Midnight (McKenna Chronicles Book 1) (2 page)

My
hands still midair, breathing forgotten. I’m struck by the visage appearing on
stage. Colin McKenna is a mirror of the man from my implausible dream. My
cheeks heat at the flashback of his lips on mine. I’m in a trance, a moth
caught in a spider’s web without the ability to escape. He's absolutely
gorgeous. Tall and solidly built, confident and assured with a strong gait. A
large screen hangs directly behind him, projecting his elegant face large
enough for those in the very back to see every brilliant nuance.

My
heart skips a beat, suspended in time, and then it begins to thrum faster than
normal. He
is
in a three-piece expensive suit; however, he doesn’t look
like any politician I’ve ever seen before. He's young, really young for a
presidential candidate. Aren’t they supposed to be at least sixty? Isn’t that a
pre-requisite for the job? His face is sculpted with a squared chin, holding
the slightest indent to soften the center. When he smiles, dimples appear next
to his broad, glorious stretch of perfect, white teeth. The corners of his
eyes crinkle ever so slightly when he grins, bringing together rows of dark
lashes that coat and highlight his bright blue eyes. Thick dark-brown hair with
hints of caramel running through the gentle waves are perfectly placed at the
crown of his head, smoothed back into a short and neat cut. For a moment I
imagine running my hands through his hair, gripping it between my fingers,
causing it to fall in disarray on his brow. Heat flairs into flames as the
unbidden image flourishes, a clear picture illustrated perfectly in my mind’s
eye. Desperate to refocus I stare intently at the podium, staring at the
university’s symbol embellished on the front—staring anywhere but at Colin
McKenna.

It’s
only a moment before my gaze is drawn back. Unable to remain impassive, I’m
captivated, bewitched by him.

The
noise of the crowd has yet to die down; he gives a slight bow of his head, as
if embarrassed by the attention. Lifting his hands in the air, he gently
gestures for the applause to quiet and a hush falls across the room.

His
voice has a low, soothing timbre, “Today I stand before you with our
future and the health of our nation lying ahead of us. I have heard the cry for
change in Washington, heard the hope that this election will be different than
all that came before it. Together, and with my leadership, your desire for a
brighter future is within our grasp.”

 I
find myself waiting, holding my breath as he speaks. Surely this man, albeit a
very attractive man, shouldn’t have this effect on me.

Many
others attentively watch, some with dumbstruck grins and others simply gaping. Camera
flashes spark rapidly, creating the appearance of waves moving through the
crowd.

In
this moment, reality roars back and I realize I’ve forgotten to turn on the
recorder. Fumbling, I do so, knowing I must have missed the first few minutes
of his speech. Straightening my back, I muster a good amount of poise, lifting
my eyes to the Senator just at the moment he confirms everyone’s anticipated
suspicions.

“I've
made it my life’s mission to care for this country and those that call it their
home,” he says, squaring his shoulders. “As I continue on with pursuit of this
dream, it's time I seek the most absolute position in which I can lead with
integrity, pride and passion. I will not let you down; I will not let this
country down. I will bring the United States of America into the next decade
stronger than it has ever been.” The crowd erupts and once again I feel as if
I’m at a concert, suspecting an overly hormonal teenager will throw her bra on
stage.  

When
the cheering calms he continues, sharing his key initiatives, should he be
elected president.

After
a few more minutes it’s over. He graciously thanks everyone for coming and
opens the conversation up to the members of the media sitting before him. I’m
struck again by his stunning good looks and his brilliant smile. Very simply:
he is dazzling.

I
spend a few more minutes lost in thought, just staring at him. McKenna has
begun addressing the small group of reporters; he appears at ease answering
questions. He's quizzed about his beliefs, what he would do in the first year
of office and so on. I’m once again thankful for the iPad recording all of the
events, because I’m having trouble concentrating on the dialogue going back and
forth between him and the reporters. Questions are thrown out quickly and he
responds swiftly. There's no need for him to think; his responses are strong
and heartfelt. The passion he has for the betterment of the country is easily
apparent. It’s only when I catch the tail end of a question that I sit taller
in my seat, my attention piqued.

