by Claire Adams
I just looked at him, my sexuality stirring. I didn’t know whether to kiss him or smack him across the face. I didn’t know how to tell him that leaving his wife and admitting this affair to the world would officially ruin my career. I didn’t know how to tell him that this—this love of his was exactly what I wanted, in so many words. And yet: it couldn’t be the answer to all my troubles.
“Say something,” Xavier whispered to me, bringing his hand up to my ear, gazing into my eyes. “Please, Amanda. Say something to me. Anything.”
But I couldn’t find the words. I felt like I was caught between several different worlds, lost in a moment of strain and terror.
And somewhere, in the background, I could somehow hear Jason laughing as he plotted his to ruin my life—to alter the course of my love. I brought my hands around my waist and bit my lip, not ready to say anything at all.
POWER #3
Chapter One
Finally, after not speaking for what seemed like years, decades even, he pulled away from me. I watched in stunned silence as he brought his clothes around his pulsing muscles, as he pulled his boxers up around his waist. He spun around and began buttoning his shirt, watching me all the time. There was such tension between us—something I couldn’t possibly break, I knew, even if I tried.
I opened my mouth. Feeling my stark nakedness, I’d begun to grow cold. But all the while, my heart beat faster and faster in my chest. I felt like a scared rabbit, so close to my death. But without a final goodbye, without a final word, Xavier exited the small room of the White House. And I was in the candlelit darkness once more, on my own.
I sighed and brought my face into my hands, rubbing at my temples a bit. He’d said the words. He’d said he’d leave her. But that couldn’t be so. I had so much to live for, beyond marriage. He’d made a commitment to that woman, and I wasn’t to be the one to refute that commitment. I understood that presidents did not get divorced. They held their wives beside them, no matter what. Even Clinton, in the midst of that terrorizing scandal, had stood by Hillary.
I righted myself on the couch and heard a sigh from outside the door. It startled me, and I quickly covered my breasts with my clothes. I called out, “Who’s there?”
The man grunted outside the door. The predatory instincts of it made my toes curl. “Hello?”
Finally, he spoke. “It’s just me, Amanda. Dimitri.”
My heart began to dull in my chest. So Dimitri was waiting for me outside, waiting for me to get dressed once more. My ex-friend turned Secret Service agent. I found the words: “Be—be there in a minute!” The syllables quivered.
I brought my dress around me once more and slotted my feet into my stilettos. I righted myself and tapped toward the door, taking a final look at where it had happened, where I’d felt the greatest pleasure of my young life, where I’d learned that the most powerful man in the world was falling in love with me. I sniffed and spun back around, pushing through the door. I nodded to Dimitri. “You want to take me home?” I whispered. I felt a small tear fall from my large, orb-like eyes.
He nodded curtly, looking at me with a confused, earnest expression. He couldn’t ask me any questions that he wanted to ask. He was a cold and stoic Secret Service agent now. He brought his arm out for me and I accepted it, walking without a great deal of stability toward the door. I was going to get home.
I sat in the back of the black, sleek vehicle and breathed into the window, watching the way the fog grew from my mouth. We whisked past the monuments. I called up to Dimitri in a harsh, empty voice. I told him to take me to a different address—to the address of Rachel. The thought of returning to that camera-laden apartment where Jason could watch me shivering with fear and anticipation made me queasy.
Dimitri swept the car toward Rachel’s apartment and stopped curtly, forcing me nearly out of my seat. I hadn’t been buckled in. I brought my hands over my waist and coughed a few times, feeling the anxiety of the evening pass through me. “Thank you, Dimitri,” I whispered. And then, I was gone.
I skirted up the steps toward Rachel’s apartment. I knew she’d be home; I knew that she was a homebody, now—that she was so different than the woman I’d met all those years ago, when we’d been ready to take on the world. But really: I didn’t feel any more ready, in that moment, than I ever had. I felt that I wanted to cower beneath something, at least for a while, before conquering anything once more.
