Presidential Bargain (The Presidential Promises Duet Book 1)

by Rebecca Gallo

  The press conference where Jameson would make his statement took on a life of its own. He didn’t want it to be political, but I convinced him that it should be. We spent the rest day arguing about it, but I eventually won. Even though I was assaulted, thousands of women across the country endured far worse, and the perpetrators faced very little consequences. I convinced him to have the press conference at a women’s shelter and to have victims of domestic abuse and sexual assault present.

  We arrived in New York the day before the scheduled press conference. That night Jameson and I had a quiet dinner in our suite. Sean, Lewis, Jenkins and the rest of the staff had been dispatched back to work shortly before our dinner arrived. Jameson seemed troubled and preoccupied the entire day, and I attributed it easily to the press conference the next day. I was nervous too.

  “You haven’t really eaten,” Jameson commented, breaking me out of my temporary haze.

  “I know.” I looked down at my plate of macaroni and cheese. It would normally be devoured by now. I pushed some noodles around my plate until Jameson stopped me, placing a firm hand over mine.

  “Come on.” He stood, placing his napkin on the table. He held out his hand for me to take and then led me back to the bedroom.

  I didn’t question him. I learned quickly when to let Jameson take charge, and this was one of those moments. Jameson kept his firm hold on my hand as we walked into the suite’s sumptuous bathroom. He turned on the tap for the large steam shower and then began to undress. I followed suit, shedding my own leggings and T-shirt.

  Jameson stepped in the shower first, no doubt to let the water scald him first before adjusting it to my preferred temperature. Showering with him was new and I quickly figured out more of Jameson’s habits. He liked his showers scalding hot. I waited anxiously in the cold bathroom until I heard him say, “Are you coming in or not?”

  I took one look at his defined masculine form through the foggy glass. “Definitely coming in,” I responded, biting my lip with delicious anticipation for what was waiting for me inside.

  Jameson latched onto me instantly, unexpectedly. He pushed me against the cold tile wall, his hands moving to cup my ass as he lifted me. My legs reflexively wrapped around his waist. He snaked a hand to grab ahold of his cock and guided it into me. In one quick thrust, Jameson filled me. I held onto him tightly as he punished my body with his desire. This wasn’t a slow, sensual act. Jameson was gradually coming unhinged and when our bodies connected, he was grounded. He needed this moment.

  Jameson finished quickly, holding me tightly until he slipped out. Our foreheads connected and I felt his heavy breath against my flushed face.

  “I’m sorry,” he rasped.

  “You don’t have anything to be sorry about,” I soothed.

  “I was an animal.” Jameson unwound my legs from around his waist and set me gently back to my feet. I held his face firmly between my hands and made him look at me.

  “You needed me. Don’t ever apologize for needing me.”

  “Fuck, I don’t deserve you.” He devoured my lips, kissing me fiercely. We didn’t stop until long after the water turned cold.

  I followed Jameson to the podium. We greeted each of the women who were already on stage before turning to the massive crowd that had gathered. Jameson was nervous. I had never seen him sweat before addressing a crowd, and already he’d used a handkerchief twice to wipe his brow.

  “Thank you so much for coming here today.” His voice was shaky and unsure. I immediately stepped next to him and grabbed one of his hands. Jameson turned and looked at me, surprised. I smiled and he seemed to relax. “Please consider this the only time that I will publicly discuss this matter.

  “Statistically, one in five women will be sexually assaulted. It pains me to tell you that the woman standing next to me confidently holding my hand, Georgina Washington, is a part of that statistic. Recently, photographs of Georgie were published. Disgusting, vile photographs, and people began to speculate whether or not she was cheating. No one bothered to look at Georgie, to look at the terror on her face. Instead, media outlets went right on ahead, slandering her, calling her unspeakable things. What those outlets published were photographs of my fiancée being sexually assaulted.

