Red Blooded

by Caitlin Sinead

  “I’m supposed to escort you around the party,” a familiar voice says.

  Dylan steps up beside me. He looks good in a black suit. I mean, everyone looks good in a suit, but the jacket really works against his shoulders. I run my hand down his upper arm. “This is a great jacket. Very fancy. You look nice.”

  He smiles. “Well, so do you. That dress is very...” His gaze lingers on the part of the dress that curves around my waist before blinking a couple times and making eye contact with me. “It works well on you.”

  I run my hands down the smooth, light blue satin along my hips and his gaze once again wanders. “I didn’t pick it.”

  “I know,” he says. “Lisa thought it would make you look grown-up but not too grown-up.”

  Lisa. Right. I need to focus. We both need to focus. I stop touching the grown-up-but-not-too-grown-up dress and put my hands behind my back. “So, what exactly is involved with escorting me?”

  “There are a few key donors who’ve mentioned wanting to meet you. I’ll make sure that happens.”

  I swallow and look back at the moon. “So, what, they’ll give more money if they meet me?”

  “Maybe.”

  I want to help my mom, but sometimes campaigning can feel, well, frankly, whorish. Especially with an escort.

  “I thought you were a media guy?” I say. “Now you do fundraising too?”

  “I do what Governor Ruiz needs me to do.” He says it as though Governor Ruiz personally asks him to do stuff, instead of the campaign staff. But, you know, whatever makes him feel special. “And you should do what the campaign needs you to do.”

  I raise my eyebrows. “This may come as a surprise, but neither one of us can single-handedly win this election.”

  “No, but we can both help win the election.”

  “I bet you’d rather be Tweeting or media training than asking for money.”

  He shakes his head and adjusts one of his cuffs. “When we listen to them, they often give more money, so it’s more about listening than asking. And they have a lot to say about strategy.”

  “Oh?” I say.

  He laughs lightly into his chest. “One donor told me she thought we should outlaw eating meat. Sure, it would piss off most people, but all the vegetarians would flip their shit and turn out in droves.”

  I rub my arms. “I bet her heart was in the right place.”

  “That’s magnanimous. I think she was just batshit.”

  I laugh again, but then my name pierces the air. “Peyton,” Governor Ruiz bellows across the throng of donors. “Come on, one with just the Arthurs and Ruizes.”

  “I should....” I jut my finger toward Governor Ruiz, who’s already flanked by my mom, his wife, and his offspring.

  “Yeah,” Dylan says.

  As I jog over, passing the waiters in pristine tuxes holding appetizers that are too perfect to end their existence in my mouth, I catch that warm look in Governor Ruiz’s eyes. He sees my mom and me as family now too. And he wants a new picture for the family album. He beams at me. “Hurry up.”

  Right before I collide with a woman in an iridescent full-length gown, I remember I’m supposed to be a lady, and I slow to a quick stride. I stand in front of my mom and next to Sammy. She’s several years older than me, but she’s got that warm, approachable quality her father has.

  “This is the most elegant fundraising event I’ve been to,” I say.

  “You never get used to these,” she says. “And that’s a good thing.”

  I smile until my eyes fall on Bain. I still get that weird feeling when I see him. Before they picked my mom, he had to vet me. He grilled me on everything. But, he started with the most embarrassing question of all. Had I ever had sex?

  He squinted at me. “And, to be clear, I’m not using the Clinton definition, Peyton. Have you done anything with a guy, or girl, that could come back to us? Blow jobs, anal sex, anything?”

  “Are you allowed to ask me this?” I asked. His aide, who sat next to him, squirmed.

  “Peyton, I don’t want to know about your sex life, I need to know about your sex life. Do you understand the distinction?” Bain asked. There was something so cold lodged in his vocal chords. He was telling the truth. He wasn’t getting off on the interview. If anything, he was supremely annoyed he had to even deal with me.