I tapped at the door. I heard soft feet scamper toward it, and then I saw Rachel’s tired, if beautiful, face in the crack. “Amanda. I didn’t think you’d be back tonight,” she stated, yawning a bit as she did it. She unlocked the latch and allowed me to enter. I flumped onto the couch and brought my feet up under my body. I looked at her, shaking my head. “I don’t think it’s safe at my apartment,” I whispered.
She knelt down toward me, her eyes frightened. “What do you mean?”
But I couldn’t tell her about the concrete knowledge I had about Jason; I couldn’t tell her the real reason he’d followed me, caught me on film. She couldn’t know. She probably didn’t think much of me as it was. “It’s just a feeling I have,” I laughed, still giving off that frightened, little bird expression. “I can’t explain it.”
Rachel nodded, her eyebrows furrowing. She bit her lip and tapped at my naked knee. “You can stay as long as you need to,” she whispered.
Ultimately, I fell asleep on the couch like that. The next morning, I called into work, unable to lift myself into the air. Jason smiled into the phone as I told him, “I can’t do it today, Jason. You’ll have to take over my responsibilities, if only for a while.”
Jason’s tongue snapped at the top of his mouth with satisfaction. I could hear it. “Take all the time you need, Missy.” And then he hung up the phone.
Rachel brought takeout home that evening and I ate it while wearing her crumpled pajamas, laughing a bit at the small stories she told about her life. I couldn’t remember a single one in the moments after; they glimmered in my mind for an instant and then they were gone. But it was so nice to speak to someone, to feel safe.
Finally, on Thursday of that week—a full four days later—I returned to work. I kept my head down as I entered the White House, inhaling with my nose and exhaling with my mouth to keep my anxiety down. I’d had thoughts of the president coursing through my head non-stop since that evening when he’d told me too much, when he’d revealed such personal things about himself. I could still see the sort of dull shock in his face as he got dressed and left me, unsure of what else to say after he’d given me his heart.
I got caught up quickly at work, even talking to Jason for a bit about concrete elements of the campaign. He walked me through a meeting he’d had with the governor of California, and I nodded, asking questions, making notes. I felt like a reproduction of my previous self, even if the image wasn’t precise. Perhaps I would only be smog from there on out, ready to dissipate into the horizon.
I began writing a rough draft of a press release around lunchtime and worked all the way till 3, allowing my mind to formulate these words and phrases with such precision. I could get through this, my mind kept telling my heart. I could get through this, I could deal with Jason; I could ignore the president forever.
I stood and began passing out the press releases to the other members of the campaign team, announcing to them our next steps for the education reform discussion. We were filtering it through the country, getting them excited about a brighter, more solid future. I stretched my neck around, allowing my head to loll back. I was exhausted. And I’d hardly thought about the president the entire day.
I bolted to the bathroom at around 4, down the hall. I felt such a foreboding nature from the Oval Office. I hadn’t seen Xavier and I wondered what he was doing in there. Sitting, staring forward, bringing his fingers together politely over and over again. Like he was plotting something.
I tapped my cleaned fingers against my blouse as I walked past on my way back to the desk I h
eld at the helm of the campaign team. Suddenly, I heard the Oval Office door creak open. My head jolted to the left and peered into the earnest expression of Xavier, who was leaning outside the door like a schoolboy.
The Secret Service agent at the exterior of the office didn’t appear to notice him. His eyes still stood forward, never eyeing the man beside him.
“Amanda. I’d love to speak with you when you get a moment,” Xavier stated, his eyes dark.
I took a step away, holding my hand over my heart. It was beating wildly, making me feel faint. I swallowed, searching for words. “Mr. President. I have a good deal to do before I depart for the day.”
But his voice was harsh. “And I’d love to get a better comprehension for it,” he stated. “I need to talk to my campaign manager. And that’s you. Stat.”
I gulped and entered the office, following him inside. His angry words seemed to vibrate in my stomach, making me feel ill with their harshness. Xavier walked away, with his back toward me. He sighed in that arena between the two couches, leaning over his desk with his fingers spread wide on the wood. I stood behind him with my hand to my mouth, feeling such anxiety course through me.
