The Phoenix Campaign (Grace Colton Book 2)

by Heidi Joy Tretheway

  I saw the pictures, my friends in bikini tops, holding Technicolor cocktails. I never went, because my mother cleaned out my savings, wove a tale of woe so great that I gave her everything I’d saved for that trip.

  When she came to me four months later, a week after missing my graduation ceremony, and asked for more, I vowed never again.

  If only I’d listened to myself then. Because here we are now, eighteen years later, and I’ve bailed her out at least as many times. Seth tried to get me to take the tough-love angle and cut her off, but as a contract lawyer, I was pulling in double his carpenter’s wages. I overruled him.

  “Tell me what you really need, Mother. You don’t have to show up at my office to ask for a check.”

  “I wouldn’t if you’d return my calls. I have a new cell phone, you know. It works.” She fishes in her purse and flashes me a big one, expensive, at least a couple hundred dollars.

  “Why are you asking me for money if you can afford that? And a plane ticket?”

  “Borrowed the cash from my neighbor. Told him you’d pay it back.”

  “You told him I’d pay?” I’m sputtering with anger.

  “Well, when my daughter’s on the news every other night, that’s pretty good collateral, right?” Again, she gives me that flinty smile, as if she’s just outsmarted the world.

  “Collateral damage is more like it,” I mutter, silently calculating how much I could scrape out of my checking account to make her go away. Twenty-five hundred, tops.

  “Don’t you get a snippy tone with me, Missy,” my mother rebukes me. “Do you know how many reporters have this number?”

  She shakes her phone at me again and it chills me. Ohgodno. Please don’t let my mother speak to reporters. And yet, Jared warned me about this immediately after my nomination. Reporters would be coming out of the woodwork to track down old friends, relatives, whatever dirt they could scrape up.

  Hence, Jared’s very thorough vetting process.

  I summon my mildest tone for my mother. “Oh? Are you getting calls? My campaign manager, Sasha, is the best person to talk to. I could give you her number to pass along to the press if they call.”

  “Don’t be stupid. They’re not calling for you. They’re calling for me. They want to interview me. The future vice president’s mother. They want to know all about what you were like growing up.” She says it in a sing-song voice but it’s so much more than a taunt.

  It is a cold-blooded fucking threat. And now I see that this isn’t the bailout on rent she’s expecting.

  This is payday.

  It’s extortion.

  “And you declined to be interviewed.” I try to keep my statement neutral, but I need it to be a prayer, a desperate plea not to do this. Do not fuck up my run for the White House by trotting out all of our dirty laundry.

  “For now,” she says. “But they offered me money. A lot of money. And it occurred to me that you might be willing to match their offer, maybe sweeten it.”

  I sit down in my desk chair, utterly defeated. “How much?” My voice barely carries, but her sharp ears catch the question. Of course they do.

  “They offered ten thou. So I thought, maybe twelve? Fifteen to make it even?”

  “Even for whom?” I’m spitting venom again, against this woman who birthed me and raised me and knocked my self-confidence down to rubble on a daily basis. Stupid, stupid, stupid.

  “For me. I brought you into this world. Are a few handouts here and there all you’ve got for me? You didn’t even call me when you got nominated.”

  Because why would I call someone who’s always been disappointed in me? No, I spent my nomination night with the two women who love me unconditionally: Aliza and Mama Bea.

  “I’m sorry,” I say, the apology acid on my tongue. “I’m sorry for not calling you. I’m sorry these handouts aren’t enough. But I’m not rich. I spent most of Seth’s life insurance money on my first campaign and the rest on my condo. I get a congressional salary, which is less than I made as an attorney.”

  “A hundred and seventy-five thou is a lot more than I make. You get a condo and I get a shit apartment. How is that fair? And if you get elected, you’ve got a fifty-grand pay raise coming. You’ve got money to burn.”

  Shit. Damn the Internet and its instant answers about public officials’ salaries. “I haven’t been elected. And I don’t have ten grand just sitting around in my checking account.”

