Red Blooded (4 page)

Chapter Five

Peyton’s anger flicks on like a match.
I
jokingly equate her to the creepy children in horror movies.
The ones who look as pure as can be before...roar!
Once
,
Peyton was humming a Disney song while making a bracelet out of dandelions when a boy broke it.
There was no escaping her red-faced fury.

Use your words
,
we told her.
Indoor voices.

She responded
, “
If you aren’t allowed to get angry when you’re outside
,
when are you allowed to get angry?
”

Jen told her anger was a vice
,
something to be held and subdued.
I
just nodded
,
because I wasn’t sure what else to say.

* * *

“Hold up there, missy.”

If I didn’t recognize the harsh voice, the kind that clinks against your spine, I wouldn’t have known that I was the “missy” in question. But I do.

“Bain,” I say with the warmest inflection I can construct. Maybe he’s a morning person, because he doesn’t look as harried as usual. He’s leaning back in a chair in the hotel lobby eating an apple. He finishes it off with one clean crack before tossing it, hoops style, into a trashcan ten feet from us. Nothing but net. He strides over.

“I get that you need a break,” he says. “Not that you have a job or other responsibilities, but, okay, you need a break.”

I try to remind myself that he’s a douche, but guilt still stretches out in my stomach and finds a home.

“It’s only for three days.” I grip my bag and force myself to meet his eyes. “And I’ll still be at the town hall in Ohio, and I’ll spend time prepping for the convention.”

He shifts his jaw and scratches under his chin with two fingers, like a villain in the Old West. “Three days is plenty of time for you to get in trouble on your own.”

“I’ll be fine. I’m just going to hang out with my grandparents, pack for college and bathe myself in the Lincoln Memorial Reflecting Pool as tourists look on.”

“Funny,” he says gruffly as he looks to the elevator.

“Um, okay, I’m gonna...” I point my thumb toward the entrance and walk backward, then sideways.

“Not yet you aren’t.” He’s still looking at the elevator. “I asked Dylan to meet me down here. We’re giving you some talking points and materials to look over.”

“You can’t just email them?”

He turns his head and blinks at me. “No.”

The elevator doors slide open. Dylan emerges with a packet in hand, rubbing his hair like he’s still trying to wake up.

When he sees me, he smiles, but it’s washed away as Bain barks at him. “Hurry up,” he says, circling his pointer finger round and round.

Dylan jogs across the lobby and passes the packet to Bain, who sidles up next to me and points at each page’s title as though I’m in kindergarten and have no idea how to read. I swallow and clench my fists.

“If a reporter tries to question you about that dad situation, ignore them. You don’t have to answer questions.” The edge in his voice makes me shiver as he passes the material to me. I take it and pull it toward me, but he doesn’t give it up. There’s a brief tug-of-war before he finally lets go.

“I got it.” I stuff the new homework into my bag with a huff.

“Good,” he says.

He strides away, only half turning in motion, pointer finger
tsking
the air, as he says, “Oh, one more thing, Peyton. No seeing Tristan McCoy until after the election.”

What? Not hang out with Tristan when my dad’s long gone and my mom’s so busy she can barely have a five-minute conversation with me?

I need Tristan, and Bain has no right to tell me who I can and can’t hang out with.

But as the blood in my veins races, Bain walks away. I’m so angry my jaw hurts. “You can’t do that.” My loud words ricochet off the sleek hotel floors.

Bain stops. He swivels to face me. “I sure the fuck can. We don’t need America’s sweetheart hanging out with someone like him.”

“He’s a fine person to hang out with,” I say, this time softer, through clenched teeth. Dylan steps forward, hand stretched out, but I shrug away. He’s on Bain’s team. They’re all jerks who think they can demand anything of anyone in the name of the election.

Bain smooths down his tie. “He’s not. And when the media get bored and start rooting around for a new story, this will be low-hanging fruit. Our best chance will be telling them you’re not close anymore.”

Dylan locks eyes with me. “He’s right.”

“What?” My face gets even hotter.