“Mr. President?” I spoke finally, wanting to cut the tension and wanting to make sure he was okay.
He huffed. “Amanda.” He spun around, his eyes dark once more. But they seemed to plead with me, to say something more. “I need to talk to you.”
He took a step forward and grabbed both of my wrists—not too hard, but not softly, either. “I said something to you. Something big. Something that meant something to me.” His eyes were so serious. “And you said nothing.”
My mind searched for the right words to say. I felt that he was acting like a child. But his reasoning for it—the purpose behind this passion—was his true love for me. I bit my lip for a moment, considering. “You—you can’t leave your wife,” I whispered then.
His eyes jolted to the ground. He still held my wrists tightly. “You know that I’m the most powerful man in the world. You know I can just go say the word, and an entire country you’ve never heard of in your life can cease to exist. You know I can do all that. And yet you’re telling me I can’t leave my wife?”
His words came in angry spurts. I tried to remove my wrists from his grasp, but I couldn’t. My eyes looked up to him, searching his face. “You can’t leave her. You know what that will do for us? Nothing. It will do nothing.” My voice was so pained I almost couldn’t recognize it.
He frowned and turned to the side, looking at the painting of George Washington on the side. His face was still seething. “I just want to know if you love me,” he nearly spat. “I want to know that I’m not crazy, that there’s something between us. I’ve been thinking about you non-stop since Sunday. And you disappeared. I was certain you’d never come back.”
My heart quickened. He was asking me if I loved him, and God, it was probably true. It was probably that I did. But I couldn’t let him know of these confused feelings. It wasn’t fair to him. So I swallowed. I cleared my throat. “How do I know? I can’t know. Not yet,” I whispered. I felt my voice crack.
He lowered his eyes. They wouldn’t look at me again, I knew.
Suddenly, a huge rush of regret washed over me. I felt so frightened that if I didn’t say I loved him too, if I didn’t assure him of my feelings, he would never see me again. And in that moment, I knew that wasn’t an option for my happiness. “Baby. I don’t know. But that doesn’t mean—that doesn’t mean we have to give up,” I whispered.
I knew I shouldn’t have. I knew I shouldn’t have handed this over to him, like a peace offering. I swallowed, and his face brightened for just a moment. But then, a thought passed through him once more. “You can’t tell me not to divorce my wife,” he hissed for a moment. “I’ve been so miserable for so long. You can’t tell me not to divorce her. All I’ve wanted—for years and years—is an escape. A love to call my own. And now I have you. And yet, you don’t want this.” He bowed his head subtly.
I shook my head slightly, watching the way his eyebrows chiseled over his eyes. “Baby,” I whispered. I felt the way my throat caught with the words. “I know your feelings. I know it’s frustrating to live in a marriage with someone you don’t care about—someone you can’t care about. But I don’t think it’s a good time to leave her.” I was thinking from a public relations standpoint. And also from a selfish, fearful standpoint. If he left his wife for me at that stage of my career, I’d be nothing. If Monica Lewinsky could have a do-over, she’d surely have done something differently.
“Why not?” he asked me gruffly.
I shook my head. “You’re risking the presidency if you leave her. You know the American people respect you. You know they’d respect your decision—at least in the middle of your term, if you choose to go through with it. However, you’re currently in the middle of a campaign. If you divorce her, now, you won’t win the presidency. No one will trust you to get us through the next several years of office if you can’t even hold down your wife.” I bit down on my lip.
His eyes grew large with anger. But I rubbed at his fingers once more with my thumb, allowing him to ease up on his grip. “It’s okay, Xavier,” I whispered. I remembered the way his dick felt in me, the way he kissed me and made my knees give out beneath me. I closed my eyes—if only for a second—and allowed the passion to drive through me.
