He had given her the typical big brother grief when they were growing up, but once they left their teen years behind, they had reached a point where they were able to tell each other everything without fear of reprisal. Well, almost everything. The one subject she tried to avoid was her issues with their parents. It was a battle he couldn’t win and she didn’t want him to feel like he had to choose sides.
“Why are you standing out here?” She flipped her collar up to protect the back of her neck from the wind. “I thought e-cigarettes were allowed in the room.”
“The hotel staff doesn’t have a problem with them. Paula does.” He held up his faux cigarette. “The nicotine level in these is negligible compared to the real thing, but she doesn’t want me smoking them around the kids.”
“She won’t rest until you’ve kicked the habit altogether.”
“I’m trying.” He blew out a thick stream of water vapor. “I take it your date went well?”
“You would be correct, sir.”
Taylor sat on a nearby bench. TJ soon joined her.
“Are you going to see her again?”
“We’re going to the Washington-Golden State game Friday night.”
“Score.”
TJ held up his hand for a high five. Taylor grinned as she slapped his palm. She might not have her parents’ approval, but she definitely had her brother’s.
“What’s your date’s name again?” he asked.
“Roberta. Robby.”
“Make up your mind. One sounds like someone’s grandmother, the other like a twelve-year-old boy.”
“Ass.” Taylor elbowed him in the ribs. “I assure you she’s neither.”
“Did you invite her to the inaugural ball?”
Taylor snorted. “I don’t think that would go over well.”
“With whom?”
She jerked her thumb at the luxury hotel behind them. “The lovely couple in Penthouse A for starters.”
“It’s your life, not theirs, little sis. And life’s much too short to spend unhappy.”
Though there was undeniable truth in what TJ had said, Taylor was hesitant to follow his advice. Her life was her own, not the public’s. She wanted to live it openly, but she didn’t want to become a talking point on any of the dozens of current affairs shows that littered the television landscape. It was nearly impossible to keep relationships secret in the electronic age. No matter how circumspect she was, she was sure it was simply a matter of time before photos of her and one of her lovers turned up on the Internet. Before she became the subject of a tweet on Twitter, an entry on someone’s Facebook page, or a name dropped in a blog. Why should she fight the inevitable?
Because she had promised her father she wouldn’t make headlines, and she couldn’t go back on her word. Not even for the most exciting woman she had met in years.
* * *
“Are you sure a thousand dollars is going to be enough?” Miles asked.
“It’s plenty, thank you.”
Miles signed the check, ripped it from the register, and recorded the entry in an oversized ledger.
Barely refraining from rubbing her hands together in glee like the Scrooge eying a mound of gold, Robby folded the check in half and stowed it in her purse. “I’ll pay you back. I promise.”
“Mmm hmm.”
“You don’t sound convinced.”
Miles locked the rest of the unused checks in the floor safe behind the counter. “Let’s just say I’m not holding my—”
“I think the word you’re looking for is breath,” she said when he didn’t finish his sentence.
“Yes, as in I can’t catch mine.”
“What’s wrong?” Robby squeezed Miles’s arm when she finally noticed what had captured his attention. A huge black SUV with tinted windows and oversized tires was parked in front of the store. Nothing unusual about that. Dupont Circle saw its fair share of luxury cars. Only one, however, was occupied by Taylor Crenshaw.
“Your girlfriend’s here,” Miles whispered after Taylor stepped out of the SUV. “Who’s the sexy side of beef with her?”
Robby watched Steven clear a path across the sidewalk. “Traitor. Your ‘sexy side of beef’ is the thorn in my side who’s been keeping me awake at night.”
“He can pull the thorn out of you and stick it in me anytime.”
“Gross. Whatever you do, please do not make me imagine you having sex. That’s worse than picturing my parents doing it.”
“I don’t know. Your dad’s kinda hot. Your mom must think so, too. Otherwise, they wouldn’t have three kids.”
