Too many good politicians were brought down by a woman. Not that Max Edison was a good politician but even his stellar performance in California was in jeopardy of being tainted by his ex.
“And Global Initiative? What are your thoughts about his involvement with them?”
“We’ve talked about that, and I wasn’t pleased when I learned about it. However, his involvement pre-dated his position with the state of California. Once he became Secretary of Education, he assured me he was nothing more than a silent partner in a firm trying to achieve similar goals.”
“He’s promised to divest himself of his shares if I nominate him.”
“Is that good enough for you?”
I sighed heavily. Was it? “That’s the biggest red flag for me, Marianne. That firm is absolute shit, and he’s just funneling money into it. I don’t understand how he can be a part of it, professionally or financially, and still spout his reform message.”
“That’s something he’ll have to answer in his committee hearing.”
“I don’t want to look like an incompetent asshole. I want the best.”
“But what if the best comes with baggage?”
That was an excellent question. Could I overlook personal baggage in order to have the best in my cabinet? No one was perfect, and I knew that better than anyone else. Our phone call ended, and I headed down to the lower level of the townhouse to continue thinking about my decision.
“Jameson?” I heard Georgie call from the floor above. Ron still hadn’t called with an update on Russell Hunt’s sentencing, and now that she was awake, I was going to have to prepare her for the outcome.
“I’m down here,” I yelled from the base of the staircase.
A blond head appeared above me, and it was hard not to smile at the sight. “I was thinking about going into Boston Commons and doing some Christmas shopping since we’re not going to be home for the holidays.”
Before I could respond, my phone rang. A chill ran through my body. I didn’t have to look down at my screen to see who was calling. I knew it was Ron. I turned my back on Georgie, knowing she was going to follow me down the stairs.
“Tell me,” I said without preamble.
“The other two shooters received life without parole.”
That bit of news was acceptable. That was still justice in my eyes, and I think Georgie shared a similar opinion.
“And Hunt?” Behind me, I could feel Georgie. I turned and saw her standing in the doorway, the color drained completely from her face. I held out my hand to her, which she took reluctantly, and then I wrapped her against me tightly.
“Thirty years. He’s eligible for parole in ten.”
“Son of a bitch!” I roared, making Georgie cringe and cling tighter to me.
“I understand how you feel, Jameson. I’m sorry we didn’t get better results.” He paused momentarily before adding, “There is a light at the end of the tunnel.”
“It’d better be a pretty fucking massive light, Ron, because I’m going to have to break this to Georgie.”
“The civil lawsuit is still moving forward and could go to trial. There’s still a chance that justice could be served, at least monetarily.”
“Will Georgie have to testify?”
“If the lawyers subpoena her, then yes. But there are ways around that.”
“Okay, thank you, Ron.” I sighed, ending our call. Now came the hard part. “Let’s go sit down, little darling. I’ve got some things to tell you.”
Georgie nodded, and we moved across the room to the plush sectional. We curled up together in the corner, and I kissed Georgie on top of the head. I relayed the information about the sentencing of the two gunmen, which melted some of the tension from her body. I hated that she seemed so relaxed in my arms when I was about to tell her that in ten years, Russell Hunt might get parole.
“Hunt got thirty years, but in ten, he’s eligible for parole.”
Georgie said nothing. Within the confines of my arms, her body trembled. Was it anger or anguish?
“That’s not going to happen, Georgie. Do you hear me? He’s going to serve that thirty years. I promise you, little darling, Russell Hunt will serve his full sentence if it’s the last thing I do.”
Another promise made but this was one promise I intended never to break, no matter what.
Georgie—One Month Later
On the day of the inauguration, Jameson greeted me with a gift—a blush pink box trimmed with wide black satin ribbon. There had been many gifts over the past few weeks. First, a trip to paradise that encompassed not only my birthday but also the holidays. Then Jameson surprised me unexpectedly when he paid to have my father’s desk transported to the White House. There aren’t enough words in the English language to accurately describe how I felt when he told me. It was like I was reclaiming a piece of my family.
“There’s more,” he explained. We were appropriately sitting on the beach, watching fireworks light up the night sky.
“More? How could there be more?”
“I bought back all the antiques you sold.”
My mouth dropped open and tears burst from my eyes unexpectedly. “Why? Why did you do that?”
“Because that’s a part of your life that you should never have had to give up. I had them delivered to your home in New Hampshire. You’ll have to sort through everything.”
In the few weeks leading up the inauguration, after we returned from paradise, that’s what I did. I spent time in my family’s home, sorting through items I never thought I’d see again. Jameson was in Washington, finalizing the sale of his condo. I didn’t mind the brief separation because it gave me time to wrap my head around this new chapter in my life, and it allowed me to say goodbye to my old life.
So when I finally arrived in Washington D.C., ready to take my place next to Jameson as the first lady of the United States of America, I wasn’t expecting any more gifts.
“What’s this?” I asked, taking the box from his hands.
“I want you to wear this tonight,” he purred.
I eyed the box skeptically. It didn’t look big enough to hold a ball gown, which I already had, and it hung from a rack in the large walk-in closet of our suite’s master bedroom. And it was far too big to contain jewelry.
