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Book 2: Ameritocracy

by A.C. Fuller

Genres: Black Humor; Legal Thrillers; Political Thrillers

Synopsis

Mia Rhodes was on the verge of transforming American politics. But when you take on the establishment, the establishment pushes back.

Six months ago, Mia Rhodes was a Seattle office manager, toiling away from nine to five and spending her weekends managing her online political competition, Ameritocracy. Now, that competition is spreading across the American political landscape, making Mia a celebrity and giving Ameritocracy a real shot at upending the two-party system in the 2020 election.

But as the final voting draws near, Mia is betrayed by one of the people she trusts most, throwing Ameritocracy into disarray, and possibly ending her dream of changing American politics forever.

Release date: March 31, 2020

Publisher: Vivid Books

Print pages: 260

Sample

Chapter 1

 

December 31, 2019

Two hours north of San Francisco, along the Pacific Coast, sits Ocean Cove. It’s a standard California resort town: a couple hotels, some gift shops, and a few restaurants specializing in artichoke hearts, a local delicacy.

But I’m not heading to Ocean Cove.

Seven miles to the west, a small island rises from the cool waters of the Pacific—so small that it doesn’t appear on most maps. To all but some local officials, a handful of billionaires, and their sworn-to-secrecy staff, it doesn’t even exist. I learned about it a week ago when my boyfriend, Peter, invited me to a New Year’s Eve party held on the island. Technically it’s named A171, but to Peter it’s Gold Island, and that’s where I’m headed.

Last year, New Year’s Eve was a cheap bottle of champagne at a Seattle karaoke bar with my best friend, Steph. She pumped up the crowd with her superb rendition of Queen Latifah’s “Ladies First”—which did not help us meet interesting men. I, on the other hand, bummed everyone out with a terrible rendition of Pat Benatar’s “Hit Me With Your Best Shot.” I was in bed by 12:30.

Silicon Valley billionaires like Peter do things a little differently.

He flew his private helicopter to Gold Island earlier today to oversee last-minute party arrangements. I charged Bluebird—my fully-electric, baby-blue 1964 Mustang—and headed up the coast.

I settle further into the cream-colored leather seat and turn up the volume on my podcast. I take a corner, foot heavy on the pedal as I admire the setting sun, which turns the surface of the ocean into liquid honey.

I’ve become addicted to political podcasts, and now find them a better source of information and analysis than cable news or even radio. I don’t read as many newspapers as I used to, but podcasts cover the biggest political stories in depth. My favorites don’t often talk about me or Ameritocracy, the online political competition I created, but when they do I always get a funny feeling—half vulnerability and half guilt. Vulnerability because, as Ameritocracy gains momentum, more dirt is thrown at us. We also see more positive stories, but one negative story affects me as much as ten positive ones.

The guilt sneaks in because I feel like I shouldn’t eavesdrop on their discussions about me. Good podcasts make listeners feel like they’re listening in on a great conversation, and Gretchen Esposito’s Washington Now podcast is one of the best. It should be: Gretchen has thirty years’ experience reporting for the country’s biggest newspapers from inside the Beltway. She’s had a front-row seat at every major political story in those three decades. Now semi-retired, she does freelance work and hosts Washington Now, where today, I’m the topic of conversation.

“Mia Rhodes is doing more for democracy than any ten DNC or RNC staffers have done in the last ten years combined,” a guest argues. That guest is David Benson—or DB, as he asked me to call him. A Hollywood A-lister, he’s the star of the blockbuster series of Atlantis films, and People magazine’s sexiest man alive from a few years back. He’s also my leading candidate.

Gretchen isn’t buying it. “I know Mia has made a name for herself, and she’s certainly helped your brand, David, but do you really think she’s helping democracy?”

“I do,” DB says, but Gretchen isn’t finished.

“Do you, really? I’ve heard from sources in both major parties who argue that Ameritocracy is a real threat to America’s democratic norms. If a fringe candidate or even—and I mean no offense—a celebrity like yourself wins Ameritocracy in July—“

“It could threaten the two-party system? Yeah, of course they’re worried about that. It’s their job. Look, I’ve publicly supported members of the Democratic Party for years. I’ve hosted fundraisers, given money personally. And I still believe that they’re trying to do right. But as long as we’re limited by this two-party system, they’ve got no incentive to be anything more than the second-worst choice. So yes, they feel threatened, because they’re worried they might have to start aiming higher.” DB speaks with all the charm you’d expect from a movie star who’s done a thousand interviews.

