The World: According to Graham (13 page)

Our number-one goal is to make our target demographic care about what’s happening in our government. This gives them the opportunity to talk to both sides of a political cause and determine what their beliefs are. I want informed citizens, not drones.

So far, at every tour stop we’ve had a popular band who believes in what we’re doing taking the stage to get the crowd pumped. It’s very surreal that these bands aren’t asking for dollars. They’re just volunteering their talents to our cause. That’s not entirely true. We do let them sell their merchandise, so they do make something off of the gig.

Once they’re finished, we take the stage at around ten o’clock. Like our radio show, our live show is not scripted. We have talking points and play off of each other’s cues. We try to discuss local issues and explain them in ways that our audience will understand—taking macro problems and giving them a micro spin. Our part of the evening lasts two hours, with two ten minute breaks. That’s when the local talented girls, aka exotic dancers, perform their Betsy Ross pole dances. The crowd loves it—even the girls in attendance.

Hank is well qualified, I just don’t think that he’s ever managed anything as complicated as what we’ve put together, and especially in this short amount of time.

We taped enough yesterday to cover the radio shows for today and tomorrow. Thank God. I feel like the five foot, hundred pounds of nothing back at my house has kicked my ass all over the square or octagon fighting ring. Should loving another human being be this damn difficult?

“Sir, here are your keys,” the elderly gentleman who sold me the truck says, as he places the keys in my hand. He reminds me of Colonel Sanders from the Kentucky Fried Chicken restaurants. “By the way, Revere, can I get your autograph? You’re my favorite one.”

“Sure,” I mutter, as I sign a blank sheet of paper with some sort of nicety. It takes all the restraint in my body not to sign it with something flippant like “Eat more chicken.” This newfound fame is bizarre. A couple of months ago, my name couldn’t get me a cup of hot coffee. Now, it opens doors that I had never dreamt possible. People want my signature—well my stage name. Why? It’s just a scribble. It’s not even really who I am. Revere is a piece of me, of course. But what I don’t think anyone but Rachael and the guys understand is that this is an act—a nightly performance. I still have to write checks at the end of the evening.

I climb into the new extended cab truck and adjust the seat and mirrors. It’s not a new vehicle, but it’s new to me. It’s grey, although the sales guy said that it’s silver. It has grey leather seats with black carpet. It has all sorts of features that Colonel Sanders was eager to demonstrate. I couldn’t have cared less, but I politely nodded and acted interested. What it does have is GPS, satellite radio, and a backseat for my best dog.

That’s right,
I think, as I buckle my seatbelt.
The open road, my dog and my girl.
If only life was that easy.

“Rachael! Rachael,” I yell as soon as I walk into the house. Before I can open my mouth to yell “Rach” again, she rounds the corner and enters the living room, dragging a suitcase behind her.

I approach her with caution. Which Rachael Early am I facing? The viper or the pussycat?

“I didn’t really know what to pack so I just grabbed a bit of different stuff. I assume that if I need something, we can stop and purchase it. Oh, and I am bringing my new computer. Thank you, by the way, for creating my own room for me. It’s really something special. Are we ready to go?” She rambles, sounding like her former assistant, Maggie.

This is a new Rachael. I don’t think that I’ve ever met amenable Rachael before. This one knocks me for a loop, and I’m not sure if I can trust her. I decide to proceed with caution just in case it’s a trap. “We need to get your stuff in the trailer, then we’re ready.”

“Let’s do it,” she says with a touch too much enthusiasm, reminding me of the cheerleaders at my old school. They would have nasty scowls on their faces as they said hateful things about someone, but when they performed, their shiny white-toothed smiles would emerge. So fake.

“Fuck,” I mumble under my breath. I need a Rachael manual.

“Look, Evan, I don’t see what the problem is. The White House has already released the emails. The news agency has them. Let their reporters do the leg work. We aren’t doing their job for them.” Gripping the phone, I note just how quickly the cement jungle of D.C. fades to the green rolling hills, tall lush trees, and clear blue sky.

About two hours ago, Graham locked up his house, walked George and got him settled in the backseat, and pointed the gigantic truck with the home-away-from-home attached to it, west. Traffic wasn’t too awful leaving D.C. thank goodness. Now, I feel as if we’re in the middle of nowhere.

