My Secret Vice (Mountains & Monuments #3)

Chapter 1

one

Cindy

The first question is the one I dread: "What happens if you can't pass this legislation, congresswoman?"

Our White House minder had tried to herd me and the rest of the delegation right past the cluster of media behind a rope set up to pen them in but I’d stopped to talk to them. My cause benefitted from their attention.

“Is this your first time at the White House, congresswoman? How do you feel?” The questions are shouted to avoid being drowned out by the white noise of the blades of the Nighthawk helicopter churning air on the South Lawn of the White House.

“Do you want to run for president, Representative Wight?” Plans to run for president are cheaper than a craft cocktail in this town; the press knows that. I ignore this question.

“Do you have plans to primary the president’s reelection ticket?”

Trying to keep a steady, meaningless smile on my face because of all the photographers, I glance at the rest of my congressional delegation—all men—watching Marine Two land 20 feet away.

The vice president’s helicopter normally would only land on the White House lawn in an emergency. They wanted a show of force ahead of our summit meeting. It’s meant to turn me and the others into peasants asking for favors, to make me less certain of my demands. It’s a hollow gesture, like chocolates and flowers given in lieu of treating someone well.

Although newly elected last year, I am familiar with the power dynamics and how those in control tend to use them to intimidate others.

The massive, military helicopter; the green, landscaped expanse of the White House lawn with the historic building behind me; the gaggle of press aiming their phones at me and the helicopter all adds up. It might be a show, but it’s got a lot of weight behind it.

“I’m glad to be here as a voice for the vulnerable people who need this legislation most,” I shout over the chop of the rotors. This video clip—me with my hair flying, attempting to keep my skirt held down—will appear on social media within minutes. I need to set the right tone. “I’m privileged to speak for them in this meeting today. They’re why I was elected and that’s what I’m focused on now.”

I use my peripheral vision to check on my colleagues, all more seasoned lawmakers than I am. The faces of the members of House leadership are impassive and none of them are fidgeting, smoothing their clothes or hair. They all act experienced, but I know that's not true. Negotiations at the White House are rare when one party holds all branches of government. There is no one more jaded than a mediocre white man with power, and this is a whole cluster of them.

Fake it ‘til you make it, Cindy . I represent the contrarians, the fresh blood flowing into Congress this session, bringing with it new ideas and more diversity of perspectives. I’ll remain uncowed by this setting, these men with their satisfaction in their power. I’m here to shake them up.

It’s a fun mission. That’s why my heart is pounding to the beat of the helicopter’s rotors, and nearly as loud.

I wish I’d worn pants. Or at least an A-line skirt instead of this swingy one that I’d thought would subtly signal youth and daring. The red seemed like a power move for the solo woman selected for the summit. Instead, it’s a symbol of inexperience that could lead to a wind-driven media catastrophe.

My long, dark hair, currently a halo around my head, is going to be a mess. I’m worried the brisk wind, stirred up by the rotors and causing my eyes to water, will transport my makeup to the mild crow’s feet around my eyes. It’d be just my luck if there’s no time to tidy up before we jump into the pool of photographers. Part of my media appeal is my youth. At almost 45, I’m not that young, but when the median age of House members is 58, I benefit from comparison.

The helicopter is finally winding down and a Marine in dress uniform is opening the side door. Out pops the vice president, as casual as if this is his normal commute, his fading black hair close-cut and unruffled. He’s wearing a dark suit and a bright red tie that could rival my own loud outfit. He returns the officer’s salute and walks toward us, his long legs eating up the grass of the White House lawn, suit coat and tie flapping behind him. His athletic build belies his 50 years and his tanned skin shows fewer lines than the average politician. Every inch the “disturbingly handsome bachelor in the White House,” as the Daily Mail wrote about him when he took office five years ago. His pant legs reveal a glimpse of red socks, likely one of the novelty pairs the vice president is known for wearing. Camera shutters click nearby.

The huddle of journalists start calling out. “Mr. Vice President, do you expect to reach a deal today?” and “Mr. Vice President, do you have a date tonight?”

“Have you and Representative Wight met before, Mr. Vice President?” another reporter calls out.

He waves at them, face impassive, and keeps going, through a side door and into the White House. A young man in a suit, wearing a blue staff badge on a lanyard around his neck and boredom on his face, gestures for me and my group to follow him.

“Did you vote for the president’s ticket, Madame Congresswoman?” I hate when people call me that. It’s so stodgy and makes me sound like I’m part of the establishment now.

I turn back to the reporters, not about to miss this opportunity. I voted for the more progressive ticket and hope to again, I tell them.

