The World: According to Graham (18 page)

Rachael:
Reason #??? that boxing is better than MMA: I don’t have a clue anymore. I miss you. I feel like when you left we weren’t in a good place, and I hate that. You seemed so upset. I just wanted to tell you that what you did earlier was okay with me. Please don’t ever doubt how much I love that. I’m being cryptic. Sorry. I don’t want anyone else to read this. Call when you can.

“It’s her, isn’t it?” Jake askes.

I turn around and look at him for the first time. “Yeah. It’s Rachael.”

“You’re actually smiling again. It looks good on you.”

“Thanks, man. It feels good.” I pause for a second and look up at the bright blue sky. I’ve told the guys how I feel about Rachael, but it was more of a justification for my actions. “I love her, Jake,” I state emphatically.

He looks off in the distance and then back to me as he uses his hand to clear the hair from his eyes. “I’ve got your back. Find your happiness. Then come kick ass again with the Sons of Liberty.”

“What are you up to, Rach?” I ask when I call her after arriving back from another steak dinner. Another night. Another expensive evening with someone hoping to buy our influence.

She yawns into the phone. I feel guilty for a second for calling her so late, but I don’t dwell on it. I need to hear her voice. “Remember how I told you that I had signed with a book agent?”

No.
But I don’t tell her that. I think that she mentioned it when I was too busy thinking with my other head. “I know you’re writing a book. You mentioned something about the agent over dinner, right?”
I was enjoying mentally fucking you against a wall while you rambled on about mundane things.

“Yeah. Well, I opened the laptop that you bought me and spent the day making notes. Nothing fancy or spectacular. I just jotted down thoughts. More like brainstorming.”

I flop down on the too-large-for-one-person hotel room bed and stare at the black TV screen. “Tell me about it.”

For the next twenty minutes, she fills my ear with her ideas for a book. It’s an autobiography of sorts, but it’s raw and honest. It definitely has a self-help sort of twist. She says that because she was able to open up to me about her childhood she wants to include a chapter on why it’s important to be a hands-on parent. That leads us into a conversation on how we want to parent our child. We both agree that he or she will have love and attention from both of us.

“Hey, can I ask you a question?” I ask sheepishly. I don’t know why this particular question is so hard to get out.

“Anything. Shoot,” she replies emphatically.

I swallow. “Why didn’t you come with me?”

When I’d told her that I had to leave for San Diego, I didn’t ask her to join me. I just assumed she would. I threw a few things in a bag, took a shower, and walked George. When I came back, she was cleaning up the breakfast dishes wearing nothing but my sweater. My cab arrived fifteen minutes later. She kissed me like there was no tomorrow, and I told her that I would see her on Sunday.

Max’s question, as much as I hate to admit it, is nagging at me. Her traveling with me to San Diego would have gone a long way in the eyes of the guys to proving that this relationship is legit, and I’m not being played.

Before she can answer, I continue, “I mean, if you didn’t want to come with me because of the being-seen-in-public-thing. Just tell me. At least I’ll know why.”

“Graham,” she says my name with authority. “The last twenty-four hours have been a lot to . . . to process. You need to focus on the Sons of Liberty—your baby that you built. You and the guys don’t need me to be a distraction.”

“I wanted you to come.” There. I said it. I’m not sure why those words were so difficult to express, but they were.

“Next time,” she replies, but it’s not convincing. Then she changes the subject. “Want to watch an episode of
House Hunters
together for old time’s sake?”

I, of course, agree. We each choose the same one on our laptops and watch it together. She’s particularly quiet and doesn’t throw out any catty comments. Before it’s over, I hear the soft rasps of her breath. “Rachael. Rachael, baby.”

“What?” She groans sleepily.

“Hang up the phone and go to bed.”

“’Kay. Love you,” she mumbles.

“You too, angel. You too.”

I hit end on the call, more homesick than when I went to summer camp for the first time at age nine. I’m three hours behind her. It’s still relatively early out here. I stare at the phone for a moment. Do I text the guys to see if they want to have a beer in the lobby or just go to bed?