But Gretchen is no pushover. “They’re worried someone like you will win Ameritocracy. Or someone like Justine Hall. They’re worried you’ll turn this into a three-way race going into the fall. That you’ll split the Democratic vote, tipping the election to the Republicans. And the Republicans I’ve heard from worry about the same thing on the other side. A win by one of Ameritocracy’s right-leaning candidates—Tanner Futch or Robert Mast, say—could spell doom for the Republicans in 2020. Even a center-right candidate like Avery Axum could pull enough votes to tip the election.” DB tries to interject, but Gretchen is on a roll. “Imagine this: on November 4, 2020, if a candidate like you or Justine Hall tips the election to the Republicans by pulling five or ten percent of Democratic votes, can you honestly say you won’t regret becoming involved?”

It’s a good question, one that podcast hosts, cable news pundits, journalists, and everyday Americans ask constantly these days. The fact that Ameritocracy will upend this election is apparent to everyone who follows politics. And though many are excited about the potential for an independent to disrupt the 2020 election, others are more skeptical.

It’s a topic that has given me more sleepless nights than I’d admit on the record. When I started Ameritocracy after the 2016 election, I didn’t imagine it would grow as big as it has. I didn’t imagine we’d be a threat in 2020. If I’d had a plan, it would have sounded something like “2020, they ignore you. 2024, they laugh at you. 2028, they fight you. 2032, you win.” Instead, we’ve turned 2020 into a three-way contest, and people won’t stop asking whether we’ve thought through the consequences.

I speed up along a straightaway, the ocean on my left glittering as the sun sinks behind the water. The top is down and the rush of air drowns out the voice of doubt that creeps in when I think about 2020. I want to hear DB’s answer. I’m always curious how my top candidates will handle the question, and lately they’ve had to handle it often.

After a long pause, he says, “Well, Gretchen, I’ll admit that I’ve considered it. And we don’t yet know who the Democratic and Republican nominees will be. But if you’re asking whether I’ll regret it if I tip the election to a generic Republican over a generic Democrat, yes, I will. But there’s always a reason not to try. That reason is fear. Acting from fear won’t get us out of this mess. Sooner or later, you have to start asking questions from a differe—“

Red and blue lights flash in my rearview mirror. I click off the podcast and pull slowly into a turnout carved into a low hill as the police car stops behind me.

A burly cop in a khaki uniform and shiny black boots steps out, pauses inexplicably, then ambles up to my convertible. “License and registration.”

The 1964 Mustang convertible sits low to the ground. That, combined with the facts that the top is down and I’m only five foot two, turns the cop into a giant.

I hand him my license and registration. “I didn’t think I was speeding,” I say, but I know damn well that I was. “Was I speeding, sir?”

He studies my driver’s license. “You were going eighty in a fifty-five, Ms. Rhodes. Along this two-lane highway, that’s extremely dangerous.” He points to the oceanside cliff where a guardrail hems in the space the shoulder would otherwise occupy. “That’s a two-hundred-foot drop.”

“I’m sorry. I’m trying to get to a New Year’s Eve…thing.”

He leans in to get a better look at me, squinting in the fading evening light. “Have you been drinking, Ms. Rhodes?”

“No. No way.” It’s the truth, but the way he’s studying me makes me think he’s skeptical. He’s not looking at my eyes, though, or any other part of my face. He seems to be studying my auburn hair, which I tied up in a messy bun as I do whenever I drive with the top down.

“Wait, are you the Mia Rhodes from Ameritocracy? I remember you from the Saturday Night Live thing. And weren’t you on The View last week? I watched…I mean my wife watched that.”

This kind of thing has become common over the last months, but it surprises me every time. After our first big rally, TV coverage of Ameritocracy exploded. And since SNL parodied me and my relationship with Peter hit the tabloids, I get recognized at least once a day. If it gets me out of a ticket, it’ll be the first useful thing fame has given me.

“That’s me,” I say. “And that’s why I was speeding, which I’m very sorry about. I’m heading up to Ocean Cove for a New Year’s Eve party. Some of the top candidates will be there, along with my boyfriend—“

“Peter Colton! I know about him. Didn’t he date Rihanna for a while?”

