by Layne Harper
We stop walking, and he leans over as if he’s going to tell me a secret. “I said that I was going to kiss you before this date was over, and the kiss to the tip of your nose doesn’t count.” He drops my hand and walks over to a nearby tree.
“What are you doing?” I ask in a voice that is about two octaves higher than it should be. People weave around us on the sidewalk.
He ignores my question and continues to examine the trunk of the tree as if it’s the most interesting thing ever. He places his hands against the rough grey bark and pushes. “This looks sturdy enough,” he says to the tree. Turning to me, he adds, “or you can let me walk you home and give you a proper goodbye kiss against your front door. Your choice. Here,” he says, motioning to the hordes of people in the park, “we have an audience. Not that I mind. Every guy will be jealous.”
He turns his hands over, and bends his elbows as if he’s using them as a set of scales. “On the other hand,” he says raising his left hand, “I can take my time to properly kiss you without prying eyes.” He moves his hands back in forth, as if the decision that I’m faced with is weighing him down.
Graham is so darn cute right now that I can’t help but smile. I pretend to think about it for a moment. I turn and look at the people in the park. I walk over and test the sturdiness of the tree. I catch a glimpse of Lou’s face. He’s about 20 feet from us smirking. Graham has his arms crossed over his chest and is smiling from ear to ear. Decision … What decision? “Well, when you put it like that, I’d love for you to walk me home.”
I turn to Lou. “Mr. Jackson and I are going to my home. Would you mind grabbing the car and meeting us there?”
“Ma’am, I’m supposed to stay close by you when you’re in public.” It’s just a statement … but I know that tomorrow, I’ll hear about it if I dismiss him.
I decide that I’m a big girl and can deal with the lecture. “This is on me, Lou. Not you. I’ll make sure that I take the fall for us.”
Graham tucks me against his side as if he’s trying to prove to Lou that he can watch over me.
Lou’s face remains unchanged, but as he turns and walks away I see him shake his head.
As we draw closer to my townhome, the bats return with a vengeance. I have a year left to make a real difference in the lives of millions of Americans. Is it a good time to get distracted by a relationship? What if I actually find a real connection with him, one that’s more than just sexual? Will he understand that my job comes first and everything else is second, including my family, friends, and boyfriend?
When we’re a block from my house, I begin to panic. My breathing starts to accelerate and my palms become sweaty. I decide that Graham Jackson needs to go away. I’ll explain that we can explore this chemistry again in a year. I’d rather go alone to the White House Christmas party that get trapped in some sort of relationship prison where I just feel guilty all the time, as I did with Aiden.
Graham must sense me mentally checking out or—oh God!—maybe I’m soaking his hand with sweat, because he says, “I’m not asking you to marry me, Rachael. I know that your job is your life. Remember, no pressure.” He gives my wet palm a gentle and reassuring squeeze.
Is he a mind-reader? “That’s my place.” I point at the door of the row of townhomes that all look identical.
At just that moment, the wind begins to swirl around us, creating a small cyclone of fall leaves about knee-height. We stop and watch the reds, browns, gold, and dark greens of fall dance around us. The cold, snowy, dreary winter is just around the corner, so we have to enjoy moments like this.
The air shifts between us as I lead him up my stoop. First date awkwardness, expectations and the unknown are palatable. He breaks our connection as he shuffles his feet, and his hands go deep into his pockets of his jeans, causing his shoulders to rise close to his ears. “Look, Rachael,” he starts. He’s such a nice guy. I can hear the southern gentleman lecture that every mom gives their son being played out behind his eyes. “I’ve had a really great afternoon with you. I know that I might have been a little too aggressive at the restaurant. We don’t have to do anything …”
If I don’t kiss him now, I’m going to lose my nerve. I reverse our positions and push him up against my front door. He’s so solid that I feel like I’m moving a marble statue. I stand on my tiptoes, wrap my arms around his neck and pull his lips towards mine.
