Hurricane Days (5 page)

My mouth tightened. I was too distracted to think of any clever comebacks. Adrienne was like a Category 5 hurricane inside our room, and I was simply trying to stay alive.

She continued to hover over my suitcase. It reminded me of nosy people at the grocery store who stare at the items you place on the conveyor belt and who silently judge you for the giant bag of Oreos.

“Do you mind?” I snapped.

“You know,” Adrienne replied, “I don’t know you or anything, but you seem like you need to get laid.”

I placed my hands indignantly on my hips. “Well, I don’t know you either, but you seem like you need to be in prison.”

She threw her head back and laughed. Were we bonding? I couldn’t be sure.

“You hungry?” she asked.

“What?”

“I thought we’d go out to eat. You do have restaurants in the Plum State, don’t you?”

“It’s peaches.” I was irritated. How could she not know that?

“Whatever.”

Everyone knew about Georgia peaches, didn’t they? It wasn’t as if Georgia was in Sri Lanka. “Peaches,” I repeated, aggravated at Adrienne’s obvious lack of education and breeding. I couldn’t respect a girl who tattooed her body and talked like a hooker and that’s all there was to it, I decided.

Yes, I was in serious trouble.

Chapter Six

The next day, Robin was scheduled to appear on every major TV news program. Peter Fordham sat beside her in the limousine, and Lara Denning was across from her, her platinum curls bobbing up and down. CNN was their first stop. As they made their way through Atlanta’s morning traffic, heading toward the CNN studios, Peter was uncharacteristically silent. Clearly, he wasn’t sure what to say or think or even how to act.

To Robin, he was looking more and more like a bird. His weight loss, which fluctuated with his nerves, made his pointed nose and chin seem even pointier. His mouse-brown hair had more patches of gray now, probably due to stress. He had a wife and kids at home, but he spent more time with Robin than anyone. His ambition almost rivaled hers, in fact, which was why she viewed him as an opportunistic leech.

“How are you holding up?” he asked her finally.

“Where’s my Diet Coke?”

“I’m sorry. I forgot it. I guess I was distracted with everything.”

“With what?” Robin was serious.

“Oh, honey, please.” Lara glanced out the window.

“You know…” Peter fumbled for words. “
Everything
. It’s got to be on your mind.”

“The only thing on my mind is my inauguration speech.” Robin was in full-throttle denial.

“One thing in your favor,” Lara said. “The woman making the claims is a struggling singer. No doubt she could use the publicity.”

“Uh-huh,” Robin replied absently.

“So we know you roomed with her,” Lara continued. “Any contact with her since your first year of college?”

“Of course not.” Robin wrinkled her nose. “She wasn’t the sort of person I wanted to call attention to in my past.”

“You could say that,” Lara pressed.

Robin glared at her. “And sound like a complete snob?”

“Got it,” Lara said. “I published the statement on your website. Your gratitude for your supporters, you haven’t changed your commitment to them, blah, blah, blah. I’m telling you, though, hon, people don’t read web pages unless they have lots of big pictures.” She fluttered her hands to demonstrate.

Robin glanced out the window, trying to focus on what she was going to say. She ended up instead trying to imagine how it might have happened: Adrienne in a crowded bar, taking a drag on a cigarette and saying something sarcastic like, “Yeah, Robin Sanders isn’t queer. Right. And I’m Mother Teresa.” Or something equally damaging, delivered in the sharp, sarcastic tone that Adrienne did so well. And who had supplied that photograph? Her mind raced. It must have been taken the night of the bonfire…

Robin held her head high in the backseat. She wasn’t the same scared girl she had been in college. She’d grown into a woman who could make a scathing remark with a smile. Adrienne would regret messing with her.

The limousine zoomed straight to CNN. Afterward, she’d be boarding a private jet to hit major media markets, from Los Angeles to New York, casting the widest net possible for damage control.

* * *

Benny Rhodes launched his CNN interview with a sharp attack. “A lesbian affair in college! How do you expect your campaign to recover?”

“I’m actually disappointed in Mr. Goodwin’s political team,” Robin said under the glare of studio lights. She sat comfortably, looking incredibly relaxed, like she was discussing the weather. Her composure left the interviewer looking more rattled than she was.