  I took a deep breath. “I’ve made out with a few guys. That’s it, except for one time three years ago.” Great, I thought, now even the campaign manager knows I’ve basically been a born-again virgin since losing it sophomore year. Who loses it and then remains celibate for the next thirty months? Oh, that would be me.

  “And that one time, was it with Tristan McCoy?” he asked.

  I nodded.

  “Neither of you paid each other for sex, right?”

  The aide’s face twisted in surprise, but mine didn’t. They probably needed to ask. “No, of course not,” I said quietly.

  Bain gave me the evil eye. “But you know he’s posted on Tumblr about having guys pay him for sex.”

  “It’s his body, he should be able to do what he wants with it.” My voice should have been stronger for my best friend, but it wasn’t.

  Bain rolled his lips together and glowered. “How many votes do you think we’d lose if the nation knew that Jen Arthur’s daughter’s best friend is a whore, and that rather than try to reform him, she’s slept with him herself?”

  I curled my fists so hard they hurt. “Never call him that again.”

  * * *

  Bain looks at me now, at the fundraiser, like his lips have never known what it feels like to have their corners turn up. That is, before Governor Ruiz calls him over. “Bain, you son of a bitch, get the fuck in here.” As everyone adjusts to the now quite enormous crowd, Governor Ruiz says, “Hold up, where’s Dylan?”

  He looks around and I’m expecting some other Dylan, someone who must be a high-up adviser or bundler, but Dylan, my Dylan, intern Dylan, emerges through the crowd, his shoulders looking better than ever.

  Governor Ruiz’s smile grows. “Get in here.” Dylan finds a spot at the edge.

  After several clicks and satisfactory thumbs-up from the hired photographers, we dismantle.

  “It’s nice that he’s so welcoming to the interns,” I say to Sammy as I scan the departing group for other loyal interns but fail to see any.

  Sammy scrunches her brow in confusion.

  “Dylan,” I explain, nodding to him.

  She laughs. “Dylan? He’s basically my dad’s honorary son.”

  “What?”

  “Dylan’s parents are family friends, so when Dylan wanted to volunteer at my dad’s California office when he was in the senate, my dad welcomed it. Six years later and Dylan’s practically a member of the family.”

  “Six years? But he’s only like twenty, right?” Now his comment about meeting Representative Roberts back when Governor Ruiz was still a senator makes more sense.

  “Twenty-one. He was fifteen when he started helping out.”

  “Fifteen,” I mumble into the crisp air.

  Dylan approaches—time for the fundraising chats. “He must be pretty tenacious.”

  She laughs. “You have no idea.”

  Chapter Five

  Peyton’s anger flicks on like a match. I jokingly equate her to the creepy children in horror movies. The ones who look as pure as can be before...roar! Once, Peyton was humming a Disney song while making a bracelet out of dandelions when a boy broke it. There was no escaping her red-faced fury.

  Use your words, we told her. Indoor voices.

  She responded, “If you aren’t allowed to get angry when you’re outside, when are you allowed to get angry?”

  Jen told her anger was a vice, something to be held and su
bdued. I just nodded, because I wasn’t sure what else to say.

  * * *

  “Hold up there, missy.”

  If I didn’t recognize the harsh voice, the kind that clinks against your spine, I wouldn’t have known that I was the “missy” in question. But I do.

  “Bain,” I say with the warmest inflection I can construct. Maybe he’s a morning person, because he doesn’t look as harried as usual. He’s leaning back in a chair in the hotel lobby eating an apple. He finishes it off with one clean crack before tossing it, hoops style, into a trashcan ten feet from us. Nothing but net. He strides over.

  “I get that you need a break,” he says. “Not that you have a job or other responsibilities, but, okay, you need a break.”

  I try to remind myself that he’s a douche, but guilt still stretches out in my stomach and finds a home.

  “It’s only for three days.” I grip my bag and force myself to meet his eyes. “And I’ll still be at the town hall in Ohio, and I’ll spend time prepping for the convention.”