The moment my mouth connects with his, I feel a piece of my heart surrender to him. I want Graham like I wanted to be the White House Chief of Staff.
At first it’s truly me kissing him. I press my body against his as I run my tongue across his slit encouraging him to part his lips and let me in. After his recovers from his initial surprise at my forwardness, Graham kisses me back with just as much passion, sending heat swirling through my body all the way to my toes. His lips are as soft and luscious as I imagined they would be. My mouth tingles in recognition, as if it’s been kissing these lips forever.
In a flash, our positions reverse. My back is plastered firmly against my solid oak door and Graham’s feet are in a wide stance, with his right thigh in between my legs. His chest is against mine, and I can feel his desire for me pressing against my pelvis and lower stomach.
Our tongues find a rhythm that tricks my body into thinking that we can have this every single day, and I bring my hands up, fisting his dark hair in them. I give his locks a tug, and he moans into my mouth.
My hips dance on his thigh as I feel myself succumbing to my engaged hormones. It’s only our first date, but I know what I want. And it’s him.
“Let’s go inside,” I say, breaking our kiss. Frantically, I open my purse and begin blindly searching for my keys. I could care less what my house looks like. I want Graham Jackson right here. Right now.
He takes two steps back and runs his hand through his hair, panting as if he’s run a long distance. “Fuck, Rachael,” is what he keeps repeating.
“What?” I ask as I pull out my keys triumphantly.
“God, you’re amazing,” he compliments, as he touches two fingers to his lips. He steps back in front of me and takes my face into his hands so I’m looking into those eyes that are heavy with lust. “Let me make one thing clear, beautiful. There is nothing that I want more than to walk through that door, carry you to your bedroom and make love to you until the moon rises.” He exhales slowly, a stream of air whooshing through his swollen lips. “But I want to be more to you than that. I want to get to know your mind before I take your body. I’m going to turn around and go home with the hardest dick in D.C. knowing that when we do make love it will be much more than just physical.”
With those words, he plants one more lingering kiss on my lips before he turns around, and walks down my front porch steps. While I attempt to recover my ability to breathe, I watch his confident stride take him away from me. Strangely enough, I feel lost.
Then, my heart speeds up when he turns around. Is he coming back to me?
I watch him, wondering desperately what he’s about to do. When he reaches the bottom step of my stoop, he holds out his phone. “Umm … I need your number.”
Not quite what I was hoping for, but he’s back. I walk down the steps and take the phone out of his hand. I enter my information, and then call myself so I have his number also.
“Hey, you know what?” he asks with a look that says he’s been waiting to deliver this line.
I put my hands on my hips. “What?”
He dances away from me, and I imagine him teasing his sister this way. “I kissed an older woman … I kissed an older woman …”
“Asshole.” I smirk.
“Cradle robber.”
He walks back to where I’m standing and kisses the tip of my nose again. “Today has been one of the best Sundays I’ve spent. Thanks for giving me a chance, and not freaking out too much.”
I just nod. Words have escaped me. It means so much that we can tease one second, and then he can deliver a line like that the n
ext. I plop down to the top step of the stoop. “Graham Jackson, you say the sweetest things.”
He walks up the steps and joins me sitting on the cold cement, and we continue to talk until the sun sets and the street lamps come on. Lou, in the unmarked government car, is not far away. Yet even though my Secret Service agent is nearby, and people pass us on the street, it feels like Graham and I are in our own universe. We don’t kiss again, other than a chaste kiss goodbye, but we seem to have a connection that is soul-baring.
Like a robot, I stare dumbly at the key-ring that’s still looped around my finger, realizing that this time he’s really not coming back. Finally, I enter my house, flipping on the living room lights. I drop my purse by the front door and collapse into an armchair while I stare at my dingy beige walls. The silence is deafening.
“What have I gotten myself into?”
