That was why he kept it slow and steady, gyrating his big, naked body in a rhythm that he didn’t even realize he knew. Now he seemed like the master of its beat, moving in and out of her, inundating her with just the right slow drag that they both felt nearly drunk with sensuality.
For the longest time they gyrated together, like a slow drag they didn’t want to end, especially as the music was reaching it crescendo.
And when he began to release, he could feel it pour out of him and into her, and he began to pump harder, and faster as it poured, making sloshing sounds as it poured, as it slid down the sides of her thighs in a warm, sticky, silkiness. And when the feeling reached its apex and then began to descend, they both lifted up too, in a spasm of tight, tense, beautifully explosive feelings, and then crashed back down. They felt together. They felt intoxicated. They felt, each in their own way, breathtakingly alive.
And when it was over, and Dutch rolled off of her, he pulled her into his arms. Neither one of them knew what to say. This was crazy. This was supposed to be a hit and run, a roll in the hay, wasn’t that what this night was supposed to be about?
They didn’t know what to feel, or think, or say, so they didn’t feel, think, or say anything. They just lay there, in each other’s arms, until the quietness overtook them, and they fell asleep.
+++
He woke up later that night to find her gone. No goodbye, no note, gone. And he almost panicked. He knew she was on the sixth floor, although he didn’t know her room number nor her last name come to that, but he got out of bed and slipped in his pants anyway, ready to go find her room even if he had to knock on every door.
But his secondary cell phone rang. Only three people in this world had that particular number. His mother, his father, and his best friend and family attorney, Max Brennan.
It was Max. “Get to Nantucket, Dutch,” he said before Dutch could say hello. The family compound was on Nantucket Island.
“What’s happened?” Dutch asked.
“It’s your father. It’s Pop’s.” There was a hesitation. Then an enormous sigh. “He’s dead, my friend,” Max said, a cry in his voice. “Pop’s dead.”
Dutch’s father had been in and out of hospitals a lot over the last few years, his heart not working quite right was the problem. And his death should not have come as a shock to anyone.
But it was a shock to Dutch. It shook him to his core. And the idea of looking for anyone, of knocking on anybody’s hotel room door to begin some hot and heavy romance with what faced him now, was thoroughly out of the question.
THREE
TEN YEARS LATER
The ceremony was to take place in the East Room of the White House, and Regina Lansing, along with her business partner and best friend, Loretta “LaLa” King, were among the invited guests. Not because she was some hot shot DC lobbyist or otherwise well-connected politico, but because her Newark, New Jersey organization, the Block by Block Raiders, was among those non-profit groups selected from across the country to receive the prestigious Presidential Mountain Movers award. And the president himself would be the presenter.
“Ladies and gentlemen,” the announcer said in a deep, roaring voice, “the President of the United States!”
Hail to the Chief music began to blare throughout the room and everybody stood to their feet. Gina was so nervous she could hear her heart pounding as she stood in anticipation of the president’s arrival. Would he remember her? Or was that night as forgettable for him as it was memorable for her?
Her bet was that he simply didn’t remember her. After all, it was a decade ago and he seemed to her to be a well-experienced hand at one-night stands. But even if he did remember, and to avoid any questions they decided to rescind the award, that wouldn’t stop her goal. She wasn’t here just to collect some award. She was mainly here to shine a light on the government’s disastrous budget cuts that were decimating programs like hers. And when it was her time to get on that stage and give her acceptance speech on behalf of Block by Block Raiders, or BBR as they called it, she was going to make her feelings clear. If the president didn’t veto Congress’s upcoming budget requests, BBR and many organizations like it would have to close its doors.
And even when the president entered, walking his fine self onto the stage with that elegant, controlled stride he was famous for, and the entire room seemed to get a jolt of giddy excitement just by his presence alone, she was still determined to stand her ground.
She remembered him. It was years ago, but she remembered it as if it was last night. She remembered his big body on top of hers, gyrating her in such an expert way that she left that hotel suite in a daze. And his rod, she still had dreams about that thick rod inside of her, caressing and then pounding her, all stiff and hard.
She found out that he was her one-night-stand early in his political career, when he was first thrust onto the national stage some eight years ago as the newly elected senator from the great state of Massachusetts. He was known back then as the CEO Senator, a man with plenty of business expertise but no previous political experience. It was perfect timing back then since the electorate was tired of career politicians, and he quickly made his mark as a moderate, new kind of democrat.
She’d never met him personally early in his term, nor paid him much attention whenever she was lobbying Congress, until she saw him one night on CSPAN, giving an impassioned speech about the clean air act. His hair style was different, and he’d aged, but she suddenly realized that the handsome and bachelor Senator Walter Harber was the same man she had gotten to know quite intimately one sultry night in Miami Beach.
