The Phoenix Campaign (Grace Colton Book 2)

by Heidi Joy Tretheway

  The Nightmare Team?

  The Odd Couple?

  The Dysfunctional Duo?

  “Is this trip to LA a desperate attempt to make up the ground you’re losing to the Republicans on fundraising?” the reporter asked.

  Shit. Shit, shit, shit.

  “This trip demonstrates that the Republicans are losing ground to us on the issues,” I shot back at the reporter. “They’re pushing for regressive policies that favor a privileged minority and voters see through that.”

  It wasn’t an answer to his question, but it was a soundbite Jared and Sasha would be proud of. The truth is, when it comes to fundraising, Jackson and Sharp are unstoppable.

  Unfortunately, the first question out of the reporter’s mouth turned out to be the easiest one of the lot. We went several rounds on policy, but many, many more on my personal life. I ducked and dodged but the damage was apparent—next to Landon Sharp’s gorgeous résumé as a Gulf War vet, and his very public grief over the loss of his dear mother to cancer, he’s the saint and I’m the sinner.

  “Landon Sharp says he’s coping with the loss of his mother by participating in cancer research fundraisers,” the reporter begins. I nod, thinking of Sharp’s shockingly hot photos that went viral, a wet white T-shirt clinging to his abs as he finishes a run to raise awareness for ovarian cancer. “Considering the recent revelations about your relationship, you seem to have moved on from the loss of your family. What advice would you have for Landon about grieving?”

  I’m stunned, open-mouthed, over the sheer idiocy of this question. So I’m dating again after nearly six years of being widowed, and I’ve moved on? The reporter pits Sharp’s philanthropy against my apparently loose morals and I burn with shame.

  But I choke that down and stick to the script.

  “I’m deeply sorry for his loss. I applaud him for channeling his grief into activism, which is what I did when I ran for Congress on a platform to fix the holes in the laws that allowed a disturbed man access to the gun that killed my family.”

  And so it goes. I hold my own, but through the interview, it’s apparent I’m not polished enough, not experienced enough, not … ready.

  ***

  “Earth to Phoenix,” Mac says gently. My head snaps up and I follow her onto the plane. In less than three hours, we touch down in Oregon, lush and green, and I practically want to kiss the ground, I’m so happy to be home for a few hours.

  Sasha’s set three meetings for me at my legislative office this afternoon. I churn through them and then read the damage when the reporter’s interview hits the wire.

  It’s bad. His loaded questions are laced through everything, but I think my quotes don’t add much fuel to the fire.

  Instead of calling Sasha or Jared and hearing about how badly I fucked up, I call the one person I know loves me unconditionally.

  “Baby girl! You were magnificent.” The first words out of Trey’s mouth are exactly what I need and I sigh into the phone.

  “I love you, you know that, Trey?”

  “I know. And I know that you’re having zero fun without me. You miss me and my sass. Admit it.”

  “I do.” Damn, do I miss him. Trey’s the one to keep it real, to crack the first joke. He takes me down a peg when I’m overconfident, or boosts me back up when I need it. Somehow, he always gets it right. “You should be traveling with me.”

  “Then who would keep your office running perfectly?” Trey asks imperiously. “Who would ensure Jared and Sasha don’t double-schedule you—as they’ve done three times now? Who would babysit Marilyn?”

  “You’re babysitting my mom?”

  “Don’t worry. She’s happy as a clam. I got her tickets to everything, so she’s playing D.C. tourist all week. She said she’s staying until Friday?”

  “Yeah. I think.” I still don’t know what the hell I’m going to do when her deadline hits and I’m ten grand short of a payoff. I scribble a reminder on a sticky note to call my broker today.

  “I’m sorry I didn’t get to tell you this before your speech at my school, but she went to campaign HQ.”

  “Oh no. No.” Images of Marilyn Garcia tromping into HQ like she owns the place make me ill. I’ve done everything I can to distance myself from that life, that way of being.

  “She did. Showed up and asked to talk to Shep, but he was in Chicago. Jared intercepted her.”

