by Claire Adams
The Secret Service agent whispered in his ear once more. His voice was so low, I assumed it was in some sort of code.
“Tell her I’ll be there in a minute,” Xavier stated then. His voice came gruffly from his throat. He casually rolled his eyes toward me, like we were sharing a secret joke.
I nodded, feeling my hair as it ruffled up against my neck. “I’ll see you later, Mr. President,” I murmured casually, watching him as he walked away. I felt nearly like swooning for a moment. God, this was all too much.
I turned my head back toward Jason then. He was still at his desk and he slammed his phone onto the wood, his hair in a mess above his head. I felt confidence surging through me. I plucked myself from my desk and walked toward him, feeling my firm shoulders waving this way, then that. I sniffed toward him, leaning over his desk with such femininity, such confidence. I knew he couldn’t handle it—that his confidence came and went with his sliminess.
But he leaned toward me, seemingly unperturbed. “Amanda. Can I do something for you?”
“Actually, you can,” I whispered. “I would love to speak with you in the other room, campaign manager. Just if you have a moment.” My words were laced with sarcasm.
He stood then. “Lady can’t keep her hands off me,” he muttered toward me, making another snide remark.
But I turned and led him toward the back office—the same office in which he’d revealed the photos to me all those days before. When the true terror of my life had begun.
I closed the door then, trapping us in there together. I turned toward him and brought my arms together in front of my chest. I cleared my throat before I spoke, tracing my eyes over his sloppy body. He was in such strange contrast to the president.
“How long do you plan on holding these photos over my head, Jason?” I asked him then. My voice was high-pitched, but laced with such anger.
He raised his eyebrows toward me. “Now, that isn’t the language I want to hear from my champion girl.” He took a step forward, toward me. He was intimidating. I leaned against the wall. “Better question is this; have you arranged my meeting with the president yet? I saw you both speaking a bit earlier. He was giving you those eyes. God, office romances are the worst, aren’t they?”
I felt the wood of the door behind me. I longed to rush out, away from him. But I had to stand firm. “Tell me how much longer you want to play with me,” I demanded in a harsh whisper.
He took an additional step toward me, and he brought his finger to my face. He traced my cheekbone, my eyebrow with his first finger. I felt such menace from him, like he would hurt me if we weren’t stuck at the White House, the two of us. Together and so alone in that middle room—the very belly of the great political home.
“I can’t be certain how long I’ll need you, can I?” he finally whispered. I thought he was going to kiss me, and I braced myself. “I suppose I’ll keep the pictures until I get what I want, ultimately.”
“And what is it that you want?” I asked him. I swallowed, feeling such anger and hysteria beneath him.
He shrugged once more. “What I’ve always wanted, of course. What I’ve always wanted.”
I shook my head. I sputtered another question, feeling the quivering deep in my stomach. “Are there any more cameras in my apartment?” I finally asked. I swallowed, closing my eyes.
I felt him step even closer to me. I could feel his breath on my mouth. I could nearly feel his lips upon mine. His words echoed over me then. “I will answer this question, of course. For it is the most interesting of all. How many did you find?”
“Three,” I said, still keeping my eyes closed. I wanted to run away. I wanted to get out of there. But I felt so trapped, like an animal in a cage.
He started laughing then. I could feel him tip his head back to laugh stronger, harder than I’d heard him laugh since that first day, when he’d brought the photos to me—when he’d ruined my life. “Three cameras. Of course. Those were the ones I wanted you to see. The one in the armoire? What nice china, by the way. Antique, no?”
I bit my lip, feeling waves of nausea pass through me. Three cameras. Three. “How many are there total, Jason?” I asked him. My voice was on the hint of begging. I felt that this was the only way I could translate my sheer anxiety.
“There are five cameras, my lovely. Five.”
My eyes snapped open, and I viewed his hand before me—the five fingers out like rockets from his palm. I swallowed.