  He shifts his jaw and scratches under his chin with two fingers, like a villain in the Old West. “Three days is plenty of time for you to get in trouble on your own.”

  “I’ll be fine. I’m just going to hang out with my grandparents, pack for college and bathe myself in the Lincoln Memorial Reflecting Pool as tourists look on.”

  “Funny,” he says gruffly as he looks to the elevator.

  “Um, okay, I’m gonna...” I point my thumb toward the entrance and walk backward, then sideways.

  “Not yet you aren’t.” He’s still looking at the elevator. “I asked Dylan to meet me down here. We’re giving you some talking points and materials to look over.”

  “You can’t just email them?”

  He turns his head and blinks at me. “No.”

  The elevator doors slide open. Dylan emerges with a packet in hand, rubbing his hair like he’s still trying to wake up.

  When he sees me, he smiles, but it’s washed away as Bain barks at him. “Hurry up,” he says, circling his pointer finger round and round.

  Dylan jogs across the lobby and passes the packet to Bain, who sidles up next to me and points at each page’s title as though I’m in kindergarten and have no idea how to read. I swallow and clench my fists.

  “If a reporter tries to question you about that dad situation, ignore them. You don’t have to answer questions.” The edge in his voice makes me shiver as he passes the material to me. I take it and pull it toward me, but he doesn’t give it up. There’s a brief tug-of-war before he finally lets go.

  “I got it.” I stuff the new homework into my bag with a huff.

  “Good,” he says.

  He strides away, only half turning in motion, pointer finger tsking the air, as he says, “Oh, one more thing, Peyton. No seeing Tristan McCoy until after the election.”

  What? Not hang out with Tristan when my dad’s long gone and my mom’s so busy she can barely have a five-minute conversation with me?

  I need Tristan, and Bain has no right to tell me who I can and can’t hang out with.

  But as the blood in my veins races, Bain walks away. I’m so angry my jaw hurts. “You can’t do that.” My loud words ricochet off the sleek hotel floors.

  Bain stops. He swivels to face me. “I sure the fuck can. We don’t need America’s sweetheart hanging out with someone like him.”

  “He’s a fine person to hang out with,” I say, this time softer, through clenched teeth. Dylan steps forward, hand stretched out, but I shrug away. He’s on Bain’s team. They’re all jerks who think they can demand anything of anyone in the name of the election.

  Bain smooths down his tie. “He’s not. And when the media get bored and start rooting around for a new story, this will be low-hanging fruit. Our best chance will be telling them you’re not close anymore.”

  Dylan locks eyes with me. “He’s right.”

  “What?” My face gets even hotter.

  Bain smirks. Dylan steps toward me. I take two steps back. Dylan sighs. “It would take about five minutes for the media to figure out that he’s not just a boy next door. He’s pretty vocal online about how he thinks prostitution should be legal. And, hell, he posted on Tumblr that he’s sold himself for sex three times—”

  “He knew each of those guys, okay,” I say. “And he doesn’t even do it for the money, he just...likes it. I mean, it’s his own business, why should it matter?”

  “It’s illegal,” Dylan says slowly, like he’s trying to explain something to a child.

  “Well, maybe it shouldn’t be. Studies show there are public health—”

  “Don’t hide behind some progressive argument,” Bain cuts in. “It’s salacious and stigmatizing, and if reporters find out you’ve gone with him to events benefitting legal prostitution, they’ll salivate over the story.”

  Shit, how did Bain find out about that? I rub my forehead and close my eyes. “He was speaking. I was supporting a friend, my best friend. What’s so wrong with that?”

  “Association is everything in politics,” Bain says. Dylan nods.

  “Tristan’s going to be there for me long after you two have moved on from this election,” I say.

  Dylan’s face goes slack and he swallows, probably because he knows I’m right.

  “I need him. He’s my best friend, okay?”