  “Twelve,” my mother corrects. “You can have a little time. I’m staying in Washington until Friday.”

  My eyes widen. “Where?”

  “Oh, I got myself a nice room at the InterContinental. I’ll have them send you a bill.”

  “Mother! You cannot just go spending money and borrowing from neighbors and expect I can pay for it.”

  She has the temerity to look wounded. “Why not? I see Senator Conover’s nice house, and your chauffeurs and limos and things, and I know where the vice president is going to live. It’s practically a mansion. I think it’s time for a little trickle-down.”

  “Shep’s house is something he earned with his family business. And my chauffeurs are Secret Service—they follow me around to make sure I don’t get shot or kidnapped, not to give me a sense of privilege.” I close my eyes and squeeze my fingers on the bridge of my nose, willing myself to take a deep breath and avoid saying the million things I want to.

  “Then you’re not giving me much choice here. I’ll call that nice reporter Gloria back and do her show.”

  My eyes snap open. “Gloria Alton?”

  “Yep, that’s the one. She wants to talk about your childhood. It took some digging, but I’ve got pictures in boxes. They were really interested in that.”

  “Don’t do this,” I beg, because while putting my mother on national television to be labeled Poor White Trash is one thing, the kinds of questions Gloria is likely to ask will bring up answers that I never want to see the light of day.

  What was Grace like as a child? As a teenager?

  Was she a troublemaker? What did she do?

  What were her friends like?

  Was she promiscuous?

  Why did she get suspended?

  I’m sure my mother could concoct answers that would bring a tear to Gloria’s eye. She’d sell the story perfectly, selling me out at the same time. And if she was asked a damaging question, well, my mother’s bound to tell the truth, isn’t she?

  A tap on my office door rescues me. Sasha pokes her head into my office, her eyes bouncing between my mother and me.

  The tension is thick in the room.

  “Grace, you have an appointment that you can’t keep waiting, but I thought maybe I could treat Mrs. Garcia to coffee.” She turns to my mother, a sweeping gesture like she’s welcoming royalty. “It’s such an honor to meet you. I’m so pleased you could come see the office.”

  My mother warms to Sasha’s invitation, preening as she extends a hand from the couch. “It’s Marilyn.”

  Sasha doesn’t miss a beat, taking my mother’s hand for a shake.

  “Just give me a little time,” I plead again, my meaning dancing between her going for a coffee break with Sasha and me needing a few days to scrape together money.

  “Don’t take too long, Gracie.” She shoves herself up from the couch, grabs her handbag and then pulls the cigarettes from within. She turns to Sasha. “Let’s go. I’m dying for a smoke.”

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  So much of a political campaign happens in sterile hotel ballrooms with a teleprompter that it’s a relief to do something unscripted for a change.

  Jared and I are alone in the back of a Secret Service SUV as we drive to a suburban neighborhood in Silver Spring, Maryland, where a nice nuclear family and our campaign ad specialists are waiting. Sasha set up the video shoot to give my persona “dimension” but ducked out at the last minute.

  Instead of letting a junior campaign manager fill in for Sasha, Jared’s here.

  “How’d you d
raw the short straw and get saddled with me today?” I ask Jared.

  “Saddled? I like the sound of that.” Jared’s chuckle suggests several dirty things he could do with horse tack and leather.

  I roll my eyes. “I can’t say ten words without you going straight to innuendo.” I pull back from him and sit primly in my seat, crossing my arms and ankles, but my eyes spark with mischief.

  “Sometimes I think you exist to torture me.” His hand snakes over to my knee.

  I playfully bat it away. “Sometimes I think you like it.”

  “Darlin’, I always like it.” He tries reaching for me again and this time I don’t push him away, letting his finger trace a path across my kneecap. His expression is serious, his eyes fixed on my mouth as his fingers make steady progress up my thigh.

  I point to the front of the car. “You sure the privacy screen is enough?”

  “Let’s test it out.” His raw, dirty chuckle sends a thrill up my spine. My neck bends to his seeking lips as he nips his way from earlobe to collarbone.