“Two others.”
“And you’ll never find them,” he said, shaking his head back and forth. “Never.”
He jutted past me. He grabbed the door knob and jolted into the hallway, through the crowded room with all the rushing campaign employees. I began to run after him, but I was immediately bombarded with questions, with papers. I felt the anxiety close around my throat. There was nothing I could do, in that moment.
Chapter Seven
I sat at my desk for a long time, thoughts of quitting and leaving the White House forever coursing through my brain. I actually saw no way out of this dilemma. This terrifying man was watching my apartment. I was losing control of my position. I was desired by the president—by this wonderful, stunning man—and yet this was the very root of my dilemma.
The phone started to ring once more. Always, it was ringing off the hook. Sometimes, I considered snipping the wire and falling away from this reality. I looked across the room at Jason once more, catching his eyes. They were brimming with dispassion, with anger. He mouthed the words, “Meeting with the president,” in such a way that made me feel like he still had me pressed against the wall, forming his mouth over mine.
I answered the phone in a hushed whisper. “Hello?”
“Amanda. This is Xavier. I need to see you immediately.”
I leaned back in the chair then. I felt my heart beating fast in my chest. “Is your wife all right?” I asked him. I blinked wildly, knowing I was touching a nerve. I wanted to remind him who he was and what he was meant to take care of. If he left me alone—maybe I could get out of this alive and unscathed. Maybe.
But Xavier didn’t put up with it. “I need you in my office immediately.” And then he hung up the phone.
I felt like both the good guys and the bad guys were hounding me. I hated it. I brought my hands to my eyes and then tugged at my hair, allowing myself this sensation of real pain. It rooted me back in reality.
I darted down the hallway, toward the Oval Office. Again, Dimitri was nowhere to be found outside the office. The Secret Service agent pulled open the door for me and allowed me entrance, bowing his head soundly for me. I felt like a queen, if only for a moment.
I closed the door behind me and turned, finding the president in the center of the room instead of his usual position, behind his desk. He looked so serious. His eyebrows dipped over his eyes, and his mouth was pressed firmly together.
“Mr. President,” I whispered. I both hoped and didn’t that he’d brought me in there just to ask me out again, to save me from this terrifying world. I swallowed. “If this is about the campaign, I think I’d better retrieve Jason.”
But the president held up his hand at once, shaking his head. “Please. This is a meeting between you and I only.” He gestured forward, toward the center couch. I proceeded to sit down, bringing my long brown hair behind my ear. I felt myself quivering and I hoped he didn’t notice.
“Amanda,” he began. He sat down hesitantly next to me, leaning toward me a bit. He brought his hand toward my face and played with a small curl that wandered around my ear. “I’m worried about you.”
I swallowed. I peered at a painting of George Washington on the wall. What a terrifying presidency that had been; what a terrifying life Martha had had to live all those years before.
But Xavier was still staring at me. “I think about you all the time, Amanda. You have to know that. Before, they were—blissful thoughts. Thoughts of such happiness we could have together. But now. Those thoughts have changed.”
He sighed. He placed his hand on my knee, and I curled my toe in my shoe, wanting him. His touch felt so good. I still held my eyes toward the wall. I could hardly look at him. I knew it would draw tears.
“My thoughts are now—affecting the presidency,” he murmured. “I can hardly focus on anything anymore. The other day, I was in a meeting with the Secretary of State and I just stared out the window, thinking of you.”
I blinked, feeling a small tear formulate in the corner of my eye. Why was he telling me all of this?
“I feel like you’re pulling away from me,” he finally said. His voice broke. “I feel like we had something really special; I feel like we could have really done something, together.”
“You mean as a couple?” I whispered. My voice was breaking, as well. I couldn’t believe he had had these thoughts; I couldn’t believe that he’d thought about me in any manner that wasn’t sexual; that he actually admired my talents, my drive, my very being. He wasn’t typical in this way, of course. Most men just wanted to fuck me and leave me at the curb.
