by Lola West
It was that attitude, her straightforwardness about herself and her life, that had my father’s team at a loss. At this point the men had taken off their ties and the women’s heels were tossed aside. There were half-drunk cups of coffee strewn about the suite’s living room and a platter on the table that had only crumbs left over from the pastries that everyone had devoured hours ago. Earlier in the day, they were drafting ideas on a rolling white marker board, but now they had shot down so many ideas that the surface was streaked with the leftover colors they had tried to wipe away. About an hour ago my father had written “I hate tree huggers” in the center of the blurry red and blue residue, making his staff laugh. It was weird for me to see him act silly or pleasant. That piece of his personality was completely reserved for the people who worked for him. He never came home smiling.
Out of ideas, they had returned to the possibility of a smear campaign.
Gloria didn't like it. “It doesn't seem catastrophic. Nothing is dark enough to me. Scott, run through it again.”
Scott was a researcher, a good one. My father called him the “Truffle Pig” because he turned up ugly little gems that were worth their weight in gold.
“Okay, Lua herself is pretty clean. No drug arrests or weird sexcapades. She has three citations for civil disobedience type stuff, all nonviolent. Stuff like protesting without a permit. That kind of stuff. Beyond that she’s sparkly, like not even a speeding ticket.”
“What was she protesting?” I asked, and they all looked at me like they forgot I was there, which they might have. Scott quickly glanced at the senator to see if he should answer me. The senator gave a subtle nod.
“Different things each time, but all human rights related. ADA and Disabilities stuff, a #blacklivesmatter rally, and something to do with sex trafficking. We also have her at some prochoice and planned parenthood rallies but not with photos, and no arrests there.” I had never been at a protest in my life. Lua seemed to go to them like it was her job.
Gloria shook her head. “That doesn’t work. She’s a liberal, we know that, everyone knows that. I think you could ask her about any of those things and she would tell you what she thinks. That’s what people like about her.”
My father piped in, “What about that commune, do we have anything on that? Orgies or drugs or something? Can we call them a cult?”
“It seems odd, but there are no reports of anything strange. A couple of the adults have drug arrests from decades ago. Lua’s dad got nabbed for possession when he was like twenty-five. He had like a joint. No intent to sell.” I had more weed than that in my suitcase downstairs.
“What about her mom?” Gloria asked.
“A black hole. Somehow, she’s not even on the birth certificate. From what I can tell, Lua was born at home and her father and a midwife, Susan somebody, filed the paperwork.”
“Did her mother die? Is there a death certificate?”
“Nope, just no record of a legal maternal parent.”
“Huh? Maybe that’s something,” Gloria said. “Any record of her dad being married? Can we figure out who her mother is?”
Scott’s face was terse. Clearly, he had looked for the mother, and he attempted to hide his irritation. “No record of a marriage. And history doesn’t record girlfriends, dates, one-night stands, or nooners. So, we can work on the mom, but it seems like a dead end since Lua has never laid eyes on her.”
Gloria was miffed by the dig, “Maybe she’s got something on them we won’t find anywhere else.”
I felt like my throat was closing. I didn't want this for Lua. I didn’t want them to find her mom that she’d never met just so that they could rip open that wound and piss on it, so I opened my mouth, “What about me?”
Again, they looked at me like they had forgotten I was there, which wasn’t possible this time, so maybe it was just their endless belief that I was not worth considering. Their empty stares didn’t make this any easier, but I knew how fucked up being the target of the senator’s ire could make you and I wanted to protect Lua from that, so I had to come up with something.
It was the senator who spoke. “What about you, Drew?” He was irritated. Good. His anger strengthened me.
“Put me in front of the camera with her.”
He laughed. “Did you forget, we’re in this mess because of you?”
“That’s why you need to put me on camera with her. Let the world see us next to each other. Let them see we are both just kids, good American kids.”
I had caught Gloria’s attention, her eyes racing.
