President Daddy: A Dark Daddy Romance

by Hamel, B. B.

  “Guess,” I say.

  She hesitates. “I hate guessing.”

  “Give me an educated one, then.”

  “Okay,” she says slowly. “I think you have a majority in the house and the senate. I think it’ll eat up all your good will right now, but… it’s possible.”

  “Good.” I grin at her. I want to walk over and kiss her.

  I’m fucking insane. I think I’m legitimately insane.

  “Okay,” she repeats. “I’ll look into healthcare. Should I, uh, tell my boss?”

  I hesitate. “Tell him you’re working for me directly now. I want you focused on this task exclusively. It’s going to be big, Maggie.”

  She can’t help but smile at that. “I hope so,” she says.

  I hesitate, looking at her, maybe longer than is necessary. I still have that insane urge to walk across the room and kiss her.

  But I manage to tear myself away. “Report in soon,” I say as I leave.

  Charles files out behind me. Security blends in all around us.

  We walk in silence back to the Oval Office. Charles looks inscrutable, but I know he’s digesting that little impromptu meeting. I want to hear what he thinks, but I know I just have to be patient.

  Charles is not the type to hold back.

  We get to my office and head inside. I shut the door and tell my secretary, Susie, to keep everyone out.

  Charles sits on a couch. I sit behind the Resolute desk.

  “Why that girl?” he finally asks.

  “Did you read her blog?”

  He hesitates. “No,” he admits. “Couldn’t figure out how to make the damn thing work.”

  I grin. “You really are old.”

  “Don’t give me that,” he snaps. “Why that girl?”

  “She’s smart, capable, and I think she has the pulse of what people want already in her blood. I think she can cut through the bullshit.”

  He stares at me. “A million girls exist just like her. Why that one?”

  I sit back, narrowing my eyes. “I don’t know what you’re getting at.”

  He sighs. “Yes, you do. We don’t have to say it out loud if you don’t want, but I can already see it.”

  “See what?” I’m getting angry, even though I know he’s right. Even though it’s obvious what I want from her.

  “Listen, sir,” he says, standing. “People talk about you all the time in the media. They talk about you being single, about you being eligible. Your dating life is going to be scrutinized so closely it’ll scare you. There will be no privacy, not for you.”

  I stare at him. “Doesn’t matter. I don’t date.”

  “I know that,” he says softly. “But you’re still a man, and that’s a pretty girl.”

  “I don’t like this implication.”

  “I’m sure you don’t. Just keep yourself under control, Adam.”

  I glare at him, but I know he’s right.

  I’ve been thinking about Maggie. Picturing her body against mine, the way her moans sound, the way she writhes when she gets fucked. I want to taste her, smell her, bite her, take her.

  I want that fucking girl, and that could be the end of me.

  “You have a meeting in ten minutes,” Charles says, walking to the back door. “Just think about it.”

  I look away, out the side window. I hear Charles leave quietly.

  Being President means I have to put myself aside. I have to leave my wants and desires at home, every single day. I have to quarantine them, at least for four years.

  Except that’s not what I want.

  I’ve gone so long living life in a cold daze. I’ve taken women to bed but they’ve barely ever excited me, not like I feel right now just looking at Maggie.

  It’s bizarre and terrifying. It’s the worst possible time to suddenly wake up to a woman.

  My life has been in the past for so long. Even working for the future, I’ve been stuck in the past.

  My wife, my child. I’ve been broken.

  Hell, I still am broken.

  But maybe I’m starting to mend. I’ll never be fixed, but maybe I can be patched together, just enough.

  Just enough to feel again.

  3

  Maggie

  I lean forward against the bar, sipping a weak gin and tonic, trying not to look around the room too much.

  Iris gabs on next to me, talking about some minor policy initiative she’s been assigned to. I like Iris a lot, but she really can talk. Like, a lot, almost to the point where you wonder if she saves it all up throughout the day just to spew all over you.