His grip tightened on my leg, then. He cleared his throat. “I know it’s insane to talk about. I know I’m a married man. And I’m devoted to my marriage, of course. But I can’t stop thinking of you. Please. Assure me that this—this—“
“This?” I whispered once more. The tear had made a trail down my cheek by then, leaving me seemingly naked beside him.
“This beautiful thing that we have. I don’t want to lose it. Assure me that it isn’t over, okay?”
My mind was spinning. I knew I needed to tell him that I couldn’t see him anymore; I knew I couldn’t tell him that Jason had me in his grasp, that I literally hadn’t a single sliver of free will anymore. I swallowed and turned my head almost imperceptibly toward him. “I just—I just have so much on my plate, Xavier. I need… I need some space. Some space would be really good right now for me. So that I can focus on the campaign. So that I can focus on making you the best president you can be.” I heard the quivering in my voice. I remembered the confident girl I had been just a few weeks before. I no longer recognized that person anymore.
The president leaned back and removed his hand from my leg. He clucked his tongue. “You need space?” he asked. His voice was nearly incredulous. “Space from me? From the White House? From the United States? Space from what?”
But I just shook my head, knowing that he could never truly understand. “Just space, Xavier,” I whispered. “I have to work through this, now. You have to leave this to me.”
Xavier stood. He grabbed a small, decorative bowl from the table before us and flung it at the wall, allowing it to crash to the ground. The glass shards crashed everywhere, reminding me of the wine glass I had broken the week before when I’d been searching for the hidden camera in my apartment. He stomped his foot, almost like a child but with a man’s passion, with a man’s anger. In a way, it aroused me, making me want to leap toward him and take him in my arms, kiss his lips with mine.
He sat at his presidential desk then. He left me on the couch by myself, my hands folded before me like a peasant. I bit my lip.
He waved his hand. “That’s it, then,” he muttered. It sounded like he was ending a business meeting—something incredibly formal, instead of the final rousing after an evening of titillating pleasure.
I stood. I bowed my head, feeling such sadness in my belly. I agreed with everything he said, of course. I agreed that we could create a beautiful life together. If things had been different. If people weren’t eternally watching our every step. If slimy creeps like Jason didn’t exist, always around the corner with a camera, ready to ruin your life.
I walked toward the door and brought my hand forth. I wrapped it around the handle, hearing him move in his chair. I paused. His voice rooted me back into reality, humming through my ears. “Amanda,” he whispered. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean—I didn’t mean to make a scene.”
I spun my head back around toward him and bowed, allowing my eyelashes to drip down to my cheeks. I felt so unsure in his presence, so jittery. “I’m sorry, too, Xavier,” I whispered.
“There’s more,” he said then. “I need you to know something. Even if we’re never in the same room again, alone. Even if this beautiful thing falls away forever. I need you to know that I am completely devoted to you, in this here and now. And I have been for quite some time. It took me a moment to make a move, and for that I am sorry. I wasted precious time I could have had with you. That kills me.”
He tapped his chest with his long, thin fingers. I held the door knob loosely in my hand, listening to his words as they fell through my ears, making me feel so open to him. I wanted to wrap my arms around him and kiss him, feel him, love him. But instead, I saw Jason’s laughing face in my head.
“Thank you, Xavier. I—“ I started shaking my head. I wanted to words to come churning from my mouth once more, but I couldn’t find them. I wanted to tell him that I felt the same way—that I’d always felt that we were right for each other, from the first moment we’d spoken.
Instead, I spun around and left the Oval Office. I tapped down the hallway, feeling like the world was spinning around me. This tumultuous White House offered so much: so much drama, so much lust, and so much potential for love. But I had to put my head down. Continue to answer phones. Do Jason’s bidding. I had to continue doing what I’d always done before.