Taking the box from him, I walked over to the bed. I set the box down and carefully untied the ribbon before lifting the lid. Nestled between layers of identical blush pink tissue paper was a delicate black lace bustier with matching garter belt and panties.
“Oh my,” I gasped. I held up the garment to my chest and turned to face Jameson. His blue eyes smoldered with hunger. “Thank you.”
Jameson lifted a finger to briefly touch the edges of the garter belt. He seemed uncomfortable with expressing his intentions. Perhaps his nerves got the best of him.
Clearing his throat, he looked up at me and spoke. “I want you to know that this is the third happiest day of my life.”
Confused, I asked, “Third? What are the other two days?”
“The second happiest day of my life is the day you agreed to our bargain.”
“And the first?”
“That day hasn’t happened yet. The happiest day of my life will be the day you become my wife.”
Jameson took hold of my left hand and bent his head, bringing my hand up to meet his lips. The gesture seemed almost reverent. I swiped at the tears that stung the corners of my eyes, whisking them away before they had the chance to ruin my freshly applied makeup.
Reaching out, I placed my hand on his smooth cheek. “I love you, Jameson.”
A knock on the door of our suite interrupted the tender moment and probably prevented us from combusting. I hastily put the lingerie back in the box and headed back to the master bath to finish getting dressed.
The sun was shining and the sky was clear, but it was bitterly cold, and a layer of snow covered Washington, D.C., in a blanket of white. I chose a wool suit in a deep navy blue with long-sleeve black leath
er gloves to match. The ruby monogram pin that belonged to Jameson’s mother rested just over my heart; a symbol not only of the man I loved but also of his place in my life.
“Are you ready? Secret Service is waiting to escort us to the White House,” Jameson commented, returning to the bedroom.
At times, I truly forgot how handsome Jameson was until he left me breathless the moment he walked into a room. Today, he wore a meticulously tailored slim-cut navy suit that highlighted his broad chest and narrow waist. Underneath, he wore a white button-down shirt and a scarlet red tie. His inky black hair was parted and slicked back to the side, and my fingers itched the mess it up.
“You’re staring at me. What’s wrong?”
Breathlessly, I replied, “Nothing. You look perfect.”
“So do you.” He looked me up and down, emphasizing his point before flashing me his Cheshire cat grin. “Are you ready to bid farewell to the pompous windbag who’s living in our house?”
I couldn’t help the loud and bawdy laugh that escaped my lips. “Absolutely! Let’s go kick the bastard out.”
From the moment we left the hotel, the media documented everything we did. The deafening sounds of shutters click-click-clicking away captured every smile and wave. The cabin of our limousine was a welcome respite; it was warm and quiet, a place where Jameson and I escaped momentarily until we arrived at the White House.
The outgoing president and first lady, Robert and Carol Arden, greeted us with cold politeness. Journalists photographed our exchange, and we stood on the steps of the White House, posing with fake smiles plastered across our faces. None of us wanted to be there. Scratch that. Jameson and I wanted to be there. The tight smile that seemed permanently affixed to First Lady Arden’s face indicated that she couldn’t wait to leave. And that was fine by me. I was ready to serve.
The National Mall was transformed into a sea of humanity. People filled every square inch, waiting for the moment Jameson placed his hand on the Bible and took his Oath of Office. We were led onto the platform that was built in front of the Capitol building, many of Jameson’s Senate colleagues already seated and waiting. I grabbed tightly to Jameson’s hand as we made our way to the front. Being in front of that many people made me nervous. The whole world watched and waited.
Jameson’s inauguration made history before it even began. He had dreamed of how this day would play out for years, planning so many of the details. For example, the Bible that his father carried in Vietnam would be the one he placed his hand upon when he spoke thirty-five simple yet powerful words.
“I do solemnly swear that I will faithfully execute the office of President of the United States, and will to the best of my ability, preserve, protect, and defend the Constitution of the United States.”
As he recited those words, my chest filled with pride. I watched him purposefully raise his right hand and place the left on the Bible and look straight into the eyes of the first female Chief Justice of the Supreme Court, Margaret Ormsby. Jameson would be the first president sworn in by a female Supreme Court Justice.
There was another detail that Jameson had dreamed about that did not particularly thrill me.
“You don’t have to do it, Georgie,” Jameson told me for probably the fifth time.
“Jameson, I am officially the first lady now. If I don’t, it’ll be awful.”
Part of Jameson’s vision for his inauguration included walking the parade route, shaking hands with people who came out to share the day with us. It was sunny and clear but still fucking cold. He gave me an out—I could just ride in the limousine while he walked alongside it, but that wasn’t going to happen. I wasn’t a wimp, and I wasn’t afraid of the cold; after all, I was from New England.
“Just give me one minute.” I was going to look silly, but I was going to be warm and comfortable. I slipped off my black leather heels and pulled on a pair of suede boots lined with fuzzy wool and came mid-calf. Pulling back my loose waves, I secured my hair with a hair tie and pulled a black beanie over my head.
“I’m ready,” I declared. Jameson laughed loudly, and I narrowed my eyes. When he wasn’t looking, I planned to attack him with snowballs.
