Campaigning for Christopher (8 page)

Lori looked up, and Christopher knew his face was a mask of shock. “It . . . it worked?”

“It fucking worked!” cried Lori.

The headquarters’ phone rang, and Simon picked it up. “Vote Christopher Winslow!”

They all watched as Simon’s head bobbed up and down excitedly. “Yes. Yes, Dean Sanchez. Oh, I’m positive that Chris and
Jules
would love to come and see the new exhibit. Of course they would be happy to say a few words. You’ll e-mail the details to me? Oh, no, thank
you
, sir.”

He slammed down the phone and clapped his hands. “That was Dean Sanchez from the department of Native American studies over at Penn. They want you and Julianne to be a part of the new exhibit they’re unveiling next week at the Penn Museum!”

Lori gasped, leaping up to throw her arms around Chris as her cell phone started buzzing. She drew back to answer it, sitting back down in her seat. “Sal? Yeah. Well, you heard her. Oglala Lakota. Uh-huh. Well, that’ll all be in the press kit I put out tomorrow. Yep. Hometown, education, career, all of it. Sorry, I can’t promise you an early copy. Oh, an exclusive? On the front page of metro? Well.” Lori looked up at Christopher, who nodded his head. “You got it. Give me a few hours to make it pretty. Yeah, Sal. You bet. Bye.”

Lori jumped up and down as soon as she hung up the call. “The
Philadelphia Inquirer
wants to do a spread on you two. Big exclusive about the candidate and his new girlfriend. You game?”

Suddenly, the entire room went silent as Christopher looked around his brother to find Julianne sitting on a desk beside Elise. Elise had her arm around the younger woman’s shoulders, but Christopher barely spared a glance for his sister-in-law. He was distracted by the beaten-down look in Julianne Crow’s big black eyes. What had he said to her? He couldn’t remember the exact words, but it didn’t matter. He’d made it clear how revolting it was to kiss her.

And it was. Wasn’t it?

Of course it was.

And yet . . . the way she’d whispered
Chris,
with her breath dusting his lips, was going to be just about impossible to forget, and in no way did the brief and sweet memory conjure feelings of repulsion.

Fuck no, Chris!
cried his common sense, forcing his hatred back to the fore. She was still the mercenary who’d drugged him and tried to kill his congressional hopes. And she hadn’t offered up anything that explained the reason for her despicable actions. It sure as fuck wasn’t
his
fault they were in this mess. And since she was the only one who could help get him out of it, she owed him that much, didn’t she? Yes, she fucking did.

He clenched his jaw, hardening his heart and locking his eyes with hers.

“Well?” he asked tersely.

Her eyes still glistened with unshed tears as she stood up straight and faced him. “If you need my help, it’s yours.”

It’s not that Julianne had expected Chris to suddenly warm up to her just because they’d shared what was, for her, an earth-shattering kiss, but she couldn’t deny it hurt like hell when he’d acted like touching her had infected him with a deadly disease.

She didn’t deserve his kindness or regard, even though she found herself longing for both. She deserved the hate and distrust he kept focusing on her. And yet his body had sung a different song—the passionate way he’d held her, the hungry way he’d kissed her, cradling her face tenderly in his hands like she was . . . was . . .

. . . precious to him.

She inhaled sharply as a surge of yearning made her heart clench. Looking across the office at his black head bent over Lori’s computer, she finally exhaled the breath she’d been holding.

Her thumb found its way between her teeth, and she gnawed on it as she scolded herself for being a fool. In his eyes, she was the furthest possible thing from precious. He reviled her. There was a difference between want and need, and Christopher Winslow didn’t want her by any stretch of the imagination, but he needed her.

How she’d afford to remain in Philadelphia until the election was a mystery, but if she had to quit modeling and concentrate solely on waitressing, she could do that. A benefit of waitressing was that she could eat at her jobs, which meant she could cut back on groceries. She’d figure out a way to make it work.

Her cell phone buzzed in her purse, and she grabbed it, wondering if her mother
was calling back, but it wasn’t
Ina
—it was Frances Watson. She looked up at Lori, who was waiting to interview her.

“Can you give me a second?” Julianne asked, pointing to her phone.

Lori nodded, and Julianne stepped away from the rest of the group to a quiet corner of the room.

“Hello?”

“Julianne? It’s Frances Watson.”

“Oh, Frances. Yes.”

“Well, I’m just going to jump right in here. I saw you on TV.”

Julianne’s heart dropped as she suddenly remembered the morals clause in her modeling contract. Any behavior considered detrimental to the client’s interests could be cause for contract termination. And she’d just gone on television and admitted to a secret, burgeoning relationship with a congressional candidate, with sordid pictorial evidence to boot. Straightening her spine and raising her chin, she braced herself to be fired. At least now she’d be able to pick up every possible waitressing job that came along.