Just about the time that I decide that bed is the best choice, my phone dings. I dive for it, hoping that it’s Rachael again.

Veronica:
Up for a bourbon in the bar?

Me:
Who’s coming?

Veronica:
I texted you and the guys.

My body aches with exhaustion and my mattress is awfully comfortable, but after how terrible the signing went, it would be probably do us all some good to have a beer and talk about things non-related to the tour, Sons of Liberty, or pregnant girlfriends. Veronica and I haven’t had any face time and after Rachael’s reaction to her it might be better to meet in public with the guys present.

Me:
Sure. Be down in ten.

I throw on a pair of jeans and a green sweater, and grab my room card and phone, but leave my wallet in the room.

The elevator descends slowly, taking my mood with it. I know Rachael said that she loves me. Her reason for not joining me tonight seems legitimate. But there’s just something about the way she agreed to coming with me next weekend to Phoenix—I think. It might be Scottsdale. Hell, I don’t remember where the show is next week, but wherever it is, I don’t think that she wants to come. I think that she’s just being agreeable—amenable—because it’s what she believes that I want to hear. Although that’s really kind, I want her to want to tour with me. I want the Rachael that I know and love and not this sugary saccharine version of Rachael. Maybe that’s asking too much at this point.
At least she’s still in The Cougar
 . . . but that doesn’t go far to making me feel better.

Self-doubt is a bitch. By the time the elevator doors open in the lobby of the hotel, I’m questioning if the last forty-eight hours were even real. Maybe I never left San Diego. Maybe this has been a dream or an alternate universe happening. I shouldn’t have spanked and fucked her. Even though she sent the text telling me she liked it, maybe she’s having second thoughts. Maybe I overestimated her enjoyment of me dominating her during sex. I could have scared her off.

Graham, why do you think so poorly of yourself?
I can answer that question. Rachael Early is the only woman that I’ve ever wanted and cared enough about to fight for and put everything on the line and that’s pretty damn scary.

As I walk into the bar, I vow to keep our sex life as “normal” as I can. That’s if there’s still a relationship left after my epic kinky fuckup.
But she asked for it.

Veronica is all alone at the bar. I groan hoping that one of the guys is in the bathroom. She’s dressed in a figure-hugging bright red dress that reminds me of a mummy wrap. Her dark hair is down and draped over one shoulder as soft curls tuck under her over-inflated chest. She looks more like she should be at an expensive nightclub than lounging in the casual hotel bar lit with neon beer signs and papier-mâché fish decorating the walls.

She springs to her feet and hugs me. I give her a polite hug back and pull her driftwood bar stool out for her before I take the seat to her right.

“Are the guys down yet?”

She gives me a dismissive wave, “Oh. Max said the baby is fussy and Marissa would have his balls if he left her. Jake’s out with a waitress who slipped him her number at dinner.” Fucking figures. “I took the liberty of ordering for you,” she says, motioning to the amber liquid in front of me. The bar is made of surf boards that have been lacquered together in a puzzle like pattern.

I mumble a thanks as I take a drink. It tastes funny to me—bitter. I don’t know. It’s not good, and my mouth contorts into a sour face. “What kind of bourbon is this?”

“Don’t know. I just asked the bartender to choose a good one.” Either the bartender is an idiot, or their bourbon has gone rancid. Is that possible? I must Google it when I get back to my room
by myself
.

I get the guy’s attention and ask him to take the drink back and just give me a beer.

Veronica and I casually discuss work. She fills me in on the last couple of days. Fortunately, I haven’t missed anything critical except for the stuff that I already know about. I politely ask her to not refer to Rachael as “the cougar” ever again, and she has the decency to look ashamed. She even apologizes and explains that it was a slip up. She texted Rachael an apology that evening. Whatever. It’s now been dealt with.

Around one in the morning, I give her a goodbye hug. She has to pull down her dress because it’s ridden up to her thong panties that I couldn’t help but see when she recrossed her legs.

When I get back to my hotel room, I’m so exhausted that I barely have the energy to change my clothes. I uncharacteristically leave them piled in the middle of the floor and crawl into bed naked, but not before I remove my contacts and brush my teeth.
Thanks, Mom.
For the first time, in a very long time, I sleep without the awful dreams.