  I shiver. Shit. I never told Jared my mother was in town, yet oddly he didn’t mention meeting her to me during our brief encounter in LA. I’ve also never told Jared my history, how my mother treated me as a child or how she’s leeched off me as an adult. “I should have warned him.”

  “Don’t beat yourself up. I should have too.” Trey’s tone is light, but I sense he feels like he failed to protect me. He knows all about my history. “I thought keeping her busy would keep her out of your hair. She hasn’t talked to the press, so it seems to be working.”

  I cough. “That’s not it.” And I have to confess. I tell Trey about her demand, her twisted expectations, and my promise that I’ll give her this massive sum by Friday. She’s hinted that she wouldn’t hold back in an interview that could be damaging. Hell, anything she says would be damaging. Better put, the question is: What would be irreparable?

  He lets out a low whistle when I’ve finished. “Baby girl, I’m not saying this is going to be easy. It’s going to hurt like a bitch. But …”

  “What? Tell me you’ve got a solution, Trey.”

  “Well, the media will consider the source, right? If you undermine her first, if you discredit her by going on some show to talk about your terrible childhood, then anything she says would sound like retribution, right?”

  I’m quiet for a few moments as I weigh Trey’s narrative, imagining someone more calculating, like Sasha or Lauren, would have thought up this move.

  Not Trey. Not my sweet, dedicated chief of staff. Though maybe he has more mettle than I give him credit for. “Wouldn’t that be awful of me?”

  “It would if it weren’t true,” Trey says. “I know you want to focus on the life you’ve built as an adult, but the truth is, your childhood was shit. There are no two ways around it. Alcoholic stepfather who couldn’t keep a job, neglectful mother who’s treated you like her own personal gravy train since you made something of yourself. It would play in Peoria.”

  “It feels … wrong.”

  “It’s not something to be proud of. But think about your options. Whatever you decide to do, baby girl, I’ve got your back.”

  ***

  Aliza’s got my back, too. I wiggle out of another grip-and-grin early and direct Mac and Eric to pick up Aliza en route to my condo. She’s equipped with take-out from my favorite Indian street food place and we lapse into silence over kati rolls and samosas.

  “You’re not sleeping.” Aliza’s worried eyes inspect my tired state. I changed into yoga pants and scrubbed off my makeup as soon as we made it in the door of my place, so I’ve got nothing to hide the fatigue.

  “It’s like a sprint, every day. I don’t know how Jared does it.”

  “He’s had twenty years to perfect the art of living through a national campaign. Cut yourself some slack, girl.” Aliza takes another bite, a sip of spicy chai, and continues. “Have you told him yet?”

  “No. I’ve tried. I … a few times, I was almost ready. But he can’t give me what I need. Nothing he says is solid.”

  “What would be solid enough for you? I know you always look before you leap, but have you considered that this might be something where you just need to leap? Take the plunge and trust he’ll be there to catch you.”

  “But what if he’s not? What then? I don’t know if I can handle the heartbreak on top of everything with the campaign, and my body’s revolting against me, I’m sick and tired and cranky and just … gross.”

  “Your hormones are haywire,” Aliza diagnoses. “You can’t see anything clearly. Not yourself. Not your future. And least of all, Jared.”

/>   I blink. “You think I don’t see him clearly?”

  She nods. Her silence lets me roll that around in my head a bit, test the theory, take stock.

  Maybe I can’t tell Jared because I’m afraid of who he’ll be after. Maybe I can’t tell him because I’m afraid of who I’ll become. Making my relationship—and then my child—public will change everything for me and the campaign.

  “Maybe I want to be more than just the candidate who got knocked up,” I confess. “Dammit, I’ve worked too hard to let everything I’ve accomplished get tossed aside in the public consciousness in favor of this one thing.”

  “That. Now you’re getting to the heart of it.” Aliza cocks her head. “There’s more.”

  “My mom. She wants money.”

  Aliza snorts. “Tell me something new. She shows up with her hand out all the time. So?”

  “So this time, it’s more.” I tell her the five-figure sum and Aliza shakes her head.