  “No,” Bain says, finger in the air again. “Annie is your best friend. Unlike Tristan, her friendship is an asset. She’s not a rich brat, she doesn’t have Tristan’s peculiar proclivities, she’s a good student, and she’s mixed race to boot. We can work with that.”

  I seethe and my muscles somehow get even tenser. Bain has this way of making me feel like I’m pounding my fists inside a tight box. “Annie’s a person, and a good friend, not some political prop to make me look PC.”

  “What he’s trying to say—” Dylan starts, but Bain cuts him off with a flat palm. He walks closer to me and stares down.

  “Listen, honey, it’s not my job to make people feel warm and fuzzy inside about their childhood friendships. It’s my job to win elections. Annie’s an asset, Tristan’s a liability, and I expect you to use that information and act in the best interests of this campaign. You do want us to win, right?”

  “More than anything,” I say, “But—”

  “You have to get going, Peyton,” Bain says as he turns and walks away. He calls over his shoulder, “Or you’re going to miss your flight.”

  Chapter Six

  Yesterday morning I told Peyton about this project. My last book.

  I sat her down at the kitchen table and told her I want to share what it’s like to face your mortality head on. It might help others, and it helps me. And I hope it will help her. But I can’t share it without mentioning her, a lot.

  “Is that okay?” I asked. She’s only thirteen, and I’m asking her such a big question.

  She scuffed her toes along the tiled floor. “Everyone will be able to read about me?”

  “Yes,” I said.

  She picked at a loose bit of wood on the table.

  “If you need time...”

  “I do,” she said. “But I’ll think about it.”

  * * *

  I thought I wanted to get back to being normal. Well, as normal as I was before, but after packing all day for college—in between going over all the new campaign information and convention prep and listening to my grandpa explain how I probably don’t realize it but the internet has become a very important factor in campaigns—I’m not sure I’m ready for this party.

  Sure, there are only about a hundred people here, but that’s a lot more than Tristan’s text had insinuated. Hey, some people are hanging out at Cheryl’s and watching old horror movies. Come now!

 
So, yes, I’m at a party with Tristan. But Annie is with me so they cancel each other out, right? I’m pretty sure that’s what Bain had meant to say.

  Annie doesn’t mind coming to my private high school parties, and I like going to hers, as I still know a lot of the kids from her public high school because I went to elementary school with them. We can both feel like we’ve had two high school experiences. Annie and I shift through the crowded foyer and find Cheryl’s living room. A ‘70s horror flick screams from the TV screen, but no one’s paying attention. Two girls are squawking drunkenly on the couch while two guys make out in the corner.

  Everyone else mills about around the pool outside. “I don’t know, Annie,” I say. “This is too risky. It would be really bad if I got in trouble for underage drinking now. And there are too many people here. I could jeopardize things for my mom.”

  “No,” Annie says with a knowing glance. “You could jeopardize things for the whole fucking country.”

  I take in air too quickly and Annie has to shake my shoulder. “Peyton, listen. It’ll be okay. I’ve got your back. Just grab a can of soda and chill. As long as you don’t drink, it’ll be fine.”

  I rub my chapped lips. I’m not going to be able to hang out with Annie and Tristan, or anyone really, till we go to Georgetown together. And yes, I’m the luckiest girl in the world that Annie is coming to the same school as me and Tristan is already there. I have to admit, him being there was part of the reason I wanted to go in the first place.

  “Okay,” I say.

  “I got you,” Annie says, hands firm on my shoulders.

  Tristan careens into me. “Peyton, I was afraid you wouldn’t come!” He scoops me into one of his amazing hugs and smacks a damp kiss on my forehead.

  “I haven’t seen you in forever. I had to come.”

  He looks down at me and brushes a strand of hair out of my eyes. He smiles. Then he backs up, pulling Annie into a hug. “The night got much more beautiful now that you two are here. Come on, let’s get you on the beer pong list.”