One Good Woman

by Knox, Abby

  Chapter Ten

  Buckley

  “You did what?”

  “I took money from some bad people to seduce you.”

  Daphne removes her hand from my arm like it is on fire. “I am…so confused. Are you a prostitute?”

  “The preferred term is ‘sex worker.’ And no. Well, kind of. I let everyone assume I was. I am being paid to have sex with you so…yes I guess I am. I let Shawn and Stacy Spencer think I was a sex worker. They’re caught up with some really bad people who are supporting your opponent’s campaign.”

  “Why would Shawn and Stacy think that? And why would my campaign managers…” She flattens her palms together and closes her eyes. First I think she’s praying, but then I realize she’s breathing slowly to keep her temper under control.

  “I was desperate for money to pay medical bills and I overheard Spencer talking to someone associated with Rex Cutler. Spencer’s in over his head with some bad, bad people and he’s being forced to help bring you down. I heard him say a sex scandal would work because you were horny as hell.”

  Daphne’s eyes fly open wide in rage. “How the fuck would he know that?”

  I put up my hands in surrender. “I overheard him call Stacy when they came up with the plan. Shawn was talking to some big, bald scary dude. They were using code names, sounded like some grown-up Skull & Bones type of shit. That’s everything; that’s all I know.”

  She stands up and starts to pace back and forth. “My god am I a bad judge of character. I thought I’d gotten better at this since Tim, but clearly not. I hired a campaign manager on the take and I almost fell head over heels for a hooker! Because of course I did! I knew you were too pretty for me. I should have known.”

  “I’m not a hooker! I’m a guy who needed money and…well, I guess it does make me a hooker. But you’re a smart, empowered woman, you should know the preferred term is ‘sex worker.’”

  “Ugh!” she roars while she paces.

  “Daphne,” I say, positioning myself in her way as she paces. She has to stop and deal with me.

  “Get out of my way, I need to think, and when I think, I need to pace back and forth.”

  I put my hands on her shoulders. “Listen to me. There is nothing wrong with you. I jumped into this stupid plan without thinking, but I can see now, you’re the real deal.”

  She looks up at me with eyes of stone. “I’d like you to leave.”

  “Let me help you.”

  “You’ve done enough. Please just go.”

  “Daphne, they’ve already got a photo of me getting on the bus.”

  “Then why hasn’t the news broken yet?”

  Just then, her phone rings.

  She picks it up and answers breezily, though I can see angry tears forming in the corner of her eyes. “Stacy. What’s up?”

  It’s not on speaker, but I can hear a woman’s voice telling her some bad news about a photo of her and a prostitute on the cover of the newspaper.

  “How in the hell did the Citizen break that story? Never mind. OK, I’m going to think on how to handle this. No, no you don’t need to do damage control…I can handle it myself. No, Stacy, it’s fine.”

  Chapter Eleven

  Daphne

  I hold my breath while deciding how much to say to the woman who betrayed my most vulnerable confidence.

  Finally I decide to hang up without telling her what I know. Or, at least, what Buckley has told me.

  I breathe again and let it out. I check my phone again, and sure enough, there is a news alert. About me.

  I cringe and choose “view,” and it takes me to the story on the main page of the Citizen. There is a picture of Buckley boarding the campaign bus in D.C. There is also a quote from an unnamed source saying that they have it on good information that the man in the photo was a prostitute.

  The corniest headline ever—which had to have been written by Royce with so much schadenfreude—reads: “Stone Angel’s Edifice Crumbling?”

  With the even more cringeworthy subhead:

  “Voters want to know if Featherstone is using the campaign to get her rocks off.”

  I have to bite my lip to keep from screaming and tossing my phone across the room.

  “Oh my god! That headline makes no sense! I don’t have rocks…I have vagina! Does Royce not know basic human anatomy?”

  “And a very sweet vagina it is,” Buckley says, now leaning against the kitchenette counter, his arms folded casually across his bare chest. Teasing me with those abs and pectorals is not helping me think. At all.

  “Not helping,” I say.

  I peek outside my window and the news vans are starting to arrive just as the sun comes up.

  “Oh shit. Oh shit. Oh shit. Oh shit.”

  “Daphne. Daphne. Daphne. Let’s focus and figure this out.”

  I shake my head and try to shake his arms off me. “Buckley, you don’t get it. You don’t recover from this. You are, in effect, a prostitute. You took money to be with me. It doesn’t matter now. They followed the money and that’s that.”

  Suddenly Buckley’s face changes into that of a person with a flash of a great idea. Such a great idea that they can’t believe they haven’t thought of it before.

  “Babe. No they didn’t. They didn’t follow any money because I didn’t actually take any money. The contractor doesn’t get paid until the work is done. I stayed with you all night and left D.C. Shawn has the briefcase, and half the money ... well that’s long gone with Tristan...”

  “Who’s Tristan?” I ask, my rage growing.

  “Never mind. The point is, I don’t have the money. So there’s no connection between me and anybody else involved with this plan to bring you down. I just showed up at your campaign. That story is total bullshit. I’m just a guy. You’re just you. We are two consenting adults who are really into each other. At least that’s the case for me. And that’s the story we give them.”

