by Claire Adams
But then he just laughed, as he normally did. He reached toward the door and flung it open, turning out the light. “Why don’t you sit in here for a while and think about what you’ve done?” he asked me, his voice sounding so much like a kindergarten teacher’s voice. I slumped toward the ground, closing my eyes as I heard the door snap in place.
That had been my last chance. Now, I was doomed to exist in this terrifying reality. Perhaps I could move somewhere. Bermuda? Jamaica? Budapest? I could find a home and a hope for myself somewhere.
But then I’d have to kiss both my career and the love of my life goodbye.
And I wasn’t ready to do that.
Chapter Seven
After a full hour in that dark, closet-like space, I finally righted myself and moved into the brightly-lit, swarming office once more. The clatter of fingers on keyboards, the pulse of the work life made my smile light up on my face. I passed by Jason’s desk, noting that he was eating a sandwich in the grossest way possible. I felt sorry for him—this man with mustard streaming down his face. I felt sorry for him in a way that I couldn’t quite understand.
I had a meeting with Xavier at 3 in the afternoon, I knew. I prepared the notes for the “campaign” meeting, knowing that we’d discuss so much more than just the campaign. Sometimes I worried that I was far too distracted with loving him, that I couldn’t focus completely on creating a good campaign for him. But I couldn’t care about that. I was in the sunlight continually, smiling up toward the sky. (In a matter of speaking, of course. Jason’s eternal glare made me want to run for my life, sometimes.)
I tapped toward the Oval Office with the notes beneath my elbow. I thought I could feel Jason’s eyes on me as I passed him, but I didn’t give him the satisfaction of turning toward him, of allowing him to notice my fear. The morning had been gruesome, but I’d worked through it, I’d come out on the other side. It was going to be okay.
I snapped my knuckles against the Oval Office, noting that there wasn’t a Secret Service agent on this side of the wall. Suddenly, the door lurched open, revealing Dimitri on the other side. I remembered that I hadn’t seen him since that evening when I’d gotten dressed and snagged a ride home from him, still buzzing with the events of the previous few hours. I didn’t make eye contact with Dimitri, feeling far too frightened of all that he knew about me.
“Thank you, sir,” I murmured, skirting around him.
I found myself in the Oval Office once more. I grinned sheepishly toward Xavier, who stood in the center of the room. His black hair gleamed beneath the light, and his beard was in need of a trim. “Miss Amanda. Please. Come sit down. You’ve brought the notes?”
I nodded, gesturing with them slightly. I sat beside him on the couch. Our eyes were brought together as we listened to Dimitri leave and the door close behind him, leaving us in a bubble of happiness. He reached up and snuck his fingers through my hair, brushing my hair behind my shoulder. “How’s your day?” he asked me softly.
I remembered the morning with Jason, hearing the words that he was just “this close” from ruining my life forever. But I nodded, shrugging a bit. “It was good. It was okay,” I said.
Xavier frowned for a moment. But he didn’t dwell on it. “Did you bring the notes for the campaign?”
I nodded and flung the folder forward, allowing it to open on the coffee table. I began working him through the list of various press releases, through the places we would ultimately have to travel during the fall and spring in order to generate a following. The man he was up against had his way with many of the southern states, and we had no hope down there. I shook my head and traced a red X over the states he just couldn’t win. “I’m sorry, sir,” I said, flirting with him a bit and wagging my eyebrows. “I just don’t think you’ll finagle those votes.”
He raised his eyebrow at me then. He brought his hands over my thin waist and squeezed gently, smiling at me. “You don’t think so?” he exclaimed, teasing me.
I shook my head, laughing once more. “I don’t think so, sir.”
“What is all this ‘sir’ business?” he asked me. He brought his face toward mine and kissed my ear, the side of my neck. “You like that?”
I nodded, cooing toward him. “I think so. Maybe.” I turned toward him, and he kissed my cheek, my eyebrow, my lips. I sighed into him, feeling like the rest of the world was falling away from us—like it was just he and I, now.