  I’m sulking and I know it, although I’m not sure why. Maybe it’s the atmosphere. We’re in Poor David’s, which is like the quintessential DC insiders’ bar. It’s full of guys with clean haircuts, American flag pins on their lapels, and straight white teeth.

  It’s basically like a frat house for political geeks. Everyone in here is some kind of junior aide to this or that senator, and everyone thinks they’re going to be the next big political mover and shaker. It’s all a bunch of glad handing, smiling, laughing, political bullshit.

  It’s what I hate most about DC. I started a blog for a reason. I hate being in these places, talking with these slimy people.

  There’s probably more than one lobbyist in here too, trying to bribe some of the more ruthless idiots.

  I sigh and sip my drink. I need to get it under control.

  “Maggie?” Iris cocks her head at me. She’s small, almost petite, with wide brown eyes and frizzy brown hair. She looks like a mouse, almost literally. “Did you hear me?”

  “No, I’m sorry,” I admit, forcing a smile. “It’s just loud in here.”

  “That’s okay,” she says brightly. “I was just saying, isn’t President Clark hot as hell?”

  I sputter while sipping my drink and laugh. I glance around us, wondering who overheard that. I recognize a guy two seats away, he’s the environmental aide to a New York congressman, but otherwise I don’t see any familiar faces.

  “I guess so,” I manage to say.

  She grins at me. “You guess so? Come on. Everyone’s talking about it.”

  “The media, you mean.” I make a dismissive gesture.

  “Everyone,” she repeats. “I mean, look at him. Did you know that he got over seventy percent of women? Can you freaking imagine that?”

  I shrug. I can totally imagine that. People are super shallow.

  Including me, apparently.

  “He’s charming,” I say. “He was a good candidate.”

  “He was great,” she corrects. “But that wasn’t it.”

  “You think people voted for him because he’s handsome?”

  “Hot as hell,” she corrects, “and yes, pretty much.”

  I laugh, shaking my head. “No way.”

  “Way. We have data.”

  I raise an eyebrow. “Seriously?”

  “I may have slipped an extra question or two into my last round of polling.”

  I sigh. “Iris, you’re not supposed to do that.”

  She gestures with her wine glass. “I took the initiative, Maggie!”

  “But it’s about data integrity.”

  She scoffs at that. “Integrity, my butt. Half the people in this town are bought and sold by the bloodsuckers.”

  I can’t help but smile at that. Her pet name for lobbyists is pretty accurate.

  “Maybe, but still. You should follow the rules.”

  “Well, I didn’t. Wanna hear what the data says?”

  I hesitate. I should say no. I shouldn’t encourage this sort of stuff.

  We’re supposed to stick to the questions we’re given. Asking anything else can mess with the data in unexpected ways. Everything is strictly regulated and controlled so that our data is as accurate as possible.

  But I really, really want to know.

  “Fine, tell me.”

  She grins. “I asked two extra questions at the end. The first question was, ‘Do you
find President Clark physically attractive?’ And the second question was, ‘Is that why you voted for him?’”

  I snort. “Seriously? Not beating around the bush, huh?”

  “Nope,” she says. “Eighty percent of people said yes to the first one. Guess the percent of the second?”

  “Ten,” I say.

  She raises an eyebrow. “Nope.”

  “Twenty.”

  “Try again.”

  “Thirty? Are you kidding?”

  “Forty-two.”

  I stare at her. “Shut the fuck up.”

  “Forty-two percent of people that said yes to the first said yes to the second.”

  I gasp and laugh, unable to help myself. That’s the most insane thing I’ve ever heard.

  I mean, voting for the President based on looks…

  It doesn’t matter if President Clark is gorgeous. It doesn’t matter if he’s austere and handsome and the sort of man we should have leading us. Nobody should vote for him based on looks.

  And yet apparently, lots of people did.

  “It was a small sample size,” Iris admits when I get myself under control. “Only a little over a hundred people. But still, that’s pretty crazy, right?”