  I sigh as I let my knees fall open a little, and purr as Jared pushes my legs further apart. His fingers demand access and I give it, eager to feel the pure, simple high of my lover’s touch.

  It’s more than the fact that he lights up my body, sends electricity zinging to every corner of my body. It’s the fact that he sees me, both my polished side meant for public consumption, and my rough edges that make me flawed, fragile, and unique.

  I revel in his touch, his kiss, and a familiar tug in my core tells me he’s ratcheting up his demands on my body, his fingers demanding my response. My hand slides up his thigh, eager to take, take, take. When his fingers connect with my panties my breath hitches and my stomach flutters.

  “Always so ready,” he growls in my ear, his tongue seeking, his lips teasing.

  My breathing shallows as his fingers find their way past the silk barrier, flicking my clit until I throb with need. I glance out the glazed car windows, hoping we have enough time to get me to where I need to be. “More,” I pant.

  “I’ll give you more.” Jared’s fingers work me into a frenzy and I’m gasping, shuddering, ready to fling myself off a precipice and spiral into climax and bliss. But then his hand stills.

  “Don’t stop now,” I beg him. The car turns onto a residential street and I thrust my hips forward in the seat, desperate to connect with his fingers again.

  “We have to.” He pulls his hand from beneath my skirt and I moan with frustration. The devious glint in his eyes betrays his intention.

  I grab his wrist. “You meant to stop here?”

  He grins. “Guilty.”

  I roll his hand over, exposing two fingers that are slick with my moisture. “I hate you a little right now.”

  “Oh, but darlin’, I love you.” His cocky smile tells me he’s delighted to be leading me where he wants to go. Even though I fight him on policy, on tactics, and on every decision he makes to propel me forward in this campaign, this little game reaffirms his control when we’re behind closed doors.

  “Pussy-teasing bastard.” I pull his hand toward me, locking my eyes on his and taking those two fingers deep into my mouth. I lick him clean, leaving no question of what I could offer him in return. “Just remember that’s what you’ll be missing out on next time you tease me.”

  “You think denying me will put you in control?” He tilts his head, his slow drawl dangerously low. “Two can play at this game.”

  The SUV rolls to a stop in the driveway of a middle-class home. I shake my head and let out a gah! of frustration.

  ***

  Four cameras, including two shoulder-mounts and a wide-shot on a slider, crowd into the Hales’ living room. I’m seated around a coffee table with Jess and Marcus Hale while their thirteen-year-old son and ten-year-old daughter linger at the kitchen bar across the room.

  We talk taxes and the challenge of balancing two full-time jobs with kids to raise and a mortgage to pay. We discuss the real impacts of legislation on middle-class Americans. The gulf between what happens on Capitol Hill and how these programs and policies affect them becomes crystal clear.

  “We had to choose between the local public school, which has four portable classrooms taking up most of the blacktop on the playground, and thirty-three kids in Elise’s fourth-grade class, or paying for a private school,” Jess tells me.

  “But if we went the private-school route, we’d never be able to save enough to afford college, even if they went in-state,” Marcus adds.

  I question them about how health care policy affects their family’s budget and learn that their son’s type-one diabetes factors heavily into their medical costs. We talk national security and I learn that Jess worked at the Pentagon during the 9/11 attacks. She quit soon after and decided to be a stay-at-home mom until Elise was old enough for kindergarten.

  “It was the best choice for my kids, but it’s a financial decision that put us behind in every way,” Jess admits.

  What started as a shoot designed to be sliced-and-diced into clips for campaign ads and media releases becomes something real. A real family, with real struggles. Parents who want what’s best for their kids, even if it means tightening their own belts, driving old cars and skipping vacations.

  As I learn more about their lives, the cameras recede into the background and we become just people talking, relating because both of our boys—their Liam and my Ethan—had mild learning delays that made reading a challenge. We talk about how Marcus had to take unpaid leave to heal after back surgery, which forced them to run up their credit cards to almost crippling debt levels.

