Fake.
A mask.
I know all too well about those.
My trained designer’s eye skims the walls, the shelves, the end tables. This isn’t a home—it’s a curated showplace to set a specifictone. From where I stand at the breakfast bar, looking at the visible built-ins in the living room, I glean that there isn’t a single personalized item in sight. Although, someone certainly seems fond of Target and Pier One, based upon the bric-a-brac carefully placed on the shelves to achieve a symmetrical feel.
It’s all as fake as her smile. Even her act of mixing our drinks feels practiced and staged.
If you think I’m going to actually drink that drink, you haven’t been paying attention.
“Why am I here, Grace?”
“Hmm. No small talk, or trying to put me at ease, or feeling me out?”
“Why should I waste our time? We both know you want something from me. I want to know what that something is.”
She laughs. It bounces like jagged, broken glass reflecting the light from a neon bar sign at last call. “I like you, Jordan. You’re a puzzle.”
I shrug. “I’m just a guy.”
Shetsks. “Oh, that’s wrong, and we both know it.” She pours our drinks from the same shaker and reaches for a jar of olives. I haven’t seen her slip anything into them but I wouldn’t put it past her.
“You went from being a grad student at FSU, to designing the residences for POTUS and VPOTUS, to working in the East Wing, to being the vice president’s body man. Now, you’re apparently some sort of ghost wunderkind advising the vice president’s campaign. Not just as a poll interpreter, or voter whisperer, either. You have veto power over important decisions, and if you aren’t on board with something, the vice president won’t agree to it, either. Some people say you’re channeling Kevin Markos. Or is he outright advising you?”
I smile in reply. She doesn’t deserve an answer.
She hands me a martini glass, picks up hers, and gently clinks mine. “To interesting encounters.”
“To living in interesting times.” I pretend to take a sip. “It’s good, thank you.”
“Dry enough for you?”
I nod. “Rates pleasantly high on the drought index.”
Another of those jagged-glass laughs. “Let’s sit and talk. Why don’t you take your jacket off and get comfortable?” She walks past me and heads toward the living room.
I follow. “I am comfortable. And I can’t stay too long.” I’m still wearing my blazer and I’m hyperaware of the fact that hidden cameras can literally be everywhere. I’m also well aware of her history.
Thank you, Sir.Leo taught me well.
Yes, I finally learned my damned lesson about situational awareness, all right?
She sits in a large, comfy chair with her legs curled under her. I take the sofa, sitting in the middle.
“Why am I here, Grace?”
Even her head-cock and the way she studies me feels artificial and practiced. “I want to get to know you better.”
“Why?” I pretend to sip my martini. I don’t want to take any chances with it.
She plays with the toothpick holding her three olives, stirring her drink with them. “Because Stella Woodley is my best friend, and you are best friends with Elliot Woodley.”
No. That’s a lie designed to draw me in and lower my defenses. Still, I slowly nod, like I’m listening.
She continues. “I don’t want an adversarial relationship with you. I think we both know the vice president is positioned to take up President Samuels’ mantle and run with it right into a two-term presidency of his own. I also don’t have to tell you that the press is already starting to darkly hum a little about his marital status, or lack thereof.”
My stomach painfully tightens. There haven’t been many stories, because every time someone gives me a heads-up that there might be one in the works, I make sure Elliot’s photographed eating with Yasmine or some other single female. “So?”