  My brain resists this utterly ludicrous plan. But something about it is just far enough out there and yet so close to the truth that it tugs at Something inside me. No exactly my heart strings, because I’m still super fucking mad at Buckley right now.

  “I should kick you out right now for no other reason than the audacity of calling me ‘Babe’ under the current circumstances. And anyway, that won’t work. Nobody will buy it,” I say.

  “Listen. Isn’t this what everyone in D.C. calls getting ahead of the story?” he replies.

  “Look outside, darling. It’s a little late for that,” I say.

  “No. It’s not.”

  “I don’t have my speechwriter. My campaign managers are traitors. I am pretty sure my whole team of volunteers are going to abandon me any minute now. My security detail isn’t even here yet. And I just realized something else. You’re not only a sex worker by default, but you’re not actually going to help me register absentee military folks, are you?”

  “Of course I’m gonna help you. I’m your guy.”

  I shake my head. “I don’t even want to look at you right now, let alone have you on my campaign,” I spit out.

  “Well, we’re kind of stuck in this bus together so you’ll have to look at me until you go out there and talk to the reporters.”

  He reaches for me but I put my hands up. “Get the fuck away from me,” I tell him.

  He backs away, hands up in surrender. He looks hurt, but I don’t actually care right now. This is all just ... too much.

  “OK,” he says. “I’ll go ahead and go. Do you want me to say anything to them before I disappear into the ether?”

  My insides are roiling. Never in my life did I ever think this would be happening to me.

  I sigh. “I decide to let loose for one night. One fucking night and this happens. Of course.”

  His hand is on the doorknob when he says, “I know you don’t want to hear this right now but I’m sorry for my part in all of this. I’m sorry I wasn’t up front about who I was. I needed the money and I made the wrong
choice. And as soon as I met you, I realized you were a good person.”

  I pinch the bridge of my nose and exhale a long breath. “Wait. You can’t just walk out there on your own.”

  Buckley turns back to me, cautiously hopeful. “Really?”

  “As angry as I am, I can’t throw you to the wolves. Well, I can and I’d like to. But for now, I have an idea. Will you play along?”

  “For you, anything.”

  The look on his face when he says this almost — almost — makes me faintly consider whether I could one day, far in the future, forgive him.

  But today is not that day.

  Today is the day I put on my pantsuit, brush my hair, put on my lipstick and pointy-toed shoes, and handle it.

  Chapter Twelve

  Buckley

  Daphne looks out at the crowd of reporters and camera people, and prepares to give the speech that will either salvage her political career or pound the final nail into its coffin.

  All because of me. My stomach is in knots about what I’ve done.

  Whatever she’s got in mind, I’m just going to have to accept it.

  I wouldn’t blame her if she never wants to see me again. It would eat away at my soul for the rest of my life if I never got to see her, smell her, touch her again. But none of that would be enough of a payback for lying about who I was.

  “No doubt you’ve all seen the pictures by now, and it does appear to tell a pretty interesting story,” she starts. “This man standing next to me is not a sex worker, he’s my boyfriend.”

  Wait, what?

  “I’ve kept it a secret, but the truth is he and I have been together ... for a long time. He’s simply a private person and I’ve been careful, until now, to respect his privacy.”

  She wraps up her speech with this complete and total lie, but I see what she’s doing. It’s the only way to control the story an also not let her enemies know that she know the truth.

  But she can’t just let it drop there.

  “I don’t know what possessed the Citizen to publish such an erroneous article about me. But I’m used to having enemies. This isn’t the first time bad guys have tried to discredit me. It’s not even the first time my livelihood or even my life was in danger. I have a security detail since even before I announced my candidacy. That’s not normal, but the enemies of democracy want us to forget what normal life is like. Part of normalcy is being a grown single woman able to date whomever I choose.”

  I’m still thinking about how proud I am of Daphne when she ends the impromptu press conference by kissing me right there in front of all the cameras.

  My arms circle her waist. She breaks the kiss and whispers in my ear while we hug.

  “Just so you know. This isn’t real. I’m still pissed at you.”

  I keep my smile at a thousand watts while I reply, “Not real my ass, Peaches.”

  “You’ve got a lot of nerve,” she grits out.

  “Some would say gumption. See you on the campaign trail.”

  Chapter Thirteen

  Daphne

  I’m biking down Highway 51 on my way to the reservation when Riley calls. Buckley is on the campaign bus, which is meeting me there.

  Over the past few days we’ve been able to keep up the appearance of couplehood, all the while I’m maintaining a pretty hard grudge.

  Now that I’m speeding down the road in the sunshine and wind in my face, it’s hard to be mad.

  And it gives me a lot of time to think.

  Truth be told, Buckley has really made an effort to prove to me that he’s not going anywhere.

  He’s taken over control of the campaign without having been asked to.

  He’s fired Shawn and Stacey, and maintained a position as gatekeeper of my campaign phone so I don’t have to talk to anyone that I don’t want to. He’s both my campaign manager, media handler and faux boyfriend.

