I pull in a breath, my mind racing and stumbling and coming up empty. Kill a presidential candidate?
“He asked you to assassinate me,” Temperance goes on. “He knows I'm a thorn in his side. That I am your contact and protector." That I’m black. He doesn’t say it, but I hear it. “He also knows I’m pursuing his ties to white supremacists and other dangerous connections we can’t go into at this time.”
I put up a hand, asking him to slow down. Closing my eyes, I pull in a deep breath. “That is so extreme.” I finally find some words, though they hardly do justice to the swirl of confusion in my mind. This all sounds crazy! “Your superiors can’t…I mean, who has the ability to authorize this?”
Temperance ignores my questions about his superiors. "I have a lot of leeway. And we're going to use it." Glancing over at Justin, I see that the young man’s jaw has gone slack with surprise again. This guy does not have a poker face.
“Reginald Grand is a danger to the country.” Temperance’s voice thrums through the large room. “And our mission is to keep this nation safe. We have to stop him.”
In the morning, Archie and I take an Uber over to Mary's office, and I show up looking like I’m not hiding from a presidential candidate who wants me to kill for him…and who I’m plotting to murder in return.
Mary meets me at the elevator and, looping an arm through mine, she bustles us to her office. "Did you hear about Julian?" she asks, her voice low.
“I was there when they arrested him. It's bullshit."
“This is a disaster. A goddamn disaster."
“I know, even an accusation can be devastating.” Archie squirms in his bag and pops out his head. I rub under his chin, and he sighs appreciatively.
"You're so sure he didn't do it?" Mary asks me, brows raised, mascara-shrouded eyes wide.
"Yes.”
Mary’s lips press tight, and she nods once before crossing the room and pouring herself a coffee from a silver carafe. She holds it up, offering me a cup. I shake my head. "Just water please." She pulls a chilled bottle from the mini-fridge. Bringing it over, she puts it in my hands and smiles. Her be brave smile. "We'll get through this,” she promises me.
She has no idea. I give her back a smile that says I'm glad you're with me.
"So you two have been dating?" she asks, her voice pitching up.
"Yes." There's no need to be shy about it; we've been photographed together numerous times.
"So this can affect you,” she says. "We have Jennifer on staff. But for crises like this I like to bring in some extra muscle. Do you know Damon Schwartz?”
"By reputation." He's the master at hiding or spinning the biggest scandals in Hollywood.
“Good.” Mary nods once. “I talked to him this morning, and he's willing to take you on. His fees are astronomical, but he's amazing. These accusations could screw everything up——turn you into tabloid fodder as the wronged woman. We need to get out in front of it."
I don't have time for that. I've got to meet Temperance. "Mary, listen."
She interrupts me. "No, you need to listen to me. Damon's coming in after your meeting with Troy, and we're formulating a plan. It's what's happening."
Mary crosses to her office door and opens it, waiting for me. We're headed into the meeting with my new director. Right now I'm not fleeing or fighting. I'm getting ready to create.
Troy Woods is thin on the verge of emaciated. The bones of his wrists are clearly visible when he reaches out to shake my hand, and his fingers feel like sticks in my grip. The Oscar-winning director smiles at me, the skin around his eyes crinkling. He's in his late forties and has spent the last decade making hit movies and apparently not eating.
"Pleasure to meet you." He's nodding and smiling as he releases my hand, his straw blond hair bouncing around his face, reminding me of a friendly scarecrow.
"I am so honored,” I gush. "It's a dream to work with you."
He waves his hand as if trying to bat away the compliment. “I’m excited to work with you too but, please, let's not turn this into too much of a love fest." He laughs. Mary and I laugh with him.
Troy moves toward the conference table, taking control of the room and the meeting. Mary moves to follow us, and he catches her eye, cocking his head slightly. He wants us to be alone. Mary nods and excuses herself, the door whispering closed behind her.