  “Right,” I agree. “Hopefully those numbers don’t scale.”

  “Hopefully,” she echoes, and grins some more. “But I wouldn’t be shocked if they did. That’s why I voted for him.”

  “Iris!”

  “What? He’s really hot.”

  I groan and laugh. I sip my drink, hoping nobody overheard that conversation. The wrong ears listening in could lead to some serious repercussions for the both of us.

  Iris is absolutely insane. It’s part of why I like her so much. We’re the youngest pollsters on staff, and we’ve sort of gravitated toward each other. I half expected her to be this super serious geeky girl, but instead she’s the total opposite of that.

  She’s fun, she’s funny, and she’s constantly breaking the rules. I don’t know where they found her, but she’s absolutely fantastic.

  I gesture at the bartender for another drink as Iris starts to break down what the results mean for the midterms, using ideas like his “hotness quotient” and his “bangability factor.”

  As my drink arrives, I feel my phone start to vibrate. I take it from my clutch and frown at the private number. I silence the vibration, figuring it’s just some telemarketer.

  But as soon as it stops, it starts ringing again.

  I frown, holding my phone up. “This asshole keeps calling,” I say to Iris. “Sorry. I should get it.”

  “Go ahead,” she says. “You’re just going to miss some really erudite analysis of President Clark’s slightly cleft chin.”

  “It’s not cleft,” I say, standing.

  “Isn’t it?”

  I shake my head. “Look closer,” I say, walking away.

  “This changes everything!” she calls after me, and I grin to myself as I head back toward the bathrooms.

  It’s quieter back here. I pick up the phone this time, the third time this person has called.

  “Hello?” I say.

  There’s a short pause. I’m about to hang up, annoyed about this telemarketer, but something stops me. “Is this Maggie Thomas?” a voice says. It’s familiar, but I can’t place it.

  “Er, yes,” I say. “Who is this?”

  “President Clark for you. Please wait one moment.”

  There’s a short pause and my heart starts to hammer in my chest as that voice suddenly makes sense. That was Adam’s executive secretary, Susie.

  The line clicks. “Maggie?”

  It’s Adam’s voice, all right. I’ve heard him speak so many times these last couple of years, all through the campaign season and up until now. It’s a voice that’s etched into my brain.

  “Er, hello, sir,” I say.

  “Adam,” he corrects gently. “Are you busy?”

  “No, I’m not.” My heart’s beating so fast I can barely breathe.

  “Where are you right now?”

  “Poor David’s,” I say.

  He laughs. “That dive? I bet it’s full of lobbyists and frat aides.”

  “It sure is,” I say, grinning. “They swarm this place. I think it’s the cheap light beer.”

  “Yep, that’s what fuels them, all right.” He chuckles to himself. “Listen, there’s going to be a car outside for you in two minutes. Can you be in it?”

  I bite my lip. “Of course. What’s this about?”

  He hesitates a second. “I’m looking for opinions. Do you mind?”

  “Of course not.”

  “Good. I’ll see you soon.” He hangs up and I stare at my phone.

  For a second, I think this is some crazy dream. I mean, the President himself sending a car to pick me up? All because he wants my opinion on something? I mean, it’s what every single one of these assholes in this bar dream of.

  I bet Iris would scream if I told her, but I know I can’t. I mean, maybe I could, but I won’t. For some reason, I want this to be a little secret.

  I head back in the main room and hop back into my seat. Iris looks up at me, sipping her wine.

  “Hey, I’m sorry, I have to run,” I say, throwing some money down on the bar. “I’ll see you tomorrow.”

  “You’re going to leave me in enemy territory?”

  “I’m sorry. It’s important.”

  She shrugs. “Suit yourself. I’ll go find some pharma lobbyist to buy my drinks.”

  “Good luck,” I say, grinning, before I leave the bar.

  I wait outside for maybe two minutes before a black car pulls up. It’s unmistakable here in DC: nondescript, almost boring, but so obviously hiding what it really is. The driver rolls down the window.

