The Phoenix Campaign (Grace Colton Book 2) (12 page)

She hands me a tablet and I tuck one of the earbuds dangling from it into my ear. It’s a clip from a right-wing talk show from this morning, a four-person panel discussing the major issues for the upcoming vice presidential debate.

The blonde just right of center is unmistakable. Lauren Kennedy Darrow. Former first lady of California. Spokeswife and puppetmaster for former California governor Aaron Darrow. She faded into the background of the Democratic National Convention when Shep beat Darrow for the party’s nomination, but now she’s back.

Like a bad penny. Like a nightmare.

“Candidates need to be held to standards that will serve the public good,” she says, and the hairsprayed male anchor nods vigorously for her to go on. “Can the American public trust a woman who refuses to explain what this means? Or who this is? We don’t know what else she’s hiding.”

I suck in a breath and exchange a look with Sasha. Her lips form a grim line.

“Congresswoman Colton’s compromising position here suggests she might not exercise good judgment in other aspects of life,” another talking head agrees. “I think she needs to come clean, so that voters can make a decision based on the facts, rather than speculation.”

“The facts show that the Conover-Colton ticket could be liability for America unless they start building alliances to reassure voters,” Darrow adds.

“What are you suggesting?” the moderator asks. “Your husband has been notably cagey about endorsing Conover since his eleventh-hour loss of the nomination.”

Lauren tosses her hair behind her shoulder, as if an endorsement is merely an afterthought. “My husband has always considered endorsements carefully, because he wants what’s best for America. It can’t be a given that he’d follow the Democratic herd when his moderate policies and ability to work with both parties has been one of his greatest accomplishments.”

My mouth drops open and I look to Sasha, who nods, confirming that this is exactly what I think it is. Darrow could endorse the Republicans. He’s sent his wife to the talk show to test the waters.

If we lose Darrow’s backing, we could lose several swing states. “Now’s the time to mend fences,” Sasha murmurs.

I pull the earbud out and push the tablet back toward Sasha, unwilling to hear any more. No way in hell do I want to mend fences with Lauren, who hired someone to take these photos and then released them to the media.

She manufactured this frenzy and somehow managed to keep her hands clean. No one but Jared and I know she was behind it.

The photos’ release spurred viewership of
The Rick Knox Show,
where I skewered Darrow’s campaign for being in the pocket of the gun lobby. That made plenty of Democratic voters angry about Aaron Darrow’s opposition to gun control policies, but it also endeared him to moderate Republicans.

Is he courting them? And if so, for what purpose?

“I can’t mend fences with her … or them,” I tell Sasha. “Their campaign is corrupt—their policies are whatever makes them most electable.”

“It’s not a bad strategy,” Sasha counters.

“Whose side are you on?” My voice rises with frustration.

“Yours. I’m here for you. But you can’t just dismiss the Darrows because you and Shep won the nomination. The Republicans are gaining ground and killing us on fundraising. If Darrow doesn’t endorse us, it would be a huge blow to our momentum.”

I scrub my hands across my face and massage my temples. “It would be a total clusterfuck, is what it would be.”

“True,” Sasha says. “So here’s what we’re going to do about it….”

***

By the time our flight lands, I’ve done four short one-on-ones with the journalists on our flight, including one for National Public Radio, a stringer for the Associated Press, and political correspondents for the
Globe
and
Tribune
.

I stuck to my issues. I talked policy but injected each issue with stories and soundbites. And I handled each of their questions about that man in the photos.

“Do you plan to have a family again?” one reporter asked.

“Where does your significant other live?” another one asked.

“Can you tell us if you’re still seeing the man in the photos?”

“How should we describe this man? Is he a boyfriend or just a date? Is he in politics? How long have you known him? Is he an American citizen?”

Each question is answered with vague statements about how my private life must remain private, but I won’t engage in any activity to distract myself from the opportunity to bring new leadership and prosperity to America.

“Are you pregnant, Congresswoman Colton?”