“When can I see you again?” he asked me then.
I tipped my head to the right, raising my eyebrow at him. “You’d really like to know, wouldn’t you? I mean. My schedule’s just packed.” I teased him, rubbing at his cheek with my thumb. “God, you’re cute.” I giggled toward him.
He shook his head. “You’re a menace. Come on. When can I see you again? I have the perfect plan for us, if you just tell me when. God, when.” His voice had descended, growing deeper.
I paused, making him wait for me. I tapped at the edge of my chin, thinking. Thinking. “I suppose I’d like to see you this weekend. But I’ll have to check my schedule. I know you’re the President of the United States and all, but when a girl has plans, she has plans.” I shrugged my shoulders nonchalantly.
He bowed his head. “I respect your very busy life, Miss Amanda. And please respect my sheer need and desire for your body.” He brought his face toward mine, and he kissed me once more, making my pussy so wet. I cooed, and he brought his hand beneath my skirt, rubbing at my leg.
As we kissed, he rubbed at my skin, folding my nylons down over my knees. I sighed into his shoulder, and I allowed my thoughts to drift, if only for a moment. I wanted to ask him, suddenly, about Jason. I knew they’d had their private meeting; furthermore, I knew that Jason was up to something. I just didn’t know what.
But as the kisses kept pouring over me, as Xavier’s nose dove between my breasts, my thoughts flitted away, and I gave over to feeling. He was unbuttoning my blouse, allowing my skin to shine beneath the lights of the Oval Office. I opened my legs to him and rose over him, rubbing at his dick. I sighed as he kissed me further, harder. This was where I was meant to be, in this moment.
Beside us, as we continued kissing, touching, nearly fucking—but never quite getting there—the papers for the upcoming campaign were strewn about, reminding us of our purpose. But we didn’t care about all that anymore. All we cared about was being in each other’s arms, knowing that the rest of the United States of America could wait.
After all, they needed us.
About 30 minutes later, Xavier started tapping at my back, at my ass. I peered up at him. I’d been laying on his chest, allowing my mind to drift away. I felt like I was in a sort of meditation zone, not really aware of my surroundings. I blinked toward him, my eyes exhibiting such admiration for him. “What is it?” I whispered.
“I have a meeting,” he whispered back, yawning a bit.
My eyebrows rose. “Oh? Is that so?”
He nodded, but he looked far more serious than usual. I righted myself and began leaning over to gather the papers, allowing my breasts to bounce forward in the air. The papers were strewn about, so ominous, reeking of the outside world.
“I’m sorry, Amanda. It’s the president of France. I have dinner with him tonight.” He tapped at his forehead.
I nodded, understanding. I realized I had already known that, that I had lost track of time. I was always losing my mind when I was around him. I pictured the four of them together then: the French president and his wife; the American president and his wife. I shuddered. There was something missing.
But what was I saying? I was the one who’d insisted that Xavier remain with his wife.
I brought my arms toward him and lifted a hand to his cheek. I kissed him lightly. “I’ll see you Friday, Xavier,” I whispered.
He nodded. “Friday it is.” He winked at me and sent just one, final flash of a smile my way.
I put myself together once more and strutted out of the room.
But
on the other side of the door stood Xavier’s wife. Camille.
My jaw dropped.
Camille was arguing with the Secret Service agent. She was pointing at the door and yelling at him in a hiss. “You can’t just disallow me from entering the Oval Office. That’s my husband.”
“He’s also the President of the United States, Mrs. Callaway. He’s dealing with important business.”
Suddenly, they both noticed me. Their heads lurched toward me. The agent looked shocked for just one moment before concealing it quickly beneath his stoic expression. Camille gazed at my youthful face, at my long brown hair. She scoffed at my thin waist. I could see her inspecting every single part of my body. “I see,” she murmured. “Important business indeed.”
