The Phoenix Campaign (Grace Colton Book 2) (17 page)

Mama Bea whirls through their apartment, grabbing a bag of Trey’s clothes and her knitting. I gently suggest getting some clothes for herself as well in case she needs to stay overnight.

The gravity of this request seems to stop her, to add weight to this already heavy news. Her eye twitches and lips tug down. “If you think I need to.”

“You need to,” I affirm quietly.

***

A funny thing happens in crisis. Like a window-washing that surprises you with just how gritty things had become, crisis makes things
clear
.

You move from thinking to knowing. From reacting to the whirl around you to acting on instinct. From your gut. From the truest, most primal part of yourself.

And now I know. Less than forty-eight hours to go before the vice presidential debate in Charlotte, I know what I want and what I need to do with startling clarity.

Mama Bea sits by Trey’s bedside, rocking herself and holding his unmoving hand, singing “You Are My Sunshine,” in a voice hoarse from crying. I sit with her for hours, excusing myself only to pee or to deal with the flood of people who are suddenly very interested in Trey Adams.

Not because he’s a black guy who got beat up.

Because he’s part of my team.

Sasha, to her credit, locks down my office activity, directing everything seamlessly in Trey’s absence and getting me out of a dozen commitments that I really don’t have time to neglect. She makes it possible for me to stop being the candidate for a day and just be
family.

Shep sends flowers and a beautiful note to Mama Bea that makes her cry more.

Jared’s stuck at the event with Shep in Texas, but he sends blankets, soft and expensive—one each for me, Mama Bea and Trey. He knows we’ll be here overnight. And before I can go down to the hospital cafeteria for rubber chicken or gluey mac and cheese, dinner is delivered—glorious lasagne from Nicolette’s—courtesy of Jared. I text him my appreciation.

Grace: Thank you. For everything.

Jared: I know everything isn’t right between us, but never doubt I love you.

Grace: I didn’t doubt you. I doubted me.

Jared: Don’t. Because there is nothing in the world that could make me doubt you. You’re exactly who you need to be and everything I want.

Grace: Everything?

Jared: Everything but here. I want you here. Better, I want to be there with you. I’m sorry I’ve got nothing but blankets and food to show you I care.

Grace: Believe me, those go a long way.

Jared: I’m getting out of Texas as fast as I can, home to you.

Grace: Home’s a moving target.

Jared: Don’t care. So long as you’re there.

I speak to the hospital staff, call in favors from personnel on the Hill to get Trey’s medical details worked out and then I go speak with Joel’s family.

While some people deal with grief in sadness, others process with anger. Joel’s father, Martin Butler, is one of the angry ones.

“My son had no reason to be in that park unless that other guy took him there.” Deep lines around his eyes are laced with hatred and fear.

“You’re seriously going to blame Trey for this? Joel’s a grown man with his own mind. He could do what he wanted, without coercion.”

“And look where that got him,” Martin says, jabbing a finger at his son’s prone form. Martin’s wife sniffles by Joel’s bedside, but she won’t speak to or even look at me.

It’s a breathtaking change from the legions of people who have gone out of their way to fake-nice at me during the last few months of appearances. Even with journalists who are supposed to be objective, I never knew where I stood, never knew if they were buttering me up or trying to take me down a notch.

I hold up my hands and take a step back toward the door, not wanting to stir the hornets’ nest further. “Look, I think we can all agree that we want justice for whoever did this to our families.”

Martin snorts. “Families? That’s my son. Who is that black guy to you? Your staff? Are you going to trot this out on the nightly news to show how diverse you are? Lucky you, you’ve got a double whammy—a black gay.”

“Shut the hell up,” I hiss. “Don’t you dare talk about my friend like that. Trey is as close to a brother as I’ve got and his Mama Bea might as well be my own. I’m here with my
family
. I’m going to protect my family, not exploit them for political gain.”

Martin’s lips purse, a disbelieving frown. “Bull. Shit. I see what you’ll do. You’re going to make my son and your friend famous because it’s going to make
you
look good, same way you used your family after the shooting.”