  “Maggie?” he asks me.

  I nod. “That’s me.”

  “Get in back.”

  I open the back door and slide in. As soon as I shut the door, the driver takes off. He doesn’t say a word to me as we speed back toward the White House.

  I don’t have a lot of time to stew in this, but I’m practically shivering when the car parks and the Secret Service guy ushers me inside. He says something into a walkie, refers to me as “Poll Girl,” which isn’t very creative.

  Secret Service nicknames are legendary. Getting a lame one is like… the worst ting imaginable.

  Well, I guess it could be worse. I could just not have one at all, which most people don’t.

  The agent leads me through the halls and stops outside of a conference room. “He’s inside, miss,” he says.

  “Thank you.”

  He nods, and I hesitate. “Poll Girl is an awful nickname,” I say.

  “Code name, miss,” he corrects, and grins. “But you’re right. Not my idea.”

  I grin and head into the conference room. I’m still smiling as I spot Adam, sitting alone and looking at some papers in a binder. He shuts it as I walk toward him.

  “Oh, Maggie,” he says, smiling. “I’m glad you made it.”

  “Of course.” I walk up to him and we shake hands. It’s strangely intimate, and he moves close to me before offering me a chair. I sit down next to him as he stretches his legs out.

  “What can I do for you?” I ask.

  “I’ve been thinking more about healthcare,” he says slowly. “About how broken it is. About how much people hate what we have, but are so deathly afraid of anything else.”

  I nod a little. “That about sums it all up.”

  “I don’t want to do some little fix or tweak or revision. I don’t want to do some half measure. I want to do something big.”

  I stare at him for a second. I think I know what he’s talking about, but I’m not completely sure.

  He didn’t campaign on healthcare. Frankly, he didn’t campaign on much. Adam is one of the most centrist people ever to win the office. He holds middling ideas about almost everything.

  That’s part of why he got elected. People were sick of the
constant bickering and fighting, so they elected someone right in the middle of everyone. Nobody can really claim him, not entirely at least.

  “What do you have in mind?” I ask him softly.

  “Do you know what Medicare For All is?”

  I hesitate. I knew this is where he was going, but to hear him say it…

  “Socialized medicine,” I say.

  He winces, shakes his head. “No, no, no. Medicare for all. Just taking one program we already use and know works and offering it to everyone.”

  I nod slowly. “Okay, sure. Single-payer. I know what that is. Like what every other country has.”

  “Right. I was thinking…”

  I shake my head. “It won’t be popular.”

  “How do you know?”

  I shrug. “I just know. I mean, opinion’s been changing, but still. You’re a centrist. People aren’t going to like a big move like this from you.”

  “Maybe not,” he says softly. “But we have to save people. Single-payer is cheaper and more effective than what we have now by far.”

  “I know that.” I sigh, lean toward him despite myself. “Are you sure that’s what you want?”

  “I’m not sure of anything,” he admits. “But I’m sure it’s what the nation needs, at least.”

  I nod. “Okay then. I’ll get the data on Medicare For All.” I lean back in my chair and smile at him. “Is that why you called me in here?”

  “Mostly I wanted to rescue you from that bar.”

  I laugh softly. “I didn’t need rescuing.”

  “Maybe not, but aren’t you glad I did?”

  I watch him carefully, heart beating faster. “I guess so. I was about to get some of that lobbyist money, though.”

  He laughs. “They’re throwing it at just about anyone these days, aren’t they?”

  “No way. I’m special. The President reads my blog.”

  “Not anymore. You went on hiatus.”

  “Good point. Some jerk scooped me up and offered to pay me nearly nothing for way too much work.”

  He grins. “Welcome to the federal government. At least you’re making a difference.”

  “There’s that, I guess, although that’s not paying my bills.”

  “Maybe you really do need a lobbyist,” he says. “I know a few I can put you in touch with. They’re always bugging me about stuff.”