  Finally, I ask the question that’s most important to me. “When you think of your dreams for the future, what do you want most?”

  “Security,” Marcus tells me. “I need to be sure that my kids can earn their own way in life, get a good job, buy a house eventually. And I need the security in retirement to know we’ll never be a burden to them.”

  I nod at Jess for her answer. “Grandchildren,” she says. “I want my kids to grow up, fall in love, and marry. Nothing matters more to me than my family.”

  As we wrap up the shoot, Jess’s words echo in my brain. Family. Nothing matters more to me than my family.

  ***

  Jared tells the Secret Service to take us to my place. We climb back in the SUV and he winks at me.

  “You’d better be ready to pick up where you left off,” I say, my voice low, vibrating with need. Throughout the interview, whenever I connected with his gaze, it felt like he was devouring me with his eyes.

  “I’m always ready.” His lazy smile makes my stomach warm, my knees weak with want.

  He puts a respectable distance between us as we cross the parking garage, ride the elevator with my security detail, and walk down the hall toward my condo. I fumble for my keys and drop them; he snatches them off the floor and unlocks the door maddeningly slowly.

  When the door closes behind us, I whirl toward him, grasping his shirt and pulling our bodies tightly together. “You. Tease.” I breathe tease like an accusation, and he steps back, pulling me off-balance.

  “That’s the idea.” He saunters to my bedroom, forcing me to follow in his wake. “The wondering is half the fun. The waiting. The wanting.”

  He turns to me and squares his shoulders, but he doesn’t reach for me. I’m ready to tear off my clothes and his and just do this, but his normally frenzied pace that drives us into bed is now deliberate, designed to make me crazy.

  I step toward him again and he raises his hand, forcing me to pause.

  “Eager?” His smile widens and he sits on my bed. He points to my blouse. “Take it off.”

  I fumble for the buttons.

  “Slowly,” he corrects me.

  I force my fingers to slow and I shed each garment, my eyes locked on his, waiting for his command. A nod or a gesture tells me take this off and now that.

  When I’m stripped bare, standing in my bedroom in nothing b
ut heels, he twirls his finger. “Face the wall.”

  I turn and he grasps my wrist, anchoring it to the wall above my head. “Don’t move this hand.” He takes my other wrist and presses my palm to the wall alongside the first. His shoe taps the inside of my ankle. “Spread your legs.”

  I look like a suspect about to be frisked, but God knows I have nowhere to hide contraband, except in my mind and my heart. Jared’s breath licks over my bare skin, his fingers trailing along the sides of my breast and down my ribcage, then lower until they reach my sex.

  My panting is the only sound in this room and my ears strain to anticipate Jared’s touch. I hear the soft rustle as he drops his clothes on the floor, then the sharp smack and sting as his palm raises a red welt on my ass.

  I squeak in surprise and bite my lip.

  Another smack, this one on my other ass cheek, and I whimper, willing my legs to hold me upright. Jared’s hand moves between my legs again, his deep hum evidence that he likes the effect of this spanking.

  “More?”

  I close my eyes tightly and nod, leaving no uncertainty. Hell, yes, I want more. This power play, this little bit of taboo, is what I crave. Jared uncovers the things I need when I can’t even say them.

  More blows color my ass. Heat blooms there and throbs between my legs. My breathing is ragged as I pant between each smack, hiss to cover the scream that wants to break free. I want to break free.

  He pinches my clit and I moan with relief, climbing steadily as my orgasm spirals tighter. Another spank, and I’m almost at the edge, feeling the waves of energy gather into one blinding point of pleasure.

  “Not yet. Don’t come yet.” Jared’s hand stills and I want to cry, beg, plead for more.

  My hands slide down the wall. I need to pounce on him, demand the climax he denies.

  His hand closes over my wrists and shoves them back to position. “I told you, don’t move,” Jared says. “This isn’t about denying your pleasure. This is about extending it, forcing you to hold where you are until you’re so full you can’t take any more.”