Very funny, dear brother.”

Kevin turns to Jake. “You watch. She’s going to another network and gonna kick our asses every night.” They turn and both look at me, their eyes widening as they study my face for any possible confirmation.

I shake my head again as my second card arrives, another king. “You’re not getting anything from me. If you see me out on a story in January, you’ll know you’re right. If not, I’ll be somewhere else.”

“Wish you were coming with us this year,” says Jake, as the huge teddy bear of a man takes a bite out of a peanut butter cookie with a Hershey kiss in the middle.

“Fifty cents,” I say, as I toss two blue chips into the pot. (Real high stakes game, huh?) “Why, where are you guys going?”

“Eleven wonderful months on Air Hump One,” says Kevin.

Both of my eyebrows shoot up. “You guys got the President’s campaign?”

Both photogs nod while wearing a look of disgust. “I can hardly wait for next week,” says Jake. “My travel agent tells me Iowa’s lovely this time of year.”

“And there’s so much to see and do,” says Kevin. He elbows Jake in the ribs. “Look, Jake, another cornfield!”

Sam smiles as he adds to the pot. “They really call the President’s plane Air Hump One?”

Everyone laughs as I turn to my brother. “Sweetie, our Commander-in-Chief makes Clinton look like an altar boy.”

Dale tosses his cards into the center and folds. “Yeah, and thanks to your little tweet, I get to join them in lovely Dubuque next week.”

“It was gonna be my assignment?” I ask.

He nods as his face turns red. “Sorry, kid, that slipped out. I know how much you wanted to cover a presidential campaign.”

Sam shoots me a wide-eyed look like a parent that tells me not to react.

“Yeah,” I say. “But the job I have is still going to be very enjoyable.”

“Would have been fun to watch,” says Jake. “President comb-over has a thing for redheads and he’s a leg man. He woulda been all over you like a cheap suit.”

My face twists like a dishrag at the thought of being groped by a sixty year old fireplug. “Guys, please, the thought of doing Jabba the President will make me throw up on the cards.”

Then it hits me. I have three close friends who will be covering a President they can’t stand.

Three close friends who wouldn’t mind helping me out when they find out what I’m doing.

It will be better than bugging the Oval Office.

***

“So, are we gonna have any ground rules on our campaign to be the candidate’s permanent running mate?” asks Ripley, as she refills my glass of champagne.

“Ah, so we really are back in high school.” I glance at the living room clock and see it’s five minutes till the new year. (Yep, dateless again as the Times Square ball gets ready to drop.) “What do you mean, rules?”

“Well, we both want him, and neither of us is the type to share. That’s too creepy, even if the guy being shared is Will Becker.”

“True. Though I think any final decision would be his. Let’s put it this way. If I don’t get him, I hope you do.”

“Same here, dear friend. It just doesn’t need to be like that time during senior year.”

She’s right. We were a couple of immature teenagers throwing ourselves at the star quarterback, and the competition strained our friendship for a short time. Of course, he ended up with the girl known as the head cheerleader anyway. (She wasn’t even on the squad, so you can probably guess the origin of her nickname.) So the flaunting of our wares went for naught. By the way, I googled said quarterback after that Christmas Eve dinner, and he’s now a bald, fat used car salesman. Gotta love it when the universe evens things up.

“He’ll go for you anyway,” says Ripley, “I don’t stand a chance if you wear a short skirt with those legs up to your neck.”

“Oh, bullshit. Have you forgotten you put yourself through college as a bikini model?”

“That was years ago.”

“And I’ll bet they still fit.”

Ripley smiles and sticks her nose in the air. “Of course they do. But you’ve got that gorgeous red hair and those cute freckles that make you look like a little girl. And you haven’t gained an ounce since high school either. You’re still skinny.”

“I needed to gain a few ounces above the waist. Just once I’d like to say My eyes are up here. Men never talk to my boobs. They have a complete conversation with yours.”

“You may be thin but you got the perfect mile long legs, so don’t complain. You can’t have everything.”

“You have everything.”

She shrugs. “Don’t have Mister Right. So are we going to spend the rest of New Year’s Eve arguing about how beautiful we are?”

“Don’t think we have enough booze. Tell you what, how about we do the opposite of what we did back then?”

“What, ignore him?”

“Ripley, you know that men always want what they can’t have. That’s one thing we have learned since high school.”

“Very true. So therefore he would have to make the first move.”

“Exactly. And then there would be no hard feelings between us.”

Ripley slowly nods and extends her glass. “Very well. May the lucky girl win.”

I clink her glass as the ball starts to descend in Times Square. “Just hope it’s one of us.”

CHAPTER THREE

#FireTheRedheadBitch

@TwitterGirl

Say bye to this hashtag, cause the bitch is back, joining Senator Becker’s campaign! #HIREtheRedheadBitch!