I continued before anyone could jump in. “Borrow from her toolbox, Dad. Let me go on a talk show with her; let me look like a happy good guy, make nice with her, like we’re friends. Let me show the world that Lua isn’t unusual.” I went too far. I knew that was impossible; Lua was more than unusual. She was extraordinary.
They didn’t seem to get that.
Gloria smirked. “I like it. This could work.” She stood, strode over to the marker board, erased “I hate pretty tree huggers” and started making notes. She was quickly jotting down bullet points, Drew prep, find perfect show, and arm Drew with a solution, before the senator interrupted her flow.
“I see where you’re going with this, Gloria, but he hasn’t got the chops. He’ll crumble under the pressure.”
Gloria shook her head, and to my surprise she stood her ground and backed me. “I know you hate to hear this, but you’re not right, Senator.”
“Really? You know my son better than I do?”
“No, I know your team better than you do. Drew will be ready. We’ll make him ready. We’ll preapprove the conversations, leave nothing to chance. And…” She nodded to the marker board. “We’ll shut it down with this exchange. Drew will announce a solution we will work something out with Bonnaroo, increased security and smoke free next year or something like that, or maybe we bring in the cancer centers of America to promote a smoke free festival, and then we can have Drew spin a yarn about fatherly love.”
The senator wasn’t yet convinced. “I’ll sound like I’m irrational and rash.”
“No, you won’t because we will hold a press conference afterwards, on the campaign trail somewhere, and you can tell the whole world that music festivals are joyous; it’s drugs that are the issue and with these new regulations, people can feel safe that the Bonnaroo of the future will be a creative and inspiring event that doesn’t promote unhealthy behavior.”
And there you had it, spin.
6
Lua
I had no idea how I let Joe talk me into going to New York to be on a stupid talk show. But I had. Three days ago, The Kelsey Jennings Show, which I had never heard of and Joe described as news lite—whatever that means—called to ask me if I wanted to sit down with Drew Scott, and I quote, “talk it all out.” Joe was standing next to me when I started to say no, and he literally grabbed the phone to keep me from answering the producer lady. We were standing in his kitchen.
“Do it,” he whispered.
“Give me the phone.” I wasn’t in a whispering mood.
“Not until you agree to go.”
“Why would I do that, Joe?”
I could hear the woman waiting on the phone saying, “Hello? Hello?”
“I can think of a number of reasons.” He raised his eyebrows, opened his eyes wide, trying to emphasize that I knew the reason. He didn't want to say it out loud, just in case the producer lady could hear him. What he was getting at was Drew, but not what happened with Drew at Bonnaroo or my totally screwed-up feelings for Drew. What he was getting at was something way worse.
No use sugarcoating it; I had recently discovered that Drew Scott was a junior at Hamilton. I didn’t snoop on him or anything, but when I was on the news, I watched and, well, in this situation, watching myself meant hearing about Drew. It was like less than a day after the initial interview before I heard a news anchor say, “Drew Scott, Hamilton College Junior…” So, there you had it, Drew Sco
tt and I, the two colliding atoms in the mighty expanse of the wide Sargasso Sea. It was a nightmare. I wanted nothing to do with Drew right now, mostly because I was majorly embarrassed by the intensity of my feelings for him. It was like I had no inner compass, no intuitive sense of goodness. My feelings for him made me feel breakable, naïve, and plain old dumb. How could I be such a poor judge of character?
I continued to deny Joe’s argument. “Sorry, that’s not a good reason.”
“It is. You need to clear the air.”
I was fairly certain that Drew had no idea that I was going to Hamilton. It wasn’t a tidbit that the media seemed to have picked up on. I hadn't mentioned it, and since I’d never attended before, there was no one to say they knew me or whatever.
“That will work out, Joe.”
“It will be weird. This is perfect. You handle it, and then it’s over and everything can be close to normal when you get there, no weird anxiety ruining stuff.” He was being as vague as possible, still wary of the producer lady. Then he rolled his eyes. “Plus, New York, duh.” He held the phone out to me.