  I answer my personal phone via Bluetooth.

  Riley sounds upset.

  “Mom, there are agents here taking Dad’s computers. Boxes. They’re taking all of the external hard drives, everything. They won’t talk to me or say what it’s about.”

  “Your dad? But that makes no sense!” I’m totally floored by this news.

  “I don’t know, Mom. I think it has to do with Fang and Claw.”

  “Oh honey, that’s not real,” I say.

  I don’t know if this is true, but I want it to be true. I don’t actually want to believe in a secret society of old white men that makes back room decisions.

  “Mom, BuzzFeed is saying that a whole bunch of people are being subpoenaed right now. The Spencers, some thugs who worked for Cutler, his attorney, Cutler himself, Royce, and Dad. I don’t know who else. But they’re saying that all of them are in the same fraternity. Did you know that?”

  I try to sound effortless, but all I want to do is scream into the phone.

  “Honey, I’m sure it’s just a coincidence. But just in case, I’m calling Buckley to come get you.”

  “OK.”

  I know I should not be biking and talking on the phone, but I don’t want to miss a single moment with my girl. I’ll get to see her tomorrow, on the second leg of this tour, and I can’t wait.

  Hopefully by then, Tim will be cleared of any possible charges, and we can celebrate her college admissions together as a family. Maybe we can even manage to be civil co-parents.

  I hit the speed dial on Buckley’s number while I continue to cycle down the rural highway, against my better judgment. Up ahead, the highway crosses a small viaduct over a river that runs through the reservation.

  I had started at the state capitol this morning for a quick photo op. I’m now just a few miles away from my first campaign stop of the day.

  “Buckley, I need you to get off the bus somewhere and pick up Riley. She’s freaking out, there are men over there taking all of Tim’s computers and she’s scared.”

  “I don’t like the idea of leaving you alone,” Buckley says.

  “The driver will be meeting me there, plus my security team is on bikes behind me.”

  Buckley scoffs. “Don’t tell me you haven’t outrun them by a couple of miles, Peaches.”

  I smile despite myself.

  “Don’t call me that. I’m not, in reality, your girl.”

  And yet, my chest tightens when he calls me that. It’s only been a couple of days, but I miss that guy already. I remind myself that it’s probably just my libido who misses him.

  “Please, Buckley? I need you to help my girl.”

  “Your girl is my girl,” he says. “I’m on my way.”

  I hang up and click the button on my headphone wire to continue listening to my music.

  I can almost see the hill at the city limits of where I’m headed when I hear a vehicle behind me. I keep pedaling and hug the right side of the shoulder. I’m on the viaduct that passes over the river now, and there’s not much of a shoulder.

  Oddly, it sounds like a large vehicle speeding up. Don’t they know to be careful of cyclists? I wonder.

  I barely have time to turn my head to look, when I see that it’s a black van and it’s right wheel is inches from my back tire.

  I scream, but I try to keep control of the handlebars and remain upright.

  But the van is inching closer, deliberately trying to run me off the bridge.

  Now I’m pissed. I slow down and take a huge risk by pounding my fist on the hood of the van.

  This continues for what seems like minutes but is probably only seconds.

  Suddenly, the van swerves. I careen to the right, my bike crashing into the concrete barrier on the bridge. My body is catapulted into the air.

  I remember seeing the back of the van correcting itself on the road ... my phone smacking against the concrete arch holding up the bridge ... the water below me seeming high for this time of year.

  The last time I plummeted off this small bridge, it was for fun. I had been a teenager. And as I recall, I had been car
eful in those days of where I chose to jump, as the murky water was known to hide boulders that fell from mountain rock slides.

  As my body hits the water, I pray that there’s nothing beneath the surface waiting to shred me to pieces.

  Chapter Fourteen

  Buckley

  All I can say is, I’m glad I decided to lie to Daphne. Again.

  She thought I was on the campaign bus, but the truth was, I’d borrowed a bike from one of the campaign volunteers, and I was following her.

  I felt it in my gut that she wasn’t safe biking alone on this tour. And if she was going to insist on riding her bike all day every day for the next few weeks and out-ride her security detail, then I was going to keep an eye on her.

  My prosthetic definitely slowed me down.

  But as soon as I saw that van pass me, driving erratically, I knew she was in trouble.

  I call 911 before I even think about it. Later, the police would question me as to why I would call 911 before an accident happened, and I’d tell them the same story I would repeat to every investigator and prosecutor until the end of this entire ordeal: that was no accident, and that was not a drunk driver.

  How did I know? Because as soon as the van passed me, I saw a face in the passenger side window. It was without a doubt the Runner.

  And without a doubt, her troubles are all my fault. I know this because just this morning, I dropped the dime on everything I knew about the conspiracy against Daphne.

  The feds were already at work, judging by Riley’s phone call.

  Which means Cutler was now out for blood.

  Chapter Fifteen

  Daphne

  No more than a few bumps, bruises and scratches is what this accident amounts to, according to the doctor in the ER.

  “Not even a concussion?”