“I’m sorry to bother you on a Sunday,” I say when Candace answers the phone.

“No problem, my favorite client. Aren’t you supposed to be on a beach somewhere? What can I do for you?”

I have to remind myself about her odd voice, or I would believe that I had woken her up.

“I’ve been working on notes for the book. Brainstorming ideas, if you will. Working on a structure. I was wondering if there’s a format that it should follow. Could you give me some suggested books to read? I’m rambling. I’m sorry. I guess I’m just enjoying this process more than I thought that I would.” George lies down at my feet, and I use my toes to scratch his belly. We’ve really bonded the last two days.

“Ever the perfectionist,” Candace teases. “Generally what happens is after we’ve chosen a publisher, they will assign a ghostwriter to you. Your name alone will appear on the cover, but the writer will be the one who organizes the book and wordsmiths your ideas.”

“Oh. Well, I was looking forward to telling my own story.” I try not to sound too disappointed, but I am.

“Silly girl, everyone uses a ghostwriter. Who has time to write their own book?” She laughs.

Me. I’ll have plenty of time while I watch a baby sleep.

“Give me an hour or two, and I’ll send a list of what are considered the best autobiographies. Read those while you soak up some rays. There’s no need to rush. We still need a publisher.”

I hang up with Candace feeling the same way that I do when I believe that someone is minimizing my abilities. This is my story on how I conquered Washington D.C. politics. I don’t like the idea of someone else telling it for me.

Reaching into my laptop bag, I take out the notebook that I’ve begun taking notes in about my time in Washington. I’ve already filled up about forty pages. Once I started brainstorming, the ideas flowed from the tip of my pen. I wrote about how I got my job with then Senator Jones. How I refused to take no for an answer and how he had to give me a life lesson on paying my dues.

I called Evan, and we spent two hours on the phone laughing about some of our craziest moments in the White House. I hung up with him and then jotted those notes down.

My next call was to Maggie. I shared with her that I was going to be writing a book, and she excitedly agreed to help. She pulled my calendar for my time serving the White House and emailed it to me. Just reviewing it was a scrapbook of the past seven years of my life.

Although I may have agreed to write this book out of desperation, it’s beginning to feel like a new life passion, and I must admit, it feels pretty damn good.

Plus, the President called this morning to discuss an issue with the immigration policy. Yes! Being needed and feeling busy has greatly improved my mood.

I move my laptop and notebook to the side and decide that I should get a shower before Graham arrives back at The Cougar. When he left on Friday, he seemed a bit off. I thought he was feeling some sort of self-imposed guilt over giving me exactly the kind of sex that I asked for. He seems to be engrossed in an internal battle, and I can’t figure out what the problem is. For someone who is so confident, he’s always second-guessing himself with me. I sent him a text reassuring him that I liked what we did. Then he sprang the question on me about why I didn’t come to San Diego with him. Frankly, I didn’t know it was an option. He didn’t invite me to join him. I assumed that I was a distraction, so I thought it best to stay with George. It is so damn hard being Agreeable Rachael.

The bathroom in The Cougar is small but functional. The shower is built into the corner and sort of looks like a triangle. I fit in it just fine. However, I would be surprised if Graham has enough room to turn around and wash his back.

I turn on the water to hot, steaming the bathroom before I step inside. Checking my phone for the thousandth time, I have a message from Graham.

Graham:
Landed. Be home soon.

I love that I’m his home. He could have typed
be there
soon, but he didn’t. The use of the word
home
is telling. A smile crinkles my eyes as I stare at my phone screen. Even with all the doubts and difficult conversation ahead of us, I know that this was the right decision—all of this.

I strip off my clothes and leave them just outside the bathroom door. The steam from the shower creates a fog in the bathroom that envelops me, clinging to my body. Hot water pours over my head, burning my skin. The sting feels fantastic on my sore muscles from my morning jog with George and workout from Graham before he left. I’m reminded of his warning that the hot water tank is small so I should keep my showers short.