Chapter Three
“It begins at the community level. When you vote tomorrow in your local elections, don’t vote for the incumbent. It’s time for us to tell all the politicians who’ve gotten comfortable in their jobs that they work for us—the voters. It’s not their right to retire in office. This is Revere, and we’ll be back in a moment.”
“Who is this jackass?” I ask Joe, the Secret Service agent that’s assigned to my detail when Lou has a much-deserved day off.
“I’m sorry, Miss Early,” he responds as he quickly switches the channel in my government-issued black SUV to something more soothing to my political senses, like Fox News.
“No, I’m serious. What were you just listening to?” I ask as I slide forward on the leather seat. My polyester fabric work-out shorts make me glide across the Armor-Alled leather like I’m a kid on a slip-and-slide. Fortunately, my coffee stays in its travel mug.
It’s still dark out, and Washington D.C. is lit up like a Christmas tree. I catch Joe’s reflection in the rearview mirror as we pass under a streetlamp. His eyes cut away from me. He’s embarrassed that he’s been caught. Looking at me? Listening to political-talk radio? I’m not sure.
“Turn it back to that station,” I insist.
Without checking in the mirror again, Joe switches the satellite radio to a man’s voice that is obviously agitated. “That, my friends, is why we’re not going to vote for the incumbent. Your vote for the challenger is a vote telling Washington that we want change. It’s time for new blood. It’s time for those in power to realize that their seats in our government are not a birthright. They’re earned through real-world experiences. You shouldn’t have to have ten million dollars in the bank in order to have a say in our nation’s government.”
I lean back against the cool seat and roll my eyes. Another wind-bag who lives in some sort of utopia where just anyone with a good idea can maneuver the complexities of Washington D.C. politics. “Who is this guy?”
“There are actually three of them, ma’am. The one talking now is Revere. The other two are McDougall and Solomon. They call themselves the Sons of Liberty.”
“How did you discover them?” I ask as I wrack my brain to recall everything that I learned in history class about the Sons of Liberty.
“The guys on my soccer team were talking about the show. It’s kind of a Howard Stern meets Rush Limbaugh sort of combination.”
“Is it popular?”
“I know a lot of guys who listen to it.”
I quit asking questions and listen to more of it as Joe navigates the streets of D.C. It’s actually a decent distraction from my rather turbulent evening. I spent most of the night trying to wrap my head around Graham Jackson. I’d even made a pros and cons list, so I could visually weigh whether or not I should explore the connection that we seem to have.
The cons:
He thinks boxing is a dying sport. I think MMA is the bastardized son of wrestling.
He thinks lacrosse is the most complicated and difficult sport to play. I think it’s boring and was created by men who are too afraid to get hurt playing a real man’s sport, like football.
He has a dog named George. Pets make me sneeze.
I don’t need the distraction of a relationship.
The pros:
He is gorgeous.
Sexy
Very masculine hands. I like men’s hands very much. Soft, feminine hands on a man are a huge turnoff.
Graham is well liked by the First Family.
He’s noncontroversial for me to date. I don’t have to worry about his political-party affiliations.
The Secret Service let him into the President’s private residence.
His eyes.
Holy shit, those eyes …
“So Solomon,” Revere’s voice breaks into my thoughts. “What do you think of immigration law reform?”
The voice that I’m assuming is Solomon, responds with, “Why are you now banging an illegal immigrant? What is she, a Russian mail-order? A chick you snuck over the border from Canada? I know. She’s a Scandinavian swim-suit model.”
Revere says, “All three, man. I’m trying to figure out if I should choose to marry her so she can stay in the country, or if the government is going to concede that there are twelve million undocumented workers in this country that should have to pay taxes just like I do.”
I roll my eyes, even though no one can see. This is an ongoing debate within the walls of the White House. On one hand, Revere has a point. It would be nice to collect taxes from those who are working here illegally. On the other hand, it’s political dynamite to grant citizenship to those twelve million people for doing something that’s against the law. And then, where does it stop? Our country is not large enough to allow everyone who wants to live here that opportunity. There have to be proper channels for gaining citizenship.
