True Colors

by Yolanda Wallace

  “Perhaps later,” Terry said before Taylor could respond. “Right now, there’s someone I’d like her to meet. Enjoy your evening.”

  “I think I just shit my shorts,” Miles said after Terry led Taylor to a table occupied by members of GOPride, the conservative gay political organization that had refused to endorse Terry’s nomination at the Republican convention but had accepted his invitation to the ball.

  Robby watched Terry shake hands with the group’s leaders and introduce them to Taylor. “Love him or hate him. One thing’s for sure. He certainly knows how to work a room.”

  Miles mopped his sweaty brow. “I thought he wasn’t a fan of the gays.”

  “So did I. But by the time I finish writing my next entry, he’s going to sound like our best friend.”

  Across the room, Sheridan caught Robby’s eye and raised her glass in a long-distance toast. Robby quickly figured out who had told Taylor she and Sheridan were once involved.

  “What are you going to do about her?” Miles asked as Taylor and Terry headed to Sheridan’s table.

  “I’ll let you know when I figure it out.”

  Chapter Eight

  Taylor woke with an aching head, a sour stomach, and an overwhelming sense of dread. And that was before she noticed the three missed calls, two voicemails, and six text messages from Robby. The voicemails and texts all said basically the same thing: Call me. We need to talk.

  Robby and Sheridan Kincaid had a history. That was plain to see. Sheridan planned to tell her side this weekend. Robby obviously wanted to beat her to the punch. Or was she simply trying to find out what Sheridan had already told her so she could draft her rebuttal?

  Taylor planned to hear them both out at some point, but she didn’t have time for this now. She had less than two hours until her sexual politics class and she had barely studied for today’s scheduled exam. She grabbed her backpack and headed out the door. Once she got to campus, she’d find a relatively quiet spot in the Student Union, power up her laptop, and review her class notes. She might not ace the test, but she still had a chance to pass it. Barely.

  She ran into Portia in the hallway. Her heart sank even lower than it already was when she saw the duffel bags piled at Portia’s feet.

  “Are you leaving so soon? I was hoping we’d have time to go sightseeing this afternoon.”

  “So did I, but my orders came in this morning.”

  “And?” Taylor asked anxiously. Portia’s expression was stoic. Her poker face was so good Taylor couldn’t tell if she had been tasked with the desk job she dreaded or she was being deployed again. “Where are you headed?”

  “Hawaii. I got the assignment I wanted.”

  Taylor blew out a sigh of relief. “That’s good news, isn’t it?” she asked, giving Portia a hug. Portia nodded in response, and Taylor held her at arm’s length. “So why are you acting so bummed?”

  “I forgot about the six-hour time difference between there and here. If you want to talk, chances are we’re going to be playing a lot of phone tag over the next eighteen months.”

  Taylor felt her smile fade, but she quickly plastered it back in place. “Even though I’m going to miss our nightly gabfests, I’ll rest easy knowing you’re catching some rays in Kaneohe Bay rather than dodging bullets in Kandahar.” She gave Portia another hug. “Stay safe, Marine.”

  “I would say the same to you, but I feel confident I’m leaving you in good hands. Even if his alma mater’s football team has lost to mine more times than I can count.”

  “At least the fourteen-year losing streak is finally over,” Steven said from his post a few feet away. “Now it’s time for the Black Knights to go on a run of their own. Go, Army. Beat Navy.”

  “Keep telling yourself that, and it might eventually come true, though both of us will probably be old and gray when it finally does,” Portia said light-heartedly. Her tone turned serious when she focused her attention on Taylor once more. “Are you going to be okay? You seemed pretty shaken up last night.”

  After she had fulfilled her duties at both the official and unofficial inaugural balls, Taylor had spent the rest of the night bending Portia’s ear about her run-in with Sheridan, and her subsequent tense encounter with Robby. Portia had advised her not to jump to any conclusions. Good advice to give, but difficult to heed. Taylor couldn’t stop wondering what Sheridan was trying to warn her about and what Robby might be trying to hide. She felt stuck in the middle, and that was the last place she wanted to be.

