“Oh, but our platform is based on strong family values. We’re a hard-line, progress—”
“Here.” He bent and, without a single fumble, retrieved one of my yard signs—pathetically gaudy in the bright overhead light—and slid it through the open door. “Would you mind planting this in the grass on your way out? Thanks.” Without waiting for whatever perfect response Tamara Wylie might come up with, he closed the door.
He turned to face me, arms folded across his chest. “You think you can beat him?”
“I can beat him.”
“You don’t sound convinced.”
“The voters are the ones who need convincing.”
“I’m close to being convinced.”
“Why?”
“You’re adorable.”
“What? That’s not a—” I paused. “What do you mean I’m adorable?”
“You’re passionate. I like that you truly believe in what you’re doing. Not to mention…” His head tilted and his mouth turned up in a slight smile. “You’re canvassing with a good luck bunny tied to your bag.”
“Oh.” I paused. “So I have your vote?”
“Tell me more about your platform.”
I swallowed, wondering if I should be nervous all alone in this man’s house. “I’m the council member for the people.”
His eyebrows came together to create a lower case n. “Which people?”
I pulled my eyes away from that perfectly shaped wrinkle. “People like me. People whose parents worked two jobs, but still couldn’t afford preschool or health insurance.” I lifted my chin, ready for any response. Since the CaraVan app I used when canvassing had exactly zero information about the occupant of this house, I had no idea which way he usually voted. “Did you know they’re cutting eighty percent of funding to resources that affect our area’s low-income families? Afterschool programs, nutrition, libraries. It’s all being cut, while the power company’s getting a tax break. They’re talking about jobs, but the only work coming is temporary. Two years of employment, at best, while they shove that pipeline right into our backyards. Once construction’s done, the jobs are gone and families will have even less.”
“You a socialist?” he asked, and I tensed up.
“I believe in giving a voice to those who are under-represented.”
“You sure avoid direct answers. That’s very politician-like.”
Was he laughing at me again? His lips had flattened into an expression that could have been annoyance or suppressed humor or anything in between and the n had magically disappeared.
“I don’t believe in labels,” I said, even as I looked him over in search of some way to sum him up. His ratty superhero T-shirt hugged what appeared to be a well-developed chest and biceps, loose cargo shorts, and those legs I’d already been uncomfortably close to. His dark buzz cut left his features out in the open—thick brows, wide cheek bones, eyes of a color I couldn’t quite define, a hard-looking, stubbly jaw and a mouth that managed to look both stern and lush.
With a guilty start, I turned away. There was something unwholesome and wrong about staring at a man who couldn’t stare back.
His “Okay” was long and drawn out, not quite convinced, and in that moment, more than anything, I wanted this man’s vote.
I held out my hand. “Like I said, I’m Veronica Cruz, Mr.…” Oh, geez. What was I doing? Feeling like an idiot, I let the hand drop.
“I’m Zach Hubler.”
“Hello, Mr. Hubler.”
He smiled and, whoa, it lit up his face, lit up the whole place, in fact. “It’s been a pleasure, Ms. Cruz.”
“So you planning on voting in the upcoming elections, sir?”
He swallowed and something shifted in the air.
“Call me Zach. And, yeah, I’m planning on it now.”
“Okay. Wow. Great.”
I paused with my hand on the doorknob. “Thank you.”
“What for?”
“For helping me with Rylie. With the sign. And for not suing me.”
He laughed outright at that. “It was fun.”
I opened the door and stopped.
“Fun?”
“Best visit I’ve had in forever.”
I walked out the door and turned back to give an awkward little wave before realizing that of course he wouldn’t see that either. By the time I opened my mouth to vocalize my goodbye, he’d shut the door, leaving me alone in the warm, dark night.
I scanned the yard and found the bright Veronica Cruz sign haphazardly shoved into the swampiest part of the yard. That was just so Rylie, wasn’t it? He’d never openly oppose a person by not doing what they asked, but he’d defy them in little ways, wherever he could. They didn’t call him wily for nothing.