  “Some balls on that woman. I see where you get it.”

  “Don’t,” I snarl. “Don’t you even compare us.”

  Aliza holds up her hands in mock surrender. “Hey, don’t bite my head off. I’m just saying that she’s never been shy about demanding what she wants. And most of the time, you’re pretty good about it too. Look how you took out some of your worst detractors. I like that you have a fucking spine. It’s why we’re friends.”

  “Most of the time?” I pick at her phrase.

  “I don’t get why you’re tucking your tail between your legs like she’s already defeated you. She’ll only get the upper hand if you give it to her. Same goes for Jared. Same goes for that Lauren bitch.” We exchange looks. “Yeah, I saw her interviews. She’s setting you up.”

  I feel like the noose is tightening around me—my mother, the upcoming debate, Lauren’s threat, my relationship with Jared, and most of all, my baby—the clock is ticking.

  I put my head in my hands, working my fingers through my hair as I knead my scalp. It’s too much and my breath comes in short, sharp pants. “I can’t. I just can’t anymore, Aliza. I can’t do this.”

  “Bullshit.”

  “No. I am really and truly tapped out. I can’t keep going like this because something’s going to break. Or blow up in my face. And I just don’t have the resources to even deal with it.” Tears leak from my eyes and I hiccup a sob, letting the wound-up emotions from the last few days finally pour out of me.

  I am done. Defeated.

  Aliza pushes my mug of chai closer and waits until I take a halting sip and then a shuddering breath.

  “Everyone’s going to get their piece of me. I’ll be left with nothing.”

  “No campaign?”

  “Lauren or my mother could easily ruin it, though if you ask Sasha and Jared, I’m doing a pretty good job of that myself.”

  “No Jared?”

  “Why would he even want me? I mean, I don’t even know if he wants me, and I’ve lied to him just by not telling him yet.”

  “You have a child.” Aliza touches my shoulder, a gesture that grounds me. “You have a future. Even if it isn’t in politics, or with that crazy demanding man, you have a life that you can make what you want. You’re not even forty yet. You want to throw in the towel now, just because what you think you want isn’t coming easily?”

  When she puts it that way, with a bitch-slapping dose of honesty, my pity party comes to a crashing halt. “What I think I want?”

  “You don’t even know what you want, do you? First you want to make Seth and Ethan’s deaths mean something, so you run for congress. Then you want to become vice president. Then you want this man. And now you want a child. Is it totally out of whack to believe that you might change your mind again?”

  “I can’t not have a child.” I snort. “Like the joke goes, the difference between a pregnant woman and a lightbulb is that you can unscrew a lightbulb.”

  Aliza cackles. “There’s my friend under all that self-pity.” Her laugh gets me going and suddenly I’m laughing, and crying, and just letting the emotions escape the tight lockdown I’ve had them on for weeks, maybe months. “But seriously, be the blue fish. Just keep swimming and stick to what matters. Let everything else fall away.”

  “It can’t be that easy.”

  “You’re the one making it hard.” She shakes her head at me, still laughing. “I’ll tell you what. I’ve got a stupid amount of vacation time to use because my best friend’s a workaholic and I never go anywhere. I put in a request for some extended leave, so hopefully I’ll get next month off and can come help you until Election Day, or at least help Trey keep you sane.”

  I sober, floored by Aliza’s gesture. “You’d do that for me?”

  She gives me a sly smile to reveal an ulterior motive. “I also won’t mind watching your security detail follow you around.”

  I stick out my tongue at her. “Some friend. You pretend you’re coming to help, but you really just want to stare at Eric’s ass.”

  “What can I say? It’s a very nice ass.”

  CHAPTER TWENTY

  Another flight, this one a long haul back to D.C., and I blame my fatigue on the crazy time zone-hopping. Trey welcomes me to the office in the afternoon with a ridiculous stack of messages and documents that need my signature.

  And a latte. Leaded. I sip it guiltily, knowing caffeine is the last thing I need in my system if I’m going to attempt to sleep tonight.

  When most of the staffers have left for the evening, Trey comes into my office, collapses on my couch, and makes one demand. “Spill.”

