The World: According to Rachael

by Layne Harper

  I wiggle into the couch and look up at the ceiling, feeling like the luckiest girl in the world. Graham Jackson is a dream that I never hoped I could achieve. He’s supportive, and seems to understand just how much my career means to me, and I’m important enough to him that he’s insisting that I meet his family. Yup. I am the luckiest girl in the world.

  His expert hands move up my legs and settle where I desire him the most. This time, our lovemaking is sweet and tender. He sits on the couch as I straddle his lap, finally getting to control his orgasm. I use my legs to move up and down on his thick erection. He removes the pins from my hair, allowing it to spill down my back. Sometimes I take him balls’ deep and he gently swats my behind, and other times I just take the head of his cock. When he tries to speed up my rhythm or take control by seizing my hips, I slap his hands away.

  Graham whispers words of encouragement, and tells me how I make him feel. His declarations of what I mean to him makes my body yield to him every damn time.

  ***

  While we shower, Graham and I decide to spend the weekend at the hotel. We didn’t talk about who was going to pay, but I checked my account balance this morning and know that I have enough money in savings to cover the weekend. He rinses and then steps out, citing a phone call that he needs to make.

  I linger in the shower enjoying not being rushed and using all of the complementary luxurious bath products. While I’m rinsing the essence of orange infused conditioner out of my hair, a thought hits me so hard that I stagger against the slick marble wall. Is he only agreeing to stay at the hotel after he was so against them because it means another couple of days that I will not ask to visit his home? I hope that it’s not the reason, and choose to ignore my gut which is desperately trying to convince me otherwise.

  When I step out of the shower, I hear his voice in the other room. He must still be on the phone. That’s a long phone call, because I really took my time washing my hair. I move to the bathroom door and crack it open so I’m able to watch his movements in the mirror.

  “I’m here with Rachael … Yeah … I know … Maybe we can have dinner or meet for beers tomorrow …” Then the conversation must take a turn from friendly to tense because Graham, dressed only in his boxer briefs, begins to pace back and forth in front of the bed.

  “Fuck you, Max. Don’t make me fuckin’ choose, because you’ll probably not like my choice.” His tone is one that I don’t recognize. There’s a razor edge to it that I identify as being deadly serious, and it makes me shiver.

  Then, in a resolved voice, he backpedals. “I didn’t mean that, and you know it. I’m just stressed. I’ll text you where to meet us, and we’ll work all day on Sunday.”

  He ends the call, and he stares for a moment at his phone. His head turns, looking out the window as if he’s studying the Washington skyline. Then to my shock, he rears back his arm, throwing his phone against the padded headboard.

  I move back in front of the bathroom sink and begin to work the knots out of my hair, using my fingers as a comb. My mind is swirling with possibilities of what the conversation was about. I haven’t seen Graham display a temper. I mean, everyone gets angry, but hurling his phone is a little more than just perturbed. He also mentioned working on Sunday. Once again, I’m sure that teachers grade papers on the weekend and prepare items for the week, but the tone of his voice tells me that something bad must be happening at school. I know how much lacrosse means to him. I hope whatever it is doesn’t affect his coaching. I wait a few minutes, giving him time to collect his thoughts before I walk into the bedroom.

  He’s lying on the bed, staring up at the ceiling as if whatever is troubling him is glaring down and ready to consume him whole. I join him on the soft mattress and press myself into his side.

  “You heard that, didn’t you?” His voice gives nothing away.

  I nod.

  “I’m sorry. I thought you were still showering.”

  “Nothing to apologize for. Want to talk about it?” I ask, sounding way too hopeful. I’m silently pleading with him to share with me.

  “And ruin a perfectly good night? No way.” Then he rolls onto his side and stares down at me with eyes that I could almost interrupt as being filled with love.

  “I want to meet him,” I state.

  “Who?” he asks.

  “I heard you tell Max that tomorrow we could meet for beers or dinner. I want to meet him.”

  “Well, it’s not him. It’s them.” I get the feeling by the way he cuts his eyes that if I hadn’t overhead the conversation that he would have blown them off.

  “Fine. Then I want to meet them.”

  He leans over and kisses the tip of my nose. “Your wish is my command.” Then his eyes grow heavy. “Hungry?”

  I reach inside his underwear and stroke his semi-erect penis. “Not for food.”

  I lose count how many times and different ways that we take each other over the next five hours, but when we finally have had enough and can fall fast asleep, we do it tangled in each other’s arms, so knotted that the only way to tell where he stops and I begin is to look at his dark skin against my fair complexion.