“Julianne?”

“Yes,” she somehow managed to whisper. “I understand—”

“The phone’s been ringing off the hook! Skid City wants you to visit their New York offices on Friday morning. They want to do a new campaign with you and
get this
: they’re toying with the idea of a creating a whole lipstick line around your unique coloring! That plug you gave them at the press conference? It was worth gold! They’ve already seen a surge in online sales of Rockin’ Robin Red.”

Julianne’s lips parted in surprise as she quickly tried to switch directions and catch up to what Frances was saying.

“You mean . . .”

“
And
I just got a call from Alexis Bittar! He loved your look and wants you in his newest jewelry campaign! I’ll set you up for a go-see with him while you’re in New York visiting Skid City on Friday. God, I knew it! I knew it would happen for you, Julianne, but now it really, really
is
!”

“I don’t know what to say.” Julianne swallowed, placing her free hand on her racing heart. “Thank you, Frances.”

Frances Watson chuckled softly. “You sound shocked. I don’t blame you! I tell you what, check with your cute boyfriend to see if he can bear to part with you on Friday and then give me a call back, okay? Ooo! That’s my phone. Probably more jobs for you, Julianne. I’ll be in touch!”

Julianne’s arm moved slowly as she let the phone fall from her ear, trying to digest this amazing news. Skid City was a hip, edgy cosmetics company that Julianne had been wearing since her arrival in Philly, and while she didn’t know Alexis Bittar’s work, if she was perfect to model for it, she made a mental bet that his creations weren’t traditional, which made her happy. Taking a deep breath, she clutched her phone to her chest and grinned as she imagined herself wearing some funky, interesting jewelry. Plus, she’d be able to pay her rent for a couple of months if she booked both jobs. Most importantly, she’d be able to stay in Philadelphia and help Chris until the election.

“Good news?” asked Elise Winslow, suddenly standing before Julianne.

She looked up at the pink-skinned blonde, nodding. “My agent. She’s got a couple of jobs for me.”

“Good for you. No press is bad press, huh?” Elise grinned, and her eyes were so pretty, like blue sapphires in a porcelain doll’s face.

After Christopher had stalked away to bleach his mouth after kissing her, Elise had crossed the room quietly and sat beside Julianne, putting her arm around the younger woman without a saying a word. Now was the second time she had reached out to Julianne in kindness and though Julianne longed to accept Elise’s goodness as real, she was also suspicious.

“Why are you being nice to me?”

“Because everybody deserves a second chance to make things right.” She paused, as though remembering something sad but important. “You used the word
amends
. It resonated with me.”

“Why?”

“Because once upon a time, I asked someone for forgiveness too.” She looked at her handsome husband, and as though he felt her eyes on him, he looked up and smiled at her tenderly. “I was raised Mennonite. Are you familiar with that religion?”

Julianne shook her head.

Elise turned away from Preston to face Julianne. “Well, it’s a culture of forgiveness. We believe that if someone expresses true remorse for what they’ve done, they’re entitled to our mercy.”

“Is Mennonite Christian?” asked Julianne, who’d attended regular Sunday services at the church on the reservation with her mother for as long as she could remember.

“It is.” Elise nodded. “Are you? A Christian?”

“I’m supposed to be.” Julianne bit her bottom lip, looking across the room at Christopher, who leaned over Simon’s desk, staring at a computer screen. “But what I did to him . . .”

“. . . was terrible,” said Elise, her voice flat, her expression sobering.

“The man said he was racist,” Julianne blurted out in a whisper. “He showed m-me a . . . a video. And I was stupid enough to believe him.”

“What?” Elise flinched, her eyes narrowing. “What video? What man?”

“The man at the wedding,” said Julianne miserably.

“The man at the wedding,” Elise repeated distractedly, searching Julianne’s face.

“He wore a black hat,” she said, feeling ridiculous. “And he asked me to ruin Christopher’s campaign.”

“Why?”

“He said Christopher was a, um, b-bad man.”

“He’s the one who recruited you?”

Julianne nodded, feeling like a monster who deserved every horrible thing Christopher had said to her since she walked into his campaign headquarters an hour ago.

Elise placed a gentle hand on Julianne’s forearm. “You were very brave to come here today. And you’ve withstood Christopher’s anger without complaint.”

“He has every right to hate me. I . . . I understand.”

“He will forgive you,” said Elise softly. “He’s just angry right now.”

“You should
all
hate me,” said Julianne, her voice breaking over the words.

“Well,
I
don’t. You’re here. There’s strength in you, Julianne Crow. And I believe there’s goodness too.”

