Kathleen O'Reilly - Beyond Seduction

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To Dee, as always, thanks.

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Epilogue

“OKAY, SAM, THAT’S A WRAP.”

The hot television lights were powered off, and Sam Porter pulled back from the small desk on the sound stage. He took a last drink of his water, and wanted nothing more than to be home in bed, preferably alone, nursing a cold beer, and watching the tape of today’s show.

Four a.m. was too early for any human being of sound mind to be up, but he’d sacrificed in order to prep for this interview, which had been a slam-dunk. The Connecticut Senator was political roadkill, although now Sam felt like death warmed over and the night was still young.

The crew began arranging the studio for the next broadcast, cameras being rolled away to the side of the set as the mechanized take-down duties were performed.

He nodded in the general direction of his floor director. “Thanks, Kristin. See you tomorrow.”

Kristin winked at him, putting aside her clipboard and headset. “Maybe you’ll see me. I’ve got a hot date—think I’m going to elope.”

He rubbed at his face with his palms. “Just as long as you’re back in the morning. Don’t make me break in another one of you.”

“Sure, boss,” she answered.

The crew started to take off. Goodbyes were always the shortest when the weekend was lurking nearby. Today was only Wednesday, but his staff were forward thinkers and Friday couldn’t come soon enough.

“Sam, wait a minute, will ya?” The voice of his producer boomed over the studio speakers, and Sam scowled in the general direction of the production booth. He wanted to get home, and Charles Whistleborne Kravatz III could be excruciatingly long-winded when he put his mind to it.

Charlie ambled into the studio, squawking into his cell. Impatiently, Sam tapped his foot until Charlie noticed, gave Sam an apologetic smile, and then kept talking for another ten minutes. Sam was just turning to leave when Charlie finally hung up.

“We’ve got a problem. The city manager pulled out and we’ve got to find another guest for Thursday’s show.”

“You’re kidding?”

“Sorry, Sam. Your fan base isn’t huge out there.”

“Yeah, well, someday. So what are we going to do? Know any Northern California radicals to put on?”

Charlie scratched his neck, parting the Brooks Brothers shirt buttons around his ever-expanding stomach. “I think we should do something less political. To offset the judicial expert’s talk about the nominee for the Supreme court. Big yawner. Give it some balance.”

“Like what?”

“I don’t know. Human interest. Fluff.”

“I don’t like fluff,” warned Sam.

“No lectures, Sam. Hear me out. You’re doing two solid days of hard, depressing crap. We need something more upbeat. Happier. Maybe not birdies and rainbows, but something to put people in a good mood.”

At the moment, Sam was several emotions removed from a good mood. “I don’t know, Charlie. Let me think. I’m tired and I need sleep.”

Charlie nodded. “Do that. And let me know.” He turned around to leave, and then turned back. “Hey, I got a call about you while the show was taping.”

“Not another death threat, I hope?”

“Hehe, no. One of your fans. Chairman of your favorite New Jersey political party. He tried to play coy, but I pegged him. They want you to be their drop-in candidate for the House Seat in the Fifteenth District, after Detweiler pulled out. Four months before the election? Who does that?”

Sam started to laugh. “Me? A candidate? You’re kidding.”

“Nope.”

Eventually Sam realized that Charlie was serious, mainly because Charlie was always serious.

Politics. His smile faded. “Really?”

“Yeah. Since we’re right up against the election, it’s got to be a write-in candidate, and the party knows you’ve got the name recognition to pull it off. They know they can trust you, your platforms are right. It’s not that big of a leap, Sam.”

“You’re kidding,” repeated Sam, still slightly in shock. It was flattering, it was intriguing, and most of all, it was something that he’d never thought about before. “I’m in television. I talk about politics. I don’t do politics,” he said, weighing the arguments out loud.

“I take it that’s a ‘no’ then. I’ll send your regrets.”

Sam almost corrected that, but something held him back. “Yeah, just tell them no,” he said, finality in his voice.

“Glad to hear it ’cause we’d have to kill the show, and I for one would not be happy. Hell, I’d have to find a new show. And I don’t even wanna think about the network. You’re a cash cow, and cash cows are hard to come by these days.”

“I didn’t think about losing the show,” Sam murmured, wrapping his mind around the possibility of a new direction in his daily routine.

“You’re thinking about losing the show, Sam?” asked Charlie, his faded blue eyes still sharp as they’d always been.

“How long do I have?”

“You gotta decide fast. Ten days is all you’ve got.”

Politics. It was something he talked about, studied, read about on a daily basis, but he’d never considered himself a politician. He was a journalist. But wouldn’t it be nice to be able to work for the country instead of bashing do-nothing politicos on a nightly basis? His practical side laughed at the idea, his sentimental side was flush with new ideas.

“I should say no,” he answered, his practical side winning the argument. Sam had enough to think about right now. Like what to fill in on Thursday’s show.

“But that’s not a ‘no’?”

“It’s a not yet,” answered Sam. “I’ll take the ten days, Charlie. Let me think.”

After Charlie left, Sam headed for the dressing room. Finally a chance to lose the suit, and he pulled on his jeans with a contented sigh. He would never be a suit, and although he played a talking-head on TV, and did it well, blue jeans were his natural habitat.

The television studio was a cold, lifeless place with cameras, overhead banks of monitors, and the smell of sanitized air freshener, rather than the smell of hard work.

Sam’s dad had been a plumber, who came home smelling of plumber’s grease and somebody’s clogged drain pipe, and Sam had learned to appreciate the smells that came with an honest day’s labor. It was the primary reason his dressing room smelled like pen ink and microwaved chicken rather than the ‘clean fresh scent that follows a soft summer’s rain.’

His ratty, overstuffed couch was always waiting for him when he wanted to lay down and think, and the sounds of Bob Dylan, Toby Keith, and Springsteen were permanent playlists on his iPod. He needed it to drown out the city noise. At his heart, Sam was a Jersey boy, born and bred, and although Manhattan paid his salary, his home sat on the blue-collar side of the Hudson River.