That question, a blatant fishing expedition launched by the
Globe
reporter, stops me in my tracks. My hand moves instinctively moving to cover my belly and I force it away, throwing on a mask of distain to cover my surprise and fear. “I’ll be happy to answer personal questions when they’re appropriate. Right now, they’re not. Ask me anything you want when we’re having a sleepover and braiding each other’s hair, OK?”

The reporter grimaces at that verbal slap. I stand from the little table and make my way back to the rear cabin and the empty seat by Sasha, swaying with the turbulence.

“How’d it go?”

“Rough. But I stayed on message.”

She pats my hand. “Good job. Ready for the hard part?”

“I thought that was the hard part.”

“We’re just getting warmed up.”

***

It’s called a
Grip and Grin
because that’s what you do—grip as many hands as possible, smile at the donors and thank them, smile like you’re just so damn glad to be there.

But I don’t want to be here.

I want to be in Jared’s arms, but he’s probably thousands of miles away. I can’t keep track. Sasha’s somewhere in this hotel ballroom lining up the biggest donors for me to thank, and Jared’s…

Well, he’s with Shep. He’s doing his job. And it kills me that the job has torn him from me so completely that I can’t count on him to be my emotional support through this roller-coaster election run.

It’s rare he’s in the same city as I am, much less in my bed. The distance gnaws at me. I must be crazy to imagine we could ever become a nuclear family, that we could ever have a home and a child and the kind of stable, normal life that most of the voters want.

I guess that’s why it’s called public service. When I only had a mission to live for, which was avenging Seth and Ethan’s death with my gun-control legislation, it was easy enough to give up all the other things that made me
me
in service to the cause. No family. No hobbies. No social life.

But now I have more than a cause or a campaign. I have a child growing steadily, and in few weeks I’m due at the doctor to hear his or her heartbeat, to see the new life growing inside me on a fuzzy black-and-white monitor.

“Congresswoman Colton? Could I have a word?”

“Of course.” I shake off my stupor and extend my hand. I force a smile, force my eyes to focus on the gentleman in the well-cut suit.

He’s smooth with pleasantries, injecting just enough specifics about his business that I understand the kind of influence he hopes to buy. Soon, Sasha interrupts him and steers me to another man, and then another, and I go through the motions again.

Between each interaction, I catch glimpses of my Secret Service detail as they smoothly reposition themselves. I wink at Mac; she’s traveling with me and she gives me a quick smile.

“Snap out of it,” Sasha whispers as she propels me to the next cluster of people. “You’re daydreaming.”

“I’m dead on my feet,” I mutter. I’ve been up since dawn, Eastern time, and now it’s long past sunset in LA. But more than exhaustion, loneliness threads through me, dragging me down.

A few texts and stolen moments for phone calls are all I have with Jared. It’s a shaky foundation for a relationship.

The crowd in the ballroom swells and I spot a blond head and a blazing red dress among the dusty navy and charcoal suits. The straight curtain of hair, the slim figure … I recognize her even before she turns to reveal a sharp, porcelain profile.

Lauren.

I cut off my conversation as politely as possible and hustle to Sasha’s side, gripping her elbow and forcing her to look away from her ever-present tablet.

“What the hell is she doing here?” I hiss, cutting my eyes back to where Lauren Kennedy Darrow appears to be holding court for a bevy of admirers. A dozen feet away, I spot her husband’s glossy black hair and angular jaw.

Fuck. They really are a poster couple.

“This is supposed to be
Shep’s
fundraiser.”

Sasha frowns, stepping to the side so it doesn’t appear as if we’re staring at her. Them. California royalty. “LA’s their turf. Even though the guest list is donors-only, it’s not hard to get in when you used to run the place.”

I chew the inside of my cheek, clamping my lips against a flow of curses. “But what are they
doing
here? Lauren pretty much called me a slut on TV this morning and Aaron’s making nice with the Republicans, neither of which supports our ticket.”

“Leave them alone.” She glances at nearby groups and then steers us across the room. “You’ve got to remember that a lot of your newest supporters used to back Darrow. Especially here in California. Seeing them at your event tells the donors it’s OK to back you, even if Aaron’s being a dick about giving us an endorsement.”

“You think they’re
helping?”