“For the love of God, please stop.” The bell over the front door dinged, officially announcing Taylor and Steven’s arrival. “Look busy. Better yet, make yourself scarce.”
She tried to shoo Miles away to no avail. Standing his ground, he straightened his striped bow tie. “Not on your life.”
Robby grabbed a pen and a sheaf of papers and pretended to take inventory of the items in the store. Looking neither left nor right, Taylor headed straight for the counter.
“Hello and welcome. I’m Miles Osgood. May I help you?”
Robby cringed at the over-the-top chirpiness in Miles’s voice. Could he be more transparent?
“Osgood,” Taylor said. “Is your name the same as the one over the door?”
“I like to say my parents’ name is the one over the front door. I sneaked in the back when no one was looking.”
Robby looked up from the inventory list when she heard what sounded like a sneeze. She realized with a start it was the sound of Steven snickering. He and Miles shared a laugh as they shook hands. Mr. Big had a sense of humor? Or did he have a soft spot for Miles? If so, she might be able to use the situation to her advantage. Miles could play Steven the same way she was playing Taylor. He might need some convincing, but she was nothing if not persuasive.
Taylor caught her eye. “You look like you’re in the middle of something so I won’t stay long.” She reached into the pocket of her snow-dusted black pea coat and pulled out a crisp white envelope. “In case you haven’t heard, there’s a party tomorrow night. I apologize for the late notice, but I’d love it if you could attend.”
Robby reached for the envelope. “Is this what I think it is?”
Taylor grinned. “I don’t know. What do you think it is?”
Robby turned the envelope over in her hands, resisting the urge to rip it open to get to what lay inside. “An invitation to the inaugural ball. The official one, not the satellite parties being thrown all around town.”
“Then you thought right. Will I see you there?”
Robby tried to think of a witty comment, but she was so excited all she could do was nod her head like an overly enthusiastic bobblehead doll. “Will I be your date?” she finally managed to sputter.
“No.” Taylor’s smile faded. “I already have a date, I’m afraid. Portia Thomas posted a video on YouTube last year asking me to accompany her to the Marine Corps ball. I thought it only right to return the favor, though my invitation was extended with a great deal less fanfare than hers.”
Robby remembered the stir it had caused when pictures of Taylor on Lance Corporal Thomas’s arm had appeared on TV and on the Internet. A few of Terry Crenshaw’s fellow conservatives had made a stink about it, but Taylor had laughed it off by saying she was simply doing her part to support the troops.
She and Portia looked really good together—great, in fact—but Robby had thought their “date” was a one-time thing. Just another example of a celebrity generating good PR like actress Betty White, singer Justin Timberlake, and MMA fighter Ronda Rousey had when they accepted similar invitations to the annual black-tie event. But if Taylor and Portia were going to the inaugural ball together, perhaps there was more to the story than had been originally reported.
“Are you two seeing each other?” Robby asked.
“No.”
“Why not?” Miles said. “I mean if you don’t mind my asking.”
“No worries,” Taylor said, effortlessly smoothing over Miles’s misstep. “PT and I are much too similar to be in a relationship. We make better friends than we ever would lovers. She’s someone I can talk to when I can’t talk to anyone else. If you can’t trust a Marine, who can you trust?”
“Who, indeed?” Miles asked, making eyes at Steven.
“I’ve got to get going,” Taylor said. “I’m between classes and I don’t want the next one to start without me. I’ll see you tomorrow night?”
“You bet,” Robby said.
“Excellent. It was nice to meet you, Miles.”
“You, too. Both of you.” He practically swooned when Steven returned his smile. “Call me,” he said after Taylor and Steven returned to their waiting car.
“Dude, don’t be so obvious.” Robby opened the envelope and pulled out the laser-printed card inside.
“What does it say?”
“In honor of the President of the United States and Mrs. Crenshaw and the Vice President of the United States and Mr. Duvall, the Presidential Inaugural Committee requests the pleasure of your company at the Presidential Inaugural Ball Tuesday, the twentieth of January at seven o’clock in the evening in the city of Washington. White tie. Black tie optional.”