“I’m afraid that we look guilty by not just stating the truth. Don’t you see that?” Evan pleads his case.

“I stand by what I said.” I state a little too forcefully as Graham makes a rather loud guttural noise. I look over and see the vein just above his right eye throbbing unnaturally. “Umm . . . Evan. I need to go.”

I don’t want a repeat of this morning when my phone was snatched out of my hand and turned off. Then I was incapacitated on top of the refrigerator. Looking around nervously, I don’t see any place where he could store me.
The bed of the truck? Surely not.

Ending the call, I bury the phone in my lap and decide the best course of action is to ignore Graham until he’s finished brooding.

The silence becomes thick. Just the buzz of the road noise and George’s gentle snores fill the car. I don’t handle being ignored very well. I’d like to pull out my phone and check email or play a game of
Candy Crush
, but I’m afraid that Graham might have a stroke so instead I just stare ahead at the endless miles of asphalt.

God, this is boring. Thank goodness I have my book to concentrate on.

After what feels like days of quiet tension, I lean forward and start fiddling with the radio controls. Human voices fill the car, singing a jingle about milk. It’s literally music to my ears.

Graham has orchestrated this car trip for us to get to know each other better, so I decide that now is as good of a time as any to ask “What’s your favorite kind of music?”

“Pretty much everything,” he mumbles, and doesn’t take his eyes off of the road.
Well that clears that question right up.

Okay. I’ll keep trying. “I like classical when I’m working. But when I’m exercising, give me some good late eighties or early nineties heavy metal. Pantera, White Zombie, Marilyn Manson, Primus, Korn—those are just a few of the bands that I listen to. Oh, I love Sublime. I’m sure the Chairman of the Republican Party would get a kick out of that playlist. Working for President Jones for so long has made me appreciate good zydeco and jazz. You know, he’s from Louisiana. But I guess at the end of the day, I’m just a pop princess at heart. It was so cool . . .” I ramble on and on, determined to make Graham speak to me.

He’s brooding, for some obscure reason. Is he mad that I dared to answer my ringing phone? He doesn’t want me to take phone calls. He made that clear this morning. Well, too damn bad. I’m here of my own free will—as I made crystal clear when I agreed to this journey.

Is this about him having to step away from his tour and deal with me being pregnant? If so, that’s his own issue. I was perfectly content with going to Texas. I never asked him to partially abandon the Sons of Liberty. This trip was his choice.

He could possibly still be pissed that I wouldn’t openly date him when I found out about his other job. Well, I guess he has the right to be a little angry about that, but that ship has long sailed, and I’m in a truck towing The Cougar across rural America.

Most likely it’s a combination of the three. Fine. I’m trying this his way because he asked me to. He’s got to give in a little bit and let me answer my phone when it rings and forgive me for the past few months. It’s time to make peace and move on or just let me go back to Texas and prepare for my new future.

Determined to make him talk, I keep rambling. “So this one time, Caroline and I saw this band in college. They were still pretty new. No one had really heard of them, and then—”

His face softens. “How much longer can you talk?” He smirks, without looking in my direction.

“All of a sudden, a week later they were on the radio, and Caroline and I couldn’t believe that we had just been to their show. We even shared a beer with the drummer.” I smile, rather satisfied with myself. He also seems to not want to kill me or store me in the bed of the truck any longer. Mission accomplished.

I settle back against the passenger’s seat, a bit smug. Being Agreeable Rachael is kind of fun.

“How about you and I make some road trip rules. Seem like a good idea?” he asks, clearly amused at my rambling. There’s laughter in his voice and I know that I’ve broken him down.

“I have to warn you. My parents didn’t believe in car trips when we could fly, so the only road trips I’ve done have been campaign tours. I’m used to a restroom on the bus and a chef.”

That actually solicits a laugh from Mr. Grumpy. “No chef or bathrooms here, well at least while we’re on the road. However, I do promise you some fantastic roadside dives and christening truck-stop toilets.”

“Ewww.” I shiver a bit. How the mighty have fallen. I had a private restroom in my office at the White House, and our cafeteria was pretty darn good. Now, I have to use public toilets and greasy spoons. My hand instinctively moves to my pelvis.
I can do this,
I reassure my baby bump.