And then I was going. I woke up before dawn. Joe drove me to the Boston airport. I drank too much coffee on the plane. I caught a yellow cab like in the movies, watched the skyline go by, spotted the Empire State Building, checked into the hotel that was arranged for me, and then I was sitting in the lobby waiting for the car the studio was sending to take me to the show when Drew stepped off the elevator.
The hotel was super contemporary, lots of white and silver, white marble floors, silver leather chairs, white fuzzy couches that looked like dead animals, these huge metal nets with lights and crystals hanging from the ceiling. Suffice it to say, it was a long way from the thrive. I was told to meet my driver in the lobby at noon, but I was a barrel of nerves, so I found myself standing in the lobby at ten to twelve. I choose to sit in an ornate armchair; it was white leather with silver tufted buttons, and it had a ridiculously high back and sides. It was in the center of the lobby, situated around a silver coffee table with other chairs and couches like a living room. Directly in front of me was reception and the concierge; the hotel entrance was on my left, and the elevator doors were to my right.
I saw him as soon as the elevator doors opened. I immediately leaned back and tried to melt into the armchair or at the very least disappear behind its sides. He didn’t see me right away. Then I felt like one of those goofy blonds in a slapstick romantic comedy who was sneaking through a crowded environment peering over the edge of a book or hiding behind a tray trying to catch a glimpse of the guy she liked. In this situation there was some possibility that I was going to flip over my chair or trip a waiter and cause a gargantuan ruckus that got his attention and left me feeling like a fool.
Unlike me, Drew didn’t appear to have this kind of trouble. He moved through the lobby with confidence and headed to the concierge desk. He walked past me, but he had his phone pressed to his ear. His eyebrows were pinched, and his jaw clenched. I had no idea who was on the other end of that phone, but it was intense for Drew.
My heart pounded in my chest. He looked so good, more like the guy I met at Bonnaroo than the Drew Scott that I saw on television. Gone was the slicked back hair, in favor of a tousled I-just-roll-out-of-bed-this-sexy look. Like me, he was dressed pretty casually. That was the vibe the show was looking for. He was wearing a light-blue oxford shirt, dark jeans, gray converse sneakers, and a brown belt. His sleeves were rolled up, and the top two buttons of the shirt were undone. Waiting to speak to the concierge, he stood right in my line of sight with his profile to me and finished his call.
Being in the same room with him sucked the breath right out of my lungs. Everything I felt for him that night at Bonnaroo came rushing back. I hadn’t expected to see him before I got to the show’s studio and I wasn't prepared. Honestly, I felt itchy, not like ants crawling on you itchy but like buzzing, zooming, need-to-act itchy. Part of me wanted to run away screaming, part wanted to shake him and be like, what the eff, dude? And a third part, the least smart part, wanted to grab him, drag him up to my room, and peel his clothes off.
He turned slightly toward the concierge, and I noticed he had his sunglasses tucked into his back pocket.
That’s stupid, I thought. He’s going to sit on them.
Then my mouth went dry because my eyes drifted beyond the sunglasses to the way his jeans gripped his butt. I’ve never really been a butt girl. I don’t even like the word butt. But in this case, um, whoa. He ended his call, slipped his phone in the pocket opposite the sunglasses, and approached the desk. As he moved, my gaze drifted north. He was tall, taller than I remembered, and the expanse of his shoulders was delectable, so much brawn. I looked away. I had to stop. Being attracted to Drew was not on the table. He was the son of a man who thought gay people didn’t deserve civil rights. Drew was not for me. Could you imagine my father and his father having Thanksgiving together? The thought of it made me scoff. Like out loud. It wasn’t a huge noise, but it was enough to make Drew turn around.
His icy green eyes snared me. At first his expression was something between panic and frustration, and then for a split second it softened, like he was maybe happy to see me. I swallowed. The possibility of happiness drifted, and he looked like he had the night I met him, lost and overwhelmed. I thought about waving but he just kept staring, didn’t blink, nothing; it was like we were trapped in a staring contest to the death. I wasn’t going to be the one to look away, but I was more than uncomfortable. I was sure we’d been staring at each other for a really long time; although, when you’re anxious, a minute is endless. Looking at him like that, trapped by his stare, an ache bloomed first in my chest, and then lower. He was so beautiful. I couldn’t help it; I bit my lip, it's a tick. I do it all the time. And in this case, as soon as I did, he looked away, turning back to face the concierge.
