4. Daddy's Boy

Jordan’s POV

Nine-year-old Jordan Rogers would not believe that the man standing in front of the mirror is now a presidential candidate representing the Republican Party of the United States of America.

Neither would twenty-one-year-old Jordan Rogers.

I simply wanted to be an engineer growing up and, as far as I can remember, in high school, my hockey teammates always joked about me eventually being an adult entertainment actor because of my dick size.

I wouldn’t lie, I thought about the idea and the possibility of it working out a couple of times, but my father, Jorge Rogers, had other plans for gambling my future career to the top.

His only child and only son, of course, he took the risk of changing my mindset, eventually pushing me to study and graduate with a bachelor's degree in economics from an Ivy League university.

He curated me, I'll say. And sometimes I wonder whether I'm actually running for president or simply completely a project he started twenty years ago.

All thanks to him? Maybe.

Today, I'm in Texas, and the entire state has decided to remind me that I am no longer allowed to have a normal day.

I adjust my cufflinks and stare at my reflection.

The navy suit fits perfectly, and my tie is perfectly knotted. My hair is exactly the way my stylist wants it.

Everything about me looks prepared, or should I say presidential? That's the word everyone keeps using, as if putting the word behind my name automatically makes me capable of carrying an entire country on my shoulders.

I turn away from the mirror when my phone vibrates on the table.

Thirty-seven unread messages. I don't even have the time to read them because I know most of them are from campaign staff. I'll be giving my speech in a few minutes, so I don't even have time to respond to messages.

A knock comes from the door. "Mr. Rogers?"

"Come in."

The door opens, and Roselle, my campaign manager, walks in, holding a tablet. She looks like she's about to deliver bad news.

"We're running seven minutes behind, Sir."

I stare at her. "Why?"

She hesitates. "The press briefing."

"What about it?"

"It was moved... and the man in charge didn't inform me either, so I couldn't prepare you."

I give her a stern look. I hate disorganization, and she knows it.

"Where is the man?"

"He's outside. I called him," Roselle says quickly.

Someone simply has to take the blame so that others can learn.

I step away from the mirror and walk straight to the door. The security officer at my door steps aside and stands behind me as I come out into the corridor.

Roselle stands beside the incompetent campaign staffer, who already looks like he'd rather be anywhere else.

"Mr. Rogers, I was only trying to...” The man starts explaining himself.

“I don’t care what you were trying to do.” I shut him down and step closer to him. “The press briefing was moved twenty minutes ago. Why wasn’t I informed?”

I glance at my watch again.

A whole twenty minutes. That's all it took for someone to rearrange my schedule without bothering to tell me?

"Fix it." I don't even want to hear anything else he has to say and I don't want anything to disrupt my mood.

"Yes, sir."

"And if I find out this happens again, you won’t be part of the team." I give him a final warning.

Then my eyes shift to Roselle. "Either of you."

I can't be paying thousands of dollars to someone who can't control the workers under her.

They immediately move away.

Good.

I look around to be sure there's no one idle and everyone is doing the job that they're paid to do. The millions of dollars going in for campaign investments isn't to be joked with.

My eyes catch a lady standing at the end of the corridor, holding a stack of folders against her chest, and she's staring at me like she has just discovered something she wasn't supposed to see.

I don't recognise her. Well, I can't know all my campaign workers.

Is she new?

She starts moving really nervously, like I'm responsible for whatever kind of day she's having. She walks past me, head straight, but I don't stop her.

Instead, she mutters, "America is about to elect an angry bird."

Did I hear that right?

"What did you just say?"

She doesn't turn around, but she definitely heard me. I walk a little farther, but her pace quickens.

"Excuse me?"

Does she understand that every word spoken around a presidential candidate can become a problem?

Nobody talks to me like that. Who the hell is she?

Angry bird?

Of all the names I've been called, this one is new.

"Mr. Rogers, they're ready for you," my assistant informs me.

I turn around to look at him. "Alright, I'm good to go."

***

The stage lights are blinding. My assistant and other campaign personnel around me are doing the last-minute final touches.

"Two more minutes."

I breathe and hand the speech folder back to my assistant. I've already memorized most of it.

I don't need to read from a paper to convince America. Politics is about moments and confidence.

People let others lead the way when they see they're confident in what they're doing, not necessarily because they know what they're doing. Just give them something to believe in.

My father taught me that, and I know he's sitting in the designated section to watch and score me. He has never missed any of my campaign rallies across the state.

The cheers grow louder when the speaker of the ceremony calls upon me.

IT IS TIME.

"You're good, sir." My assistant pats my back.

I step onto the stage, and the crowd hails like I'm some kind of rock star. Thousands of people cheering, flags are waving, and signs are held above their heads.

Do they really love me this much?

My face is plastered across multiple screens and posters, and my slogan is boldly written: A NEW AMERICA. A NEW GENERATION.

I walk toward the podium and look into the crowd. They all seem to believe in me, but for what reason, truly?

What if I'm just performing for them, just for their votes? They don't know that beneath all of this is something much more serious than just politics and the rehearsed speech I'm about to give.

I glance toward the designated section. My father is there, as I expected. My shoulders straighten.

Father, I'm about to give you a proud moment once again.

I clear my throat and lean forward slightly, "Good afternoon, Texas."

The response nearly shakes the building, so I wait until they gradually settle. Now, I give them exactly what they came to hear.

Everything is moving as planned, with everyone paying full attention to me, but something feels wrong... something isn't quite right.

"...I mean an America that belongs to us all!" I allow myself a small smile despite my paranoia.

I scan the crowd one more time before I continue. Security is in position, my campaign team is where they're supposed to be, and so is the press team.

What could possibly go wrong? I push the thought aside.

"I don't promise you that the next four years will be easy. I promise you that I will spend every single one of them fighting for an America where..."

Something cracks through the air.

For half a second, I don't understand what I've heard, but something tears through the edge of the podium, making the microphone jerk violently from its stand.

My ears start ringing.

Fuck.

Before I can process what's going on, an officer crashes into me from the side, knocking me off balance, and we crash to the floor.

"GET DOWN!"

Another sharp crack tears through the convention center, and suddenly, I understand.

Someone just tried to kill me.

And everything can go possibly wrong.