I frowned and lifted the papers in my hand, as if I was alerting her that yes—we’d been poring over important documents. “Good evening, Mrs. Callaway,” I stated with all the calm confidence I could muster.
“Good evening,” Camille stated then, lifting her chin. “I expect my husband is ready for our dinner with the president of France?”
I nodded, bowing my head. “He’s preparing himself now; our meeting ran long. My apologies.”
I excused myself and soon I was racing down the hallway, feeling my heart beating so fast in my chest. I could hear Xavier greeting his wife and I could feel the anxiety coursing through my veins. When I reached my desk, I collapsed into the chair, feeling the sweat pouring over my eyebrows, over my temples. Across the room, I noted that Jason was sitting there, smirking at me. Waiting for me to break.
Chapter Eight
After I composed myself at my desk, I knew I needed to get out of there, to go home. I grabbed my coat and pounded out the door. I heard Jason’s cackle as I passed him, and it pulsed through my body, making me so fearful and weary. It seemed like everywhere I went, I was reminded of something terrible that was happening—something that was haunting me.
I snagged a taxi and told him to take me to Rachel’s house. I couldn’t even imagine entering my apartment once more, knowing that all the while, Jason was watching me. He knew where I was, what I was doing.
He knew everything.
I pounded up the steps to the apartment and yanked at the knob. My elbow cranked, but the door wouldn’t budge. I realized, then, that I’d come home a bit early—that Rachel wouldn’t be home from work for another half hour. Feeling the strain of this course through me, I pushed my back against the wall and glided down, down, down to the ground. I shook my head into my hands, feeling like nothing was working—like nothing would ever work again.
I tried to think good thoughts about the earlier afternoon, about kissing the president on his couch, about making plans for our weekend. Unfortunately, the entire time, all I could think about was that Camille was lurking outside, her eyes so watchful and certain that her husband was cheating on her. I hated it—I hated this feeling. I began to cry, feeling the tears course down my cheeks.
Finally, I heard them: the clatter of Rachel’s heels up the steps. I lurched up into a standing position, ready for her to appear on the other side of the wall. And that she did: eagerly smiling at me, swinging her satchel from side to side. She waved her hand toward me, and I felt my heart nearly explode in my chest. “Rachel! God, it’s so good to see you!”
She began talking to me about her day, telling me about various office drama. All the while, her eyes looked at me curiously. I knew that she could tell that I’d been crying; I knew that she had a sort of sixth sense about my emotions. However, she didn’t say anything, knowing that if I wanted to share, I would. I absolutely would.
But I felt that I had been far too annoying about my lack of ability to tell her anything the previous day—when I’d rambled on and delivered nearly nothing of my predicament. And so I bit my lip and started preparing dinner, listening to music, and trying to filter my brain into a sort of happiness. The happiness was lined with fear, with anxiety. But it would have to do for now.
It was so strange how my situation haunted me in such a way. It seemed that everything I did, everything I said reminded me of the fact that my career and my life could come crashing around me at any second. I sliced a vegetable, and the fear of the next few months pulsed through my body. It was nearly like I couldn’t do anything but brace myself for the crash. The crash was certainly coming.
Rachel and I holed up and watched a movie that evening, drinking wine casually and speaking about silly things we used to care about. She knew that I was rooted in political comprehensions, and she was lost in her own work thoughts. But it was good that we could come together, that we could be a team in these evening hours.
Rachel pulled off her sock and grabbed at her toes, looking toward me. “I wanted to tell you I suited up the guest bedroom for you. I didn’t have a bed for it until today. I had the movers bring it in at lunchtime.”
My eyes widened. “No.”
Rachel nodded. “It’s all yours.” She led me toward it, wearing just one sock. She opened the door to reveal a king-sized bed, a broad desk, and a dresser. I brought my hand over my mouth in disbelief. The place seemed so comfortable; it brought an ease over my mind. I brought my arms around her neck and hugged her tightly.