Sasha tilts her head and shrugs, indicating it could go either way. “Maybe. Or maybe they’re here to undermine you.” My mouth drops open but Sasha barrels on. “The point is that
you
are the star here and anything you say to them will only legitimize their presence. You’ll give them more influence. So ignore them.”

I snort in frustration, then take a glass of wine from a passing waiter’s tray and sip it. It tastes like vinegar, curdling my stomach. I have no business drinking with a baby onboard, a fact that Sasha’s curved brow hasn’t missed.

I backtrack. “Can you grab me some water while I speak with this next group?” I gesture to a cluster of men and women a short distance away.

Sasha nods her approval of my take-the-high-road maneuver and drifts away. I muster all of my remaining energy to work the room.

But between each conversation, I find my eyes flitting back to the crowd, taking stock of where Lauren and Aaron Darrow are. There are several other dignitaries here including Hollywood celebrities, local mayors, and former members of congress. I greet each of them, thank them for supporting the ticket, and do my best to project the kind of strength and composure Shep Conover would surely ooze if he were here.

It hasn’t escaped my notice that at thirty-nine, most of the donors are much older than I am—I look more like their arm-candy girlfriends.

And yet, I’m doing this. I’m a congresswoman and a vice presidential candidate. I summon everything I learned in law school and on Capitol Hill to make my presence
count.

I won’t let them make me feel as stupid and small as my mother once did.
My mother. Shit.
The clock is ticking on her demand for cash and I haven’t figured out how I’m going to get it together. I need to call my broker and liquidate something.

I’m deep in a discussion with two police chiefs about proposed changes to drug laws when the familiar, tinkling laugh interrupts us.

“Hello, Grace. It’s too bad Shep couldn’t make it out to California tonight.” Lauren smiles prettily and bats her eyelashes at the cops who instantly make room to welcome her into our circle.
Double shit.

Lauren learns the chiefs’ names—no introduction needed for Lauren, of course—and offers each an anecdote about visiting their cities when she was first lady: leading the Rose Bowl parade, and opening the new science building at UC Davis. She ignores me completely, as if I’m just part of the hotel ballroom’s decorations.

“Would you gentlemen please excuse me?” I have to get away, but the minute I turn to make my escape, Lauren twists and follows me, pinching my elbow painfully to arrest my motion.

“You can’t keep Jared under wraps forever,” she whispers. I plant my feet, struggling for a mild expression as I face her.

“It’s nobody’s business.”

“It is. America wants to know. And then they’re going to tear him apart.”

“Why?” I should know better than to ask questions I don’t know the answers to, but I wonder what Lauren’s got against Jared? What can she hurt him with?

“Because they can’t trust him and neither should you.”

I laugh, a hoarse and ugly sound. “You’re the one I don’t trust, Lauren. You tried to ruin my candidacy with those pictures. That backfired, and now you’re trying to fuck with my relationship.”

Lauren pauses a beat, appraising me. “So it’s serious.” It isn’t a question and I realize that using the word
relationship
again, just as I did on the Gloria Alton show, is telling her precisely the information she went fishing for.

Dammit.

“It’s seriously none of your business.”

“It’s every bit of my business when I’m the one holding the cards. I’ve got the grenade—Jared’s identity. And plenty of juicy details that will make voters hate him, and hate you for loving him. So I’m the one who gets to decide when to lob it to the media.”

“And when might that be?” I grit out.

Her cold, tight smile reveals two thin lines bracketing her lips. “When it will do the most damage, of course.”

I shake my head, amazed by her brazenness. She’s like a school bully who’s found a new favorite pet to pick on and she won’t be satisfied until she’s reduced me to tears.

I stand taller, square my shoulders, and inject my voice with as much venom as I can. “Get over it, Lauren. We won. You lost. Fuck off and go torture someone else.”

“I’ll pretend you didn’t say that.” Her eyes brighten and her smile widens just in time for me to turn and see a photographer click his shutter. Great. Now he’s got a shot of happy-face Lauren next to my scowl.

“Let’s do another,” Lauren volunteers to the photographer. The eager young man raises his camera again.