3. Kurt

You want to do this, I tell myself for the seventh time in the past ten minutes. This is a way to help people. Think of all the lives you're going to make better. You're going to effect positive change in the world.

Although if I have to keep reminding myself why I'm going through this crap, it may not be exactly true that becoming a politician is meant to be my life's work.

Better than not having any purpose.

Better than doing nothing when I should've done something. Maybe this time I won't be too late.

I'm standing in one of the ballrooms of the Las Vegas hotel I'm staying in. A string quartet in the corner plays classical music. Given how dressed up everyone is, the exuberant flower arrangements, and the empty dance floor, it's like a very weird wedding—one that costs $20,000 a plate and where a silent auction offers the use of a staffed yacht for a week and rare bottles of wine.

These people live so far above upper middle class, they've forgotten what it's like to lack anything. Remember your roots, Kurt.

I need to remember more than that, since I've forgotten the name of my companion. She's a potential donor at this fundraiser run by an LGBTQIA+ super PAC that's giving major funding boosts to various campaigns in the upcoming elections. But it's a popularity contest.

I smile at the short-haired woman and say, "Still. I can't stand by while more and more of this homophobic, transphobic, misogynistic, racist, xenophobic, ageist, ableist, anti-immigrant, classist … okay, I could go on, but let's sum it up as political bullshit … keeps happening, threatening people who don't deserve to be threatened."

"I agree," she says. "That's honorable."

"I know I'm … not favored, because going up against an incumbent is always a long shot. Even with the top-two system, I'll be lucky to make it past the primary. But I don't think Santangelo is doing enough, and maybe I'm an incurable optimist. I just feel like someone could do much better than him, and it might as well be me. He's been at this for thirty years. He should give someone else a shot."

"Do you think you have a chance?"

I shrug and give her my winningest grin. "While I've never run before, I'm passionate about the political process and current events, and I've been developing a plan for once I'm in office. Plus, I mean, I'm electable. No skeletons in my closet."

At least none that anyone could ever find.

A lump forms in my throat, but I swallow it down.

"I'm sure your political connections will help you," she says.

"They definitely will," I say. "Gotta use every advantage." My momther's the lieutenant governor, with all the Sacramento connections I could ever want. (Not "monster," as the autocorrect on my phone wants, but "momther." I came up with that in my late teens, and it's stuck. Most of the time, she's not distant enough to be "mother" nor is she cozy enough for "mom," so "momther" is my solution.)

"I wish you luck," my companion says. She shakes my hand and walks off, leaving me standing alone, surrounded by people I don't know. What should I do next?

I need money for ads and posters and signs and office space and mailings and all the other shit involved in running for office, and it doesn't seem great to self-fund my campaign, even though I could. I'd like to have outside support to validate my choice of running for office. Is that too much to ask?

I hadn't reckoned with all the stresses of the campaign, though. My brain's so full, I almost can't deal with life. Nonstop events, ceaseless self-promotion. I'm tired, and, as I look around at everyone else having a fucking fantastic time at this event, I want to throw up my hands in frustration.

Approaching people at political events and charming them was so much easier when I had Sam by my side.

I adjust the bow tie of my classic black tuxedo and approach a group of snazzily dressed men who appear to be in their forties and fifties. They're standing near my seat, which is my ready excuse, but I believe they're all potential donors.

"I'm Kurt Delmont," I say, shaking the hand of the first man, who's wearing a skintight dark green plaid tuxedo. "I'm running for the US Senate in California. Love the suit."

"Thanks, isn't it fab? And it's nice to meet you." He tells me his name, the names of his companions, and that they're all techies from the Bay Area. Despite my best efforts, I immediately forget every one of their names. I have to work on that, or I'll never be a good politician. "The Senate's ambitious."

I nod. "Yes, but I'm from an ambitious family. My momth—er—mother is Melissa Delmont."

They all say, "Ahh," in recognition, since she's got her sights on the White House. That election is still a couple of years away, but the various potential nominees are jockeying for position. Meanwhile, I've got a primary in March.

"And how is Melissa?" asks a man in a burgundy paisley tux jacket. I bristle, because using her first name makes it seem like he knows her, but I'm sure he doesn't.