Martin’s anger chills me, forces me to see what happened before with Seth and Ethan. I didn’t exploit them. I avenged them. And I’d avenge Trey in the same way, except I can’t without outing him to Mama Bea and the world.

“Now is not the time for any political calculus, Mr. Butler,” I say. “Now is the time to pray. To do whatever it takes to help Trey and Joel heal. And you have my word that I’m not going to speak to the media on any point except policy where hate crimes are concerned. Not without Joel and Trey’s permission.”

Martin turns his back on me. “I’ll believe it when I see it.”

***

Doctors call it “lightening.”

Not all comas are created equally. When a person is in the deepest coma, the loudest sounds and most painful stimuli can’t reach them. But as Trey moves through the stages of his coma to consciousness, sounds and smells and touch creep into his brain.

He is lightening. When Mama Bea squeezes his hand the next morning, he squeezes back.

She yelps, then covers her mouth. I bound out of my chair opposite her cot and watch Trey’s face, his swollen-closed eyes, for another sign.

Nothing.

“He squeezed my hand. When I was singing to him,” Mama Bea whispers, as if speaking it out loud could undo the magic of this moment.

“Try it again.”

Mama Bea obeys, her wavering alto true to pitch from five decades in the church choir. I watch Trey’s hand, laced with scratches and ugly swollen knuckles. Sure enough, his thumb moves.

He squeezes.

“Trey, we’re here for you. We love you,” I say. Hope floods my chest. Hope and lightness after a heavy, anxious night. Maybe I’m lightening, too.

***

I leave the hospital after lunch. After twenty-four hours in the same clothes I crave a shower. I’d like to get off the hook from going into the office, but a swift glance at my phone shows my voicemail and email inboxes overflowing.

I have obligations.

I call Sasha from the back of the Secret Service car en route to my condo. My greeting is simple. “What do you need me to do?”

“We’ve got it covered. Shep picked up a couple of interviews you couldn’t do and Jared moved heaven and earth for your schedule.”

“Reasons?”

“We’re keeping Trey’s … assault … private for now, as you asked. We’re blaming most of the cancellations on shifting priorities. We don’t want the campaign to look like it’s scrambling, though, so we’ve kept re-scheds to a minimum.”

“Got it. What about the debate?”

“All systems go. We’re flying out this afternoon if you think you can handle it.”

“And if I couldn’t?”

“I’d be dragging you down there at the last possible minute. The debate isn’t optional. No matter how much you care about Trey, you have to be there for it.” Sasha’s voice is strained and I realize just how much she’s picked up and juggled in the last twenty-four hours.

“Don’t worry. I’ve been studying my ass off and you can grill me more on the flight. I’m ready.” I have clarity. In everything.

CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

I pace my hotel room in Charlotte, mumbling from the script clutched in my shaky fingers. A soft click from the door behind me tells me I’m not alone.

“Louder. Put your heart into it.”

I stutter and begin again. I know that voice the way I know my own heartbeat. It’s part of me.

“We can no longer deny the influence of digital information,” I read, “or the responsibility the American government has to its citizens to protect private communications, rather than exploiting it and cataloguing it without consent, when there’s no link to wrongdoing—”

“It’s hollow.” Jared takes the script from my hands and kisses my cheek in greeting. It’s not a lovers-long-parted kiss. His face reads all business. “You sound like a robot.”

“It sounds like someone else wrote this,” I say. “Which they did.”

Jared drops the script on the side table and steps toward me, his hands resting on my hips and his dark eyes inspecting me. “You need to internalize this. Make what you say be what you
mean.
You need to get voters to feel for you, to be with you.”

I turn from him, breaking his grip on me. Too many issues and policies and position papers. Too many stats and facts and stories. Too many half-truths, when I want to tell it plainly, but politics dictates I must not. “How can I say what I mean when your speechwriters wrap everything under euphemisms and soundbites? How much
change
and
leadership
do we have to babble about?”

“We don’t babble.”

I cross my arms and stare Jared down. “This isn’t working.”

“The debate? Sweetheart, you’ve got eighteen hours until you go live. We fucking better get it working.”

“How? How do you expect me to memorize a million answers, spout them out, and act natural when these are the furthest thing from what I’d really say?” I jab my finger at the creased script pages.