Instead of saying, Thanks for the reminder, jackass, I offer a polite smile. “That was just a rumor. Anyway it was years ago.”

The officer hands me my license and registration, flashing a white-toothed smile and, if I’m not mistaken, a lascivious wink. “I think you can do better.”

I wince internally at what I’m pretty sure was a come-on, but I smile noncommittally. I wonder if he knows how sleazy it is to wink at me like that. I’d love to give him a piece of my mind, to come up with a blistering comeback. Knowing me, I’ll think of it two miles down the road. Even if I thought of it, I don’t have the nerve to challenge a cop twice my size on a lonely stretch of highway.

Just then, a red pickup truck pulls into the turnout and slows beside us. A bearded man in a San Francisco 49ers hat rolls down the passenger window. The truck stops and the man in the hat sticks his head out of the window. “Thank you! Thank you for everything you’re doing!”

Apparently, I’m surrounded by fans. “You’re welcome,” I call to him, smiling. “I just want to reinvigorate American democracy, to give everyone a chance, to—“

“I wasn’t talking to you!” the man says nastily. “Thank you, officer. She should be in prison!”

With that, the man extends his arm and a single middle finger toward me, then spits out the window, striking the hood of Bluebird as the truck peels away. Not a fan after all.

I give the officer an imploring look. “Are you gonna let him get away with that?” It’s a joke, but I’m determined to get out of this ticket.

“I’m going to let you go with a warning, Ms. Rhodes, but please slow down. You can’t save democracy if you’re dead. Personally, I was a Destiny O’Neill fan before she dropped out, but that’s not on you. I’ll settle for Tanner Futch or even that black fella, Dixon. Hate half of what he says, but at least he’s a real Christian, and honest.”

I can’t stop staring at the wad of spit on the hood of my car, but I continue to play it friendly. “You may be the only man in America who supports both Tanner Futch and Marlon Dixon.” I ignore his mention of Destiny O’Neill, the buxom YouTube star and self-proclaimed “Second Amendment MILF” who led our competition early before dropping out to star in her own reality show.

The cop seems confused by this, which leaves me wondering whether our voters are as well-informed as I’d like to believe. Futch is a right-wing reactionary—anti-immigrant, anti-trade, casually misogynistic. Dixon, on the other hand is a poster boy for the progressive left on every issue other than abortion. “How’d you end up a fan of Futch and Dixon?” I ask.

“What do you mean?”

“Well, Futch is to the far right politically, Dixon to the far left. On most issues, at least.” He stares at me like I’m not making sense. “Haven’t heard of many voters supporting both of them.”

“Ms. Rhodes, I vote for the man or, I guess, the woman. Not the issues. Real people don’t think in terms of left and right. You of all people should know that.”

I should, and I’m embarrassed that I forgot it. I started Ameritocracy to get around the traditional splits in American political discourse—left/right, Democrat/Republican, progressive/conservative—but I fall back into using those terms more than I’d like. Until this moment, it hadn’t occurred to me that anyone could be a fan of both Tanner Futch and Marlon Dixon. If I’m going to get through the next six months with my sanity, I need to remember that voters don’t easily fit my stereotypes. I’m about to say this when he turns to walk back to his cruiser.

“Thanks!” I call after him.

“You’re welcome.” He turns slowly. “And for the love of God, slow down, Ms. Rhodes. Have a happy New Year.”

“Happy New Year,” I manage.

With that, he hops in his vehicle and drives away.

After wiping the spit off my hood with a napkin, I ease back onto the highway, still trying to envision a mindset that would favor both Tanner Futch and Marlon Dixon. But I can’t let myself get too bogged down in Ameritocracy tonight. It’s New Year’s Eve, and I’ve got to get to Gold Island.

Two miles down the road, I whisper to myself, “What an asshole,” then yell to no one, “I’m sure your wife thinks she could do better too!”

Chapter 2

Two hours later, the ferry docks at an unmarked and nearly invisible pier along the east coast of Gold Island. The seven-mile ride from Ocean Cove took twenty minutes, which barely allowed me time to wrestle elbow-to-elbow with the women preparing for the party in the ship’s ladies’ room. A sea of feathers and sequins obscured much of the view of myself in the wall of mirrors behind a row of steel sinks, but I got my hair in order and I look like the cat’s whiskers in my 1920s flapper-style dress. It’s light gray, with art deco sequin triangles and lace insets that make me feel like I’m walking into an F. Scott Fitzgerald novel. In a manner of speaking, I am.