“Not even in the general?” a reporter with a stain on his tie asks. He’s trying to catch me in an unforgivable sin: not holding your nose to vote for your own party.

“I don’t believe in party over principle. I voted for change, not the status quo,” I say. It’s a line one of my staff members wrote in a speech and it always goes over well. With voters, anyway; less so with elected members of my party.

That sets off another flurry of questions, but it’s time for me to rejoin the others. As I turn to walk with the group back into the White House, my heels sink into the lawn. The heat of embarrassment slides down my neck and around my breasts. Perhaps I’m going to step right out of my shoe and be forced to stand there hopping with one bare foot on the White House lawn. In front of all these people I need to impress. Then the shoe comes loose, still on my foot, and I keep going with a minor stumble.

Hopefully, I recover that smoothly from any stumbles in the upcoming meeting.

Alex

Exiting the helicopter, I dread the day ahead. I salute the Marine holding my door, as usual trying and failing to meet the young man’s eyes. The disciplined Marines assigned to the White House never make eye contact, even though I was one of them not that many years in the past.

All eyes are on me. It’s the curse and the blessing of being vice president. I don’t have to work hard to gain attention, but I do have to do everything in public view. Including pull a power play on the people I’m meeting with this afternoon. And co-host an important fundraiser later with a woman who is the wife of one of the president’s most obnoxious and wealthy donors. Those two things usually go hand-in-hand.

“You should give all the women in attendance red roses,” my aide Deena said on the helicopter. My staff hadn’t even remembered it was Valentine’s Day until I reminded them. It isn’t exactly a high-priority occasion in Washington, given that it’s not a holiday for government workers or a deadline for legislation. Joke’s on me for being a romantic. Now I’m stuck playing Cupid at the last minute.

Marguerite will make the perfect hostess. And I need a perfect hostess on my arm, hosting my event at her house because it’s not “appropriate” for a single man to host a $10,000-a-plate fundraiser at his bachelor pad. Even if the bachelor pad is the residence at the United States Naval Observatory.

Not that I’m bitter. I expected to have fewer “should”s and “must”s in my life at this point, that’s all. Still, looking out across the White House lawn from the door of the white-topped Marine Two, it’s obvious what I’ve lost in control, I’ve gained in accomplishments .

As I walk toward the White House across the immaculate lawn, one scarlet dress among a sea of gray and black suits catches my eye. Ah yes, the lone woman in the delegation, author of the bill we are here to discuss and leader of the group of junior lawmakers that the press is calling the Freshman Six. Elected last year after overwhelmingly defeating a representative who’d been in Congress for 20 years, Cindy Wight is new blood in the House, though she’d been an activist leader for a decade before running for office. On day one of her tenure as an elected official, she led a coalition marching to the White House to demand the administration “reverse the war on drugs.”

She’s the one my team told me would be toughest to convince. A firebrand and idealist. If I can sway her, it means six votes that will make a difference to passing the bill. And a coalition built with the progressive wing of the party. I’m good at that balance: Avoiding waves but getting the credit. That’s why the president sent me into this particular battle.

The edge of her skirt is flipping, making it hard not to notice she has beautiful legs. Her long, dark hair is floating around her in the wind from Marine Two. “The female Obama,” according to a magazine profile. That comparison is thrown around this town too often; an op-ed last week called me “Obama’s wishy-washy heir apparent.” It seems everyone is ignoring the fact Cindy and I are both white.

But Cindy Wight is young, passionate, unproven—too fearless to be wishy-washy. I’ve been looking forward to seeing her in action in person. I need her help on this legislation to shore up the youth and minority voters, as my chief of staff puts it. This business can be so crass.

She’s standing by the media pen, away from the rest of the group, the star of the cast. The White House reporters are clustered around her like moths to a flame, looking to catch the viral soundbites she’s known for giving, and ignoring the ostentatious display I just made landing on the White House lawn. What a pain. I’d had to get all sorts of permissions for that.

I do my job and I do it well, no matter how I feel about it. This day is no different.

I wave at the press. Of course they didn’t forget it was Valentine’s Day and now ask me the usual prying questions about my love life, or lack of it.

Without stopping to talk to the group from Capitol Hill, I lead the way into the White House. It’s another power move, designed to make them like supplicants rather than equal parties at the table. So is using the White House for this meeting rather than the Eisenhower Executive Office Building, where the vice president has a ceremonial office. My job is to make it appear as though the White House is open to demands we will never actually consider.

And to come out looking like the man who gets deals done, a few short years from the end of the president’s last term.