“Graham Goodwin?” Rhodes asked, a little disoriented.

“Yes. If I’d known he’d be desperate enough to tell stories about me, I would have told him about the time I slept with my second husband’s twin brother.”

Rhodes searched his notes. “I didn’t know you had been married before.”

“I wasn’t. That was
One Life to Live
.” Robin smiled. “When you can’t find any skeletons in the closet, you have to invent one.”

Rhodes nodded. “Well played, Governor.” He smiled in spite of himself.

* * *

Lindsay Vaughan was next. She was looking particularly serious today rather than her normal genial self. She was super-prepared with a stack of notes a mile high. Lesser candidates would have been tempted to flee or cry. Not Robin Sanders.

“Governor Sanders,” Vaughan began in a tone that sounded somewhat patronizing. “The cornerstone of your campaign has been your stance against gay marriage and gay rights in general. Is that not true?”

“Which is why this is the perfect Hail Mary pass for Mr. Goodwin’s team. He’s attempting to make me look like a hypocrite.”

“Well, wouldn’t you say that this undermines your credibility a bit?”

“It could perhaps.
If it were true
.”

“According to FSU records, Adrienne Austen was your freshman roommate in college.”

“Yes,” Robin said. “That’s all that’s true about this story.”

“Let’s say it is a false claim to sabotage you. How do you know it came from Graham Goodwin’s team?”

“Ms. Vaughan.” Robin laughed, as if to say she knew better.

Vaughan had obviously suspected the same thing. When she smiled knowingly, Robin knew enough to keep her mouth shut and let her wrap up the interview. There was nothing more to say.

* * *

Robin had almost succeeded at diffusing the scandal when she sat down for her last interview of the day. It would be with Roger Craft. A national news anchorman known for his cerebral approach, he seemed to be the last journalist left on television who still tried to be objective. Logic was his default switch; this alone shook up most politicians. Even President Ellis had only done one interview with him during his first four years as president. Craft had reserved Robin’s interview for his special nightly program,
The Full Story
.

Craft folded his hands and eyed her the way he did every guest, putting her in his hot seat. Robin was determined not to be deterred from her position. All day long she had deflected the spotlight from herself to the “pathetic political team of Mr. Goodwin,” a phrase that almost made her laugh every time she uttered it.

“Governor Sanders,” Craft said, “by now everyone has heard the rumor. We, of course, wanted to know the full story. So we invited the woman who claims she had an affair with you to come on this show tomorrow night.”

Robin was slightly alarmed but didn’t show it. “It’s unfortunate what people are willing to do for their fifteen minutes,” she said, repeating a line she’d used successfully throughout the day. She glanced around the studio as if bored. “I must say I’m disappointed, Roger. I thought you were a serious journalist. Ms. Austen is a struggling musician and this has no doubt given her band quite a boost. Why else would she go on TV to slander me?”

“She declined our invitation.”

Robin’s eyes widened. She had definitely not expected this response and the surprise showed in her voice when she finally said, “A last-minute attack of conscience perhaps?”

“It doesn’t appear to be fame she’s after,” Craft replied. “In fact, I hear her band already has quite a following.”

“Good for her,” Robin said. “It’s a shame then that she’s willing to damage her own reputation for Graham Goodwin.”

“Excuse me?”

She was back on track. “I’d hoped Graham’s team would have stuck to the issues. It’s what America wants.”

“Mr. Goodwin hasn’t commented on this,” Craft said.

“Mr. Goodwin hasn’t commented on this because, as I’m sure we all agree, he knows nothing of this trumped-up scandal.” She winked at the camera, back in control and on her way to another public relations victory. “Seriously, I understand. To show there are no hard feelings, I’ll even offer him a position in my cabinet when I’m elected.” She smiled again, and a flock of live tweets fluttered in, praising her self-assurance and overall greatness. Many of her fans had no idea where she stood on the issues, but they blindly followed and praised her anyway.

Their time was up. Robin removed her microphone the second the cameras stopped rolling.

“I hope you understand,” Craft told her. “I had to ask the question.” He seemed apologetic, as she turned her back to him, stepping off the stage.