  “Spill what?”

  “Baby girl, do I have to pry it out of you?”

  I roll my eyes at him. There are so many things to spill, I barely know where to start. So I deflect. “I could ask you the same thing. How’s Joel?”

  Trey’s eyes immediately bounce around the office, but we’re the only ones here. A slight smile spreads his lips. “Good. He’s pretty awesome, actually.”

  “Is he … boyfriend material?”

  Trey presses his lips together, thinking, and I worry that I pushed too hard. “Yes. Definitely. The question isn’t whether he’s boyfriend material for me. It’s whether I am for him. He said he doesn’t want to date a man who isn’t out.”

  “And yet…”

  “He’s breaking his own rules.” Trey hangs his head. “I hate that he’s breaking his own rules for me. We don’t go out to normal places where you can hold your boyfriend’s hand and not get the side-eye. We’re stuck going to places he went when he was closeted, and I can tell he feels like he just took a giant leap back into the closet to be with me.”

  I lean forward and squeeze Trey’s hand in solidarity. “You’re worth it. I’m glad Joel sees that.”

  “I’ve got brains and beauty. He’d be blind not to.” Trey mocks preening, huffing on his fingernails and pretending to shine them on his dress shirt. Then he turns the conversation to me. “So, your turn. I know you’ve got a lot on your mind. It’s not just Mother-of-the-Year Marilyn, am I right?”

  I walk around my desk and sit in the side chair, pushing off my heels and flexing my feet. Thanks to the flight and the pregnancy, I’m working on a nice set of cankles.

  “Blargh.”

  Trey laughs. “English, please.”

  “Blarghetty-blargh-blargh?”

  “Hmm, my psychic powers are working…” Trey presses his fingers to his temples, his face scrunched in mock concentration. “They say you need to tell Brother Trey what ails you and then you need food. And sleep.”

  “A fine deduction. Though hardly worthy of your psychic genius.”

  Trey cocks his brow. “It doesn’t take a genius. Just a friend.”

  I drop my head, a nod of assent and surrender. No matter what, Trey’s always been on my side. He deserves to know. “I’m pregnant.”

  Trey’s bright white smile lights the room and he claps his hands. “Baby girl! Congratulations!”

  I give him a
half-smile. “Thanks. I think. I just don’t—can’t—tell Jared.”

  “He’s the father, right?”

  “What kind of girl do you think I am?”

  “Not the kind who sleeps around, no matter what poison Lauren Darrow’s spreading,” Trey says. “But I’m asking, why wouldn’t you tell Jared? And why haven’t you told Mama Bea? She’s going to kill you, and me, if she knows I knew first.”

  “She can get in line.” I lean back in my chair and take another sip of the contraband latte that’s gone cold.

  “Shit. I’m not supposed to be giving you caffeine.”

  “Don’t worry. I haven’t had much today.” I wink at him. “Just, next time, make it decaf, OK?”

  “Fine. But you’re ignoring my question. Why haven’t you told Jared yet?”

  I rewind my conversation with Aliza for him. My fear of what could happen with Jared when he knows, and with the campaign when the voters know. My excuses for not telling Jared sound flimsy and worn-out as I repeat them.

  “So you’re stalling.” Trey’s neat summary cuts to the heart of it.

  “Call it gathering my courage.”

  Trey looks at me keenly. “Right. So, when are you going to tell him?”

  “What, you want me to set a date? Like, right now?”

  “Right now would be a perfect time to tell him.” Trey’s mouth twitches with a smile. “Or the very next time you see him. Could you at least promise that?”

  “There’s too much happening right now. I’ll tell him when things settle down,” I hedge.

  Trey crosses his arms over his chest and gives me a small, disbelieving snort. “Right. Under that logic, you’d admit you were knocked up right around the time your kid enters second grade.”

  He means eight years from now, after two terms in office, but I can’t help but latch onto the fact that my child would be in the same grade as Ethan was when he died.

  “Fine. I’ll tell him after the debate,” I promise. That’s less than a week away. Trey nods his approval.