The World: According to Graham (21 page)

Defiantly, she refuses to look at me. I let go of one arm and grab her chin, turning her lips to mine. A deep
V
has formed between her eyes, and her jaw is locked. Her shoulders are tense and raised uncomfortably close to her ears. She has every right to be angry. But I need to know that I have her trust.

Staring into her eyes, I wait for her to tell me the words that I desperately need to hear.

Time passes . . . seconds . . . maybe minutes . . . It’s irrelevant. I’m prepared to stand like this for the rest of my life until she acknowledges that I’m hers every bit the way she’s mine.

Her mouth parts and her pink tongue darts out, licking her lips. It gives me the entry that I need. Gripping her head in my hand, I bring her mouth to mine as I study her eyes. Her green orbs grow larger as the lines stretching from her eyes begin to relax.
That’s my girl.

She opens her mouth again, probably to tell me to fuck off. But before she can get the words out my tongue slides over her plump, pink lips. Cherry Chapstik has never been so tasty. At first she refuses to participate. I growl and suck her bottom lip until she reluctantly begins to kiss me back and wraps her arms around my neck. “That’s my girl,” I moan into her luscious mouth.

I press my hardness into the warmth between her thighs. “Answer me,” I demand, as I rub against her.

As she nibbles on my jaw, she timidly says, “There’s only me.”

“Tell me who I love,” I demand, as I mark her neck with my teeth.

“Me and only me,” she says in a high-pitched voice, as she drags her nails down my back.

I use my body to shield hers from any prying eyes of the truck-stop patrons. Her hips grind against my erection, making me crazy. I unbutton her pants and reach my hand inside of her low-rise jeans letting her ride my fingers, taking what she needs.

As she comes, I pull her close to me, reveling in her sweet juices that flood my hand. “That’s right, sweet girl. I’ve got you.”

Her orgasms are so beautiful to watch. I’m the one who makes her head drop back and inspires the soft moans that exit her throat. It’s me who causes a purple vein to pulsate against her alabaster skin. She’s my
rest of my life.

Her eyes grow wide with shock when I slip my hand from her pants. She opens her mouth to speak.

But I anticipate the shame that she’s about to succumb to. “No one saw. I hid you.”

Her shoulders fall in relief. I kiss her forehead and shut the car door for her.

As I open the driver’s side door, she says, “I’m still mad at you,” crossing her arms, a smirk on her face.

“No, you’re not,” I reply as I slide into the driver’s seat and start the truck.

The next day, I have a chance to study the pictures in the magazine when Rachael requires one of her many rest-stop breaks. I slide the tabloid out from under my seat and gaze at the article written about me. Revere? Are we one and the same? I don’t know anymore. The media calls us by our show names. I’m really okay with that. Revere is my stage name—my persona. Graham is the guy who is a brother, son, and whatever the hell I am to Rachael.

The pics are raunchy. I’m pulling Veronica’s bar stool out for her. Our hug looks much more than platonic. When I sent the drink back, it looks as if I’m ordering one for her. There’s a picture where it appears that I’m touching her knee. The article is scandalous. My assistant and I are hooking up every chance that we get, according to multiple sources. I even told someone at a signing event that we are a couple.

I sigh, feeling sick. This is what I signed up for when I agreed to put a face with the voice of the Sons of Liberty. Would I still have agreed to give up my anonymity if Rachael and I met a month earlier? I don’t know. Maybe. Maybe not. The Sons of Liberty and our cause is important to me, but obviously not as important as Rachael and the baby, since I’ve put my professional life on hold for them.

I’m so tired of feeling as if I’m failing at everything. The term “white-knuckling life” definitely defines me right now.

Next, I check my phone. Hank has sent me numerous messages with the same problems. Someone dropped a ten thousand dollar light, shattering it. Insurance doesn’t want to pay to replace it. The Phoenix facility that is hosting us this week is concerned about the immigration groups that have asked to set up booths. They feel they’re too militant and are requiring that we provide more security. It’s the last message that forces me to break our phone rules.

The Sons of Liberty accountant has also left a message, stating that we have “funds that are unaccounted for.” That sounds like theft to me.

“Bryan, Graham. What’s going on?” I reply when he picks up his phone.