He nodded and collapsed back on the couch in the center of the office. The age of the furniture creaked beneath him. He nodded. “All right. All right. I see your point,” he said resolutely. “But it has to happen soon.” His eyes were dark, direct. “I will leave her soon. And we will be together, Amanda. Because I love you. And I know you love me, too.”
I nodded, feeling my stomach jolt into my throat. I felt such unease. But I collapsed on the couch next to him and allowed him to drape his arm over me. I allowed my head to rest against his shoulder, and I felt his heart beating inside his broad rib cage. This was our life: constantly hiding, plotting, driving forward to an unsure future that we could only plan half-heartedly from a distance.
We were making it all up as we went along.
Chapter Two
I went back to Rachel’s house that evening, naturally. She was watching an old made-for-television movie and eating ice cream. She had oversized sweatpants on around her thin waist, and she tapped at the couch beside her, asking me to sit down. I did it, bringing my hands over my stomach. It still quaked from my conversation with the president.
“Can I ask you a question?” I asked Rachel, then. I dipped my own spoon into the ice cream—chocolate mint—and stabbed it into my mouth. The sugary drippings slid down my tongue.
“Shoot,” Rachel told me, nodding.
“Well. I wondered. I wondered if you’d ever been in love,” I said quietly. I felt the pangs of my love for the president—was it love??—coursing through me. I took another bite of ice cream.
She considered my words for a moment. She allowed the ice cream to pass over her tongue. “I think I loved my high school boyfriend. Isn’t that silly?”
I laughed, feeling a bit of joy escalate through my body. “It’s a little silly. You can still feel the love? That’s how you know?” I asked.
She shook her head. “I don’t feel the love, exactly. It’s more that I feel a memory of that love, you know? I remember loving him. His name was Alex Crawford, and we fought constantly—constantly! It was a mess. But then I’d cry, and he’d apologize over and over again. And then it was okay. You know?”
I shook my head, cackling a bit. “I don’t think I loved anyone before,” I murmured, bringing my head back to my affair with the president.” I took another bite of the ice cream. “This stuff is going to make me sick.”
Rachel laughed, setting the ice cream on the coffee table before her. A small dripping from the spoon landed on the coffee table. She blinked at me. “How long do you think you’ll stay?” she asked me. Her voice quaked.
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nbsp; I pursed my lips. I couldn’t go back to the apartment. I’d been there a few times, of course—only to grab clothes, to dash in and dash out. But the place felt like a wasteland. A wasteland in which a single eyeball—like a great sun—burned into me. “I’m not sure, Rachel,” I whispered, feeling terrible. I couldn’t put her out like this. “But I’ll—I’ll definitely be out soon.”
She brought her hand over my hand. “You can stay as long as you like. I’m just worried about you, is all. That something bigger is going on.” Her eyes searched my face, but I wouldn’t give it away.
I nodded. “You’ll be the first to know when there’s danger afoot,” I stated, shrugging a bit.
She brought herself up on her feet and raised her hands to the sky, stretching her back. She cracked her neck a bit. “All right, Amanda. Goodnight.” She clattered to her room. I heard her flop onto her bed; I heard her light snores emanating from the back bedroom. I shivered and brought a blanket over my body on the couch.
The next morning, I awoke with a pit in my stomach. God, the stress was eating me alive. I brought my hand over it, kneading at the skin, at the internal organs that seemed to scream up at me. I walked into the kitchen and poured myself a glass of water. I closed my eyes as I drank it, feeling the cool rain pass over me.
It was still very early—before 6—and I got dressed quickly, thinking I could head into work early to get things done. All the while, as I tugged a new skirt over my hips, as I applied my makeup, my mind replayed the events of the previous few weeks. Not only were there photos of Xavier and I out there in the world, controlled only by the scariest, most dangerous man alive, but Xavier—that stunning man—had told me that he wanted to leave his wife for me. I pictured Camille’s face as I brushed my teeth, only for a moment taking delight in the fact that Xavier wanted to dump this woman for me. This incredibly powerful, beautiful woman. He wanted me, instead.
