CHAPTER FOUR

       @TwitterGirl

       Boarding Air Becker for the Iowa debates. Hope someone told the Prez they’re not in Ohio this year.

      I wheel my suitcase toward the steps of the private jet that will carry Senator Becker and his staff to the wilds of Iowa, which is currently experiencing the effects of one of those dreaded polar vortexes. Or vortices. Or whatever the plural of vortex is. In other words, it’s friggin’ cold. The people in Iowa are freezing their asses off cause it’s ten below. Luckily I won’t be working outside as I would be if I were a reporter, so it’s no big deal. Still, I wish the primaries were in the Caribbean.

      A middle-aged white haired gentleman in a suit walks toward me and smiles. “I’ll take that for you, Ms. Shea.”

      “Wow,” I say, as I pass the handle over to him. “Beats flying commercial.”

      “Have a nice trip,” he says, as he turns and takes my bag toward the rear of the plane.

      “Thanks.” I’m filled with energy as I bound up the steps and am greeted at the top by the first really attractive flight attendant I’ve seen in years, since these days most are people deemed not cheerful enough to work at the Department of Motor Vehicles. And, she’s the first one I’ve seen smiling in years. “Good morning.”

      “Welcome aboard, Ms. Shea. I’m Jessica. May I take your coat?”

      “Thank you, and please call me Cassidy.” I take two steps into the cabin and my jaw drops as I start to remove my coat. It’s a private plane, all right, but it’s seriously decked out. A half dozen staffers on cell phones fill huge reclining tan leather chairs and I see Frank Delavan sitting in the back, reading a newspaper. “Guess I’m not in a middle seat in coach.”

      “It’s the only way to fly,” she says, as she hangs my coat in a closet. The woman is an absolutely breathtaking brunette, early twenties if not younger, tall with a mound of gentle curls framing huge pale green eyes and a tight body wrapped in a short red dress. If I’m going to turn Becker’s head on this flight, my “A” game just got graded on a curve and marked down to a C-minus. “I think Frank is waiting for you in the back. Can I get you something to drink before we take off?”

      “If you’ve got coffee made, I’ll take a cup. But don’t go to any trouble on my account.”

      “We have almond amaretto, raspberry chocolate, and creme brulee.”

      “And this obviously isn’t the drive-thru at Dunkin’ Donuts. I’ll take some of that amaretto concoction, cream and sugar.”

      “Coming right up, and we’ll have eggs Benedict once we’re airborne,” she says, as she extends her hand toward the back like a game show hostess.

      I want to tweet I have died and gone to airline heaven. But probably not a good idea to let the voters know we’re traveling like kings. If anyone asks, I’ll say I was stuck in a middle seat next to a crying baby. No parent, just a baby.

      I head down the center aisle passing three incredibly attractive men who are all on cell phones and look up to smile at me. Frank Delavan has a laptop open and is looking serious while on the phone. Behind his seat is a wall with a door, so I assume there’s a meeting room or something since this part of the cabin only takes up half the plane. He wraps up the call as I arrive and plop into the soft leather seat next to him. “Morning, Frank.”

      “Cassidy, great to have you along with us. I’m really looking forward to breaking new ground in this campaign.”

      “Sarcasm is new ground? I thought that road got paved with the first television commercial.”

      “Not Twitter sarcasm and not your brand of it.”

      “So what’s on the agenda today?”

      “Soon as we’re airborne we’ll have something to eat, then have a planning session.” He cocks his head toward the back wall.

      “So the rest of the plane is a meeting room?”

      “Just part of it. There’s also a TV room where we can monitor stuff and a few beds and couches in the back if you ever need to crash for a bit.”

      “There are bedrooms on this plane?”

      “It’s a long haul, Cassidy. Trust me, by August you’ll need a GPS to remind you what city we’re in. Anyway, we’ll do some brainstorming, then the Senator has a full agenda as soon as we land.”

      “So I’ll be with him?”

      “Not till tonight. I’ve got you down for lunch with our advance man, Andrew Shelton, before he heads out to our next stop. He’s the guy who has his finger on the pulse of the local voters. You’ll see him briefly each time we arrive at a new city.”

      “You sound incredibly organized, Frank.”

      “Trust me, one look at my desk and you wouldn’t want me to do logistics. We have a seriously anal retentive person for that.”

      I hear the engines fire up as the flight attendant comes over the loudspeaker and tells everyone to buckle up.

      “And buckle up is literal in a campaign,” says Frank. “You also need to hold on tight. This is the world’s wildest roller coaster.”

      ***

      Two hours later Jessica walks toward us carrying a coffee pot and smiles. “We’ll be landing in about half an hour. Bundle up, Frank, it’s twelve below.”

      “Whoever put the Iowa and New Hampshire primaries in the middle of the winter obviously flunked geography,” says Frank.

      Jessica taps on the door to the meeting room and I hear the Senator tell her to come in.

      I assume she’s bringing him a cup of java. But she doesn’t return.

      Five minutes go by, no Jessica.

      Ten minutes, no Jessica. Now I’m starting to worry about what’s going on behind that door between the probable next president and a seriously hot babe young enough to be his daughter. Sure, he’s single and entitled to have a relationship, but this doesn’t look good.

      Twenty minutes later she comes out.

      My eyes widen as I watch her move to the front of the plane, smooth her dress, grab her purse from a shelf and touch up her lipstick.

      The Senator then emerges from the back room, buttoning his shirt and tying his necktie as he heads for his seat at the front of the plane.

      No one says a word or even gives this a second look.

      And now I’m wondering what’s really true about the guy I’m now working for.

      Is Will Becker simply a product?

      And is the race over before Ripley and I have even left the starting gate?

      ***

      As I have lunch with advance man Andrew Shelton, I’m beginning to see a pattern.

      This campaign, with the exception of Frank Delavan, is loaded with seriously cute guys.

      And after what I saw on the airplane with our flight attendant, Becker may be off the table, so I may as well lay