Fortunately, he doesn’t beat around the bush. “Look, I hate to tell you this, but we conducted an audit of the Sons of Liberty accounts and you’re missing a substantial sum of money.”

I reach up and drag my hand through my floppy hair, noting that I need a haircut. “What’s substantial?”

“It looks like someone has been siphoning money from the tour—not a lot at one time, so it took us a few months to notice.”

I sigh. “How much?”

“Around forty-eight thousand dollars,” he replies regretfully.

“Fuck!” This is because I’ve been so distracted with Rachael and the baby. This is my fault. I’ve allowed someone to steal from me and my two best friends—my brothers.

“I’ve hired a woman that I’ve used before when I’ve discovered issues like this. She’s good, Graham. She’ll find out who it is and uncover the depths of the theft.”

I thank him and hang up the phone.

As Rachael exits the building, I shove the magazine under the seat and put my phone back on charge in the center console. I do my best to relax my shoulders and jaw. I’m not sharing my tour problems with her. She doesn’t need any stress. I told her that I would take care of everything else. She’s only supposed to be growing our child.

My forced relaxed face slides in place as she climbs into the truck.

“I got you a treat,” she says, as she buckles her seat belt. “But you have to guess what it is.” Her bubbly mood works wonders to improve mine.

A plastic bag dangles from her wrist, and she looks a bit mischievous.

I start the truck and steer us back on the highway. “Is it bigger than a bread box?”

She giggles at my reference to the game Twenty Questions.

“Smaller than a bread box.”

“Is it something that I can eat?”

“Nope. Not possible.” She’s smiling ear to ear and is almost bouncing with excitement. I don’t want this game to end.

“Is it something that I can wear?”

Her finger rests against her chin as she ponders the answer, and it’s the cutest damn thing I’ve ever seen. “Hmmm . . . maybe. I’m not sure how to answer that one.”

“It’s a koozie with a crude saying on it,” I guess.

“Nope. Try again.”

“It’s a T-shirt that reads ‘Someone in Arkansas Loves Me.’”

She giggles and reaches into the plastic bag and brings out a CD. Proudly, she shows it to me. It’s titled
Greatest Road Trip Songs of All Time
.

“Remember when I asked you what kind of music you liked, and you went Mr. Grumpy on me? Well, I decided we needed road-trip theme music. We’re going to listen to this CD and choose our song from it.”

She removes the cellophane and hands the CD to me. I slide it in to the slot in the radio and soon the truck fills with the sweet sound of Ray Charles singing “Hit the Road Jack.”

I reach over and grasp her hand. “Thanks for my gift. It’s awesome.”

We stop at a campground on the Arkansas and Oklahoma border. She walks George while I get The Cougar set up for the night.

After midnight, I slide between the sheets, not wanting to disturb her sleep. She’s lying on her side with her knees tucked up—perfect for me to wrap myself around. In the dark, I ponder how I thought that I could ever get over her. She makes me crazy. She may drive me mad but there is no one more right for me than her.

“I love you, Rachael,” I breathe into her hair. “Sleep well, my angel.”

“What are your real thoughts on the President’s immigration plan?” Graham asks as we pass through the middle of nowhere. There are fields of nothing as far as the eye can see.

“Why?” I lean over and turn down our road-trip music. “So you can quote the former White House Chief of Staff? No thanks.”

Then the light bulb goes off over my head. “Oh my God! You’re trying to make me one of your Betsy Rosses. Well, no thank you Mr. Jackson. That does not fly with me.”

“Okay. I promise not to list you as a source, or even as a Betsy Ross. I’m legitimately curious as to what you think.” Then he adds, “And not the White House’s party line.”

This is dangerous territory. I never discuss what I personally think about anything. Yes. Graham and I have talked policy, but I always felt as if I was giving the counter opinion to his, and not expressing my real beliefs. I’ve been trained since I accepted the job in then Senator Jones’s office to not have my own opinion.

“Well . . .” I start tentatively, “I think that it’s a very diverse problem that isn’t going to be solved by President Jones or his successor. There’s no one solution to the problem. It’s multi-faceted.”

“That’s it?” Graham goads. “That’s all you’ve got, Rach? I’m disappointed in you.”