  ***

  Even after yesterday’s activities, I still wake up with the sun. It’s like my body doesn’t believe my mind that on the weekends it can sleep past five o’clock. After unwrapping myself from Graham and using the restroom, I determine that I’m not going back to sleep. Then it occurs to me that all I have with me is the suit and high heels that I wore to work yesterday, and the discarded green lingerie.

  I quietly call Lou, who’s passed his phone to one of the weekend guys, and tell the Secret Service that I need to pick up a few things from my house. We arrange to meet in ten minutes.

  I grab a sheet of hotel stationery and leave a note for Graham. Went to grab a few things from my house. Be back soon. Then, before I can stop myself, I draw a heart and sign my name under it. I’ll blame my childish drawing on my multiple orgasms yesterday.

  Tom introduces himself as my weekend agent. I hope that Tom has seen a late thirties woman do the walk of shame before. If not, Tom, who looks to be twelve, will be forever scarred. My bruised cheek completes the rumpled-suit look with bare feet. I remember once seeing a picture of Britney Spears barefoot and walking out of a public restroom. Her actions were repulsive to me. Now, I get it. She might have had the kind of night that I did, which was awesome.

  Fortunately, Tom has the car at the lobby door so I don’t have to walk far in public. While we’re driving, I check my email. It’s all work. I click on one email from someone on Evan’s team. The subject line is Sons of Liberty: Urgent. I star it to read later. As I quickly learned in this job, urgent doesn’t really mean urgent. If it’s indeed an emergency, someone will let me know.

  When we arrive at my house, it doesn’t take long for me to change clothes, put on a baseball cap, and throw a couple of outfits into my overnight bag. I stop by my bathroom and gather my cosmetics, toothbrush, and something called Arnica gel that Shelby insists will make my bruise fade more quickly. As I’m walking downstairs, I remember that I didn’t grab shoes. Back up I go. I choose a pair of boots for right now, and throw some heels in my bag for wearing out to meet Graham’s friends.

  I’m curious to find out if these are the same friends that came into town the last couple of weekends. I reason that they must be very close if they see each other this often.

  Tom makes a coffee run for Graham and me before we head back to the hotel. I haven’t been gone long—maybe an hour. On the way through the lobby, I detour by the front desk.

  “How may I help you?” the clerk asks.

  “I want to make sure that the credit card that I gave you yesterday upon check-in is the same card that is being billed for last night’s stay. We’d also like to extend by one more night.” I’m barely able to see over the high counter. I don’t understand why hotels feel the need to have reception desks that are so over-exaggerated.

  “Name
please?”

  “Rachael Early.”

  He’s clicking away on his keyboard. “Let’s see, Miss Early. The gentleman that’s staying with you switched out the cards yesterday. A Mister Graham Jackson?” He looks up expectantly.

  I nod.

  “He also extended your stay so you’re all taken care of. Have a lovely weekend.” He doesn’t wait for me to turn around before he’s focused again on his computer.

  How does a teacher afford one night at the Four Seasons, let alone two? I’ve managed to pay off my student loans and not incur any credit card debt. Graham seems to obviously be living beyond his means. That makes me very uncomfortable. I add it to my list of things that I need to find out about him.

  In the elevator, I decide that if Graham is still asleep, I’ll get caught up on my emails. If he’s awake, then I’m taking today off and giving him my undivided attention.

  Much to my delight, he’s awake—all of him—and he looks very happy to see me. Our coffee is room temperature by the time we get done properly saying good morning.

  Chapter Twelve

  “What time are we meeting your friends?” I ask as I pull on a fresh pair of jeans and nubby olive green sweater.

  He strolls over to me and kisses the pulse point on my neck. “Do you really want to meet Max, Marissa, and Jake?”

  “Of course. Friends aren’t nearly as scary as parents.” I reply casually as I sit down and begin to lace my leather boots.

  Graham is dressed in the same clothes as he wore yesterday, except he’s left his morning stubble. It’s so damn sexy. I can’t stop myself from caressing it or feathering kisses along his jawline every chance that I get.

  We’re heading to the Friendship Heights neighborhood to do some shopping. I wasn’t kidding when I’d said that I wanted a new dress to meet his family. I also need to grab some gifts for Caroline’s daughter and twin sons, as well as Aiden’s children. They call me Aunt Rachael because that’s what Caroline’s daughter, Ainsley, refers to me as, and the others just follow her lead. One day, it will have to be explained to them that sometimes family isn’t necessarily related to you by marriage or blood.