I WAS in a weird mood as I walked the four blocks to Main Street. It wasn’t until I made it to the bus stop that I realized what it was—excitement. And it had Zach Hubler written all over it. I had that giddy crush feeling. Over a man I’d just met.
If there was one thing I knew about running for city council, it was that you weren’t supposed to hit on the voters, but I liked him. And I had questions. Like, why was the outside of his house such a mess, while the inside was in pristine, perfect shape? If a little empty.
I couldn’t remember the last time I’d had this feeling—interest in a man.
The 21 bus to downtown pulled up and I smiled at Milton as he slid the door open for me.
“How’s the canvassing, Cruz?”
I sighed. “Weird.”
“You racking in the votes?”
I waved at Myra who sat in her wheelchair halfway down, the only other occupant heading into town at this hour, and settled into the first seat. “One.” I shoved back the wave of excitement I felt at that pathetic proclamation and turned back to the issue at hand. “People trust Rylie and his perfect, well-off family, you know? They don’t trust a 28-year-old, poor, Guatemalan preschool teacher.”
“You hit the Tremont neighborhood today?”
“Yeah.”
“Different downtown,” he said, always the voice of reason. “Nobody downtown trusts anyone that earnest.”
I smiled, fighting the urge to hug this big, sweet man. He’d been driving city busses for over two decades. I’d never forget my first bus ride to The Academy. Everybody I knew walked to school or took yellow buses, but I’d been one of the lucky few chosen to head out to the magnet school in the city’s posher neighborhood.
“True,” I answered.
“Maybe you should concentrate on making sure the voters you do have make it to the polls on Election Day.”
That was the crux, wasn’t it? Other than a few friends, I had nobody on my side, only a rag-tag team behind me to drive voters and spread the word. After making the yard signs and a couple hundred bumper stickers that weighed down my backpack, I had exactly no money left in the coffers.
“You wanna run extra busses?” I joked, past the tightness in my throat.
“You know I would.” He flew past an empty bus stop. “We’re countin’ on you, kiddo.”
I reached forward to pat Milton’s shoulder. He wasn’t supposed to campaign for me while on the clock, but the Cruz button I’d given him was front and center on his bag, sitting right there on the dash.
The sight of that button came close to crushing me. I sank back in my seat, eyes squeezed shut, and breathed through it.
I’m a fraud I’m a fraud I’m a fraud.
My brain fed me this truth, and who was I to deny it?
It wasn’t just because of Milton’s support, it was about this insane faith that my small piece of the community had put in me. The number of ten- and twenty-dollar donations I’d received from folks was staggering. Wadded up bills thrust into my hand, as opposed to the tens of thousands amassed by Rylie’s campaign.
So many people counted on me—people who weren’t worried about corporate tax rates or historic conservation initiatives, but about whether they’d be able to pay next mon
th’s rent, or how they’d make their seventy hours of minimum wage labor cover child care and food and shoes for their growing kids. People like my grandmother, who wouldn’t survive the next few months if the free health care clinic closed and the hospital started sending people like her away. People like us.
I opened my eyes and blinked past my reflection staring back at me from the bus window, to the blur of fast-moving street lights beyond.
I couldn’t look myself in the face because I was an idiot. An idiot with no chance of winning this farce of an election. But when Rylie announced that he was running—unopposed—and shared his big money platform, I’d waited and waited for somebody to throw down the gauntlet. Jesus, why hadn’t Rasheed Willis run? Or his sister, Latara? They had the backing of their church and experience in nonprofit work and public speaking. They’d have given the Rylies a run for their money. But me?
I had experience talking to four-year-olds about nap time and potty breaks. I had experience mixing homemade play dough and cleaning up finger paints, not convincing people to vote for me or, even more daunting, making life-changing decisions for a community like this one.