Legally, Gold Island is owned by an overseas LLC, but it’s the shared play place of some of Silicon Valley’s richest men and women. Tonight it’s the host of a 1920s throwback New Year’s Eve party hosted by Peter who, in addition to being my boyfriend, is one of the young-money billionaires who likes to spend his money on ridiculous, over-the-top parties.

In my two-inch black heels, I stroll from the dock to the mansion, doing my best not to stumble on the uneven stone walkway. The party is in full swing. Fast jazz music floats toward me through the cool night air, and the stone mansion is lit by what must be a million candles.

At the main entrance, I’m greeted by a man in an old-fashioned tuxedo, who asks for my cell phone. “This is a technology-free party.” He holds his hand out like he’s asking for a tip.

Peter told me I’d have to check my gadgets at the door so I wouldn’t freak out. Forewarned, I checked Twitter, Facebook, and Ameritocracy’s top ten list while on the ferry. That should keep withdrawal at bay. I hand the doorman my phone and enter the massive ballroom.

Peter sees me as soon as I see him. Even in a room full of millionaires, billionaires, and celebrities, all dressed in fabulous vintage outfits, Peter moves like he owns the place. He glides toward me like each person is exactly where they should be, where he knew they would be. In his 1920s tuxedo, complete with lapel vest and black wingtips, he slides around them effortlessly, like a skier navigating a course for the hundredth time.

“Darling.” He leans in to kiss me. “You’re late.”

The way he says “darling” is perfectly Peter, full of cartoonish wealth and exaggerated classiness, but with enough self-deprecating irony to be charming.

I’ve had to pinch myself quite a few times lately. Hot relationships with generous billionaires aren’t really my thing. Four months ago, an exciting evening consisted of getting off work at six, having a glass of wine with Steph, then eating leftovers while watching Game of Thrones for the third time.

Now, it’s…well, not that.

Peter and I haven’t put labels on what’s going on between us. I’m working harder than I ever have, and I don’t have time to obsess about my relationship status. Plus, I’m having a great time, and I don’t want to complicate things by overthinking them. For now it’s good sex, extravagant food, and nights on his king-sized bed under the canopy of stars that shine through the opening in his retractable roof. Beats my tiny room in the office hands down.

“I missed the earlier ferry,” I say. “Got pulled over.”

He takes my hand and we step back against the wall, surveying the scene.

“I should have warned you about the speed trap. What do you think of the party? Keen, right?”

I roll my eyes at him playfully, trying to take it all in. The ballroom is an open space of at least four thousand square feet, decorated with art nouveau prints and vase after vase of white and pink flowers. The largest chandelier I’ve ever seen hangs in the center over a parquet dance floor. Waiters in formal black-and-white outfits hurry in and out of a hidden kitchen, handing out champagne and hors d’oeuvres to guests. In the corner, a full jazz band plays on a small stage, next to which are some familiar faces.

“Steph and Malcolm are here,” I say. Though I’ve gotten used to my low-level celebrity, I’m still more comfortable with my old friend Steph, who manages the day-to-day operations of Ameritocracy, and Malcolm, one of Peter’s assistants, who DJs on the side.

Peter wraps an arm around my waist gently. “Among other people. I’m going to introduce you to some potential donors tonight, plus some other interesting people.”

“I know. I don’t mean to be a wet blanket, but I wanna say hi to them.”

At first, I worried about what it would be like when my relationship with Peter went public. Because he’s the CEO of Colton Industries and a serial celebrity dater, I wondered whether our relationship would become constant fodder for the tabloids. We’ve had a few stories, but it turns out that many of the scandalous affairs that reach the front page are leaked by PR people desperate to generate publicity for their celebrity clients. That, combined with the fact that I’m not especially interesting, has kept those stories at bay.

I tug Peter’s lapel and we weave through traffic across the room. Malcolm catches my eye when we’re still ten feet away, nodding at the woman to his left as if to say, Look who’s here. She’s about thirty years older than Malcolm—early sixties, I’m guessing—but stunning in a blood red dress and matching heels. For a moment I assume he’s showing off his date, but then I think I recognize her.