A
thin man in the front speaks loudly, asking “. . . What are your beliefs on
abortion and women’s rights?”

Unbidden,
my cheeks reheat at the topic, but his response comes easily. “There must be a
balance between personal rights and the right to live. I'll work diligently to
ensure abortion becomes illegal in the United States. Life is precious and we
must think in that context when considering ending it. It’s my personal belief
there is never a situation in which abortion is the right answer.”

Frustration
and indignation pulse like a second heartbeat bubbling to the surface. “You
would take a woman’s right to protect herself, to protect her own body, away
from her? For reasons you wouldn’t know, couldn’t know. You would take away a
woman’s control over her body and possible health?” My voice is terse, hard.
It’s as if I were thinking out loud, yet it was stated firmly and with
conviction for everyone to hear. All heads swivel quickly toward me, looking
for the dumb-ass shouting out in argument with Mr. McPerfect McKenna. My cheeks
burn and I know they must be the color of flames, but I don’t back down. I
would like to know. I need to know.

It’s
his turn to stare at me as he easily finds my eyes. His gaze holds mine for
what feels like an eternity before he finally addresses me with consideration.
“A child has a right to be born, a right to live. There are some things God
must have control over, and those are life and death.

Man
has become too involved in the workings of what He should control. G
od should play a larger part in people's lives.
Abortion is not the answer: life is.
” His eyes continue to bore into
mine, not letting go of our connection. My heart thrums at the link between us
until I garner the resolve to break away, embarrassed by my outburst and my
reaction to him.

Others
invade the moment, hurling questions. Hesitating momentarily, his eyes linger
before he shifts his attention away.

Relief
floods through me as I sink back into my seat. What did I just do? I berate
myself, wishing I could slink out the door.

The
questions and answers flow until finally the conference comes to an end.
McKenna catches my gaze for only a second, curiosity brightening his eyes, and
a small smile lifts the corners of a perfect mouth before he turns to smoothly
exit the platform. I let out the breath I didn’t realize I was holding.
Standing abruptly to straighten my skirt and quickly pack my iPad, I follow the
woman next to me toward the door.

A
touch to my elbow halts my progress and my heart stills with it. Reluctantly, I
turn at the contact, meeting a pair of lighthearted gray eyes, flashing with a
secret air of amusement.

“Ms.
Carter?” When I nod, the man smiles and continues, “Evan Daugherty.” His hand
reaches toward mine in greeting, “Colin McKenna’s campaign manager.”

His
hand hovers in the air as I fumble for words, still reeling from my enormously
stupid foray into presidential debate. He has a warm, easy grin centered on a
handsome face; he’s handsome in a California surfer kind of way. His hair waves
from root to end, his shaggy cut perfect in its imperfection, and his gray eyes
are hauntingly expressive and compliment his bronzed skin.

Again
I’m stunned by how young he is considering the position he holds. Taking his
hand in mine I find my voice, “Mr. Daugherty . . .” His grip is firm and warm
in mine.  

“I
hope your trip was uneventful. Did you have any challenges finding the
university?”

“No,
thanks for asking.”

“Please,
come with me. I have a private space set aside for us to talk.” His tone is
kind, generous.

I
don’t know if this is a good idea; after the reaction I had toward Senator
McKenna, this assignment is looking more and more unfavorable. Nerves are about
to get the best of me so I only listen half-heartedly as he leads us to the
front of the room and up the four steps of the stage. If this is not a good
fit, I’ll walk away. I can always say no; an interview goes both ways.

We
end up in a small meeting room with a few people milling about, and others
huddling together, exchanging excited conversation at a large rectangular table
which anchors the room. No doubt they’re a part of the campaign team, planning
the senator’s next steps. A stunning, petite blond woman, smartly dressed in an
expensive, curve-hugging suit stands at the front, shifting when she sees me to
lift her frame straighter. She does not look pleased. Her eyes narrow as she
follows me across the room with a scowl marring her beautiful face. No doubt
she heard my comments from earlier and wonders why I’m here.

