The Phoenix Candidate(49)
She has a point.
“So, the question is, while I’m influencing my husband’s agenda, who’s influencing yours, Grace?”
I feel the color rise in my cheeks.
“Don’t tell me Jared Rankin’s still part of the picture. Grace, we went over this. He’s not good for you and not good for our campaign. It’s time to cut him loose. Unless it’s a lot more serious than you’re saying?”
Memories of Jared’s wicked talk, of the feeling of him inside me, flood my brain and my nipples peak involuntarily. “Are we done here?” I ask Han, and hustle off the platform to the screen, where I haul on my clothes. Standing nearly naked through Lauren’s inquisition was torture.
I return to the worktable, where Lauren and Han are debating swatches of material. He makes a shorthand list of pieces.
“Who’s paying for this?” I ask.
Lauren waves her hand. “It’s soft money. Kind of an allowance from the campaign. Discretionary.”
I purse my lips. I’ve pushed Lauren too far already, and I’m pretty sure I don’t want to know more. So I pick a different fight. “Lauren, what you asked me about Mr. Rankin? It’s inappropriate to discuss that.”
Her eyes flash with annoyance. “Grace, this is politics, not some mind-your-manners HR department. Nothing’s off-limits. Nothing.”
“Jared is.” I cross my arms, trying to maintain my position, trying to stay firm. “And maybe it says something about me that you can get me to strip to my undies more easily than you can get me to agree to have or not have a relationship because it’s politically expedient. I’m willing to do a lot to make it to the White House, Lauren, but I’m not going to let you pick and choose who I see.”
“But Grace, you’re a widow.”
It’s a low blow. Maybe the lowest. And through gritted teeth, I punch back. “If you ever call me that in public, we’re through. I am a U.S. congresswoman. You want me on the Darrow ticket because you know I could help you win this, and I bring a hell of a lot more to the table than one sad little news story.”
“But Jared—”
“Is none of your business.” I cut her off. “He’s not your consultant. He’s not mine. Leave him out of this.”
Lauren shrugs, a gesture that says It’s your funeral. “Ah, Grace. If only Jared were a man who could leave it at that. If you keep him close, he’ll be your downfall.”
Chapter Thirty
As the Democratic National Convention draws closer, speculation on running mates is second only to the speculation on which candidate will nab the nomination. The spread in the polls suggests the popularity gap has narrowed.
Darrow’s in first, by six points.
Conover’s in second, but he’s three points closer to Darrow this month than last.
Boyle brings up the rear in third, but he’s still commanding sixteen percent of the polls.
And then the bomb drops.
Two bombs, actually.
I’m hunkered down in my office with Trey, pouring over position papers for both Darrow and Conover like I’m cramming for a test. This is a test. Headline news plays on a TV in the background but then the volume rises as Trey touches the remote.
“Military action in Kabul took a deadly turn today as a covert U.S. mission to rescue three journalists, held hostage for the past two weeks, went wrong.” The news anchor’s lips form a thin, grim line. “Bad information about where the journalists were being held sent Special Forces to a location that became an ambush. The U.S. government is reporting that nineteen troops were slain.”
The horror of this moment is magnified by the silence from the presenter, the stillness of my office, the air that’s left this room.
“Just one soldier made it out alive, his right hand cut off as an example. Our hearts and prayers go out to the families of all of the people involved in this horrific incident.”
My stomach seizes and balks, unwilling to digest this new horror that feels too fresh, too real. I lunge for my plastic recycling bin, emptying the contents of my stomach in thick, greenish waves.
I am bereft, even though I don’t know these soldiers or their families. And for the hundredth or thousandth time, I question whether I have it in me to be so close to Commander-in-Chief.
When the retching ceases, I straighten up in my chair, tears in my eyes from the sadness and sickness of this moment. Trey places a glass of water on my desk in front of me and disappears.
This matters. Not photo shoots and politicking. This—real violence that rips families apart, whether at the mall where a severely depressed and paranoid man shot my family and four more, or on the battlefield where brave men risked and lost their lives for others.