Power

by Claire Adams

  POWER

  By Claire Adams

  This book is a work of fiction. The names, characters, places and incidents are products of the writer's imagination or have been used fictitiously and are not to be construed as real. Any resemblance to persons, living or dead, actual events, locales or organizations is entirely coincidental.

  Copyright © 2015 Claire Adams

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  Power release schedule:

  Power #1 - March 19th

  Power #2 - March 26th

  Power #3 - April 2nd

  Power #4 - April 9th

  Power #5 - April 16th

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  Chapter 1

  I stood in the shadow of the great house before me, hearing the taxi whizz behind on its way back toward Pennsylvania. I’d never been in the White House before, but god had I imagined it. The exterior white shell of it seemed to speak of so much—so much history. Those immaculate rooms, that power, the vibrancy. And, above all, that handsome president—the leader of the free world.

  I adjusted my blue suit beneath me, tugging at it, allowing my breasts to bounce a bit. I knew that they didn’t hurt my chances, but I didn’t like to think of it. I knew my smarts could propel me into the role if I played my cards right; if I flung myself through the interview like a pro—like I had countless other times throughout my career—I could land the position of my dreams.

  Head of the President’s Re-election Campaign.

  I thought about the way they’d discuss it on the news: Amanda Martin, the woman of the hour. Only twenty-nine years old and already moving her way up the political ladder.

  Beneath my fine, blue suit, I felt my stomach grumble at me with a sort of rage. I was nervous, certainly. After all, my past accomplishments didn’t stand up against this feat. I’d been president of my sorority back in school, just because I didn’t want my sorority (the one my mother had forced me to join, stating she wouldn’t pay for my college otherwise) to be just like any other sorority. If I was going to be a part of it, we were going to make a goddamned difference. And we did.

  And then after that, in my home city of Philadelphia, I’d become one of the secretaries in the mayor’s office. Nothing big, no. But after a few years into it, with success around every corner and my name blasted in a few important peoples’ ears, I’d been invited to come to Washington to work on the initial campaign for the now-president. I’d been only twenty-four at the time, and I wasn’t ready for the flash, the grandeur of D.C. But I acclimated easily, after a few minor bumps and one silly affair with a congressman.

  Just one!

  And now, I found myself back in D.C. A congressman, George Carlman, had suggested I apply. I’d been an essential part of the previous campaign. I remembered the rallies, the fast-paced nature of it all. I remembered counting votes until my eyes bled. But when our president, Xavier Callaway, had made that speech on that January day, I knew it had all been worth it. My heart seemed to beat only for him. It wasn’t just that he was handsome—after all, he’d paid nearly no attention to me during the entire election process. It was that what I had done, all the work I’d propelled into the campaign, had been worth it. Goddamn it, it’d been worth it. And that, beyond anything else, was beautiful.

  Two secret service agents met me at the door and pushed it open, allowing me entrance into the immaculate foyer. I thanked them with a polite, if firm, voice. I wanted them to take me seriously as I was interviewing to run their president’s re-election campaign. I didn’t invesion myself as some flighty girl. No, I was so much more—intelligence and strength and vitality.

  “Just a minute, Miss,” the secret service agent stated, bringing his hands up to his shoulders, positioned in the air. “You know the drill.”

  I did.

  I held up my hands to mirror his and allowed him to touch my body with his long, thick fingers. He roughed up around my hips, on my ass, making sure I didn’t have anything on my person. I winked at him as he did it, making him feel uncomfortable. He looked down, uncertain.

  “I’m just kidding, Dimitri,” I told him, nearly laughing. I’d known him for nearly four years at that point and I knew he felt awkward.

  “Amanda, so sorry about this,” he said. I knew that he had a crush on me; I’d known it since we’d met on the campaign trail.

  “Please. It doesn’t bug me at all. I kind of like it,” I laughed, raising an eyebrow.

  “You’re in for the interview, yeah?” he asked.

  I nodded to him, looking down for a moment. I realized that I was truly nervous; I hadn’t let myself feel it until that moment. “Have there been many interviews today?”

  Dimitri shrugged. “He’s seen a few, sure. But you’ll be great. I know you know your stuff.”

  I smiled at him, still uncertain. Everything else I’d ever done had worked out perfectly. I’d literally never failed—and the thought of failure terrified me. But casting my eyes far into the future made me so nervous, so uncertain. I couldn’t be sure about my stance in the Oval Office. Who was I kidding? I was only a twenty-nine year old woman in D.C., surrounded by countless, better-qualified people.

  Pushing those thoughts to the back of my mind, I spun back around, allowing Dimitri to walk alongside me.

  “What have you been up to?” he asked.

  I flashed him a bright smile. “I’ve been working down the hill, beneath Congressman Carlman. He actually encouraged me to apply for the position.”

  “You’ve made a name for yourself in D.C.,” Dimitri said.

  He led me up the steps that curled so perfectly into the ethers. I thought of Abraham Lincoln, of Kennedy—of all of them climbing these same steps. I shivered, knowing I was entering a sacred home.