And when he decided to run for president and won three years ago, she was astounded. She wanted to tell somebody about it, she was that excited, but she didn’t tell a soul. How would bragging about the fact that the then future President of the United States once had his way with her, be a positive for her?
Dutch Harber entered the East Room of the White House feeling as if it was déjà vu. This was his third ceremony of the morning. The first two, both also commemorating unique organizations, were brief and unremarkable. And when he welcomed the cheering room to the White House, and took a seat on the makeshift stage with the other dignitaries, he expected more of the same.
He would stand and present the award to each representative who came on stage, and then he’d sit back down while they gave their prepared remarks. His attention, however, would drift from the stage to the audience. Because he’d heard it all before. But after more than a few predictable acceptance speeches, his eyes drifted and stayed on one audience member in particular.
She sat on the front row, and during the entire ceremony she remained almost stoic, even bored. She never clapped. She never smiled. She never showed anything but seeming disinterest in the ceremony itself. But Dutch Harber couldn’t take his eyes off of her.
He’d noticed her from the moment he arrived in the East Room, the audience rising and Hail to the Chief blaring in his ears. She was the youngest of the organization representatives, he’d noticed. Much younger. In Dutch’s trained eyes, no more than thirty-five if she was a day.
He’d also noticed that she was the only female in the room who chose to wear pants rather than the conservative, button-down skirt and blazer that were standard issue around DC. She, in fact, wore a striking eggshell-white pantsuit that contrasted beautifully against her dark brown skin, with a royal purple blouse that crisscrossed at her ample breasts and revealed what he considered to be a tasteful amount of cleavage. Her heels were four-inches high, a magnificent golden-yellow, with a matching gold scarf wrapped neatly at her throat in an elegant overlay that made her look almost regal. His loins were throbbing just looking at her.
And her face. That was, for Dutch, the most intriguing feature of all. She wasn’t someone he would pick out of a crowd and declare the most gorgeous woman he’d ever seen. He doubt if he could even declare her the most gorgeous woman in the room right at that moment.
But she was attractive in a way that beggared description. Her features were all African, especially her full lips and big, almond eyes with orbs as white as snow against pupils that were so deep brown that they seemed, at a distance, as black as coal. Her eyelashes swung out and curved over so enticingly that they gave one of her eyes, her right eye, a sexy droopiness. Her hair was styled in long, thin braids that swept down her back and looked simply divine to Dutch on her perfectly-formed, small head.
She had a strong look, a look that bespoke intelligence and confidence rather than coquettishness and frailty. And she had a quiet, sweet sensuality that hovered over her like an aphrodisiac. She, unlike anybody else he’d met in a long time, got his attention.
To Gina Lansing, however, she had no clue she was getting his attention, but she was certain she was about to get his wrath when it was her turn to take the stage. He was super calm, she thought, as she couldn’t help but take peeps at the man. He sat elegantly on that stage in his expensive blue suit and tie, his long legs crossed, his intense, intelligent forest-green eyes focused away from the stage as each representative of each winning organization gave their prepared remarks.
She had to admit he was an impressive figure to behold, even better looking than she remembered him ten years ago. His jet-black, silky straight hair was now worn slicked back into a Wall Street, severe, conservative cut, and his sharp-tailored suit made him look as if he knew he was King of the mountain, but also knew how to ride that throne. On any other day, under any other circumstances, he would probably be an interesting person to get to know. But she didn’t come here to get to know the President of the United States. She came here to shame him into action.
“Sure you still wanna do this?” LaLa leaned over and whispered in her ear. She was seated beside Gina and was everything Gina was not: short, heavyset, and so down-to-earth that she could almost seem rude.
“I’ve got to do it,” Gina whispered back. “If he isn’t prepared to veto that appropriations bill, our doors will have to close, no ands, ifs, or buts about it.”
“You don’t have to tell me that,” LaLa said, “I know all that. But damn, girl,” LaLa added, looking Dutch up and down, “that white man fine.”
If you only knew how fine, Gina was almost tempted to say. “Don’t be disrespectful,” she said instead. “He’s the president, after all.”
“A president who can’t take his eyes off of you.”
Gina’s heart beat a little faster. She had noticed it, too. But it didn’t seem like a look of recognition or, as LaLa would suggest, attraction. It just seemed like he was bored by the ceremony and needed somebody to observe.
Besides, LaLa was always convinced every man wanted Gina. “That man is not thinking about me, okay?” she said to put an end to any wild speculations LaLa was known for.
“Uh-hun, if you say so,” LaLa said, unconvinced. Then she leaned over to Gina again. “And what you mean ‘don’t be disrespectful?’ You’re the one planning to shame the man into action. That ain’t disrespectful?”
“Of course not,” Gina whispered back as if it was the most obvious thing in the world. I pray not, she inwardly said.