Silence fills the cab of the truck, with only the sound of the tires rolling over the asphalt. I contemplate how I actually do feel about the President’s plan. It’s a great first step. Yes. That’s what it is.

I add, “I think that the President is brave to introduce the plan that he has. It gives illegal immigrants who can prove a two-year work history the ability to become citizens and it doesn’t penalize the employers who gave them a job.” I swallow. “Once again, it’s very controversial. I get the argument that they’re taking jobs away from American citizens and the employers are technically criminals, but the President knew he was going to have to take some punches to make a change.”

“Yeah . . . yeah . . . yeah . . . that’s the party line. I want to know how you feel.” He stresses the word “you.”

The sun is setting in front of us and the sky is bathed in shades of corals, blues, pinks and yellows. It’s really stunning. “Have you noticed that the sunsets out here in the middle of nowhere are so much prettier than in D.C? I always heard that smog makes sunsets brighter, but I think the experts are wrong.”

“Quit changing the subject. But yes, I do think the sunset is gorgeous.”

Laughter erupts from my belly as I spy the look on his face. Usually Graham looks relaxed and calm, as if he could be posing on a sailboat wearing Ralph Lauren faded red shorts and a white polo for one of their many ads. When he talks politics, he reminds me a bit of a Doberman. His jaw becomes set and he leans forward a bit, as if he’s ready to pounce. The juxtaposition between the different versions of Graham I find really hysterical.

“What’s so funny?” he asks as his forehead crinkles.

“You. You actually really want me to debate immigration with you? Why, Graham? Why does my opinion matter?” I say through giggles.

He relaxes a bit and smiles at himself. “I guess I take this a bit seriously.” He pauses for a second and then continues, “I don’t know, Rach. It’s just that I remember so clearly how passionately you talked about President Jones when you visited the campaign headquarters while I was an aid.” Ahh . . . yes. The elusive visit that changed his world, and the one I can’t remember. “And I just want you to talk that passionately about something that doesn’t involve you putting me in my place.”

His words strike a nerve. I guess he’s right. I’ve really tried to be on my best behavior this road trip—being amenable, not complaining too much, keep my thoughts to myself. I want this relationship to work so badly that I haven’t really been Rachael Early. Hell, I even admitted that I trusted him and let him finger me in a truck-stop parking lot like some kind of ten-dollar whore after seeing very incriminating pictures. Who am I, anyway?

I suck in a deep breath, and say, “Okay. Here’s the deal. Immigration in this country is a shit show. You have those people that deserve to be here, because let’s face facts—we’re all immigrants. At some point, someone in our family tree decided that they wanted to try their luck somewhere else and made the hard decision to leave everything they knew to cross the expanse of ocean or river or wherever and make this country their home. Yet somewhere along the way, someone decided that our country is too crowded.” I gesture toward the giant expanse of nothingness around us to demonstrate my point. “And put unrealistic expectations on becoming a citizen, forcing people to sneak in illegally. The loopholes in the laws are causing pregnant woman to come to this country to give birth so their children will be citizens. I mean, how desperate is that? Or people are paying an American citizen to marry them so they can get their citizenship. It’s a great Hollywood movie and all, but it’s shitty that people are being forced to do this.”

Graham opens his mouth to interject, but I don’t let him. He wanted Opinionated Rachael? Well, he’s getting her. “Furthermore, we have to do a better job securing our borders because we’ve got a real problem. Our border with Mexico looks like Swiss cheese. The amount of illegal drugs, weapons, and humans being smuggled across is staggering. I don’t know if we should put a barbwire fence up that spans the entire border or hire more agents, but I do know that the amount of human life lost trying to cross from Mexico to the U.S. is staggering.

“And while we’re on that subject, someone must improve the relations with Mexico. We treat them like they’re our ignorant stepbrother instead of embracing them as our partner in this. . .”

Graham interrupts, and I let him this time. “So I have this idea . . .”

“Oh no. Your last idea was a radio show that talked about the smell of girls’ vaginas. No thanks, G.”

Now, it is his turn to laugh out loud. He cocks his eyebrow. “Crude, baby. I like it when you talk dirty.”

I punch him in his arm, which makes him laugh harder. “Vagina . . . vagina . . . vagina . . .” I scream like a petulant ten-year-old.