Bain smirks. Dylan steps toward me. I take two steps back. Dylan sighs. “It would take about five minutes for the media to figure out that he’s not just a boy next door. He’s pretty vocal online about how he thinks prostitution should be legal. And, hell, he posted on Tumblr that he’s sold himself for sex three times—”

“He knew each of those guys, okay,” I say. “And he doesn’t even do it for the money, he just...likes it. I mean, it’s his own business, why should it matter?”

“It’s illegal,” Dylan says slowly, like he’s trying to explain something to a child.

“Well, maybe it shouldn’t be. Studies show there are public health—”

“Don’t hide behind some progressive argument,” Bain cuts in. “It’s salacious and stigmatizing, and if reporters find out you’ve gone with him to events benefitting legal prostitution, they’ll salivate over the story.”

Shit, how did Bain find out about that? I rub my forehead and close my eyes. “He was speaking. I was supporting a friend, my best friend. What’s so wrong with that?”

“Association is everything in politics,” Bain says. Dylan nods.

“Tristan’s going to be there for me long after you two have moved on from this election,” I say.

Dylan’s face goes slack and he swallows, probably because he knows I’m right.

“I need him. He’s my best friend, okay?”

“No,” Bain says, finger in the air again. “Annie is your best friend. Unlike Tristan, her friendship is an asset. She’s not a rich brat, she doesn’t have Tristan’s peculiar proclivities, she’s a good student, and she’s mixed race to boot. We can work with that.”

I seethe and my muscles somehow get even tenser. Bain has this way of making me feel like I’m pounding my fists inside a tight box. “Annie’s a person, and a good friend, not some political prop to make me look PC.”

“What he’s trying to say—” Dylan starts, but Bain cuts him off with a flat palm. He walks closer to me and stares down.

“Listen, honey, it’s not my job to make people feel warm and fuzzy inside about their childhood friendships. It’s my job to win elections. Annie’s an asset, Tristan’s a liability, and I expect you to use that information and act in the best interests of this campaign. You do want us to win, right?”

“More than anything,” I say, “But—”

“You have to get going, Peyton,” Bain says as he turns and walks away. He calls over his shoulder, “Or you’re going to miss your flight.”

Chapter Six

Yesterday morning I told Peyton about this project.
My last book.

I
sat her down at the kitchen table and told her I want to share what it’s like to face your mortality head on.
It might help others
,
and it helps me.
And I hope it will help her.
But I can’t share it without mentioning her
,
a
lot.

“
Is that okay?
”
I
asked.
She’s only thirteen
,
and I’m asking her such a big question.

She scuffed her toes along the tiled floor.
“
Everyone will be able to read about me?
”

“
Yes
,”
I
said.

She picked at a loose bit of wood on the table.

“
If you need time...
”

“
I
do
,”
she said.
“
But I’ll think about it.
”

* * *

I thought I wanted to get back to being normal. Well, as normal as I was before, but after packing all day for college—in between going over all the new campaign information and convention prep and listening to my grandpa explain how I probably don’t realize it but the internet has become a very important factor in campaigns—I’m not sure I’m ready for this party.

Sure, there are only about a hundred people here, but that’s a lot more than Tristan’s text had insinuated.
Hey, some people are hanging out at Cheryl’s and watching old horror movies. Come now!

So, yes, I’m at a party with Tristan. But Annie is with me so they cancel each other out, right? I’m pretty sure that’s what Bain had meant to say.

Annie doesn’t mind coming to my private high school parties, and I like going to hers, as I still know a lot of the kids from her public high school because I went to elementary school with them. We can both feel like we’ve had two high school experiences. Annie and I shift through the crowded foyer and find Cheryl’s living room. A ‘70s horror flick screams from the TV screen, but no one’s paying attention. Two girls are squawking drunkenly on the couch while two guys make out in the corner.

Everyone else mills about around the pool outside. “I don’t know, Annie,” I say. “This is too risky. It would be really bad if I got in trouble for underage drinking now. And there are too many people here. I could jeopardize things for my mom.”

“No,” Annie says with a knowing glance. “You could jeopardize things for the whole fucking country.”

I take in air too quickly and Annie has to shake my shoulder. “Peyton, listen. It’ll be okay. I’ve got your back. Just grab a can of soda and chill. As long as you don’t drink, it’ll be fine.”