"She's good. Sixteen points ahead, last I heard."

"Great. She'll be a breath of fresh air if she can make it to DC," another one says. He's wearing a gold vest under a black tux. "She'll be supportive of gay rights, I presume."

"Yep," I say. "Fighting for the cause is one of the main points in her platform. All those PSAs from a few years ago were her idea. I went along with it, though it's a bit embarrassing now."

"Oh yeah, I remember seeing those posters on BART," green plaid tuxedo says. "You and your boyfriend. Or … ex?"

"Ex." I hide my wince, because the story's complicated. Sam Stone, the other guy in the photos, and I were never actually going out. As far as the public's concerned, though, Sam dumped me for Julian Hill, one of the biggest pop stars on the planet.

"So sorry Sam broke up with you," burgundy paisley says, again as if he knows Sam. I need to get used to this familiarity people assume with us. Sometimes I forget that I'm already something of a public figure—and many of the people I spend time with definitely are.

I chuckle, but it likely sounds strained, since this is the fourth time I've had to explain the circumstances tonight alone. Although, to be fair, this time I brought it up. "Well, if I'm gonna be dumped, at least it was for someone like Jules."

I wasn't dumped. We weren't together. I am datable. Dammit.

Not everyone kills himself after being with me. Sometimes they just find the love of their life.

I can't say any of that, though, so I shrug as gold vest says, "I'd do anything just to be in the same room as Julian Hill."

"He's pretty hot," I agree. While it's true, my nose wrinkles as I say it, because this conversation feels so superficial. I'm much more interested in talking about the real issues: fighting to take back rights that are being eroded and ensuring they won't be jeopardized again. Entertainment gossip isn't interesting. "He's been instrumental in some important charitable work," I say, attempting to bring the discussion around to the things I care about, and for a moment they play along.

"I'd heard about that. All the more reason to love him. So, why are you running?" asks green plaid.

"I thought we'd made strides, but every time we accomplish something, some hate group comes out of the woodwork to tear it down. I'm sick of it. So I'm going to do something about it."

They nod. We talk for a bit longer, but they're clearly bored with me, so I excuse myself and move on.

This event is like speed dating, without the goal of taking someone home. I do my best to stay focused, but with all the people I've met and hands I've shaken, I'm exhausted. My brain's overfull of things to do.

Worse, at the end of the night, I'm not announced as one of those who've secured major funding grants.

My brain says, "You're a failure. You're an impostor."

I tell my brain to fuck off and decide I need a drink, and fast.

As I'm leaving the ballroom (more slowly than I'd like, thanks to the crowd), my phone buzzes with a text from my momther asking how things are going, but I'm not interested in licking my wounds with her right now. I text back that I'm going to call it quits for the night and regroup when I get home tomorrow.

Shoving my phone into my pocket, I make my way to the only empty seat I spot at the nearest bar. It's right between the wall and a big, muscled cowboy in a dusky blue tuxedo. He's staring into his glass, so I don't really look at him. Even though I want to, because he's hot. But someone wearing a Stetson at a bar is likely straight. No?

I take the stool next to him and order a martini.

That's my first mistake … er, choice. Whatever. I don't usually drink martinis, and I'm really not cool enough for hard liquor. I can handle beer and wine, but the bitter taste of some of those harsher drinks just isn't for me.

But the past few hours have sucked, and I want to forget the super PAC representative announcing all the names of the people who did get their backing. Sulking because I'm not as popular as the other kids is pointless and foolish, but it feels horrible to be told that you're not good enough in someone else's eyes, no matter the context.

My drink comes: cold, clear, slightly oily, and with two fat green olives on a stick. I sip the martini, pretending I'm James Bond but trying not to grimace. I end up downing it, then chasing it with a few nuts from a dish the bartender sets before me.

The bartender asks me if I want another, and I say yes, and after that, everything becomes looser. That's better.

The cowboy up-nods the bartender, who brings another whiskey—a big one—without him saying anything. She places it in front of him, and he puts his hand over the glass, half covering the top, but doesn't pick it up.