  “Before I brought her into my campaign, Georgie was concerned that people would see her as a weakness, as a way to get to me. That night, her fear became reality. The man who did this to Georgie thought she was weak, that somehow he could use her. He was wrong. Georgie is one of my campaign’s greatest strengths. She is one of my strengths.”

  Jameson paused and then looked at me. I could see that over the last few days, he agonized over this speech. I could see disappointment written all over his face every time he looked at me, and when we were together in bed, when our bodies were free of barriers, his disappointment remained. But he wasn’t disappointed in me. I knew he was upset with himself, that he felt on some level, he failed in his ability to protect me. I tried to reassure him with my words, my lips, and my body, but the guilt and distress remained.

  “Far too often, society and the media, and even our justice system, blame the victim. They are asked ridiculous questions like, ‘What were you wearing?’ and ‘How much did you drink?’ as if those choices are the cause of sexual assault. I want to tell Georgie, the women standing behind me, and every other victim of sexual assault that it’s not your fault. There is absolutely no reason why you should be blamed.”

  I saw Jameson’s jaw tense, the tick of the muscle as he struggled with his emotions. Then I saw them, the tears pooling in the corners. Jameson turned to me and took both of my hands.

  “I want to apologize to you, Georgie, my sunshine, my little darling, because I failed you that night. I left you alone because I was too selfish. I acted only on my own interests that entire day and you were the one who suffered. You are mine and I didn’t protect you.”

  I knew that my expression mirrored his because I could feel the hot lick of tears as they traveled down my cheeks. Jameson cupped my face in his large hands and looked me in the eyes.

  He whispered, “I’m so sorry, Georgie” before kissing me softly. We stayed connected for a while and I could hear the shutters of cameras snapping as they captured this moment, but they didn’t matter. What mattered was that I belonged to someone again and for the first time ever, someone belonged to me.

  I cleared my throat and stepped toward the podium. I wasn’t expected to make a statement; Jameson and the lawyers didn’t want me to say a word. I struggled with my silence, but I couldn’t sit back while Jameson blamed himself.

  “Jameson, I don’t accept your apology. I don’t accept it because you did nothing wrong. You did what you were supposed to do and no one should blame you for what happened, including yourself. There is only one person to blame, and that’s the man who thought I was weak.” I turned and addressed the women who sat quietly, stoically behind us. “None of you are weak, either. You all showed great courage in standing up for yourselves and for others. Thank you.”

  Jameson’s hand slid around my waist as he stood next to me. “Today, I am announcing that sexual assault will be addressed in my administration’s first one hundred days. There will be tougher legislation that calls for harsher punishments. It’s time that we stopped silencing the victims of sexual assault with blame and let justice be their voice!”

  The roar of the small crowd was deafening. I turned back toward the women who stood bravely and held out my hand. They didn’t hesitate in joining us. One horrific bond connected us. The importance of being the First Lady hit me hard. I had to make sure I used the position to be their voice.

  “You never cease to amaze me, Georgie,” I said, once we were in the back of the SUV that would take us back to the hotel. I grabbed her hand and brought it to my lips, placing light kisses along her knuckles.

  “I’m sorry that I made a statement. I hope you’re not angry,” she responded. Her expression was worried, but I didn’t think she wa
s actually apologetic for speaking up. Georgie was at her best when she was spontaneous. Not to mention, those moments gave credibility to our arrangement.

  “No, I’m not angry. What you said was perfect.” I turned back toward the window and watched the streets pass by in a blur of brick and cement. My mind began to wander back to the investigation and the baffling ghost, Russell Atlee.

  “Is there any new information?”

  “We have a lead that we’re following. I won’t tell you anything more than that because it’s nothing concrete.”

  “Okay. Tell me about my schedule then.”

  Just like that, Georgie and I were back in work mode. As soon as she volunteered to be an active part of my campaign, I put her to work. She worked crowds wonderfully and resonated with people. They related to her riches-to-rags story, to the fact that she had persevered despite the obstacles thrown her way. There were moments when I think people liked her better than me. Which was totally fine. We were both destined for the White House now.