“And now,” said the Master-of-Ceremony, a tall, wiry man, “the next success story is the Newark, New Jersey-based Block by Block Raiders. This organization began as the dream of a young one-time public defender who stayed in her hometown and sought to change the lives of troubled youth in her blighted urban neighborhood. Since its’ inception five years ago, young gang members have quit the gang life and are now contributing members of society. The same for former prostitutes and drug addicts. Many of the residents of her community credit BBR with changing the entire trajectory of the young people’s lives. That, in and of itself ladies and gentlemen, is an achievement. Let’s therefore welcome Miss Regina Lansing to the stage to accept the award on behalf of Block by Block Raiders. Miss Lansing, ladies and gentlemen.”
As they had done for the other organization reps, Dutch and all of the onstage dignitaries stood and applauded as Gina made her way onto the stage.
Oh, how lovely, Dutch thought as she walked onto the stage, her movements an education in grace and dignity. And when he gave her the framed award certificate, and reached out and shook her hand, her smile seemed so warm, so oddly familiar, that it took him aback. And he suddenly felt as if he knew her.
Gina felt a bolt of electricity when his hand touched hers, when she remembered what those hands once did to her. And when she looked into his kind, glassy, forest-green eyes, she found herself smiling. Smiling? She was about to rip him wide open, tear this mutha up with some truth, and she was smiling? She got serious again, accepted the award from him, and stood at the podium to give what they all undoubtedly assumed would be her prepared, staid remarks.
When everyone was seated and silence came into the room like a sudden cloud, she thanked the president and all of those assembled, exhaled in nervous exasperation, and then told it like the reality of BBR’s situation decided that she had to.
“This award,” she said as she stood behind the podium and stared at the certificate in her hand, the president, along with other dignitaries, seated not ten feet from her, “is without question the highest honor our small, truly grassroots organization will ever receive. Without question. And we thank-you for it. But, Mr. President,” she said this as she turned sideways to look directly at Dutch Harber, “this award isn’t worth the paper it’s printed on.”
There was an audible gasp from the audience, an audience that included a pool reporter and cameraman with a live feed going to the 24-hour cable news channels. It was obvious the reporter had expected Gina’s speech to be more of the same because he was on his Blackberry more than he was watching. Until she said her not worth the paper it’s printed on line. He looked up then.
Dutch stared at her as she spoke, at the way her eyes showed strength, but also a kind of sad familiar yearning he could not place. But she kept on.
“You’ve been in office for almost three years now, sir, and you’re a Democrat. But your policies have been as destructive to organizations like mine as any Republican president has ever been. You say you’re a champion of at-risk youth in America, and many of my colleagues have stood on this stage and praised you for your work in that area. But talking is cheap where I come from, sir, and your actions speak a different reality than your words.”
Gina hesitated, as her nerves were trying to get the best of her, as his eyes seemed so intensely glued to hers. But she continued. “Your administration has cut funding for organizations like mine two years in a row, and those cuts, sir, have been devastating. I know we have a serious budget deficit, I know everybody has got to take a hit, but you’re trying to balance the budget on the backs of the very people who can least afford to take that big a hit.”
She exhaled again, had to relax her nerves again. “I used to admire you, sir. When you got elected I sighed relief. Finally, I thought, we had a fighter in the White House, a fighter for the poor and disenfranchised. But you have been a huge disappointment, sir. A huge disappointment.”
Dutch’s heart sank at the thought of her being disappointed in him, but he was a master politician and continued to sit there, hands in lap, legs crossed, as if her entire diatribe had nothing to do with him.
Gina kept on. “If you truly want to be the champion of at-risk youth you claim to be, then you’d put your foot down and stop compromising with those Republicans who seek to punish people simply because they never had the same advantages others had. If all you see is success around you, then you’d be successful too. But if all you see is failure around you, as the young people I work with are bombarded with day in and day out, then guess which outcome you’re more likely to have?”
She looked at the award again, an award, if she wasn’t fighting for her organization’s life, she’d be proud to accept. “This award is nice, and it’ll make leaders of organizations like mine very happy and pleased, but it doesn’t feel right
. It feels like a sell-out, to be honest with you. It feels like I’m supposed to pretend that my government is actually on my side, ready and willing to help our at-risk youth, when nothing could be further from the truth. Thanks, Mr. President,” she said lastly, “but no thanks.”
And then she walked off of the stage, leaving the award on the podium. The same audience that had applauded all of the previous speakers at the end of their speeches, sat mute at the end of hers.
The sudden tension in the room was palpable, with all angst directed, not at President Harber, but at Gina herself. Even LaLa was amazed. She expected a tough speech, but nothing that blunt. She leaned over to her colleague as soon as she took her seat. “That man is not pleased,” she said of the president.
But Gina merely sat up tall and kept looking forward. She didn’t come to please the president. She came to make a point. A point, she felt, given the sudden silence in the room, she absolutely felt she made.
THE PRESIDENT'S GIRLFRIEND Page 3
