Page 28 of Tips and Trysts

Sorry, wrong number

Dalton Cavendish

Clearly.

How is she?

Me

Exceedingly snide, as usual

Dalton Cavendish

Oh good. Really relieved to hear it

I can’t talk right now. Work. I would ask you to hug her for me, but she would absolutely flatten you if you laid a hand on her

So, tell Cora to do us all a favor and to stay out of the bullet’s way next time

I smile. It’s not a big smile—it almost never is with me—but Dalton gets me. He’s always been uniquely gifted at striking the right balance between scorn and sincerity. In fact, the only person better is seated in front of me in a hospital bed.

Cora is texting one-handed, and Beverly, my father’s Chief of Staff, is typing furiously on her laptop. They’ve both been doing this for twenty minutes, ever since Beverly burst back into the room before Cora and I could finish our conversation.

As if she can feel my stare, Cora looks over. Her big brown eyes linger on me, expression stony, until she faces her phone again.

I’d bet my trust fund she’s texting Essie and Valeria right now and telling them I asked her to fuck me.In a hospital.

“So, what do you call yourself?” Beverly asks while she unwraps a piece of mint gum. She makes a show of folding the silver wrapper in half once and then again, flattening a hard crease with the tip of her finger against the rolling tray she’s using as a makeshift desk. “What’s your ‘official title?’”

Cora, to her credit, doesn’t scoff at Beverly’s inane question like I would expect her to. Either the codeine is hitting, or maybe she senses that Beverly Mazetti, despite her public relations bona fides, has never handled a crisis of this magnitude. She stops texting and places her phone on the bed before she says, “I don’t have an official title. I’m a camgirl. It’s an occupation name.”

Yep. I’m a political candidate and she’s a camgirl, and I almost confessed to wanting her, but instead pivoted to—wait for it—asking her to fuck me.In a hospital.Jesus. I may be the most dramatic son of a bitch on Earth, which is saying a hell of a lot because when we were thirteen, Dalton sobbed and ripped his Bruce Springsteen poster off his bedroom wall when Bruce neglected to play “Born In The USA” at the Super Bowl Halftime Show.

Beverly, still typing, studies Cora over the lid of her laptop. “There’s an active discourse about whether you’re a sex worker or a camgirl.”

“I’m both. No preference.”

“Oh? Because Felix J. Worthington himself is on 24N right now, talking about which term is politically correct.”

24N is a news network with around-the-clock political coverage. It’s a fixture not only in local DC politics, but in national events as well. If Felix J. Worthington, one of 24N’s regular correspondents and an all-around cocky news asshole, is a part of this discussion, the coverage has moved beyond the District.

Cora’s eyes narrow before she says, “The only thing Felix is talking about is terminology?”

Felix—just his first name. My eyes narrow as well.

Felix J. Worthington has been a household name for three years, ever since he embarked on a stratospheric rise to intellectual fame. In three years, he wrote a bestseller about sex workers, published a long-form exposé uncovering a Senate prostitution ring, and began appearing regularly on 24N as an expert on sexuality with his blond-haired, blue-eyed, early thirties all-American persona. To be frank, I—a fellow nepo baby—immediately knew this guy had connections, but most people still love him and affectionately use his full name, Felix J. Worthington.

Cora calls him Felix.

Why the hell does she call him Felix?

Beverly nods again. “He says the preferred term is sex worker.”

“Well, he doesn’t know,” Cora replies, exhaling slowly through her nostrils before she faces me. Her brow knots. “You good?”

I’m still caught up on the name ‘Felix’ passing through Cora’s gorgeous lips, and it takes me a beat to realize I’ve crushed the empty paper coffee cup in my hand. “Yeah, I’m great,” I lie while dropping the mangled remains of the cup into the small trash bin by the bed.

“Alright,” Beverly continues, sparing me a concerned glance before she puts her attention back on Cora.

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