Jared rocks back on his heels, his eyes darkened to nearly black. “Let me show you.” He ushers me to a place by the front door of my hotel suite, where a light shines down from the ceiling like the television studio lights will. “Stand here.”

I comply and he takes my shirt in his hands. “No talking unless you’re saying something for the cameras. There”—he points to one table lamp beside the sitting-room couch—“and there”—he points to the other. He pulls my shirt over my head.

“I’m not in the—”

“For the cameras, sweetheart,” he insists. “Now, Congresswoman Colton, let’s talk about your platform on the environment. You’ve advocated greater investments in hydropower and solar, but how are you driving adoption?”

I shudder as Jared’s fingers dance across my bare shoulders and slide beneath my bra straps, flicking them down. My breasts have grown larger and they strain in the lace cups held up by underwire. “Tax incentives?”

Jared growls. “What kind of an answer is that?” He reaches behind me and flicks the clasp of my bra open so my top is fully exposed. My nipples harden in the cool air.

“Tax incentives,” I repeat, my voice gathering strength, “are just one of many options in our toolbox to drive greater adoption. Our investment in research for solar panels and energy storage is changing the game on what’s possible for solar.”

Jared comes behind me, his hot breath on my neck. His hands slide down my hips beneath my yoga pants, tugging them down. “Give them more.”

“While my opponents insist that solar and wave energy are little more than side projects, they are beholden to oil interests that have spent billions of dollars on extraction, transportation and refining a limited resource. Solar and wave energy could be an unlimited resource if we’d make a similar investment.”

My pants hit my ankles and Jared’s sharp teeth nip at the top of my shoulder. “Wrong. You’re telling the taxpayers you want to spend their money.”

I clear my throat as his hand moves across my stomach, peeling off my panties. “While the government has the opportunity to redirect research dollars to develop this technology, it can also incentivize private industry investments.”

Jared’s finger traces up my folds, pausing over my clit. “More.”

I shiver. “Right now we’re at a grave imbalance that favors the status quo. We choose gas-guzzling cars and fossil fuels because it doesn’t make economic sense to go clean and green. But we can change that.”

“Shorter. Sharper.” Jared’s breath in my ear and the heat of his body behind me, sends my body spiraling as I struggle to remain standing. He teases me with just a finger.

“We
can
go clean and green. Just by changing the economics of what it costs to make energy and bring it to your home and automobile. We don’t need more energy, we need better sources and smarter ways of using what we have. When we align our purpose”—another flick across my clit and I draw a sharp breath—“to our policy, we can achieve a more energy-independent America.”

Jared’s fingers stop and my heart beats hard in my chest, anticipating what he might demand from me next. “That’s not a speech that will bring the house down. Go after them.
Make them fight back.
”

“Our platform unites energy and tax policy to benefit citizens and business. It means a smaller heating bill and paying less at the pump. Our opponents’ policies reflect business as usual, but our country can’t evolve without evolving our approach to how we use our resources.” My voice gathers strength, conviction powering my words. “Einstein said the definition of insanity is doing the same thing over and over but expecting a different result. The Republican ticket promises new opportunities, but it doesn’t offer new
solutions
to our energy crisis. There can be no different result. The status quo is destined for failure.”

Jared releases me and I take a step forward to avoid toppling from the energy ricocheting through my body. I reach for him but he steps out of my grasp, taking in my naked body, my flushed cheeks.

“I don’t care about what you just said, but I care deeply for the way you just said it.” Jared turns away and picks up my script. “You know the words. You know the policies and rebuttals cold. Now you just need to connect with your passion, with your gut that telegraphs that what you’re fighting for is
right.
”

I squeeze my eyes shut, my breath still shuddering through my chest. “How can I channel that when you’ve filled me so full of stats I’m ready to burst?”

Jared cups my face, his drawl confident. “Let them go. They’ll come back to you when you need them. Right now, we need the Grace that America fell in love with. The smart, no-bullshit candidate they saw on the Rick Knox show. Not a policy wonk. Not someone smarter than they are. America wants to meet the lady who will be Shep’s right hand.”