"I am so excited to get started,” Troy says, motioning toward the table. There are two scripts waiting, and I feel a thrill run through me.
Usually they send the script over early—in most cases I’d read it before accepting a role. But this is the Star Wars franchise and Troy Woods, so this is my first chance to see it. I ease into a chair, pulling the manuscript toward me.
"I've been working on it, and I think it's really good,” Troy says, taking the seat catty-cornered to mine. He's got a nervous energy to him, as if there's a vortex of creativity swirling around inside his chest trying to burst out.
"I'm sure it's excellent." I go to open it, and he puts his hand on the cover, stilling me.
"I'm sorry. But can you just wait a minute?” I look up at him. Troy takes a deep breath and closes his eyes. "There is a method to my madness. I swear." He gives a self-deprecating laugh.
"Sure." I take my hands off the manuscript and fold them in my lap to keep from grabbing at it.
"I want us to get to know each other a little bit first." His eyes meet mine. "And then I want to talk about who your character is and how I see her for this film."
That would all be easier if I could read the script. But I just nod and smile.
Troy sits back in his chair and folds his hands over his thin chest. He's wearing a simple gold wedding band, scratched and patinaed. He and his wife have been together for twenty-five years—they are one of those famed Hollywood couples that have managed to make it. Does he cheat on her? Does he force actresses to give him head?
I try and push the idea out of my mind. Not every man is a predator.
"First, I want to get something really simple out of the way." He takes a deep breath. “Temperance."
I can feel the color draining from my face. My hands grip each other in my lap. "Temperance?" I stutter out.
"The name of your character,” he says.
I feel like I'm choking. "I'm sorry." I look down at my hands and then force my eyes up to meet his gaze. "I wasn't…Right, of course. I didn't realize that was her name." Color is rushing back to my cheeks—a blush, the type of which I have not suffered since middle school, is surging over me.
"That's fine, you haven't seen the script. Of course you don’t know her name." He sits forward quickly. "You've got a pretty terrible poker face."
I manage to keep my expression neutral, just raising one brow. I have no idea what's happening. Or where we are in this conversation. All I know is that I need to not react.
"Your character's name isn't Temperance." He gives a quick bark of a laugh. "I'm just fucking with you. I'm talking about Temperance. Temperance Johnson.”
My heart is hammering in my chest, but the smile I give him says: I have no idea what you're talking about, and I'm indulging you because you're my director.
He sits back in his chair. "That's much better."
"So." I reach up to touch the script again. "Should we get started?"
He does that strange bark of a laugh again, his narrow chest shuddering. "Okay, you're actually very good. I wasn't so sure when Temperance suggested that we work together. But I have grown to trust the man. He's got an eye for talent. We’ve worked together for about a decade now." Troy holds my gaze—his eyes are green with flecks of gold, like a wheat field in early summer.
I don't say anything. I don't want to give anything away. Is he really working for Temperance? Or is he on Grand’s side and just playing me? And why would a big-time Hollywood director be involved with any of these people? What did he get caught doing?
"He told me about the issue with Grand." Troy sits forward and p
icks up a plastic water bottle from the center of the table. "Tricky business, that." He cracks the lid and takes a slug, his Adam’s apple bobbing. "But I think I can help."
"I'm sorry. I'm not entirely sure what you're talking about." I keep my voice neutral, once again a woman letting a powerful madman spin his tale.
"Oh please, you've recovered well, but you gave it all away with that first flush of color." He runs his hands over his face and gives me a mock look of utter shock.
Uncomfortable, I wiggle in my seat, embarrassed by my behavior. Scared by it. I exposed myself to him. But isn't that a director's job? To get you to expose yourself? No wonder Temperance likes working with people in my industry.
"I'm telling you I can help you. There's a party tonight. Grand’s back in town, you know?”
I did know. The final presidential debate is scheduled for tomorrow and Grand and his Democratic opponent had flown in a couple days early to adjust to the time change while prepping for the debate. Given the stakes, I assumed he’d be squirreled away the whole time with advisers at some quiet location.