  He led me down the wide hallway and I gazed at the many paintings and at the textured blue wallpaper. I felt my heart beating so fast in my chest. I felt like I was entering a dream world—probably because it was a world I had dreamed of so much.

  Finally, we reached it: the Oval Office. I took a deep breath and turned toward Dimitri. His dark hair and eyes were so stark in the strange hallway, this secret service agent who’d actually joked with me throughout. Back then, Xavier Callaway had been a congressman with only a body guard named Dimitri. When Xavier had become the president, he’d brought his man with him.

  “It’s great that you work here, now,” I said to him, still uncertain about entering this terrifying place.

  Dimitri nodded. “The president is a good man. And I know I’ll see you around,” he whispered, bringing his hand toward the door and spinning the knob. I was going in; my stomach dropped.

  I swallowed slowly and brought my heels forward. I held my chin high, knowing that I could rule a room—perhaps even that room. I knew that in all my past interviews, in all my past triumphs, I’d won over everyone I’d encountered. That was all I needed: full control of the room.

  But how was I supposed to do that when I was meant to have full control over the goddamned President of the United States?

  Chapter 2

  Behind me, I heard Dimitri close the door. I knew he would remain on post outside the door. I wondered if he could hear anything—if he knew any of the intimate secrets of the presidency. Surely, being around President Callaway so often suited you with a world of gossip—gossip, I knew, that Dimitri would never release.

  Never in a million years.

  The light swept in from those
familiar, three, grand windows behind the desk. I oriented myself toward the sunshine, smiling with as much confidence as I could manage. “Hello, Mr. President,” I called to him.

  Xavier Callway stood up from his desk, a pen still in his hand. He was alone, which was unexpected. So often, I’d seen him in the midst of swarms of government employees, of voters. But never by himself. Alone, he looked different, more striking somehow. I breathed an easy sigh, unsure of what to say next. I tried to rev my brain, to propel myself into the interview. I needed to be succinct and professional. I needed to allow him to understand that I knew what I was doing.

  I tapped forward and reached my hand across the desk, shaking hands firmly—like a man. Something about his grip made me jump in my skin, but I didn’t allow him to see it. “Thank you for seeing me today,” I stated, nodding.

  The president brought his hands out. “Well, I certainly want to hear your ideas about the re-election,” he said. His voice was so powerful, nearly echoing from the grand room.

  I tried to keep myself from peering around me, eyeing everything in the place—the desk before me, the history draped in every corner. I sat in the chair, bringing my portfolio up to my knees. The president sat across from me and folded his hands beneath his chin, gazing at me with dark, penetrating eyes. I felt something stirring in me.

  “Well. What are your ideas for the re-election campaign?” the president finally asked, cutting through the tension between us. Straight to the point.

  I cleared my throat, realizing I had forgotten to speak. “I’ve prepared an essential list of the various places throughout Indiana, Ohio, and Illinois we must visit for the upcoming re-election. Thinking we’ll prepare speeches about your basis in education during the upcoming four years, and we’ll need to quell everyone’s belief that you’re raising taxes.”

  “But I plan to raise taxes,” the president said, a smile creeping over his face.

  I tapped my pencil against my chin, catching myself matching his smile. “It’s not good for a re-election speech,” I said.

  The president brought his fingers together in front of his face. “You’re the expert,” he laughed.

  I continued on, listing out all my preparations for the following few months. “I know that your last campaign manager had you hit these states heavy, but they’ve been some of your greatest supporters throughout your presidency. I say we hit the big cities, but we don’t mess around with any of the smaller ones.”

  “Here in California, Washington, and Oregon?” he asked me, tracing the states on the map I showed him with a long, firm finger. I quivered, leaning towards him.

  “Yes, those states. What do you think?”

  He blinked up at me. “Where is it you’re from, Miss—“

  “Amanda. Amanda Martin,” I finally said, sort of annoyed with him for not knowing my name, even as we conducted the interview together.

  “Amanda. Miss Martin. My apologies. Where is it you’re from?”

  “I’m from Pennsylvania,” I answered him, bringing my fingers through my brunette hair. I felt a bit self-conscious in those moments. I knew I needed to rule the room. But this man—the President of the United States—wasn’t giving me much room to breathe. “Philadelphia.”

  He tipped his head to the right. “I’m from LA, as you probably know. Would it be possible that we arrange a few speeches in the greater LA area? I need to make sure I polish my relations with them. Make sure they don’t feel abandoned.”

  “Of course,” I said, bringing my pencil back to the paper and writing this down. “We’ll have you make appearances throughout the Mid-West, and then—if you’re for it—I was thinking you could make a sort of YouTube special with a famous comedian. Something to highlight the important issues with your education campaign. What are your thoughts?”

  Xavier raised his eyebrow. “Sort of for the younger crowd, huh?”

  His masculinity struck me. I swallowed, feeling this unarticulated sense of emotion, of vibrancy course through me. “I suppose so.”

  “I suppose at forty-four I need to begin catching up with the younger crowd. I was always the youngest, you know. Youngest Governor of California. Youngest man in Congress. And now—the youngest president. But I suppose that doesn’t really illustrate itself to the rest of the American people.”