@TwitterGirl

About to meet my new boss, Senator (and next President) Will Becker…

“Welcome,” says Frank Delavan, extending his hand as I get up from the couch in the sparsely furnished lobby. “Great to have you on board.”

“Happy to be here,” I say, as I shake hands.

“Great timing, as we just opened this office. The Senator is very excited about meeting you.”

“The feeling is mutual.”

Mutual, hell. I’ll bet his heart isn’t hung up on his tonsils.

Frank leads me out of the lobby, down a hallway and through the campaign headquarters, a beehive of activity filled with mostly twentysomethings on phones dressed in jeans, probably volunteers. A few people are busy hanging political posters while a couple of teenagers are stuffing envelopes. I see several men in shirts and ties and a few women in expensive dresses moving about and figure them for the paid staff. Every one of the women gives me the once-over as I walk through the office.

Well, more than a once-over. More like a glare.

They see me as competition. They want the same guy I do.

Fine. Bring it.

For my first impression I’ve chosen a conservative long sleeved emerald green dress that matches my eyes with a hemline that hits just above the knee. My shoes take me up to six-three. I know a lot of tall women try to minimize their height, but hey, why should I pass up on great shoes just because I’m an amazon? Had my hair done this morning, so my red tangles bounce as I power walk, dusting my shoulders. I didn’t go overboard on the makeup as I don’t really have cheekbones to be accented anyway and I don’t like to cover up my freckles. Like Ripley says, they’re handy when I wanna play the little innocent girl card. (Okay, maybe not so innocent, but you get my drift. Add a pout to the freckles and it’s game over.)

The door to the corner office opens as we arrive and a thirtyish guy in khakis and a blue oxford shirt walks out, nodding at Frank as he passes. We walk into the office and find Will Becker leaning over a cluttered desk, talking on the phone as he makes a note on a yellow legal pad. He looks up and smiles at us. “I’ll have to get back to you on that,” he says. “Talk to you tomorrow.” He hangs up the phone, moves around the desk and extends his hand. “So, I finally get to meet the famous Twitter Girl.”

“Pleasure to meet you, Senator,” I manage to get out while we shake hands. I’m blown away by the real life version of America’s most eligible bachelor as photos and television don’t do justice to this man. His deep-set powder blue eyes lock onto mine, and the rest of the world seems to disappear.

“You can call me Will when we’re alone,” he says, placing his other hand on top of mine and sending a bolt of electricity through my body like a defibrillator.

When we’re alone…

“And you can call me anytime,” I say, before my filter has a chance to catch those words by the tail. I feel my face flush and know my freckles are catching fire.

“There’s that wit we need for the campaign!” he says, obviously not realizing I was being literal with one of the oldest bar pickup lines. He lets go of my hands and gestures to the chairs in front of his desk. “Please, Cassidy, have a seat.”

I sit down next to Frank as I take in this forty-three year old vision of masculinity. Becker is about six-four, slender with broad shoulders revealed by a tailored white shirt, an angles and planes face framed by thick black hair, a lock of which cascades over his forehead. The rolled up sleeves reveal sinewy, buffed forearms. A warm smile makes me feel like I’m the only one in the room. That smile, I can see, could easily melt a heart. The twinkle in his eyes makes him somehow incredibly handsome and unbelievably cute at the same time. A quick look at his slacks as he sits down confirms my suspicion that you could probably bounce quarters off his ass. He’ll probably moonlight as a Chippendale when he’s done leading the free world.

“So,” he says, as he adjusts his chair, “this is the woman with two hundred thousand more followers than I have. Maybe you should be running instead of me.”

“Yeah, but you’ve probably got more support in Mississippi.”

“Hey, six electoral votes aren’t gonna kill us. Look, I thought your tweet about the tornado was funny as hell and it was bullshit that you got fired, especially considering what really happened. But the network’s loss is our gain.”

“I’m happy the way things worked out. I can’t thank you enough for bringing me on board.”

“You’re going to be a unique asset, our secret weapon. Though after today it’s not going to be much of a secret. Nothing stays quiet on the Internet for long.”

“I’ve given her the basics of what we’re looking for,” says Frank. “But I know you’ve got some ideas of your own.”

“Right. Cassidy, you’ll be here about half the time working with our strategy team, and the other half you’ll be traveling with me. For instance, we’ve got the first debate in Iowa on Thursday and I want you in place with a laptop next to Frank. He knows the other candidates like the back of his hand and can help you push their buttons. It will be great to tweak the other guys during the debate the moment they make a gaffe or say anything that gives you an opportunity for a comeback.”

“Well, I was blessed with a quick wit.”

“Not just a quick wit, but a snarky one,” says Becker. “Some of your tweets were downright wicked and devastating. What was that one you had about the New York City Mayor shoveling his own driveway?”