Walking together along the parade route wasn’t bad; in fact, it was an amazing and eye-opening experience. People who stood along the barriers shouted happily toward us, sharing their hopes and wishes and congratulating Jameson. He was giddy as he shook hands with everyone he could touch. There might have even been a few selfies. This was his dream, this was what he wanted, and this was why he was willing to stake his political career on a risky scheme. It made sense. He belonged to these people, and he was destined to be their leader.
“Are you cold?” he asked, coming up to next to me. He wrapped a long arm around me, pulling me tightly into the warmth of his body.
“No.”
“Are you tired?”
“No.” The crowd energized me. He energized me.
“Are you happy?”
“Deliriously happy.” I stopped and turned to face him, sliding my arms around his waist. I rested my cheek against the fine cashmere wool of his overcoat and just held him there for a moment. Then I stood on tiptoe and planted a firm kiss on his lips. “I am so proud to call you my president.”
Jameson
This was the best night of my life. I was officially the president of the United States. Jameson Martin, the scrawny little kid who looked up to his daddy and dreamed about becoming president one day, was now the commander in chief. I looked in the mirror and made one last adjustment to my black silk bow tie. Now it was time to celebrate.
“Holy fuck, is that what you’re wearing?” Georgie stepped into the bedroom from the dressing room.
Georgie seemed distracted, working an earring into her ear before looking up at me and smiling. “Yes, I am,” she replied, smoothing down the massive skirt of her red satin ball gown. She looked gorgeous with her hair curled into massive waves that perfectly framed her face. And the dress she chose for tonight … it left me damn near speechless. It was strapless with a deep V that somehow kept her covered but also revealed a hint of her cleavage. And it sparkled. Thousands of tiny crystals covered the bodice of the dress.
“Jesus,” I muttered as she walked past me to collect her clutch purse and black cashmere wrap.
“Do you not like it?”
“I love it. It’s just … a lot of dress. Thank God for Secret Service.”
Georgie looked back at me and smiled sweetly, but with one glance at those devilish green eyes, I knew she had something up her sleeve.
“Umm, your gift wouldn’t fit under my dress, so I couldn’t wear it tonight,” she informed me.
I stopped dead in my tracks. “What does that mean?”
“I guess you’ll have to find out for yourself. Now hurry up, Mr. President. We’ve got a ball to attend.”
Georgie disappeared before I could say another word or ask for further explanation. I followed quickly behind her, my brand-new patent-leather dress shoes slipping against the marble floor. I chuckled to myself at the thought of the president wiping out in the private residence. That would be a first, I thought with a smirk.
She was already in the limousine, waiting for me. The skirt of her dress took up one section of seats, so we were forced to sit apart, which was probably a good thing because if I touched her, then there was a real possibility we were going to be late. And I was seriously considering it because I wanted to find out what was under that dress.
We were scheduled to arrive at a few different events throughout the course of the night. The first one was for the campaign volunteers, and they greeted us with a loud cheer. I gave a short speech, thanking them for all their hard work, and then we mingled with some of the attendees. But no dancing; I was saving that dance for a very special moment.
The next party we stopped at was pretty much the same thing: give a short speech and then mingle. It was exhausting, but it was also our duty as the newly-elected president and fi
rst lady. These events were for the people who worked tirelessly to put us in the White House. The least we could do was share a drink and celebrate with them.
By the time we arrived at the last ball, the most important one of the night, I was more than ready to head back to the White House, but I owed Georgie a dance. She looked like fucking Cinderella, so the least I could do was pretend to be Prince Charming.
The first few notes of what I considered to be “our song” began, and I took pleasure in grabbing her hand and pulling her away from whomever she was entertaining.
“This is our moment, little darling,” I whispered in her ear.
We were center stage, the lights on us, following our every movement. I slipped one hand around her waist, pulling her close, and used the other to take hold of her left hand. I cradled it in mine, holding it against my chest while we swayed to the band’s rendition of “Here Comes the Sun.”
Georgie closed her eyes and bowed her head, a small smile on her lips. When she looked up, I saw her eyes glassy with tears. I let go of her hand to brush her tears away with the pad of my thumb.
“Why are you crying?” I asked her quietly.
“Because of this moment. This is an absolutely perfect moment.”
“Enjoy it, Georgie. You deserve it. We deserve it. And tonight, I’m going to find out what kind of secrets you’ve been hiding under this dress. But tomorrow … tomorrow, the work begins.”
The first real order of business was a grim one. Planning my own funeral. Within the first week of the new administration, the president has to make arrangements in the event of his death while in office, natural or otherwise.
“This is some seriously sick shit,” I said to Sean, who was helping me. I didn’t want Georgie present for this.
“We had to do it in the Army, too,” he reminded me.
“That was before I had Georgie to consider.” In the Army, I was a young, inexperienced officer who, more often than not, was a little too gung-ho for battle. I never put my men in danger, but I was also a little careless at times. If I was killed during combat, then there were only my parents and a small contingency of friends to mourn me. Now, I had to think about Georgie. I had to make sure that if I died, she would be taken care of.
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