  “I’ll be fine. Besides, you’ve got more important things to worry about. National security trumps my love life every time. Call me when you can.”

  “Ditto.”

  “Do you need a ride to the airport?”

  “No. Do you remember the architect I met last night? I’m meeting her for coffee and dessert before I head to Dulles.”

  “I’m glad to hear the night wasn’t a total waste.”

  “Hoorah.”

  “Come on. I’ll walk you out.”

  They parted ways outside. Portia slid into the backseat of a waiting taxi and Taylor climbed into the back of a reinforced SUV. Her cell phone rang during her ride to Georgetown. She started to ignore it when she saw Robby’s name printed on the display, but curiosity got the better of her.

  “Good morning,” she said coolly.

  Robby returned the greeting, her voice a sexy purr. “I missed you after you left last night. How was the ball?”

  “Loud.”

  “I saw the replay this morning. You looked like you were having a good time.”

  “Looks can be deceiving. The experience was pleasant enough, but I was there simply to perform a duty. There’s no time to let your hair down when you’re on the clock.”

  “Did any of the VJs try to pick you up?”

  “They’re not called VJs anymore. Now they’re referred to as ‘on-air personalities.’”

  “Whatever they’re called, did one of them try to slip you her phone number? Or anything else?”

  “You sound jealous.”

  “Should I be?”

  Taylor sighed in frustration. “Is this really how you want to play this, Robby?”

  “If you’re referring to Sheridan, I can explain.”

  Taylor fought to maintain her balance as the SUV bounced over a pothole-rutted stretch of road. “I’m listening.”

  “When you asked if I was a native of DC, I told you I moved here for a woman. Sheridan was that woman. We were together for two years, but it didn’t work out.”

  “I assume your breakup was acrimonious. Otherwise, why would she feel the need to warn me to stay away from you?”

  “She did that? What did she say?”

  “Nothing of substance yet. I’ll let you know more after I have brunch with her this weekend.”

  “Whatever she tells you, try to take it with a grain of salt, okay? The person I was when I was with her isn’t the one I am now.”

  “What does that mean?”

  “I can’t tell you who to believe or who to trust, Taylor. Only you can do that. But I hope you choose to trust me.” Robby paused as if waiting for a response, but Taylor didn’t have anything to say. “Are we still on for Friday?”

  Friday? Other than a day of the week, what was Friday? Oh, yeah. The Wizards-Warriors game. Something Taylor had looked forward to yesterday was now nothing more than an afterthought.

  “We’ll see,” she said. “In the meantime, I’ve got to go. I’ll talk to you later.”

  “Before you do, there’s a blog you need to check out. It’s called The pH Factor. This morning, one of the entries was about you.”

  “Thanks for the heads-up.”

  After Taylor ended the call, she accessed her phone’s web browser, and did an Internet search to locate the blog Robby had mentioned. The headline on the home page—President Crenshaw’s Public Stance at Odds with his Private Persona—nearly stopped her heart.

  She quickly read the article. The story mentioned
her much-publicized dance with her father as well as his visit to the GOPride table. Despite the teaser of a headline, her father comprised only a small part of the story itself, most of which was a detailed account of the inaugural ball. The story skewered a half-dozen closeted anti-gay politicians, who were probably drafting statements offering heated denials of the liaisons mentioned—if they hadn’t already released them. The article was so thorough the details could have been provided only by someone who was at the ball. But how was that possible when all of the attendees were carefully screened before they were given invitations to make sure only the crème de la crème of Washington society were allowed admittance? No one would have dared risk being booted from the inner circle. But someone had apparently taken the risk and gotten away with it. For the moment, anyway.

  Taylor returned to the blind item about Candy Ferrell. Candy wasn’t identified by name, but it didn’t take a rocket scientist to guess her identity. Is Baby Ruth, the wife of the Republican Party’s biggest sugar daddy, guilty of having a wide stance? Perhaps Mr. Goodbar should ask the women whose Jujyfruits she tried to grope in the ladies’ room.

