The World: According to Rachael (13 page)

I nod. “Okay. What else?”

“Like I said before, the shows are prerecorded. Sirius downloads them from a server that’s located off the coast of Malta.” Evan pauses and looks to the left before he continues, “These guys know what they’re doing, and don’t want to be found. They use burner phones for call-in interviews. Their salary is paid to an offshore account …”

I interrupt him. “They want to be able to speak their minds without penalties or repercussions.”

“Exactly,” Evan confirms as he bobs his head like a bobble doll.

“These guys have to pay taxes on their income. Sirius must know who they are. I mean, you’ve got to have a social security number to work in this country.” I remember the whole bit they did on immigration reform this morning.

Evan’s eyes light up. “I’ve gotta say how much I respect them. They set up a company in the Cayman Islands. Sirius cuts the checks to the company. The company pays US taxes.”

“Let me guess …” I say, as I lean forward in my chair. “The company is called SOL with the double entendre of Shit Out of Luck, and the principal owners are Paul Revere, Alexander McDougall, and Haym Solomon.”

Evan smiles. “You are correct. Look, voice experts all agree that it’s the same three guys every show. They’re all most likely under the age of forty. They use a synthesizer just enough to alter their voices so they can’t be recognized in their daily lives. However, they have been able to detect slight dialogue and regional accents. Solomon is probably from the south-eastern United States. MacDougall is north-eastern United States, and Revere, well, he’s maybe Texan or Louisianan.”

“Do we know how much these guys are getting paid?” I pick up a pen and begin to twirl it between my fingers.

“Rachael, they’re very popular. They’re paid based on their number of listeners, and let’s just say that they’re making mucho dinero.” He rubs his fingers together as if he’s demonstrating them getting paid.

I let out a sigh and place the pen on my desk. “If we wanted to get in contact with them, how could we?”

Evan smiles. “Email, like everyone else.”

Evan leaves and the rest of day dissolves into a blur of putting out mini fires, but always in the back of my mind are the Sons of Liberty. I don’t know why I’m so distracted by them. We’ve had White House leaks before. Usually, it’s a secretary that is sleeping with a journalist. These guys are different. They seem to know things that they shouldn’t. And they’re so influential. The results of today’s elections will tell us just how much pull they really have.

“Are you watching these numbers?” Evan asks when I answer the phone.

I’m curled up in my favorite chair in my living room with my TV on, and a bottle of wine next to me. “This is a blood bath,” I confirm.

“Governor Bob Greenly from Louisiana just lost his seat to an insurance agent out of Lake Charles. I don’t even know the guy’s name.” He sounds as if he’s hit the bottle also as I take a sip of my wine.

“We’ll formulate a White House response tomorrow. There’s nothing we can do about it tonight.” I sound more tired than I feel.

Just then there’s a beep in my ear. I pull my phone away from my face and check caller ID.
Graham
. I’ll have to call him back.

“Rachael, you know what I’m thinking?” Evan asks in a conspiratorial voice.

“What?” I respond, not really wanting to hear his answer.

“It’s the Sons of motherfucking Liberty. Did you hear their show this morning? They told their listeners to vote against the incumbent.”

“I heard. This just reconfirms how much we need to find out the identity of these guys.”

I pick up my glass of wine and take another sip while I listen to Evan go on and on about what this means for our last year in our jobs. When he finally pauses, I realize that I’ve chugged the glass.

“Evan, I’ll see you in the morning,” I say as I end the call, not giving him a chance to continue the conversation.

I turn off the TV and drag my buzzed body up the stairs and to my bedroom. Once I’ve changed into my worn “Jones For President” T-shirt, I return Graham’s call.

“Are you watching this, Rachael?” He asks, way too peppy for my taste.

“The returns? I just turned them off,” I reply as I slip underneath the quilt that one of Caroline’s sisters made for me.

Graham and I clearly feel very different about what just happened in today’s elections.

“Governor Greenly was voted out of office. The guy that everyone thought was going to die in the Governor’s mansion. Wow! This is amazing for the American public.”

I hear laughing and clapping in the background. “Are you having a party?”

“Just watching the returns with a couple of friends.” I hear what sounds like whoop come from someone. “Let me walk into my bedroom.”