“This is the most wonderful thing anyone’s ever done for me,” I told her. I felt my body shaking a little bit. I couldn’t believe I’d lucked into such a friend—such a friend who would take me in when the world felt like it was coming apart.
She pulled back and winked at me. “Get some sleep, Amanda,” she whispered. “I know you’re going to need it.” She looked at me with a worried expression before turning away, back toward her bedroom. I stood in the shadow of the doorway, looking after her. I was worried that my own personal anxiety had spread like a flood, that it was leaking out to those I loved.
There was nothing I could do anymore. And thus, I fell between the sheets and drifted into a deep and delicious sleep.
Chapter Nine
The following day, we had a campaign meeting in one of the greater rooms of the West Wing. I’d prepared for it for many, many weeks, and I knew it was important: it was the day when we outlined the next several months of the campaign, when we really needed to catch voters’ attention, when we needed to rally as much support as possible.
Naturally, I was nervous. Beyond the fact that I was falling madly in love with the president, of course, I was also embarking on my first very important position as campaign manager. And God, I didn’t want to mess up.
I set up the meeting room in the early morning, placing packets carefully at each seat, arranging pens and pencils and pads of paper throughout just in case anyone wanted to take notes. I brought my hand to my forehead and felt a small bead of sweat dribble out, alerting me of my inherent fear for the following few hours.
Jason still hadn’t arrived for the day. I was dreading his involvement, of course. We were meant to be working together, to be aligned as a team. But instead, he’d been a sort of maniacal leader, a traitor to my very sense of self.
Suddenly, I heard the door open behind me. I froze, my elbows poised high up in the air. I swallowed, waiting. Waiting. Was this Jason? I heard the footsteps behind me, but still no words.
Suddenly, a hand went over my eyes. I lurched forward, frightened. My stomach clenched, and I thought for a moment that if I wanted to scream, my body wouldn’t let me.
“Ah—if you—if you want to take something—“ I sputtered, barely able to find the words.
But then I heard laughter. It was joyful, a bit incredulous. I felt a kiss on the back of my neck, near my ear. I recognized that cologne.
“Xavier,” I breathed. I spun around, removing his hand from my eyes. “You know you scared the shit out of me.”
“And for that I will be eternally sorry,” he said. His face yielded this incredibly bright smile. He leaned forward and caught my lips in his, wrapping his arms around me. The door, I noted, was safely closed; no one was watching. That I knew of.
“You’re here early,” I whispered to him as our kiss broke.
He shrugged. “I knew you’d be here. You little workaholic.” He winked at me, and I brimmed with pleasure. I wanted him to think that I was working hard for him; I wanted him to know that this was my top priority. Because, God: it was. My job was my life.
“You can have a seat in the front row,” I said, gesturing.
He stepped toward it and sat down, leaning toward me with such intensity. “So. Teacher. I have a question,” he said playfully. He lurched his hand in the air and waved it around a bit, trying to get my attention.
I scanned the room, a grin on my face. “Hold on, Billy. I think someone else might have a question—“
He started laughing. But all at once, the play was over. The door swept open, bringing a few of the campaign employees into the room. I nodded toward them and gestured toward the side wall. “We have bagels and coffee, if you like,” I stated to them. They looked at me fearfully. They were in their mid-20s. I was sure I looked like an old, corrupted shrew to them—only 29, and already at the top of the game. “Have a seat wherever you like!” I called.
They were no longer listening to me. I sighed, peering at the president. My eyes gleamed. He snickered at me and leaned forward. “Not the most popular girl in school anymore, are you?”
I shrugged my shoulder and leaned down. “I was always in chess club, anyway.” I winked toward him.
All at once, the remainder of the crew came in through the door, chattering and grabbing bagels as they flew into their seats. I stood at the helm of the room, my hands grasped together. I had my PowerPoint slides ready; I had my speech prepared. But one thing bothered me, in the back of my mind: where was Jason?