I couldn’t fall in love with anyone. Especially not Xavier. Especially not the most powerful man in the world.
No. Especially not him.
Chapter Eight
I went home a bit later, feeling beat from the day. The mental and emotional fatigue from Jason’s continuous game was making me feel off my game. I slumped in the back of the taxi on the way back, not even bothering to laugh at the taxi driver’s jokes as we flew across the city.
“You White House people never laugh,” he murmured in his Mexican accent, driving swiftly.
I knew, in that moment, that I had turned into everyone else—even when all this time I had thought I was different. I knew that everyone worked for someone else; I knew that everyone was a pawn in someone else’s game. I just used to consider myself higher up on the food chain.
I arrived at my home and sat at the kitchen table, not wanting to get undressed after what I’d learned about Jason’s two extra cameras. I peered around the room as I poured a glass of wine. I began talking:
“Hello, Jason. How are you tonight? You’re doing well? Would you like a glass of wine? No?” I felt my quivering voice as it emanated through my throat. I felt like I was going insane.
I sat deeper in the chair and began to drink deeper, longer. I hadn’t bothered to turn on the television, and I could only hear the traffic as it coursed by my apartment building. “I have to move,” I said again. “I have to get out of here.” For a moment, I considered this with greater certainty. If I moved away, I would rid myself of these cameras that lurked like beasts throughout my apartment. I swallowed. The wine was so bitter, and I loved it; it made my blood flow looser through my body.
I stood, peering into the armoire once more. Perhaps there was another camera? I began to search for it, opening old teapots and peering into the old china, smelling old age and years and years of dust. I needed to clean, I knew. But I’d been too bogged down with work for the past—oh—seven years; I had completely forgotten how to be alive.
I set all the teapots against the wall and continued to graze through the armoire, searching for the small cameras. I felt like I was growing increasingly crazy as I went; I felt that I was on a mission to find something that could never be found—something that was futile. I swallowed and leaned back, feeling desolation take hold of me. I reached for the wine and closed my eyes, listening as the traffic dissipated as the people finally arrived home to their wives, their husbands, their children. For the first time in possibly ever, I wished I didn’t live alone. I’d always wanted my own place during college, even when I’d been the president of the s
orority. I’d lived alone all throughout my 20s. It just seemed natural: it was my home. It was my place.
But I was nearing 30. I wanted to come home to something besides my wine bottle, my subtle hangover. I wanted to clean something besides years and years of dust and decay on my grandmother’s old teacups.
I stood, a thought lingering in my mind. A long, long time ago—back during the old campaign trail, I’d had a friend. I know. It seems crazy. Me with a friend. I’d been using people like my pawns for so many years, that I didn’t know what true camaraderie was like anymore. Rachel and I had begun as competitors, of course. She and I had had many of the same skills, and the same people on the upper-level staff had treasured us. But one evening, after a particularly terrorizing day at the office, she’d leaned toward me and asked me, off-handedly, if I’d like to get a drink with her.
“Me?” I asked her, laughing a bit.
“Yes. Amanda. I am asking you if you want to go with me. To get a drink,” Rachel said sarcastically, grinning at me. Her teeth were perfect; her red hair was immaculate. In many ways, in that moment, I realized I was jealous of her. I hated that feeling: the realization that everything I had been doing against her had been simply churned from a sense of jealousy. That I didn’t feel I was good enough for something: that was preposterous, back then.
I thought for a moment after her question, biting my lip. I looked at the paper and remembered the man I was meant to meet that evening—the congressman I’d been sleeping with at the time. I remembered his smoggy breath, the way he banged against me on the wall, fucking me out of my comprehension of myself, of my life.
I went with her. Of course I did. She was sending me an olive branch, and I wasn’t stupid. In many ways, I wanted to keep my enemy close. But that was just an internal vessel in my everyday life. If I was going to be the best, I had to know how the other people on the upper end behaved. Drank their whiskey. All that.