Julianne’s eyes filled with tears for the second time in fifteen minutes, and she blinked against the burn before nodding her thanks.

“I think Lori’s waiting for you.”

“Thank you,” Julianne managed, pulling away.

“Jules?” called Elise as she started to walk away. She turned around and faced her new friend. “Congrats on your bookings.”

“Thank you,” she said, wishing she could take pleasure in her first taste of success, but there was none to be savored

***

Two hours later, Preston and Elise had headed home, Slater was creating a page for Julianne on Christopher’s campaign website, Simon was still fielding calls, and Christopher sat at his desk trawling social media sites for mentions of himself or Julianne.

He didn’t need to look hard.

Pictures of them kissing were everywhere—on Instagram, Facebook, Twitter, and Pinterest—and women everywhere were tweeting, wishing they could swap places with #LuckyJules. The hashtag #Chrisianne had taken off at a sprint and was now trending on both Twitter and Facebook as fans “shipped” Christopher and his fake girlfriend.

Lori had been one hundred percent right: Julianne had been his destruction, but she was also his salvation, and then some. There was no doubt about it.

The plan, for now, was that she’d accompany him—as his “girlfriend”—to campaign events, reverse the damage she’d caused, and then, after the election, when he moved to Washington, they’d “amicably break up” and “go their separate ways.”

Did he love the plan? No. Did he have to admit it was working? Grudgingly, yes.

During the past couple of hours, he’d also eavesdropped with the finely honed skills of a younger brother and learned more about Julianne Crow than he’d ever remotely wanted to know. Sitting strategically behind her in order to educate himself about her background—only for practical reasons, of course—he listened to her answer Lori’s questions in her low, subtly accented voice.

Twenty two years old, Julianne was raised by a single mother on the Gray Elk Reservation in South Dakota, and, he quickly realized, stuttered just slightly when a question particularly bothered her.

“Do you know your father?” asked Lori. (To which Julianne answered, “N-no. I mean, n-not well. I know who he, um, is.”)

“Have you ever been convicted of a misdemeanor offense?” (“On American soil? Or, um, at home?”)

“Did you graduate from college?” (“I was, um, short a couple of cred . . . I mean, um, n-no. The answer is no.”)

As she answered over a hundred questions about her background, family, education, jobs, politics, religion, habits, and interests, a more complete picture of Julianne Crow came into focus.

Her childhood had been poor but proud, steeped in Lakota culture. Her mother and grandmother, mentioned frequently, seemed to be the gods (or rather, goddesses) in her world, offering her affection and stability while placing high expectations on their smart and beautiful offspring.

She spoke warmly of church on Sundays, her mother’s job at a college registrar’s office, and mentioned, with quiet dignity, that she’d never gone to bed hungry as a child, she’d seen a dentist every six months without fail, and her mother always had store-bought soap and shampoo for washing.

Christopher flinched on hearing this information, inhaling sharply, something tugging in the vicinity of his heart. How different their childhoods had been: his in an opulent mansion outside of Philadelphia, where the next meal was taken for granted; hers on a reservation, where the fact that her mother had secured life’s most basic elements garnered Julianne’s gratitude and admiration.

Staring at her perfect posture and straight black hair, it occurred to him that in many ways, Julianne was not a creature of Christopher’s version of modern America. She was from a place where a parent providing enough food, a bar of soap, and a biannual dentist appointment made her privileged. By Christopher’s yardstick, she was from a place of deep and cyclical desperation, and yet here she was: a model, living completely on her own in an alien city, somehow making ends meet, somehow making her way.

He didn’t admire her. He wouldn’t let himself. Though if she was anyone else on the face of the earth, he would have been blown away by all she’d achieved. The problem with Julianne, however, was he had no idea how much of it had been achieved by nefarious means.

“Okay,” said Lori. “We’ve talked about your family, upbringing, schooling, volunteer work, and church. Next up, bad habits and relationships—which always seem to go hand in hand. What bad habits should we know about?”

“Like what? Like, do I forget to floss sometimes?”

“Miss Crow,” answered Lori in a tired voice. “I’m talking about drugs, alcohol—”

“N-no and n-never,” answered Julianne quickly, her voice a trifle higher.

“Sex clubs? Porn? Kinky habits? Ex-boyfriends with compromising photos?”

She gasped softly in surprise, and Christopher got up to get himself a cup of coffee, glancing back at her salmon-colored cheeks as he passed Lori’s desk.

“What kinds of questions are these?”

“The kind a reporter could ask you. Or how about this: your dad. The one you don’t know well. What’s
his
story? And that misdemeanor I assume was handled on your reservation, was it larceny? Drugs? Sexual in nature? Those pictures you took with Chris were sure sexual in nature.”