  Taylor wracked her brain. Only Robby and the bathroom attendant had witnessed her encounter with Candy. Had one of them talked? The attendant hadn’t been interested in anything except adding to the contents of her tip jar, and Robby hadn’t been privy to the entire conversation. Candy must have repeated her offer to someone else. Someone with both a public forum and an ax to grind.

  She hadn’t gotten off scot-free either.

  Taylor Crenshaw made the rounds last night. From the National Building Museum to the Ronald Reagan Building to select points in between, the First Daughter was everywhere. Yet Princess Charming still found time for a little face-to-face with her Cinderella. Instead of the foot that fits a discarded glass slipper, the Secret Service agents assigned to her detail should search for the mouth sporting the lipstick smeared on Taylor’s face.

  Sheridan was the only person who knew about her encounter with Robby, but Sheridan had tried to help her cover her tracks. Or had she? Sheridan couldn’t possibly be the mole, though, because she didn’t have anything to gain by spilling her secrets to the press. None of it made sense.

  For all involved, the article was a publicity nightmare. She was part of the collective bad dream.

  “So much for being discreet.” Her father would probably manage to spin his way out of trouble like he always did, but she didn’t have a defense. Real or imagined. “Mom’s going to have a cow.” She handed her phone to Steven. “Are you familiar with that blog?” she asked after he read the opening paragraphs.

  “Vaguely. As you can tell from this entry, the site is heavy on gossip and light on real news. It’s been at the forefront of quite a few scandals, though. Whoever the poster is, the ‘P.H.’ listed as the author of note, he—or she—has very good sources.”

  “So I’ve noticed. Just when I was starting to think this day couldn’t get any worse. Do you think you can trace the IP address?”

  Steven flexed his interlocked fingers until the joints cracked. “Give me thirty minutes.”

  * * *

  Robby stared at her phone after Taylor ended their call. The mixed feelings she had felt before she hit the Submit button last night had returned. In spades. How could she be sure she was doing the right thing? Was the success she sought worth the possible sacrifice she was making? She needed to figure out what was more important—making her blog a hit or making a go of it with Taylor. Her blog could make her rich, but Taylor could make her something she hadn’t been in a very long time. Happy.

  “Why did you tell her about the blog?” Miles asked, his voice rising in alarm.

  “I didn’t want her to be blindsided by questions about its contents.”

  “Or do you want to get caught?”

  Whether pursuing a woman or a story, Robby loved the thrill of the hunt. The excitement of the chase. The adrenaline rush was incredible. But her thirst for danger wasn’t why she had given Taylor a heads-up today. Her reasons were much simpler. And infinitely more problematic. “I wanted her to read what I wrote. I wanted her to know what I do.”

  “Even if she doesn’t know it’s you who’s doing it? If your blog ever takes off the way you want it to, you’ll have to reveal yourself eventually.”

  “Eventually, but not now.”

  “What do you think Taylor will do when she discovers a person she thought she could trust was only using her to improve her lot in life?”

  Robby remembered the detached look on Taylor’s face when she had mentioned Sheridan’s name last night and the remote sound of her voice when Robby had confirmed she and Sheridan had once been involved. “I’ll cross that bridge when I come to it.”

  Miles put on his coat and headed across the street to pick up lunch. He was right. As usual. Robby’s blog was the talk of the town today, but no one knew who its author was. Though there was security in anonymity, she longed for recognition. She also longed for Taylor Crenshaw.

  Too bad she couldn’t have both.

  Chapter Nine

  Taylor could have requested an extension on her exam, but she didn’t want to be accused of seeking preferential treatment. Even without seeing the results, she knew she had bombed the test. She had been too distracted by Robby’s phone call, the blog, and the horde of reporters waiting for her when she arrived on campus to concentrate on the questions in front of her.