“Of course I understand,” she said in a perfectly polite tone that sounded more like the kiss of death.

* * *

Adrienne not wanting to pursue this with interviews made her seem like an ethical person who was telling the truth. That didn’t make Robin look good at all.

As Robin met her staff in the studio, she was confused by the contradictory facial expressions of Lara and of Peter, who was reading a text that had just come in.

“The signs are good. Real good,” he said, scrolling to the next message.

“Like hell,” Lara said.

Robin brushed her away and continued toward the exit.

Peter ran alongside her, still reading tweets. “Those that like you still like you, and some like you even more for standing up to Roger, the ‘sexist pig.’” He made air quotes.

His constant chirping became white noise in the background. Robin’s gaze was distant, unfocused. She was trying to get her bearings, as Lara confronted her.

“Robin, we’ve got to nip this in the bud. No, torch all the buds before this crap trumps the last debate.” Lara’s brows were lowered to an angry V shape as she blocked Robin’s way. “I’m not kidding around. I mean, who doesn’t go on TV these days? It makes that bitch look like a saint. Everyone wants publicity! Hell, I’d give my right tit for more publicity myself.”

Robin nodded distractedly as she made her way to the car.

“We’ve got to squash her before Florida!” Lara called after her.

* * *

Peter stayed outside the limousine to take a call. Inside the car, Lara eyed Robin suspiciously. She wasn’t going to let this rest. “Tell me,” she said. “Think of me as your lawyer or priest.”

“I’m not Catholic.”

“This is only your career,” Lara said acidly. “I’m going to give it to you straight. The more honest you are with me, the more I can help you.”

Robin’s mouth tightened.

“C’mon,” Lara continued. “Lots of girls experiment in college. If you did, it’s no biggie. We just have to make the little incident go away.”

Robin rolled her eyes.
Little incident.
If only Lara knew…

“You could’ve had a slutty pajama party,” Lara continued. “Tried your first pussy. It happens.”

Robin recoiled, seeing Lara suddenly as just another of the contemptible, faceless people who wanted to be the first to hear the juicy gossip…and spread it.

“Not going to tell me?” Lara persisted.

“I already told you,” Robin said. “We were roommates. Nothing more.”

Chapter Seven

After spending several minutes brushing empty cigarette packs and ashes off the passenger’s seat, I climbed inside Adrienne’s black Camaro—or trash can on wheels—and sank into the car. I felt like I was sitting on the road.

Adrienne turned the key and revved up the engine, flashing me a sly, teasing smile. “Better than a vibrator, huh?”

I offered a weak smile and pretended to know what she was talking about. Adrienne cranked up the radio—which was tuned to a heavy metal station, of course. She could see the look of cluelessness on my face. So she explained: “It’s the Scorpions. ‘No One Like You.’”

“Oh.”

“God, you don’t get out much.”

Always judging me. My irritation faded when my eyes caught the flash of the thin gold bracelet dangling from Adrienne’s wrist as she switched gears. Another flash drew them down to a tiny anklet that sparkled against the smooth golden skin of her right leg. Strangely, I liked watching her. A little too much. I quickly glanced out the window.

“What kind of music you like?” Adrienne asked.

“Dance. Some classical.”

“That’s fucked up.” Adrienne swerved into another lane, and I forgot to breathe as the golden arches of McDonald’s got frightfully close. I saw the headline: “Jimmy Sanders’ Daughter Killed by Ronald McDonald.”

Adrienne probably didn’t fear death. Most likely it never crossed her mind. She drove as though she thought she was immortal. Luckily, she managed to direct the car back into the lane and away from the curb where we would have definitely hit the McDonald’s sign.
I should’ve driven
.

“Really fucked up,” she muttered at my apparent lack of good taste in music. Obviously, it was still bothering her.

“You know that saying about honesty being the best policy?” I said. “It isn’t true.”

She laughed, switching gears, which jolted us in our seats. As we sped down the road, I could see dusk beginning to change colors across the sky. Streaks of deep mustard and pink merged with neon lights and silhouettes of palm trees. I felt like I was in a movie tonight, that everything was larger than life, even gas station signs. And strangely, the sound track to the movie would be some heavy metal song that, even more strangely, I didn’t exactly mind.