“No. No. That’s okay. Go spend time with your friends. I’m exhausted and going to bed.”

Someone in the background yells Graham’s name so he says to me, “That’s probably a good idea. We’ll talk tomorrow.”

As the phone call is ending, he yells, “This is fucking …”

I supply the last words: unreal, amazing, crazy. I’m not sure which, but I agree with him. It’s fucking something.

Wednesday is a blur of activity. The White House press office is a war zone. I skipped my morning boxing workout knowing that I was going to be mentally punched all day long. Graham has texted me twice, but I haven’t had an opportunity to stop and read them. I forgot to eat lunch, and now it’s two in the afternoon and my stomach is screaming at me.

Finally, I sit down for the first time today and unwrap the wax paper from my two-hour-old soggy sandwich.

Evan plops down beside me at my conference table.

“Are you trying to hide from the press?” I ask as I peel the bread away from the lunch-meat.

“Fuck, Rachael. I am the press. I think I’m hiding from me,” he says as he untwists the top of a Diet Coke. “Yesterday’s elections were, like, the biggest upset ever. The media can’t get enough, fighting for every angle they can get.”

“Imagine what it will be like next year. This was just state elections,” I reply as I slip a bite of ham into my mouth.

“I never thought I would say this, but I’m kinda glad we’re on the way out. If the Sons of Liberty continue to have this kind of influence, who knows who will be elected.” He thinks about it for a moment. “I mean, fuck, the homeless guy who catches pretend popcorn in his mouth that lives on my street corner might be our next president.”

I nod in agreement because my mouth is full. I thought the same thing. I feel sorry for anyone who’s running for office next year. The Sons of Liberty certainly made everyone trying to keep their job quake in their boots. I swallow and then ask, “I didn’t listen to them this morning. Did you?”

Evan wipes his mouth and says, “I caught about ten minutes. They were, of course, gloating.”

“Geez.”

“Yeah. One of my guys is transcribing the show for us. It was live. You could tell because it wasn’t as polished. Not prerecorded, like they normally do.”

“Thanks,” I reply not sounding as grateful as I am.

“Think they really swung all those upsets?”

I quit picking at my sandwich and turn to Evan. “I do. This election had the highest number of men under the age of thirty-five vote. Yeah, I think the Sons of Liberty did what the original Sons of Liberty did almost two hundred and fifty years ago and incited change.”

My phone indicates that I have a text. I walk over to my desk, expecting to see another reporter hoping for an exclusive interview with the president. Instead, there is a third message from Graham.

Graham:
I missed talking to you last night. Date? Tonight? Call me when you’re home?

I must be smiling at my phone, because Evan sings, “Rachael has a boyfriend.”

“If you’re referring to my toy collection, then I have a few,” I quip.

He almost chokes on his Lay’s potato chip. Serves him right.

When he’s recovered from his coughing fit, I add, “I am bringing Graham Jackson to Saturday’s event thing that you and I are going to.”

“Drake’s coach?” He dabs his watery eyes with a napkin.

“That’s the one.”

“Good for you, Rachael.” He golf-claps, which earns him a punch in the arm.

Our fifteen-minute, shove-food-in-our-mouths lunch is interrupted by another life-or-death matter, so Evan rushes to calm the reporter down.

The President is out of town for the rest of the week, which at least frees up my evenings to the point that I arrive home before midnight. Wednesday, I actually made it home before nine o’clock. Graham and I watched a movie together over the phone. He chose the cult classic
Texas Chainsaw Massacre.
We discovered that we both love classic horror films. This was a new revelation for me. I still don’t know if I would choose to watch it by myself, but I liked it. Before we hung up, he offered to come over and keep me company if I was scared. God, the offer was tempting.

Thursday, he surprised me by having a plain box delivered to my office. Inside was a bag of microwave popcorn, M&M candies, and a note. It read,
Dear Rachael, I fantasize about my fingers brushing over your hand while we both reach for a handful of popcorn. Then, you’ll get scared and bury your face against my shoulder. I’ll wrap my arm around you, reassuring you that Jason isn’t real, and that this is just a movie. You’ll quiver against me as I pull you tighter in my embrace. Ha! Then I’ll realized it was YOU that I was fantasizing about. Looking forward to making fun of the girls in
Friday the Thirteenth
. Love, Graham.