Revere continues, “I know that it’s a hot-button issue for the White House.”
“And how do you know that?” Solomon asks in a tone that indicates that he already knows the answer.
“Remember that girl from the White House?”
“The one that’s got a mouth like a vacuum cleaner that we call Hoover? Oh my God! She’s an illegal?” Solomon asks, as if it just occurred to him.
They are really frat boys discussing politics at its dirtiest. I roll my eyes again at his very tired joke. But, then I question if he’s talking about Hoover vacuum cleaners or President Hoover.
Revere says, “No not that one. The one that I went down on in the coat closet at the White House.”
My ears perk up. These idiots have access to the White House? I make a mental note to discuss this in my daily staff meeting.
“Oh yeah. The one we call Betsy Ross because she used an American flag to cover herself when she ran for the bathroom.”
“Yeah. Yeah. That’s the one. She said during some intense,” he clears his throat, “oral pleasures that the White House is strongly considering making immigration reform a priority for the President’s last year in office,” Revere confirms.
I almost spit the sip of coffee that I put in my mouth. That’s a brainstorm item that was discussed in the President’s private office with only seven of us present. I quickly scan through who was in attendance. None of the six gentlemen or me could be Betsy Ross. Maybe one of their assistants saw the notes? I’m not sure, but this will be addressed in a couple of hours.
***
“Jab. Cross. Right hook. Left jab. Right jab,” my trainer, Malik, instructs as he blocks my punches. With each throw my back, then my shoulder, followed by arm muscles burn with intensity. Sweat trickles in a steady stream off of my forehead, blurring my vision.
I don’t care. I follow his commands as if he’s a general, executing each punch perfectly against his red pads.
This gym is my sanctuary. My sanity. Malik is God over his domain, and he runs this place with the same precision used when he served his country as a Navy Seal. He’s the most intense person that I know, and I look forward to our training sessions.
“That’s it, Rachael. Hit me,” he coaches, crouching into
a defensive stance.
I grit my teeth and give my last round of punches all that I’ve got. I’m striking those who said that a woman was incapable of serving in my post. Those who said that I would give this all up for a family. I punch the pads thinking about all the degrading situations that I’ve put myself in for the name of the President’s causes.
I connect against the pads in a perfect up-tempo rhythm. Finally, my arms drop to my sides in muscular defeat. I’ve been going at it strong for an hour—three minutes of jump-rope mixed with different punch combinations.
Malik has been training me in the art of boxing for ten years now. We’re a well-oiled machine. When I step through the gym doors at four fifty in the morning—if you’re not ten minutes early, you’re late—three times a week, Malik reads my body language and decides on-the-spot what our workout will be like for the day.
This morning, his accuracy was spot on. I needed to work out aggression, angst, anxiety, and any other “A” words with negativity at their center. In between the significance of tomorrow and a certain dark-haired boy, I’m a mess.
I collapse in a grey and rusted metal folding chair, pulling off my red boxing gloves. Next, I open the lid on my water bottle. Sweat rolls down my cheeks and falls to my soaked black workout shorts. Other drops begin to pool on the cement floor at my feet. Tendrils of hair are plastered to my forehead. There’s no need to look in the mirror. My alabaster-white skin is a lovely shade of watermelon red. Some people are lucky enough to be pretty exercisers. I am not one of them. Malik was convinced I was having a stroke the first time we worked out together. Now, he’s pleased when I look this bad. It means he kicked my behind all over the gym.
After taking a couple of swigs from my water, I pour the rest of the bottle over my head. The coldness is shocking in a good way that makes my face sting.
“Want to talk about it, Rach?” Malik asks. He’s huffing and puffing also. His dreads are heavy with perspiration and his mocha skin is glistening under the harsh glare of the gym’s fluorescent lighting.