“Countin’ on you, girl,” Milton repeated, his words tearing through me like the voice of doom on a crash course straight to hell.
Shit, I thought, not for the first time. What have I done?
CHAPTER 2
Something fishy started happening a couple of days later. I stood in the school lot waiting for Jaime Girón’s dad to pick him up. Like every other weekday, Mr. Girón couldn’t get here until after the school was locked up tight. And like every other weekday, I gave three-year-old Jaime a granola bar, stuck an apple in his bag, and held his sticky little hand in mine, wishing his father wasn’t stuck at work super late, wishing he had enough money to get his kid a healthy snack, and wishing, above all, that Jaime’s mom hadn’t succumbed to cancer the summer before, leaving father and son sad, befuddled, and tragically alone.
After strapping the boy into the back of his father’s car, I hefted my backpack and a handful of yard signs, and pulled up my CaraVan canvassing app, preparing to grab a bus to the southernmost neighborhood in town, where I’d likely strike out—again.
I took a step as the app opened, then another, and nearly tripped when it finally loaded. Something was wrong. There couldn’t possibly be twelve people out on the campaign trail for me today. Okay, so the app was acting up. I shut it down and restarted it.
Again, it looked like a dozen people were canvassing local neighborhoods—for me. But that wasn’t possible. I didn’t have that many people on my roster. Nobody wanted to canvas those areas for me. Realization dawned with a dark, angry flush. Rylie. Rylie had done this. He’d somehow hacked into my lists, gotten the addresses and sent his people out to sabotage my relationships with voters.
I had to call him or get in touch with the electoral board or the ethics people or—
No. I needed to simmer down. This could be a bug in the system. Right. That was it. Just something messed up in the app. I swiped to the nearest house on the list—just a block from the school—and rather than head south as I’d planned, I set off for the address.
I didn’t see the bright purple sign until I was practically on the bungalow’s lawn. It was one of those sweet, well-manicured houses that I always envied. I could imagine my grandmother sitting on the porch, watching people walk by.
How’d they get my sign? I turned in a full circle, wondering if maybe I’d canvassed here before and forgotten somehow, but I hadn’t. I gulped back a weird hiccup. Purple signs dotted two-thirds of the houses on the street. I didn’t even own that many yard signs. A little frantic now and a little out of control, I pulled up the app and scrolled to the visit report.
2272 Blenheim. John and Elaine Matthew. Retired. Swing voters. Independent in past elections. Will vote Cruz, the note said, and my eyes blurred.
What the hell was going on?
I scrolled down to the last note, which read: Will drive voters to the polls on Election Day.
My yard signs dropped to the sidewalk with a hollow thud.
“Let me get that,” came an older man’s voice. He emerged from behind a bush in the yard I was staring at, with two dirty work gloves in one hand. I’d bet my meager paycheck that this was John Matthew.
“I’ve got it. I’m fine. Thanks.”
“You with the Cruz campaign?”
“Oh. Yes. Yes, I am.”
“Y’all are doing a great job of getting the word out.”
I let out a weak, “We are?”
He nodded. “Kids you had out here a few minutes ago presented a very compelling argument. Early childhood investments make a difference to us taxpayers later in life. Important at the local level. That other guy’s platform just doesn’t make fiscal sense. I’m excited to see how she does.”
“Oh.” I was going to have to work on my political repartee, but at this point, I had no idea what was going on. I considered pinching myself in case this was a dream, but the panic attack I was about to have pretty much negated the dream theory.
“Did they leave you with any pamphlets or anything?”
“Oh, yeah, sure. Why, you all out?”
“No.” My voice sounded thready and weak. “No, I just don’t think I have the most up-to-date campaign materials.”
“Here.” He patted his pockets and finally came out with a folded-up flyer, printed in my colors—gold and purple. Everything about it, though, was way higher quality than anything I’d been able to afford, from the design to the paper it was printed on.