  Georgie and I had an easy working relationship. Any form of communication went through her before I even saw it. She easily picked up on my idiosyncrasies and I’d often hear her berating my speech writers, telling them things like, “No. Jameson would never say this,” or, “Jameson wouldn’t say it this way. This is how he has said it in the past.” She worked hard; I often found her awake late at night, reviewing one of my past speeches, taking notes, or reading about policy.

  “The shoot with Sierra Simmons is in two days. That’s the most important thing right now.”

  “Okay. Well, you’re giving a speech to some local trade unions tomorrow. Shouldn’t I be there?”

  “No. I’m sending you to get pampered for the day. You deserve it.” I couldn’t tell her what I was actually doing tomorrow. I was sending DeWayne and Avon to meet with the unions because I was meeting with my opponent, Governor Lamar Huntley. We were trading intel on the mysterious Russell Atlee.

  The ride back to the hotel was relaxing and quiet. Georgie and I talked briefly about events coming up or appearances we were scheduled to make. And of course, the first debate was coming up sooner rather than later. Georgie’s favorite game was “Debate Prep” and she took way too much pleasure in playing Devil’s Advocate.

  We arrived at the hotel, bickering over my answer to one of her questions. I loved arguing with Georgie because she knew so much. Our quarrel continued as we made our way through the hotel lobby, into the elevator, and up to our room. When I unlocked the door, it continued until we both conceded. It was then determined that my response to her question needed work.

  I headed straight for the bar and found the bottle of Johnnie Walker Blue Label. This was what I needed after such a long and emotionally draining day. I took a moment to appreciate Georgie as she scurried around the suite’s living space. She wore a sleeveless navy blue dress that was banded at the waist with a thick cream stripe with a thin red border. Her hair had been styled into some sort of twist and she wore very little makeup. In fact, she looked completely understated but still utterly breathtaking.

  Georgie kicked off her navy blue flats and then walked toward me, her hips swaying seductively beneath the fabric of her dress. When she got near, she twirled until her back faced me. “Will you unzip me?” she purred.

  My fingers immediately grasped the tiny zipper and I tugged it down, letting the dress fall open to reveal the scarlet bra she hid beneath. The little vixen. The zipper stopped just at the small of her back and I caught a glimpse of matching scarlet red panties. I placed a light kiss on the back of her neck and then stepped away. The red bra and panties were a delicious temptation, but I had work to do.

  “I still have a few more hours of work to catch up on.”

  Georgie turned and I could tell she wasn’t happy. Her lips formed into a delicious pout that I wanted to devour. “Don’t be too late,” she admonished me.

  For weeks, we shared the same bed and I had grown used to having her next to me every night. For the past few nights, I took pleasure in being able to reach out and take what was mine whenever I wanted. But I felt myself getting too affected. I needed to regain some of my drive and focus. My poll numbers were steady; I felt comfortable but that was usually when mistakes happened and I wasn’t about to let a mistake slip through my fingers.

  The next morning, I sent Georgie off in one of the SUVs to a spa. She was still unhappy with me for ditching her. I promised her a few hours’ worth of work, but it turned into an all-nighter, which resulted in falling asleep on the couch. I wasn’t too happy either because after a lousy night of sleep, I was getting ready to face my enemy. I should be well-rested and at the top of my game, and instead I was a miserable fucking mess. As soon as the SUV left the curb with Georgie tucked safely inside, I headed to the hotel gym where I pounded the treadmill to the rhythm of “Born on the Bayou.”

  My run invigorated me and a hot, scalding shower relaxed my muscles. As I dressed in a classic navy suit, I began to mentally prepare myself for this meeting. It was unusual for two candidates to meet privately like this, but this was a delicate situation. I suspected that the good governor wanted to make sure his campaign was not implicated.