It’s Friday afternoon, and I’ve read his note probably a thousand times. He gets me. He’s the only man that I’ve ever met who doesn’t seem intimidated by my job. Most importantly, he understands my sense of humor, and he doesn’t put pressure on me to see him. I’ve loved our nightly conversations more than I care to really admit. I’ve also loved our text exchanges throughout the day. We’re up to reason #389 that boxing is better than MMA. It’s a silly little thing that he started, but it reminds me that he’s thinking about me. It means more than a text that reads,
Hope you’re having a good day.

I have fifteen minutes before my next meeting so I decide to give Caroline a call. She answers on the second ring.

“Is this really you? I thought all you knew how to do was text,” she says.

“Nope. I cloned myself and taught this version to hit dial.”

She laughs. “I might just believe you. What’s up?”

I lean back in my chair and turn a few inches so I can look out my window. “Just have a spare couple of minutes, and thought I’d call to check on you, Colin and the kids.”

“Well …” she says, indicating that I’m about to get a funny story. “Colin thought it would be a great idea to buy the kids a chemistry set. You know, the ones they sell on the late-night infomercials?”

“Yeah,” I reply with a smile that bleeds into my voice.

“Anyway, it’s totally backfired on him. All three of them are obsessed with it. My kitchen has become a mad scientist lab. There’s something purple that has stained my ceiling. I added repainting the kitchen to his honey-do list.”

“And he loves it, doesn’t he.” It’s a statement, not a question. Colin is the ultimate husband and father, and I couldn’t be happier for Caroline.

“He does.” She sounds so sincere. “So, what’s up with you and the guy who knows how to send flowers?”

I’m about to say something benign, like
he’s a nice guy
or
fine
. Instead, my mouth starts gushing before my brain can stop it. I tell her about our late-night phone calls and then finally shut up, only after I’ve shared his notes.

The phone-line is silent for a couple of seconds. Then Caroline speaks. “Rachael, baby, you like him. Like,
like
him. Congratulations. When do I get to meet him?”

“I don’t think we’re anywhere close to meet-the-family status, but I do think that I really like him. We’re going to a function together tomorrow night.”

“You’re going to be photographed with him?” Caroline knows what a big deal this is. She is married to Colin, who at one point was the most famous athlete in the world, sexiest man alive, and tabloid magnet. She gets how huge this is for me. I certainly have nowhere near the draw that Colin did, but photos of us will make it on to Page Six. Graham’s not like Roan or the Yankee baseball player I slept with, who already know the red carpet drill. Me allowing him to be exposed to the media is a huge deal.

“I am.” I pause, and let out a deep breath. “I’m thirty-eight years old. If I never find the right man and stay single my entire life, I’m okay with that. For the last twenty years, I’ve kept my eye on the prize—this job. I love it, but I’ve started thinking about what’s next. Maybe, just maybe Graham, is my next.”

I quickly add, “I’m not saying that I’m in love with the guy, or anything crazy like that. But, I’ve started to realize that maybe I’ve missed out on sharing my accomplishments with a partner.” This is the equivalent to an alcoholic admitting they have a problem.

Caroline knows what a huge step this is for me, because she replies, “I love you, Rachael. You are the godmother of my children, and my biggest cheerleader. You’ve shared your amazing career with me, and my family. With that being said, I understand. Give this guy a chance. You don’t have to open your whole heart to him, but feed him bits of it, at least. It sounds like he already knows you better than most who’ve had the privilege of calling you their friend for years.”

Her words are just what I needed to hear. Before this gets too mushy, I reply, “Give my love to your family. Gotta run. You know I have this White House thing to run.”

In her best teenager voice, she says, “Pic of you in the Oval Office, or it didn’t happen.”

“YOLO,” I reply back in the same voice.

I hit
end
on my phone with a stupid smile spread across my face.

I check my watch. Two minutes left.

I send Graham a message.

Me:
Reason #389 that boxing is better than MMA: Matches can only be stopped when the ref does a standing eight-count. MMA is at the ref’s call.