"How did she know your order?" I ask, which is a goofy question, because she must've brought him the same as what he had before. But it's an excuse to talk to the cowboy. I've always liked cowboys.

"I've been sittin' here drinkin' a li'l while," he slurs, his voice deep and guttural—and familiar. "And she's plenty smart."

Okay, that voice is really familiar, and I turn to face him and gasp. "Oh my god, you're …"

I get the full effect of the smirk he's famous for, though his blue-green eyes are bloodshot. "I'm who, precious?"

"Velvet," I whisper. "The Cowboy."

The guy whose confidence on screen lights me up.

Whose deep voice and sexy drawl encourage the men he's fucking to give themselves over to him.

Whose intense eye contact makes me wish I were one of those guys—being wrapped up in his gaze like it's a net when he murmurs "I got you" and "Come for me."

Who kisses like he needs someone else's lips to breathe.

This is that Velvet the Cowboy. In other words, the man of my dreams. My body's lit up just from being this near to him.

Velvet nods, and he's pretty loaded, because he seems to be having trouble focusing on my face. "You are correct." He picks up his glass and clinks it against mine. "Nice to meet you."

"Are you here by yourself?" I blurt.

"Well, yessir. I've heard tell you should never drink unless you're alone or with someone."

I snort. "Okay. I mean, I'm alone. Or, I guess I'm with you now."

Shut up, brain. Shut up.

"That you are," Velvet says. "Are you from the good town of Las Vegas?"

"No. I'm here for an event."

Velvet nods, lips pressed together. "So am I."

"I hope you were more successful at yours than I was at mine," I mutter.

"Got a lifetime achievement award."

"Well, then yes, you were." I hold up my glass, and we clink again. "Congrats."

He downs his shot and sets the glass on the bar. "Thanks," he says in a flat tone. He stares down at his empty hands.

I want to hug him, but that doesn't make sense. "What are your plans tonight?" I ask.

Velvet takes a really long time to answer my question. Did he not hear me? Before I try repeating myself, he lifts his head and gazes at me. "I s'pose right now, my only plan is to have a drink with you."

"That sounds perfect," I say, all warm inside—from the alcohol and from his words. My breath quickens, and something shifts near my heart.

"Yours? I mean, what are your plans?" he asks.

I snort. "Plans? None. I'm drowning my sorrows."

"They swim," Velvet says absently.

"Sorry?" It's not that loud in here, but I didn't understand what he said.

He gestures at his glass. "You can't drown sorrows. They swim."

Now I laugh for real, because he's right. "That's one of the wisest things I've ever heard. Sorrows most definitely swim, even when you try to drown them."

"Yep."

Images of all of the scenes I've watched this man in interrupt my brain's processing. His dick is large. While porn stars don't have to be enormous, he is, and seeing guys take it … My ass clenches in sympathy. I stealthily look at his crotch, and I feel my face get red. Or maybe it's the drink making me flush. I'm extremely aware of my own heartbeat, and the hair's rising on my arms and nape, despite the fact that the bar's kept at a pleasant temperature.

"It's just really surreal that I'm sitting next to you," I blurt. I'm definitely feeling the martinis. "I mean?—"

Velvet turns to face me, his long legs widening so he's kind of straddling me, and I check him out—up and down, my fingers tingling with the need to touch him.

Damn, he's hot—broad shoulders in the tailored western-style tuxedo jacket. Muscular thighs stretching the fabric of his slacks. Intense eyes. The only thing bothering me is how gloomy he looks.

Maybe I can cheer him up.

"I take it you've seen my work?" Velvet asks.

"I'll say," I mutter. Then, louder, "Yes. I'm a fan. Is Velvet your real name?"

He smiles, and it's the first real smile I've gotten from him. Then he tips his hat. "No, 'course not. My mama named me John, but most everyone calls me Johnny." He holds out his hand. "Johnny Haskell. Nice to meet you."

I shake his hand. It's firm and makes me crave his touch even more. "I'm Kurt. I've shaken a lot of hands tonight, but yours is the first I actually wanted to."

"Well, then, precious. That's an honor. Can I buy you another drink?"