“Let me see that.”
Robby gave Miles just enough time to read the words for himself before she snatched the card out of his hands. She fanned herself with the invitation as if she were a demure Southern belle sipping sweet tea on the front porch of her family mansion. “Since I can’t count on you to be my escort, Mr. Osgood, I suppose I shall have to find someone else to accompany me to the ball.”
“Don’t even think about inviting anyone else. Let me be your walker,” he said, referring to the group of predominantly gay men who escorted rich society women to events which their husbands couldn’t or didn’t want to attend.
“I thought you said you didn’t want anything to do with my plan.”
Miles shrugged. “It is a girl’s prerogative to change her mind, isn’t it?” He tapped a finger against his chin. “I wonder what Steven looks like in white tie and tails.”
As Miles recast Cinderella with him and Steven in the starring roles, Robby cautioned herself to keep her head in the game. But it took a concerted effort to avoid giving in to the fantasy. Each time Taylor smiled at her, she felt her resolve begin to falter. And when Taylor kissed her, she had almost lost sight of her goals. What would happen if they went all the way? Was the prospect of great sex enough incentive to cease her pursuit of a story?
No, she told herself. It was simply an added bonus. She would get to bag the girl and control the narrative. What could be better?
Chapter Four
When her father announced he intended to run for president, Taylor told a few trusted friends he would win the election when hell froze over. Someone must have heard her because Inauguration Day was the coldest on record.
As she waited for the ceremony to begin, she felt like her cheeks were frozen. If she looked close enough, she could probably see ice crystals forming on her eyelashes.
TJ wrapped his thick wool scarf tighter around his neck. “Is it too late for us to go back to Missouri?”
“Just a bit,” Taylor replied out of the corner of her mouth.
TJ clapped his gloved hands to restore circulation. “I was afraid you’d say that.”
Taylor tugged at the hem of her powder-blue dress, which was long enough not to be considered risqué but too short to keep her legs warm. The matching overcoat had its drawbacks, too. Namely being more stylish than functional.
Where was her thermal underwear when she needed it? Oh, yeah. Packed inside a moving van idling next to the rear entrance of 1600 Pennsylvania Avenue.
A few blocks away, two sets of movers were parked behind the White House—one employed by the departing commander in chief, another by the incoming one. Now that she had taken some time to get used to the idea, Taylor was looking forward to getting settled in. To making the White House feel like her home instead of a museum she had accidentally gotten locked inside of.
She couldn’t wait for Portia to arrive so they could crack a few beers and commiserate over their respective lots in life. She had been sentenced to spend the next four years deflecting questions about her father’s voting record while being publicly flogged by gay rights activists for not speaking out against him. Portia, meanwhile, might not fare much better. She was currently waiting to hear what her next assignment would be—the cushy spot in Hawaii she was hoping for, or yet another dreaded deployment to Afghanistan.
Portia would be Taylor’s first official overnight guest. Would she be the last? Hopefully not, but their relationship was decidedly platonic. What Taylor felt for Robby, however, went beyond friendship.
Taylor smiled, imagining making love to Robby for hours as they christened each of the many guest rooms in the historic structure. A nice fantasy, but surely nothing more than an impossible dream. No relationship could stand up to the scrutiny she would be under during her father’s term in office. Though she longed to spend more time with Robby to see where things might lead, she needed to draw the line before she got in too deep.
Or was it already too late?
She was playing with fire by inviting Robby to the official inaugural ball. Everyone who was anyone in Washington was bound to be there. Thrown in the middle of such a well-heeled crowd, Robby would seem like an interloper. Questions about her presence were bound to be raised. And if the two of them were spotted together at the Wizards game Friday night, the amount of inquiries would only increase.
Logic said Taylor should end things now, but how could she walk away when being with Robby felt so right?