  I paced the length of the suite, nursing a glass of scotch, waiting for Lamar Huntley. A knock on the door alerted me to his impending arrival. I downed the scotch in one swallow and hissed at the sting as it went down, filling me with a warm burn.

  When the governor entered a room, everyone knew it. The air of my suite suddenly filled with an uncomfortable tension. He was from the Deep South, and he was still young by presidential standards, only in his mid-fifties. Everything about him oozed career politician, from the fake white smile and deep tan of his skin to the slick-backed dark brown hair and cobalt blue eyes that were always seeing.

  “Governor, thank you for coming,” I said, walking toward him with my hand extended. He reciprocated with a firm handshake and a hearty slap on the back.

  “My pleasure, Senator.” He looked around the suite, assessing it and me. Maybe he thought Georgie would be there?

  “Would you like a drink? My fiancée is just as partial to bourbon as you, so we’ve got quite the stock.”

  We walked toward the small bar and he perused the selection, picking out a bottle of Blanton’s. I took the bottle and poured him a healthy shot. He picked up the glass, tipping it toward me in a silent toast before taking a sip.

  “How is your family doing?” I wanted to get banal pleasantries like family and weather out of the way before addressing the real reason for our meeting. Governor Huntley had quite the family; he and his wife had several adopted children of different races and ethnicities. This was something they were extremely proud of to the point that seeing pictures of his family made me nauseous.

  “The kids are great. We’re almost empty-nesters. Two more to go before they’ll all be out of the house. How are your parents doing?”

  “They are doing well, thank you for asking. My mom is completely beside herself with both the campaign and my engagement.” I opened the door to the reason for this meeting. My fiancée.

  “I’m sure. What mother wouldn’t be excited about her only son getting married?” He winked at me, acknowledging the fact that he glossed right over the campaign, before continuing, “And your lovely fiancée? Where is she this afternoon? I had hoped to finally make her acquaintance.”

  “We have a big day tomorrow and she’s been through quite a bit, so I sent her off for some pampering.”

  “Good man. Louise and I were absolutely heartbroken over what happened. Ugly business.” He shook his head to illustrate his horror.

  “I appreciate that, Governor. It’s been a tough few weeks, but Georgie is feisty. After it happened, she had a good cry and then went right back to work. She hated that someone tried to manipulate her.”

  “It’s good to have a strong woman behind you, Senator. But let’s get down to business, shall we?” He narrowed his eyes at me and I
nodded in agreement.

  I gestured at the dining table and we both sat, our game faces firmly in place now that the pleasantries were over.

  “Governor, I want you to know that no one in my campaign, including myself, presumes that your campaign was involved in Georgie’s assault.”

  “I appreciate that, Senator.”

  “But my campaign has uncovered that Russell Atlee might be associated with a super PAC that has donated generously to your campaign.”

  “I have heard that as well.”

  I sat back in my chair, unbuttoned my blazer, and crossed one leg over the other. The governor was playing a game with me. He wanted to know what I knew before revealing any information his campaign might have uncovered.

  “Russell Atlee is clearly a pseudonym. We’re currently looking into his real identity.”

  He nodded and tapped his fingers on the glossy wooden table. I was growing impatient.

  “Governor, I take what happened to Georgie personally because it happened right under my nose. If you know something about Russell Atlee, then I hope you’ll share it with me. Otherwise, I think our meeting might be shorter than expected.”

  Lamar Huntley wasn’t often challenged. I could tell that from his expression, the shock in his eyes. He nodded toward one of his aides who had remained in the living area of the suite and, in seconds, he was holding a folder.

  “We know who Russell Atlee is. Everything you need to know about him is in this file.” He held the information hostage beneath his fingers.

  I itched to grab the folder and finally find out the identity of the man who dared to touch what was mine.

  “I know you’re eager for this information, son.”

  I despised the patronizing way he spoke to me, and that he had just called me “son.” This asshole was not even old enough to be my father.