By the time Sara did meet Senator Bagwell face to face, her initial discovery of his candidacy, at a safe distance, in bed with her boyfriend, was so far from her mind, it might as well have belonged to another woman's life.
The meeting was unofficial enough. No cameras.
Good.
Sara wanted to see the snake behind the surface, Theodore-Bagwell-the-man rather than the politician.
The occasion was a charity dinner in Illinois. Sara just happened to be funding it, and when she learned from Kellerman that Senator Bagwell was in town and would be making an appearance, her reaction was unfiltered – "You're kidding, right?"
"Not kidding," Kellerman answered. "My best guess is, he's trying to give himself a softer image. Competing with you in your own house."
Sara had arched a brow. "He underestimates me."
"Naturally." Kellerman hadn't sounded the least bit surprised. "Theodore Bagwell despises women, Sara." This had taken her off guard a little. Kellerman had explained, "I know his kind of men when I see them. He's been successful winning over women voters despite his conservative policies on abortion, rape, divorce. And he wants to lower the age of sexual consent. Yet women voters make up an important part of his electorate – that makes him condescending, arrogant. Charisma counts for a lot, I'll give him that, but he's mostly winning right-wing traditionalists where women are concerned. Not that that'll make a difference." Kellerman smiled. "If the first time he looks at you, you can't sense from the pit of your soul that the man feels you're beneath him, I'll put on a pink tutu and sing you a little song."
That drew a chuckle out of Sara. "I'd like to see that."
But she wouldn't get to because, of course, when she shook hands with Theodore Bagwell at that charity dinner, the malicious scorn in his reptilian eyes was clear as rain water.
"Governor Tancredi," he greeted her with the appropriate formula.
"Senator Bagwell," she replied irreproachably.
Though no cameras were running, though their every word wasn't being aired on live television, there'd be pictures of them shaking hands – the two main candidates meeting on a friendly note, months before the presidential debate.
"I believe you're hosting this," Bagwell remarked, his smile unwavering, and – which meant he enjoyed this – reaching his eyes. "May I congratulate you on this lovely event – it's quite a success."
As if she were a housewife having him over for dinner.
Bagwell still hadn't released her hand – some politicians liked that, showing they were in control, letting you go on their own time. A silent play for domination. Still, her smile never wavered, either.
"You're very welcome," she said.
"If you ever head down to Alabama, I'll be sure to return the favor."
"I didn't know you sponsored charity events."
He met this with a ruthless grin. "I meant I'll be giving you as warm a welcome as you've given me. Do come and see me sometime, Miss Tancredi – it's hot as hell in this season, but a little ruggedness never hurt anyone."
She heard him loud and clear. Still, both of them were smiling, and still, their hands were locked.
"Well, not that that scares me – but as I'm sure you realize, I'm rather busy here."
Senator Bagwell was close enough that she could spot the details generally wiped off by his filming team; an oddly shaped mole beneath his jaw, the red blemishes in his neck where he'd shaved himself too closely. The smell of him was strong, leaving a marking imprint in her nostrils – a light touch of cologne, popular, expensive. The brand was called 'Angel'.
Angel, she thought to herself, carefully. That wasn't a scent she'd be likely to forget.
"Of course," Bagwell answered, with a shrug that was both polite and charming.
Was he using his charm out of habit, or did he actually think it might work on her – impress her, make her feel out of her depth?
The man was arrogant.
"It's a nice city you have here, Miss. You take good care of it. You and I will see each other again soon enough, in any case – won't we?"
"I suppose so."
Though the feel of his hand was getting moist around hers, Sara never attempted to withdraw – if she did, and he sensed struggle, he would tighten his grip like an iron claw, and for the span of a moment, she would be the doe with her paw caught in the trap and he would be the huntsman.
The wait was long, interminable, but it wouldn't look like it on the pictures printed in the news tomorrow, because they were smiling hard enough to fool the devil. Finally, Bagwell released her hand, and Sara resisted the urge to wipe hers on the material of her black dress.
"You know, I meant to tell you," he said, "I greatly admire a woman so young, bravely climbing up the political ladder. Though I suppose you've already heard this, I'd like to give you a –" His smile broke into an inaudible chuckle, his eyes shiny with excitement. "A friendly warning. It's a world of sharks up there, Miss Tancredi. Just being part of that race is bad enough, but you're trying to end up first – I only think you should consider your career. Your future. There are so many things you could be that would be less daunting – less dangerous."
The pain of remaining impassive.
As a little girl, enduring the torture of family dinners, Sara would scratch the inside of her palm until her fingernails were sunk deep, and the moon-crescent scars were filling up with tiny drops of blood.
"What things, in particular, do you think I could be?"
There was no need for Bagwell to answer. He'd heard, in her tone, refusing to so much as show outrage, that he wouldn't intimidate her into stepping out before the race had started.
What an easy win. Did he really think it would be that simple?
Inwardly, Sara was amused, allowed her smile to be more genuine.