I didn’t move. What was I supposed to do? I stayed where I was and waited, wondering if he would say hello after he finished with whatever he was doing. I looked at my watch; it was just about noon. He hadn’t looked back at me. Suddenly, I couldn’t stay there. I couldn’t sit in a chair just to see if Drew Scott was going to do me the favor of a hello. I grabbed my bag and headed outside to wait for the car the studio was sending to pick me up.
As I exited the lobby doors, I was smacked by the heat of the city in the summer. City heat is unbearable, not alive like the country in the summer. City heat is like an oven, the fiery reflection of cooking pavement. In particular, New York City in the summer can be outright stifling. In this instance, the heat just added to my anger. Grump.
A bellhop in a retro white getup with silver buttons and piping approached me and asked, “Taxi, miss?”
“Um… No, I’m waiting for a car… from The Kelsey Jennings Show.”
He held a white-gloved hand out, ushering me toward a black Lincoln town car. I headed in that direction and a uniformed driver jumped out to open the door for me.
“Lua Steinbeck?” he asked.
I nodded and then ducked into the back seat. He took his place behind the steering wheel but didn’t take the car out of park. What was he waiting for? I leaned toward him just a touch. “Sir, are we leaving?”
“Just need to wait for Mr. Scott, miss. Then we will be on our way.”
Awesome. I looked over my shoulder just in time to see Drew exit the lobby and get directed toward the car. The driver got out to open the door for him as well. I scooted over when I noticed he was headed for the same door I had just come through. Unlike me, Drew got into the car ass first, and I noticed his sunglasses were still in his pocket.
Instinctually, I reached out, grabbed his waist, and said, “Wait.” I felt his muscles tighten at my touch. I couldn’t believe that I’d touched him. My fingers felt all trembly. All I could squeak out was, “Your sunglasses.” He didn’t move. I let go and pulled his sunglasses from his pocket without making contact with any other part of his body. He sat down, and I handed the
sunglasses to him. He took them, but he didn’t look at me. He also didn’t say thank you. He didn't speak at all. Nothing, not one word.
Asshole.
I couldn’t help myself, I turned away from him and under my breath, grumbled, “You’re welcome” to the window glass.
7
Drew
Breathe. She was so close. She was wearing some navy-blue dress that was even more alluring than the green one from her first interview, and I was being a dick. I almost fucking crumbled in the lobby. The way she was looking at me, like she wouldn’t flinch if I crossed the room, grabbed her face, and devoured her mouth. It was too much. Even before I turned, I heard that little noise, not quite a laugh, not quite a snort, and I knew it was her behind me. Turning to look was instinctual, and then I couldn’t stop looking. Fuck. I swear to God, when she bit her lip, I was instantly hard, and not like wow, that’s exciting hard, more like huh, wonder if that could cut through metal hard. I broke our stare and turned back to face the concierge because I was pretty certain that if I kept looking at her, the entire room would know what she did to me.
And then, when I got into the car and she touched me, I almost came undone. Literally, I thought I was going to cry. Just that tiny touch, her hand at my waist, and I was so shaken, so needy, so wanton. Like at Bonnaroo, I wanted to curl up in her, wrap my arms around her waist, bury my face in her thigh, and never let go. She was just too much for me. She did not seem to understand that I was dangerous for her. Even if I keep myself from fucking her up with my shit, there was still the poisoned world I came with. She would get hurt around me. She was already getting hurt. I spent the last week sitting in a room full of people who were plotting her demise and she had to know that; she had to know that I come from everything she and her father and all the people that she grew up with reject; she had to know that I stand for the kind of people that would use her ideas to demean her and make her look ignorant, evil, and stupid, and yet she instinctually stopped me from crushing my own sunglasses.