“Rule number one,” he says, holding up his index finger. “Phones can only be turned on in the morning while we’re getting dressed, when we stop for lunch, and one hour after dinner. That means no texting, or calling, or answering, or playing games.”

No phones? Seriously, am I his prisoner? Is this some sort of mind-fuck that he’s planning? “That’s not fair,” I state aggressively. “The White House still needs me. How can they reach me? Come on, Graham. Be reasonable. I say we can take work calls, just not personal calls.” I cross my arms. Sounds like a good deal to me.

“Grab my phone from the arm rest,” he instructs.

“Why?”

“Just get my phone, Rachael.” He sounds exasperated again, so I do as he asks.

After opening the center console, I see it plugged into a charger. “Got it.”

“Now turn it on.”

I hit the on button on the top of the phone and wait a couple of moments for it to power up and the passcode screen to appear. “Code, or you can type it in?”

He rolls his eyes. “Four-three-five-nine.”

I punch in the numbers and then his phone blows up—not like an explosion. More like he must be the most popular guy in the world.

After all the dings and pings and chirps stop, he says, “That’s why we have to have phone rules.”

“Graham, who are all of these people?” I ask in shock.

“They’re all people who want a piece of the Sons of Liberty. Politicians, media outlets, deep pocket money donors, small pocket money donors, people wanting us to sign something for charity, crazies who claim that we are their political puppets, financial managers who want to invest our income, women who think we’re hot, little old ladies who want to share their opinion, and usually one or two stylists or designers who just know they can improve our image. Then there’s the guy that we actually pay to deal with this, who is overwhelmed with the tour, and the guy who writes the checks and keeps asking when more money is coming in.”

My mouth gapes open. I know that I’ve been a bit isolated in my White House world, lately even more than usual because I was preparing for my departure, as well as getting used to the whole idea of being a mom. However, this is beyond belief.

“Isn’t this your manager and Veronica’s job? I mean, why do you employ them if you still have to deal with this? Change your number.” I gesture toward the phone as if it’s done something wrong instead of just being the bearer of bad news.

“Do you know how long the world has known who we are?”

I do a quick calculation in my head, but I realize there is no need. It’s exactly one week less than I’ve been pregnant. “Nine weeks.”

“Nine weeks. I’ve had to get used to going from being a nobody to a household name. Nine weeks to go from only the people on my favorite’s list calling me to thousands of people wanting a little piece of the Sons of Liberty.” His voice cracks as he’s gripping the steering wheel with such force that one of the veins that runs through his corded arm muscle is standing at attention.

I take off my seatbelt and push the center console up, wanting to comfort him. Despite the hurt that we’ve caused each other, by his side is still the place that I long to be. My body craves being near him—to soothe the wounds that the outside world has inflicted on his soul. I scoot closer and reach for his thigh, but he stops my hand. It’s a subtle movement—a quick, gentle grasp of my wrist as he places my hand back in my lap. Before he lets me go, his fingers press against my pulse point a beat longer than necessary. With a sigh, his palm opens, releasing his grasp, and he grips the steering wheel again with the same force.

My heart plummets. Rebuffed by him twice in the same day. That makes it incredibly difficult to be Agreeable Rachael.

I move back to my side of the truck, feeling dejected and physically bruised. I fasten the seatbelt and stare out the passenger window at the vast nothingness.

“Let me get this off my chest, Rachael.” His voice startles me out of the dark spiral that I’m falling down. “I can’t do that with your hand touching me.” His voice is laced with what I think is regret. I imagine his crinkled forehead and downturned pouty lips, but I don’t dare look his way.

I don’t respond, feeling too hurt to reply and mostly there is nothing to say. This is not the best time to point out what a walking contradiction he his. On one hand, he wants the baby and me in his life so much that he’s left a portion of his tour and all the chaos in his wake. On the other hand, somehow being sexual or me even touching his leg is abhorrent to him. I understand and agree that we need to work on our relationship outside of the bedroom, but if he thinks for one minute that I will agree to have a platonic friendship with him, he’s crazy. We’re too attracted to each other for that to work.