What had TJ said last night? Life was too short to spend unhappy. Yes, that was it. Was she willing to deny herself a possible chance at happiness simply because it didn’t fit into someone else’s agenda?
One more date couldn’t hurt.
She tried to keep her expression impassive when Philip Morgan, the head of a Colorado superchurch with thousands of members and a rapidly growing political base, rose to give the invocation.
After Arthur Dunphy’s series of missteps left the evangelical Christian vote up for grabs, Morgan’s endorsement had swayed most members of the influential demographic to vote for the Crenshaw-Duvall ticket. The right-wing tenets Morgan espoused were diametrically opposed to the ones Taylor followed. She was in favor of staying loyal to those who were loyal to you, but she considered the decision to reward the avowed separatist for his support to be her father’s first misstep. Hopefully, it would also be the last.
The long, drawn-out presidential campaign had left the nation divided and battle-weary. Election night should have been cause for celebration, but it had seemed more like a sigh of relief that all the backbiting, infighting, and name-calling had finally come to an end. Many political pundits had expressed the hope that today’s ceremony would mark the beginning of the healing process. Much to Taylor’s dismay, Phillip Morgan’s planned presence only served to drive the wedge even deeper.
Taylor didn’t approve of giving such a large forum to a rabid hatemonger. Freedom of speech had its limits. Apparently, she wasn’t alone in her assessment. Morgan’s selection had prompted a torrent of protests, op-ed columns and letters to the editor rife with negative reactions. None of her father’s Republican cronies had second-guessed him publicly, however, preferring to take a wait-and-see approach before they issued any official statements. She didn’t expect them to choose a side until they determined how it would affect their own political fortunes.
She suppressed a smile as scattered boos greeted Morgan’s approach to the dais. She didn’t want to get caught gloating. Or doing anything else, for that matter. Like it or not, she wasn’t simply witnessing history today. She was part of it. She needed to give the occasion the respect it deserved. Even if she didn’t expect to receive any in return.
Morgan didn’t s
ay anything controversial, but he didn’t say anything memorable either. In deference to the frigid temperatures, he kept his remarks mercifully short. The applause that accompanied his departure could be generously referred to as polite.
Taylor’s cell phone vibrated twice in rapid succession while the nation’s poet laureate, an African-American literature professor from Harvard, recited a poem written especially for the occasion. Though she was riveted by the woman’s words, Taylor wanted to discreetly slip her phone out of her coat pocket and read the text message she had just received. With billions of people watching around the world, she knew there was no such thing as discreet. For the next four years, her every move would be magnified a hundredfold. Each misstep a potential meme in the making.
At a luncheon a few days before, Luci Johnson, the daughter of Lyndon Baines Johnson, had passed on some sound advice her own mother had given her when LBJ had unexpectedly taken over for John Kennedy in 1963.
“Always act like whatever you do will be printed on the front page of the Washington Post and the New York Times and act accordingly,” Lady Bird Johnson had said.
Taylor took the advice to heart. She applauded politely after the vice president-elect took the oath of office. On some level, Taylor was glad to see a woman assume a leadership role in the White House, even if it wasn’t the woman she wanted to pave the way. She hoped the I’m With Her T-shirt currently collecting dust in her closet would eventually become something more than a collector’s item.
Holly Duvall, the tough-talking former governor of Texas, had finished third in the race for the Republican nomination—right behind Arnold Dunphy, the blowhard billionaire who had been the frontrunner for months until the fiery rhetoric he used during his public appearances had incited a near-riot between his supporters and the hordes of protesters who had made their way into the arena.
Holly’s legion of predominantly female followers, popularly known as the Hollyhocks, was widely considered the reason the Crenshaw-Duvall ticket had swept the southern states the previous November. With her ribald sense of humor and endless supply of homespun stories, Holly made a wonderful dinner companion, but it remained to be seen how she would handle the job of vice president. The early signs looked—and sounded—encouraging.
True Colors Page 4