  “It’s tough keeping up,” I admitted, trying to joke with him. “I’m already twenty-nine.”

  “And already interviewing for the position to be my personal re-election organizer? Hmm. Please. Tell me why you—and you alone—fit the role.”

  I felt nervous once more, nearly stuttering into the words. “Well. I was very much involved with your first election. I worked closely with your manager—Rick Selman—to create the perfect campaign for you. He will tell you that I contributed many ideas—ideas that ultimately created a fruitful campaign. In many ways, you wouldn’t be sitting in that chair without me.” I raised my left eyebrow toward him, creating a sense of sass that I knew was probably one or two steps over the line.

  He brought his hand to his bearded, handsome face. The first president to have a beard in many years; it had created quite a frenzy throughout much of the United States. But honestly, it was stunning.

  “You’ve brought up some interesting points. I think I remember you.” He stood, then. He swung his long, strong legs out from his body, tapping around to the side of the desk. He leaned on it easily, gazing down at me. I wasn’t sure what to do; his gaze was so penetrating.

  “I feel very confident in this role,” I continued then. “You must know that I have the relevant experience, I can speak to the younger audience, as well as traditional voters. I know how to create a campaign that will be even better than the one before.”

  He nodded toward me. A tension had risen around us, making me feel so strange. I brought my hand to my ear, bringing my hair behind it. I averted my eyes toward the desk, where I saw a pleasant photo of the president and his beautiful, blonde wife. They were gazing at each other with such passion. I wondered what their actual relationship was like. I knew that often, during the most previous campaign, the men and women on the campaign trail with me had mentioned that she was mean, always making sly remarks about the women on the team. She was jealous, sure. And maybe she should have been. The women on the campaign team were young and vibrant, swinging around the soon-to-be president with fine, twenty-year-old asses and breasts, without a thought of the soon-to-be first lady. Why would anyone think of her? Why should we care what she thinks of us?

  I cleared my throat, trying to slice through the tension and still create a good interview for myself. “How is the first lady?” I asked him.

  He tipped his head to the right, looking at me curiously. “She’s wonderful, thank you for asking.” His tone had switched. Before, it had been almost intimate, talking to me like we’d been friends for ages. But now: his voice was dominate, presidential. He removed himself from the side of the desk and collapsed into his chair once more, picking up his pen. He began making notes on a white piece of paper before him. He didn’t say anything or glance in my direction.

  The silence stretched. I felt so strange. Was I supposed to leave? “So. I have a great deal of experience, and working as lead of your next campaign team would be a supreme pleasure,” I muttered. I stood from my chair, realizing that he’d lost interest in me. “Have a good afternoon.” I then spun around, back toward the door that camouflaged itself into the wall.

  Still, only the scratches from his pen were brought back to my ear. I shuddered.

  The door opened and I stepped into the hallway where I found Dimitri holding the doorknob and nodding toward me. I didn’t’ realize that I was visibly shaking. Dimitri closed the door and placed his hand on the small of my back. “You okay?” he whispered, jostling his microphone from his face for a moment.

  I nodded, still feeling the waves of panic as they rushed over me. “Of course,” I whispered. “Now get me the hell out of here!”

&n
bsp; Dimitri laughed and led me back down that illustrious stairwell, back into the air. I felt unsteady the entire way down those stairs. I grasped on his arm in the free air, looking up at the sky. “That was rough,” I confided him. “I don’t think I got it.” I hadn’t ever felt that way before—that I’d completely failed at something. Every word I’d said in the beginning had felt perfectly orchestrated. I’d felt like I was on track until—until I’d felt something between us. Something that I couldn’t readily speak about.

  “I’m sure it went better than you think,” Dimitri said, nearly laughing.

  But I shook my head vehemently. “No, Dimitri. No. But thanks for saying so. You’re a good friend.” I said these words to him and watched as his eyes winced at the word—friend. But I couldn’t be anything else to him.

  “We should get coffee sometime, Amanda,” he said, then. His words were broad and vague. “As friends, of course.”

  I nodded, stepping back from him. I smiled. I didn’t have many friends, and I think he knew that. “We’re both married to our work, aren’t we?” I asked him.

  “I don’t see how the president can have a wife; I don’t even have time to watch football,” Dimitri said.

  I laughed appreciatively. I reached into my pocket and grabbed my phone, making a quick call for a taxi. “You’ll be around?” I asked him as I hung up the phone.

  Dimitri nodded. “You know I’m always around.”

  The taxi arrived quickly. I leaped into the yellow cab and we revved toward my home in Trinidad. I folded my hands in my lap, still feeling the shakes coursing through me. I tried to steady my head, to tell myself it was all going to be fine—it was all going to be fine. I would keep my job with Carlman; I’d work my way up steadily. So, I didn’t get the job.

  So what?

  Chapter 3

  It was growing dark outside the taxi as we pulled up to my apartment building. I leafed through my billfold and paid the driver in cash. “Thank you, beautiful lady,” the man said. Part of me balked at this. Truth be told, I wasn’t always so proud of my looks. But I thanked the foreign man anyway. “Have a good night,” he returned.