“Then what?”
“The passenger in his car didn’t.”
My lips form a silent O.
“There’s a paper trail. It’s faint, but if he goes national, someone’s going to find it. She was taken to the hospital, treated for minor stuff, and released.”
“And I take it she wasn’t his wife or daughter?”
“Good guess, Grace. She was a pretty volunteer on his campaign. And she never worked there again. By the next week, he was very interested in spending more time with his family, and not very interested in the run for president.”
“What does Rivera have to say for himself?”
Jared snorts, and I can imagine his hard expression, his bullshit detector working overtime. “He was giving her a ride home after a long session in the office calling constituents.”
“How very generous of him.”
“Look, Grace, this isn’t a torpedo. It might come out and be hardly a blip. It’s common. Politicians fuck around. Hell, if we were in France, it would be expected.”
“But it’s not expected here.” I frown, considering my own situation. “And as long as it’s not too egregious, men get a pass for their indiscretions.”
“Rivera will get a pass on this one. It’s a narrative that wouldn’t make it past the weekend. He’s stacked up months of cozy pictures with his family since—voters are more likely to ignore it if it looks like ancient history rather than being caught in the act.”
“So it’s a non-issue?”
“It’s not a dealbreaker,” Jared confirms, without confirming whether Conover would still consider Rivera a viable running mate.
On one hand, Lauren’s telling me I can’t even date during the campaign if I want to get on Darrow’s ticket. On the other, Rivera can mess around with a campaign volunteer and still get picked by Conover.
Fuck that. “I smell a double standard.”
“If this were fair, it wouldn’t be politics, Grace.” Jared chuckles. “And it would be a hell of a lot less fun.”
Chapter Thirty-One
The second bomb drops with dinner, in a hail of beeps and buzzes, which makes Mama Bea frown at Trey for pulling out his phone to check it at the table.
“Sorry, I’ll turn mine off,” I promise, fumbling in my jacket pocket to switch off the incessant text tone.
“No, Grace, you’re gonna want to see this.” Trey points his phone to me and I read the headline: Boyle pulls out; backs Conover.
“Holy—”
“Grace,” Mama Bea warns.
“Sorry, Mama Bea. It’s just—wow.”
“It’s a huge deal,” Trey adds. “This is a game-changer—for Conover, for you, and for the whole election!” He jumps up from the table and switches on the television in the living room.
I glance at Mama Bea, who absolutely hates television during dinner. She picks up her plate and Trey’s and walks to the couch. “Come on, Grace. Looks like this is a special occasion.”
We watch the news roll in with rapt attention, Trey taking bites of his food and jotting notes feverishly. I just sit there like a lump, stunned, the possibilities racing through my head.
This changes everything.
Now it’s a two-horse race, and I have the potential to be on either ticket—or neither. I can’t get ahead of myself.
Boyle backing Conover could shift the balance of power in Conover’s favor, as Boyle releases his delegates. It could put him ahead of Darrow.
It could make Boyle a viable running mate for Conover.
That thought chills my blood and I turn my attention to my phone as the news anchor cycles back again to repeat what I already know. Six messages, four calls. In the space of ten minutes.
Jared: Grace! Pick up your phone for OFM!!
I grin at Jared’s shouty little text. Of course he’s going to light up my phone. So I torture him a bit.
Me: What’s OFM?
Jared: One fucking minute! Answer my call, woman!!!!
The vibration of my silenced phone immediately follows Jared’s text.
“I’m here. But no shouting.” With all those exclamation points in text, I need Jared to chill a little so he doesn’t blow out my eardrum.
“Where the hell are you?”
“I’m at Trey’s and Mama Bea’s. Where are you?”
“Outside your fucking apartment waiting for you.”
“You could have called.”
“You could have been here. Like you’ve been every other night this week.”
“You’ve had me chained to my laptop, stuffing my head with policy.”
“I’ll tell you what I’d like to stuff—”