And the campaign message was mine, only better.
Veronica Cruz—Investing in Our Community’s Future.
There was a photo of me taken from a school event a couple of years ago. I was shaking hands with a parent and a kid was hugging my leg. It was a preschool graduation ceremony, so I was dressed up, which was why this man probably didn’t recognize me.
Below that was a list of bullet points, followed by one of those financial chart thingies showing return on investment.
My heart was beating faster with an inkling of a hint by the time I turned it over and saw the quote on the other side.
“I believe in giving a voice to people who are under-represented.”
My fingers tightened on the paper and I made a strangled noise.
I’d said those words just a couple days before. To Zach Hubler. The man I’d made it a point over these past forty or so hours not to think about.
“Thank you, sir.” I said, thrusting the flyer into the man’s hand. I started to turn and then remembered what this was and who I was, and thrust out my hand. “I appreciate you taking the time to speak with us. I look forward to seeing you at the polls.”
“Likewise.”
Half a block down, I saw a group of what looked like teenagers, carrying Cruz paraphernalia.
“Hey!” I called out as I hefted my own, sad-looking stuff and ran after them. A girl finally turned around. “You guys volunteering for the Cruz campaign?” I asked, out of breath.
She lifted her chin with what looked like defiance. “Yeah.”
I couldn’t exactly yell at them, could I, for helping further my cause? But I needed to know. “That’s…wow, that’s great. Thank you guys so much for doing this.”
Her eyes narrowed, then lowered to the thick stack of flyers in her hand, before widening and moving back up to land on me again. “You’re her. Veronica Cruz.” She turned to the group. “You guys, check it out. This is Councilwoman Cruz!”
“I’m not—”
One of the boys practically tripped over himself to get to me. “Cool! Thank you!” He grabbed my hand and shook it, hard. “We’re gonna turn this town purple!”
“Your message is so inspiring,” a young woman chimed in. “Partisan politics have ruined the economy and peoples’ lives. Thank you.”
“I…” Holy crap, what the hell was going on? “Thank you.” I was sputtering now. “For, uh, comi
ng out here today and spreading the word.”
“People keep telling us we’re the future. But then they vote for assho— I mean jerks who’re willing to throw it all away for a few bucks. This…” The girl, full of youth and passion, shook one of my glossy, redesigned new signs. “This is a future we can get behind. Start at the grassroots and work our way up.”
Something filled my throat, with the tight pressure of a hard sob, but there was so much mixed up emotion, I couldn’t begin to parse it. There was shock, some excitement, definite disbelief, and then, floating on the tail end like a snake’s tongue of poison, was guilt.
I’d fought for this, I’d wanted it, certainly believed in my cause, but I’d never really believed in me. Maybe part of me thought I’d create a ruckus and change a few things, but who on earth would actually vote to put me on city council?
“Are you guys old enough to vote?”
“Yeah, we’re all over at the college.”
Oh, that made sense. But what didn’t was how they’d found me.
“What got you out here today?”
“Horde,” the young woman responded.
“Horde?” I mouthed as the others chimed in.
“Man, we couldn’t believe it.”
“Yeah, when he posted yesterday—”
They talked over each other in their eagerness to tell me all about it.
“He never comes out of hiding, you know? I mean, other than a whisper on Reddit every now and then.”
“And on some hac— Some forums.”
“Dude’s a legend,” one of the guys broke in. “No idea why he’d even care about this election.”
“Told you, man. He lives here,” said the big, quiet kid farthest from me.
“Oh, please. He lives in like Argentina or something.”
“No way H would stay in a dinky place like this.”
The girl near to me shrugged. “Whatever it is, he’s invested in this election. Put it out there a couple days ago.”
“Everywhere,” one of them said, all hushed and reverent.
“Yeah. All the local Universities are on it now.”
Rogue Desire: A Romance Anthology (The Rogue Series) Page 2