“Politicians are used to shoveling something of a different color.”

Becker nods and smiles. “A classic. Anyway I want you to take the gloves off. Nothing is sacred.”

“Well, I don’t want to tweet anything that will come back to bite you. You guys need to let me know if I’m about to cross the line.”

“You let me worry about that.” He turns to Frank. “Did you tell her about the other part?”

Other part?

Frank shakes his head. “Figured it would be better coming from you.”

Uh-oh. My smile fades as my face tightens. “There something I should know about?”

Becker notices my worried look. “Oh, it’s nothing bad. Just that if I do become the next President, there will be a position for you in my administration.”

I exhale my worry and my adrenaline spikes.

I could end up working at the White House.

Of course, there’s one position I really want at 1600 Pennsylvania Avenue, and it’s not a job.

***

By four o’clock I’d been introduced to nearly everyone in the campaign. “I saved the best of our office staff for last,” says Frank as we walk past the Senator’s office. “Get ready to meet the smartest guy in the building,”

“Shhhh!” I cock my head toward Will Becker’s door. “The Senator—”

“Hell, even Becker will admit Tyler Garrity is the Stephen Hawking of politics. The Senator prides himself in hiring people who are brighter than he is. But Tyler is off the charts smart. We’re talking genius territory.”

“Sounds like a guy I wanna get to know.”

“Well, brace yourself, he’s quite a unique character.” Frank stops at a closed door and turns to face me. “This is the war room. Now, one thing you need to know about Tyler. He has a medical condition, some sort of rare fatigue syndrome, that only allows him to work every other day. Monday, Wednesday and Friday. And traveling wipes him out, he gets horrible jet lag, so Becker keeps him fresh here in New York. But even working on a limited basis, what we get from him is pure gold. Anyway, he doesn’t mind talking about his health, so you don’t have to tiptoe around him.”

“Sounds like my brother.”

Frank opens the door and leads me into a long rectangular room without a single window but with light provided by about a dozen flat screens that take up one wall, each tuned to a different channel. I see a guy in his mid-thirties opposite the monitors totally focused on a laptop. “Tyler, someone I want you to meet.”

The man is furiously typing something, locked in on the screen, and doesn’t look up. “Give me ten seconds.” He finishes banging the keyboard and hits one key with a flourish, then looks up and closes the laptop. “Done. Ah, I see Twitter Girl has arrived!”

He gets up and moves toward me bringing an incredibly bright smile. Tyler Garrity definitely has that boy-next-door thing going, with tousled dark brown hair and a matching two-day growth contrasted by deep-set olive green eyes. He sorta reminds me of Bradley Cooper. He extends his hand and I shake it. I tower over him as he’s not very tall, maybe five-nine, and slender. Still, he’s a seriously cute little thing. “Pleasure to meet you, Tyler.”

“Pleasure’s mine, T.G.”

I furrow my brow. “Huh?”

“T.G. You know, Twitter Girl.”

“Oh, right.”

“Tyler likes calling people by initials. Or nicknames,” says Frank.

“You got it, Viper,” he says.

I turn to Frank and raise one eyebrow. “Viper?”

He shrugs. “What can I say? I’m not exactly the warm and fuzzy type.”

Tyler pulls out the chair next to his. “Have a seat, T.G. You need coffee, soda, juice? I’ve got bagels, donuts, croissants, every kind of chocolate you can imagine—”

“I can always go for a chocolate bar,” I say as I sit down and he pushes in the chair. Hmmm. Gentleman. I usually only get this in an expensive restaurant.

“I’ll leave you two to get started,” says Frank, who leaves the room and closes the door.

Tyler opens a drawer on a credenza, pulls out a candy bar and hands it to me. “You look like a Dove bar kinda girl.”

“Very perceptive.”

He sits down and shoves his laptop out of the way as he swivels his chair to face me, wide-eyed with a look of excitement. “Well, your reputation precedes you. I must say I absolutely loved your tweets and cannot tell you how excited I am to have you on the team. I’ve been a fan for a long time.”

I start unwrapping the candy. “Well, that’s very kind of you to say. I’m excited to be here.”

“So, did Frank tell you what I do?”

“He basically told me you should be designing rockets for NASA or building a time machine.”

Tyler leans back and laughs as I take a bite of the candy and savor the smooth chocolate. “Actually the time machine is finished.” He leans forward and whispers. “Don’t tell anyone, but I’m from the future.”

I lean toward him and drop my voice. “Okay, it’ll be our little secret.” For a guy with a fatigue problem, Tyler is incredibly animated and talks fast with a ton of energy in his voice. He’s more full of life than anyone I’ve met in awhile. Frank’s right, he’s definitely a character.