I rub my chapped lips. I’m not going to be able to hang out with Annie and Tristan, or anyone really, till we go to Georgetown together. And yes, I’m the luckiest girl in the world that Annie is coming to the same school as me and Tristan is already there. I have to admit, him being there was part of the reason I wanted to go in the first place.

“Okay,” I say.

“I got you,” Annie says, hands firm on my shoulders.

Tristan careens into me. “Peyton, I was afraid you wouldn’t come!” He scoops me into one of his amazing hugs and smacks a damp kiss on my forehead.

“I haven’t seen you in forever. I had to come.”

He looks down at me and brushes a strand of hair out of my eyes. He smiles. Then he backs up, pulling Annie into a hug. “The night got much more beautiful now that you two are here. Come on, let’s get you on the beer pong list.”

He steps away but Annie stays planted. “Peyton needs to lie low tonight.”

Tristan frowns and runs his hands through the air, as though he needs to process this, but soon he’s right back into being all Tristany. “Okay, I gotcha. Let’s just go hang by the pool. But first, I’ll get you a beer and Peyton a...Diet Coke?” He points at me.

“Yeah, that would be great,” I say.

He pulls me close, his hot breath tickling that soft spot under my ear, and whispers, “It’s okay if there’s just a little something special in it, right?”

“No,” I whisper back. “Not tonight.”

He nods and saunters off.

Annie and I wander outside. The DC heat sticks to us, but it’s not intolerable. The pool water rolls pleasantly as lights illuminate the chlorinated water. A few kids dangle their legs in the blueness, water splashing on their clothes.

Some people from school gather around me, asking about the campaign. At first I can’t make much sense of it. So many words and noises coming at my imperfect ears. Or, more accurately, my imperfect brain. But I’ve trained myself to focus in these situations. If I just look at one person...

“What is Governor Ruiz really like?” a girl I played field hockey with chirps.

“Nice, friendly,” I say. I look to the cute guy from my senior biology class who’s next to her.

“Are there Secret Service members hiding in the trees ready to go all ninja on me if I touch you?” he asks.

“Um, no, I don’t think so.” I laugh and run my fingers through my hair. “But Tristan might.”

“Did you know that Governor Ruiz thinks the morning-after pill should only be available for people 18 and over, while your mom thinks it should be available to everyone?” Jim, the editor of the school newspaper gets so close to me. I have to shield myself from his spittle. “And your mom has advocated for dam removal when Governor Ruiz supported the construction of two new dams in California, and—”

“Jim,” I stop him. “No two politicians are going to agree on everything, okay? But they’ve talked a lot and my mom thinks he shares her vision for how to improve the country. They’ll figure out the nitty-gritty stuff as they go.”

He takes a sip of his beer and eyes a girl talking on her phone a few feet away. Good. Maybe if he gets distracted by a girl, he’ll leave me the hell alone.

Tristan comes back with my Diet Coke just in time.

“Also,” Jim asks as he lowers his chin, “do you really think that, you know, maybe your dad wasn’t your dad?”

Annie shoots him a glare. Tristan takes a step behind me, as though he’s spotting me.

“I, um...” I say.

“Look,” Annie says, “I have a friend who has blond hair and both her parents have dark brown hair. These things happen. It’s called recessive genes—you may have learned about it in middle school?”

Annie can get a little smart-assy sometimes, but when she’s using her smart-assness to defend me, I’m cool with it.

“Blond hair is one thing,” Jim says. “But red hair?”

“I looked it up,” I say. “It’s completely possible for phenotype genes, including the gene that causes red hair, to be recessive for several generations. Sometimes, all of a sudden, red hair just pops up. It doesn’t mean that my dad’s not my dad.”

“You looked it up?” Jim’s eyes shine in the shifting, reflected light of the pool. His body practically vibrates. He’s inching toward me more than I’d like. I step back, into Tristan’s waiting arms, pressing my back to his chest. Jim continues, “If you looked it up, then that means you must have thought there was something to it?”

I shake my head and take a big swig of my Coke, which probably isn’t the best idea because, true to his word, Tristan didn’t put anything else in it. I’m feeding my overexcited nerves with caffeine. Great.