“Mia,” he says as Peter and I approach, “good to see you.”

Steph hugs me quickly. “You’re late. You left me alone with these cartoonish rich bastards and…oh hi, Peter.”

“Hello, Steph,” Peter says.

“By ‘cartoonish rich bastards,’ I definitely didn’t mean you.” They’re about the same size, about half a foot taller than me. Steph loves to make fun of him, and she’s protective of me, but she likes Peter. “Seriously, though,” she says. “Nice party.”

After an awkward moment, I turn to the woman in the red dress next to Malcolm. “I’m Mia.”

“Oh, sorry,” Malcolm says as I shake the woman’s hand. “I figured you two already knew each other, since she’s writing a piece on you. On Ameritocracy. Mia, this is Gretchen Esposito. Washington Now podcast, formerly of the Washington Post, the Dallas Morning News, and so on.”

“She doesn’t need my résumé,” Gretchen says.

I swallow hard. “Oh, duh! I knew I recognized you. I was just listening to…never mind. A piece? You’re writing about…wait, what?”

“She’s writing a piece on Ameritocracy,” Peter says. “I invited her to the party.”

“And Malcolm is?”

“Babysitting me.” Gretchen says. “My guess is that Peter assigned him to me to make sure I don’t get any reporter cooties on the rich folks.”

Steph lets out a long, loud laugh, temporarily drowning out the sound of the trumpets, which have kicked in on the other side of the room.

“We just can’t afford another cootie outbreak,” Peter jokes smoothly.

Gretchen locks eyes with me. “I’d love to get an hour with you.”

We’re the same height, but her eyes are laser-focused, her light brown hair tied into an unceremonious ponytail. I’m intimidated, but I try not to let on. “That’d be fine,” I say. “Not tonight, though. We’re here to enjoy ourselves. Plus, I imagine you don’t have a recorder with you since this is a no-technology party.”

“I have excellent recall,” she says. “I can transcribe whole conversations from memory.”

I squeeze Peter’s hand, uncomfortable at the thought of Gretchen Esposito digging into my life, or my past. “Call my office tomorrow and we’ll set up a sit-down. But, wait, what’s it for? I thought you only did the podcast now.”

“She’s doing a freelance feature for the New York Times Magazine,” Peter says. “I figured you knew.”

I give him an irritated look. It’s not just that he gave access to a reporter without asking me. One of the rumors going around, and one of the things the Saturday Night Live sketch poked fun at, is the notion that Peter secretly controls Ameritocracy, since he donated the five million dollars that launched us into the limelight.

“Don’t blame him,” Gretchen says. “I may have given him the impression that you knew about the feature. Access is all we have.”

Steph shoots an irritated look at her, but I decide to smooth it over. Pissing off Gretchen Esposito as she’s writing a feature on Ameritocracy is a bad move. “It’s fine. Just call the office and we’ll connect early next week.”

“Good,” she says, turning. “I’m gonna get a drink.”

Malcolm follows her to the bar, and I turn to Steph. “Did you know she was writing a feature?”

“No,” Steph says. “This is America, after all. She doesn’t need our approval to write about us.”

I jab Peter in the arm playfully. “But she needs approval to come to the party. Can’t believe you invited her.”

“I figured you wouldn’t mind. Besides, she did give me the impression that you knew.”

I know from experience at my old job, managing the offices of the online magazine The Barker, that journalists often gain access by playing sides against one another. It’s one of the oldest tricks in the book, and I can’t hold it against Gretchen. “She was just ripping into DB on her podcast.”

“Don’t be so sensitive,” Steph says. “It’s literally her job to ask the tough questions. She does it to Democrats, Republicans, and five-star generals. Hell, she even digs into other news organizations when they deserve it. The fact that she was grilling DB on her podcast elevates him, and us.”

“Fine.” I offer a weak smile and grab two glasses of champagne from a passing tray. I hand one to Steph and we raise our glasses. “To us, and to a fabulous 2020.”

“What about me?” Peter says, pretending to be hurt.

Just then, another tray passes, this one covered in champagne glasses filled with a reddish liquid and garnished with lime wedges. Peter’s signature Red Bull. He takes one when the waiter slows.

“Okay,” I say. “To the three of us.”

Peter downs the glass in one sip. “And to Ameritocracy.”

* * *