Daugherty
ushers me through another door to a tiny meeting room with a small navy couch
and two plush chairs in a unique gold-and-navy patterned fabric, a short
circular table centered in between. A tall thin window sits on the far wall,
letting in muted afternoon light, helping the small floor lamp faintly light
the space. Other than the sparse furnishings, there is nothing in the room.

“Please
have a seat,” Daugherty offers. “Would you like anything to drink?”

“No,
thank you.” The approaching interview has sent a nervous energy racing through
my body; putting something in my stomach isn’t a good idea. I choose one of the
two chairs, sinking down in the plush cushion, and crossing my legs out of
habit. Dropping my black messenger bag to the floor next to the chair, I slip
the cover over to grab a binder from within.

Just
as I look up, Senator McKenna walks through the door. He's taller, larger in
frame than what I envisioned after seeing him on stage. No longer fully suited,
he wears only a dark gray suit-vest with a white shirt, sleeves rolled to his
elbows, and a fine navy-patterned tie lies loosened at his neck. I can barely
contain the nervous energy causing the blood in my veins to pulse
uncontrollably.

By
his mere presence, Colin McKenna commands attention and he definitely has mine,
every nerve in my body is highly attuned to his proximity, shimmering, a spark
waiting to ignite.

His
smile broadens and I lose myself in the brilliance for a moment, drawing in a
deep, steadying breath. Standing from the chair to greet him, my knees teeter
ever so slightly as I tilt my head back to continue eye contact. He's
breathtaking.

Extending
his hand to mine he says, “Ms. Carter, I’m Colin McKenna. Thank you for
agreeing to meet with me on such short notice.”

As
my hand connects with his, a line of electricity shoots up my arm and the air
suddenly feels full of an almost palpable energy I’ve never experienced before.
His smile shifts, brow furrowing as the energy, electric and curious, continues
to pulse. I wonder if he feels it too.

He
stares at me for a long moment with scrutinizing eyes, searching mine for
answers to unasked questions. My lips part as if to respond to the mysterious
inquiry, but no sound escapes my now parched throat. Shaking my head, I
recover, slipping my hand from the heat of his. The electric current recedes
but the air remains potent.

With
our physical connection broken, his smile and brow smooth. “Please have a seat.
May I offer you anything?”

I
sink back into the soft chair, crossing my legs again; his eyes follow, staring
for a quick second at my leopard-print heels. “No, thank you I’m fine.” My
voice is low, weakened by our intense greeting and his casual perusal.

Sitting
across from me on the couch, he crosses his leg, his ankle resting lightly over
his knee. “I hope you had an uneventful drive. Where is it that you live?” His
tone remains polite as he searches my face in wait of an answer.

“Royal
Oak, Michigan. It’s just north of Detroit.”

“That
must have taken you most of the morning. I’m very sorry we didn’t give you more
notice so we could have helped plan a more accommodating travel schedule.” His
eyes narrow and he sends Daugherty a stern glance.

“It
was no trouble, really. I didn’t mind the drive.”

He
nods. “I understand Evan has reviewed with you my thoughts on creating an
extensive social media campaign, a chronicle if you will, relating to my
candidacy and me personally. I want to connect with those who use the Internet
and social media as their primary means of communication.”

“And
you believe I may be the person best suited to do this?” I can’t help that my
voice is incredulous. I fail to understand how my experience qualifies me for
this assignment.

 “Yes,
I do.” He continues by changing the subject. “Ms. Carter, it seems you and I have
differing opinions on topics that are very pertinent to the moral compass of
our Country. I’m intrigued to learn more about your position.”

I
don’t know how to respond. This is not a conversation I want to have with him.
I could kick myself for opening my mouth and wish I had shoved my glorious
leopard-print heel into it versus spew verbal vomit out of it. I stare into his
bright eyes for a moment before deciding to offer the truth. “I don’t believe a
man wholly unconnected to the state of a woman’s body should judge and prevent
a possible life-saving procedure. Who are you, or any other politician,
qualified to determine what a woman may do with her own body?” I glare,
impassioned by the topic.