I sigh. “Just because I looked it up, doesn’t mean... I didn’t think... It’s just... Of course I was curious...”

I flounder, a fish flipping and flopping in the heat. Tristan’s hand on my shoulders and Annie’s dagger glare can’t save me. “I’m sure anyone in my position might wonder. It’s only natural to be curious about who your parents are.” I bite my lips. “But that doesn’t mean I think there’s anything to it. I was just...curious.”

“But if you didn’t think there was anything to it, why did you even look it up?” God, Jim is annoying. Can’t he see I’m upset?

“Get off it, okay?” I say as heat rushes to my face.

“This is important,” Jim says. “And not just for you. If your mom cuckolded your dad, she can’t be trusted.”

Cuckolded?
That’s not a word to use when talking about my dad. “Just shut the fuck up.” My head hurts and anger prickles all over my skin.

Tristan takes my hand and pulls me away before I can dig myself further into an angry hole. He walks quickly, around the pool, to the corner of the yard. “Annie,” I mumble, but she flutters her hand at me, telling me to go, as Tristan pulls me along. Soon we’re at the far end of the pool. It’s dark and reasonably secluded, as an amorous couple has already discovered. Our intrusion breaks their flow, though, and with one look from Tristan, they both leave.

Tristan narrows in on me, and, god, do his green eyes look nice. “Look, love, you’re here because you’re trying to get away from all that. So let’s get away from all that.”

I hug myself and look at my shoes. “I didn’t handle that well.”

He pulls me into one of his healing hugs and rubs my back. “It’s okay. It’s just Jim. He likes to poke bears.” He laughs into my hair. “I mean, like with a stick.” His laugh grows louder and he pulls back. “I really wasn’t meaning for that to sound sexual.”

“You just can’t help yourself.”

He shrugs.

I swallow. “It’s not only Jim. It’s like I’m just a spectacle now. And if my mom wins, I’ll be a spectacle for the rest of my life.”

“It’s not like you were some unknown wallflower before.”

“I know, but my dad’s book only sold about two million copies. I mean, that’s a lot, of course, but two million readers is nothing compared to America.” I spread my hands out, you know, to encompass America. “A lot of people in Virginia don’t even know who my mom is, or who my grandpa is. Vice president, maybe even president, that’s different. Everyone is watching us. Half of them are waiting for us to fuck up. They’re waiting for me to fuck up.”

He puts his hand on my neck and rubs it—a nice side massage that trickles down to the rest of my tense muscles. How does he do that?

“You aren’t going to fuck up. And if you do, the other half will still love you to tears because you’re sweet and strong and smart and gracious, even if you are a little...um...overly passionate at times.” He strokes my hair back and grins.

“You, Tristan McCoy, are saying I’m overly passionate?” I pull back, but in a mocking way.

“I’m passionate about one very particular and rather important thing. You’re passionate about everything.”

He leans closer to me and a part of me wants to arch my back, let his mouth meet mine. He was a good kisser; that was never the problem. And he’s a great guy when he’s being a friend, so that isn’t the problem either.

I step back. “Tristan, look, I love that you’re so open to people. I love that you want to take the stigma out of sex work. And I know you’d hate to be exclusive, you want to be able to do whatever you want with whoever you meet. That’s fine, but it’s not for me.”

He nods. “Maybe one day, love?” He’s the only 20-year-old guy I know who would call his best friend “love.”

“I don’t think so. If I’m old-fashioned as an 18-year-old, do you think I’ll become less old-fashioned as I get older?”

He smiles. “Well, one can hope.” But he pats my shoulder.

I surprise myself. I pull him in for one quick kiss. His lips are tense at the shock, but they soften easily, and he kisses me back. He doesn’t force it, there’s no tongue action involved. I pause and rest my nose against his.

“Would you like to go upstairs?” Tristan asks, his voice smooth as always.

“No,” I say. And I don’t. All I’d want to do is spoon. “I love you, and always will, but you don’t work for me. Not the way you want to.”

He nods, jostling his nose against mine. He doesn’t fight me on it. We’ve already had more than enough fights about it until he finally got that asking me to be in an open relationship was like me asking him to be straight and exclusive.

“I’ll always love you too, Peyton. You know that, right?”

“I do.”