Because he was male and maybe twenty years older than her, did he think she would cower at his threat, that deep down, she would be relieved to run back to her safety zone –
Truly, Sara thought. He doesn't think I have it in me.
"I suppose the problem is," she said, "Senator Bagwell, that you think of politics as a ladder. Rigid, vertical, where the only way it makes sense to go is up."
Softly, he warned, "There is another way to go…"
"But maybe it isn't about climbing and getting more powerful with every notch. Maybe it isn't at all about power. Don't you ever think about that?"
Just as her own smile had become honest, Sara could see the amusement sparkling in Bagwell's gaze. The ambient sound of conversation around them was too loud for anyone to catch their words.
"I don't think even you believe that, honey," he answered, his mask dropping to Sara's victorious approval. "And if you do, all the better. I'll crush you in a second."
"Thank you, Senator Bagwell." Sara concluded calmly. "You've made yourself perfectly clear."
They parted ways, and Sara was in high spirits for what remained of the party. The campaign had barely started and already, Bagwell was starting off with a disadvantage –
She knew exactly what she was up against, whereas he was careless, blinded by prejudice and confidence.
An hour into the evening, Sara excused herself into the bathroom to check her phone. There were two texts, one from Michael and one from Paul. Both were unsurprisingly about Senator Bagwell.
'Any chance he's more likeable than on TV?' from her boyfriend and 'Should I be purchasing a tutu?' from Paul.
Sara chuckled softly, typing a succinct and witty reply to Michael, and leaving Paul to simmer for a few more hours – let him contemplate the thought of himself in a tutu for a while longer. It'd be good for him to have his pride checked, every once in a while.
Then, Sara was ready to step back into the open – all smiles, all showing teeth, not drawing out any claws. Maybe it was a jungle out there. And Senator Bagwell ought to be a little better at choosing his enemies.
…
"What's the verdict?"
The question was asked by Bagwell's closest advisor, as well as his main investor – head of the Italian mob, John Abruzzi, not that the average Joe was supposed to know that. John was officially nothing but an obscenely rich man backing up his favorite candidate. Not that Bagwell had any qualms. If politicians started making sure their financial support always came from clean sources, they'd never gather over a hundred bucks. That was all right for a girl scout selling cookies, but becoming President was rather a different matter, wouldn't you think?
And weren't all games rigged in their own way? How many American Presidents had been backed up by the mob in the past – Kennedy, for sure. And it was old news their current President wouldn't be in the white house right now if it weren't for the Russians.
Besides, Abruzzi didn't really sound or look like an Italian, so it was easy for Bagwell to overlook his regrettable origins. Surely, John was twice as American as those refugees from across the border, coming in through every crack they could find – This country is full of cracks, ladies and gentlemen, but I'm going to mend it, to cement it back together, into the proud American nation we all know and love.
Bagwell pondered this briefly. Not bad. He could use it in a speech.
"Well?" John asked again.
Theodore had just met him in the limousine that had been waiting for him outside the party.
"Tedious as I'd expected a fundraising event to be." Bagwell answered, masking a smirk – deliberately toying with his advisor's patience. "Though not a total loss. There was Champagne. Good-looking women in fine dresses."
"The candidate, Theodore." John sighed – he had a rather smoothly menacing way of doing it.
That was enough for Bagwell's half-smirk to morph into a full-blown grin. "A kitten," he commented, allowing for his mind to linger on a mental image of Sara Tancredi. "Soft, and young, and unprepared for battle. My mouth waters just at the thought."
Abruzzi considered this seriously – did not break into a greasy laugh or take part in this assessment. Theodore liked this about his advisor. So many of his cronies were the right people to have fun with, and he might have spent another ten or twenty minutes painting a picture of the astonishingly young – and female – Democrat candidate. But not with John. John was a thinker. There was never anything small enough for him to find unworthy of thought.
"Are you sure?" John said.
"Quite sure."
"You tried to see if she would back down, like we discussed?"
"Yes, and she stood her ground. Not strong but defiant. You know how stubborn women are. Probably better that way. Wouldn't have been much of a struggle otherwise, and I do hate an anticlimax –"
"I'm not here to watch you get off on running for President, Theodore." John interrupted. There was no need for him to raise his voice – something about his tone discouraged any reckless response. "I'm here to make you President."
Theodore's amusement turned sour – you could catch a little bitterness in his eyes, but his smile was impeccable. "Much obliged," he said.
When he was in the oval and he didn't need John Abruzzi's money anymore, maybe he'd wage war on the Italian mafia, purge the country of such a deeply-rooted evil. He'd be hailed as a hero for it.
"So let me ask you again," John said patiently, "if you're absolutely sure you can take her on."
"A hundred percent, John." Bagwell answered; he, too, was capable of patience. "I'll make one bite out of her."
…
End Notes: I hope you enjoy this chapter. I'll admit Bagwell's racist/misogynist POV was a little hard for me to get through, but I think it's important in view of the current politics in America and elsewhere concerning women and immigrants. Please leave your thoughts on this chapter and theories about what's next!