Troy goes on, “I can take you as my date." He takes another sip of the water. "Your face is getting red again."
I clear my throat. Look down at my hands and try to rein in some of the insanity raging in my brain. “Are you,” I lean forward, keeping my voice low. “Are you suggesting that you—and Temperance—want me to kill him? Tonight?”
He gives a nod, that scarecrow hair flopping forward. Then Troy taps the script. "The dilemma you're facing now is very similar to what your character goes through. This is going to be great prep for the part." I don't say anything. Can't. "This is the kind of work that'll make you a star."
The gown, borrowed from a top designer, looks like a Jackson Pollock painting—sprays and dots of colors—with spaghetti straps, a corset, and a skirt that comes to my knees.
I run my hands over my hips, turning to the side. I look good. Gorgeous, famous, everything I ever want to be. I'm staring at my ass. At the firm roundness of it. I have spent countless hours working on this ass, perfecting its shape. Denying myself delicious food in service to it. It does give me power in return.
My eyes rove to the script Troy gave me, which sits on my dresser. I have everything I came to this city to get…with just this one small caveat.
My grandmother's face flashes in my mind; wrinkled and gnarled with age, features twisted with bitterness. But we have the same dark hair and thick lashes…the same strength of will. Did she have to kill to escape the Nazis? She was a child.
A sudden, pressing need to hear her voice makes my skin itch. I've got my phone in my hand, and I'm dialing home before I even fully realize it. Home.
My maternal grandmother moved into my parents’ house after I lost them. A small farm that they worked in addition to their other jobs. Dad was born and raised in the Midwest, his accent thick and bland, his hair blond and wavy. A good and simple man. The kind you read about: hard working and married to the same woman his whole life. In many ways, he lived the American dream…until he died.
There are a million ways to live the American dream.
My mom grew up without a father. She didn’t remember him and questioning my grandmother never led to answers. They didn’t get along, Mom and Grandma, but a fierce loyalty kept them in touch.
And when I had no one else, Grandma raised me.
The phone picks up and the TV murmurs in the background but no one speaks. A lump blocks my voice. I haven't talked to her in almost a year. Not since my last visit.
I clear my throat and force my tongue to work. “Hello.”
"Stacy?" My grandmother's voice, thin as paper and strong as iron, crosses the line.
“Yes, it’s me.” Silence stretches between us. "I just wanted to call and say hi."
"I don't believe you, child. What are you doing out there?”
"My most recent film was a big success." I stand up, suddenly feeling this ridiculous urge to defend myself, as if her opinion matters.
"Well, what do you want? A gold star?"
I look at myself in the mirror, at the stunning figure that I strike. I square my shoulders and lift my chin.
I am a queen.
But am I a coward? Ask her.
"I wanted to ask you a question.”
"Well, spit it out."
"Have you ever killed anyone?"
Silence. "That's a rude question."
"I'm not trying to be rude. I just want to know when you were a kid and..."
"And the Nazis wiped out my entire family. Did I kill any of them?" There's anger in her voice, old rage seething. The kind of anger you can never fully release.
Could it be so strong that it’s passed down in our DNA? My mother was the opposite of angry—shy and compliant. All she strived for was to make everyone around her comfortable and happy. She wanted a normal life, and she got it as best she could. Married my father, who was as cornfed as America makes them, and worked hard. She lived the American dream too.
I read about a study that found fear was passed down in mice DNA. The scientist filled a cage with acetaminophen—which smells of almonds—while administering electric shocks to mice. Soon the small creatures shook at the scent of acetaminophen. Their pups did the same even though they never suffered the shocks.
Did my grandmother's bloodlust get passed down to me?
"Yes," I say to her. "I am asking if you killed any of them."
"I never got the chance. But I wish I could have. I really do." Her coldness, the anger in her voice, stokes that fire inside of me.
"Thanks, Grandma."