  Choosing to prevent further damage to her GPA, she skipped the rest of her scheduled classes and asked her driver to take her back to the White House. She couldn’t remember when such a short ride had felt so long.

  “What do you have for me?” she asked Steven as the driver tried to shake a pesky paparazzo on his tail.

  Steven referred to his omnipresent notebook. “The majority of the posts come from an IP address located in a coffeehouse in Dupont Circle. Easy to trace, impossible to pinpoint. Not without monitoring each user’s activity.”

  “I was afraid of that. But you said the majority of the posts came from the coffeehouse. Is there another IP address involved?”

  “One. The most recent post prior to today’s was sent from a private laptop.”

  “Were you able to trace it?”

  “Yes, but the name it’s registered under is a pseudonym.”

  “Which one? The name might give us a clue.”

  “I doubt it.”

  Taylor felt her temper flare. It was so frustrating having her life in someone else’s hands. Did she really have to wait until her father was out of office before she could regain some semblance of control? “Stop stonewalling and tell me the registration name.”

  Clearly uncomfortable, Steven tugged at his tie as he cleared his throat. “Pussy Hound.”

  “Classy. The name matches up with the initials the author uses as a digital signature, but it doesn’t tell us jack. That means we’re back to square one.”

  “For now. I’m going to find this guy if it’s the last thing I do. When we find him—and I will find him—do you want me to shut him down?”

  “I don’t want to curtail anyone’s freedom of speech, but there’s someone close to me I can’t trust and I want to know who it is so I can cut them out of my life. Find the leak. We’ll worry about plugging it up later.”

  “You got it.”

  For the first time, Taylor felt like she and Steven were on the same side. Perhaps something good could come out of this mess, though she had no idea what that might be at the moment.

  She returned to the White House expecting to find the West Wing in full crisis mode. Instead, it was business as usual. She pigeonholed Diana Crawford, the newly appointed press secretary.

  “Did you read today’s entry in The pH Factor?”

  “Yes.” Diana’s sunny smile never faltered, no matter how daunting the obstacles life threw her way. And in politics, there was always a potential roadblock to deal with.

  “What are you going to do about
it?”

  “Nothing.”

  “Excuse me?”

  “If I called a press conference every time your father receives negative publicity, no one on staff would have time to get any work done. Me included. This tempest in a teapot will blow over before you know it. The press and public will move on to another scandal starring someone else as soon as the next news cycle begins. Hopefully, a Democrat will be the featured player next time.” Diana chuckled, but quickly turned serious. “I understand this is new for you, and I’m sorry you were mentioned in the article. But trust me when I say this is just the beginning. It will only get worse from here.”

  “Thanks,” Taylor said sarcastically. “Just what I wanted to hear.”

  Diana put her arm around Taylor’s shoulders and led her to an empty office, safe from the all-seeing eyes of official White House photographer Gary Stockett and his constantly clicking camera. “Judging from your reaction, I assume what was written about you is true.”

  Taylor nodded in confirmation.

  “Your father told me about meeting your date last night. Robby. Isn’t that her name?”

  Taylor nodded again.

  “I’m not going to put you on the spot and ask if you’re serious about her, but I will offer you a piece of advice: if you’re going to have a public romance, make sure the object of your affection is worth it. Otherwise, you could end up with egg on your face. The kind that doesn’t wash off as easily as this morning’s serving.”

  “What’s this?” Taylor asked after Diana handed her a stack of letters.

  “Fan mail. The Office of Presidential Correspondence receives over ten thousand letters, packages, and emails each day. This batch was addressed to you.”

  Taylor glanced at the sheaf of papers in her hand. Some of the missives were only a few sentences long. A few took up several pages. Most were positive, but some were decidedly less so. “What am I supposed to do with them?”

  “That’s up to you. You can ignore them if you like. Most people write to get things off their chests and don’t expect a return reply. If you do decide to respond, you can do it directly or ask the OPC to do so on your behalf.”