"For what? Are you going to use this for some role?” Disdain drips off her words.
I meet my own gaze in the mirror—the unique violet color stunning—framed by my long, dark lashes. "Yes. For a very important role."
Troy Woods and I move down the red carpet together, telling reporters about my role in his upcoming film. We smile, we laugh at each other's jokes, we answer questions about how excited we are to work together. Very.
Inside the event space, away from the cameras, the light is low. Buffet tables heaped with gourmet food line the walls. Chandeliers hang from the ceiling, throwing purple light around the room, making all the meticulously displayed food look odd and unappetizing.
Waiters dressed in black move through the space with trays of drinks. Troy grabs two champagne glasses and hands me one.
"Grand isn't here yet," he says.
There is surveillance on every exit and entrance.
Troy is the lead, and I am but a weapon. The actress to his director.
But is that fair? That takes all the responsibility of this and lays it on his shoulders. I agreed to be the weapon…to the role.
I fiddle with the ring on my finger. It's very similar to the one I used on Vladimir, but the stone is ice blue. Temperance assured me that this time would be different. It is a delayed-reaction drug that will take days to go into effect—his death will look like a heart attack, unconnected to sharing a drink with you at a crowded event. Grand is overweight, older, and loves junk food. We’re really just helping nature along.
"I'm going to get a bite to eat," Troy says. My brows raise. The guy is so thin you'd think he didn't consume food at all, let alone in a high stress situation.
My stomach is bursting with thoughts and feelings; I couldn't add one morsel.
"Wait," I put my hand on his arm. "Don't leave me alone." The words spill out. I didn't even know I was going to say them. Didn't realize I needed him by my side in this crowd.
He throws me a smile, the thinness of his face making him look skeletal under the strange purple light.
“Come on.” I follow him through the crowd, my full champagne glass spilling over the sides and wetting my hand.
Eyes track me. People are whispering.
Julian's situation is public. I didn't get asked about it by the press out front because of the work Mary and her team have put into shieldin
g me.
Will eliminating Grand solve Julian's problems? Temperance assures me he can take care of it. But I'm not doing this solely for him. I'm doing this for the country. A man like Grand, ruthless, racist and unscrupulous—willing to risk national security for his own personal vendettas—shouldn't be the ruler of the most powerful country on earth.
Who am I to decide? Just one woman playing a role.
We reach a buffet table, and Troy grabs a plate, beginning to pile sushi onto it. My stomach twists. He glances over at me, cocking his head as he listens to the small device in his ear.
"Grand is here,” he says, popping a shrimp into his mouth. Troy chews thoughtfully as he continues listening.
Will I ever be so used to this that I can snack on shrimp while plotting an assassination?
The lights flicker, and the music screeches off. My heart thumps in my chest. What is going on?
There are small cries of alarm, and the crowd seems to surge, everyone moving closer to each other and then away—bodies are bouncing against us. Fingers grip my arm, and I recognize the bony touch of Troy.
People are pulling out their phones and flashlight apps glow. The room is suddenly sparkling with them. A couple hundred spotlights—everyone has one in their pocket.
"What's going on?" I ask, reaching into my purse for my phone.
"It's a power outage. Probably from the fires,” Troy answers.
"What are they going to do?" I ask.
"There are generators. The lights should be back on soon."
He pops another shrimp into his mouth. I can see his jaw working in the dim light of the flashlights.
My own phone out, I flick on the app and shine it down at my feet.
"We've lost Grand in the darkness,” Troy says, his mouth half full of shrimp. “Secret service might evacuate him. We may have lost our opportunity.”
Relief and dread war in my chest. "Can you stop eating?” I say, my voice coming out harsh. Annoyed. "Sorry," I say immediately. "I'm feeling a little tense." I let out a small laugh, the word tense does not do justice to what I'm feeling. I'm on the verge of puking. I'm on the verge of taking a life. And there's a freaking blackout.
A Spy Is Born Page 17