  I carry my makeup bag into the bathroom while Graham taps away on his phone. Even though I used Shelby’s Arnica gel only to humor her, I must admit my bruise is faded enough that I think base will actually camouflage it. As I’m gently applying it, because it’s still a bit tender, Graham calls out from the other room, “Is eight o’clock okay?”

  He startles me and I press too hard on my cheek causing me to wince. “Okay for what?” I dust some powder over the bruise and admire my handiwork in the mirror.

  “For meeting everyone.”

  “Works for me. My day is open.” Because I cleared my calendar, for the first time in too many years to count.

  “Is meeting at a pub okay?”

  I walk into the other room. “Graham, I don’t care. Make whatever plans you want. I’m just along for the ride.”

  He raises his eyebrows at the word “ride” and stalks towards me with desire in his eyes. I push him away. “No. I want to go dress shopping.”

  He pouts briefly before he picks up his phone and starts typing.

  When I’m ready, we head out to the waiting car.

  ***

  Shopping with Graham is like everything we do together—very pleasant and filled with a bit of adventure.

  We stroll hand in hand through Bloomingdales while Tom follows us, staying about twelve feet behind. Our first stop is the men’s department to purchase a fresh pair of underwear and a shirt for Graham to change into. We pause at the graphic T-shirt table, and laugh as we read some of the sayings.

  Graham ultimately winds up choosing a light-blue sweater that he pulls over his white button-up shirt. I love it. He looks sophisticated and sexy. The blue of the sweater brings out his eyes, making them appear translucent. I just wish his eyebrows weren’t drawn together. Tension lines mar his stunning face on a day when I’m having so much fun.

  Next, we head up to the ladies department. I begin to meander through the hung-up dresses stopping every now and again to remove one from the rack so I can examine it closer. “What’s your mom’s favorite color?”

  “I like that one,” he says as he nods towards the black dress that I’ve draped over my arm. “It’s green, like yours.”

  “Oh.” I hang the dress back up.

  “Why aren’t you trying it on?”

  “Because I really wanted a green dress. The fact that it’s both of our favorite colors makes it a done deal.” His head cocks to the side in confusion, but he doesn’t argue with my logic or try to convince me to just buy something. If it’s possible, I might like him a little more. I admire his patience. It’s not a trait that I possess.

  Two stores and three hours later, I find just what I was looking for. It’s a Kelly-green trench-coat dress. When I try it on, I know that it’s the one.

  “Graham, what do you think?” I ask as I twirl around in front of him.

  He looks up from his phone that he’s been typing on every time I’m occupied. His smile touches his eyes. “It’s perfect,” he says as he walks to me, placing his hands on my shoulders and kissing my forehead where it meets my hairline. “You look gorgeous.”

  Beaming, I walk back into the fitting room to change.

  Graham and I kill another hour shopping before we head to the bar to meet everybody. I snuggle into his side when we’re in the car, “Are you nervous for me to meet them?”

  He tucks a stray strand of hair behind my ear. “Not in the least. What’s not to love?”

  I place a kiss over his heart. “Thank you. That’s so kind.”

  “Are you nervous?” he asks, pulling away from me so he can see my face in the shadows of the streetlamps and passing car headlights.

  “A bit.” I swallow. “These guys are obviously important to you. They visit every weekend.” I take a stab in the dark that these are the same people. When he doesn’t correct me, I continue, “I want to like them, and for them to like me.”

  Graham stiffens and looks out of the car window. “They don’t have a choice.”

  We spend the rest of the car ride in silence.

  We arrive at a bar that I’ve never been to before, which doesn’t mean much. My social life consists of fundraisers, galas, and dinners at expensive restaurants when I’m schmoozing a Senator. In fact, I can’t remember the last time that I went to the bar with friends … I think the last time was before Langford ran for president. The realization further shades just how drab my life had become pre-Graham.

  As soon as we step out of the car, he grabs my hand, bringing it up to his mouth. He kisses our locked fingers as if he’s reassuring me, but I get the impression that it’s more reassuring him. “They will adore you just like I do. Just be yourself.”

  I nod and allow him to lead us into the bar once Tom has done a sweep. Poor kid looks overwhelmed. I’m sure when he read the dossier on my boring life he thought he had won the lottery. Now, the first time he’s assigned to me, I choose to go to a bar on a Saturday night.

  Bar is really a misnomer. It’s an Irish pub. The clientele is young, business-like and professional. It has a lively atmosphere, reminiscent of college. Numerous dartboards line one wall. There are a few pool tables that are surrounded by groups of people, vying for playing time. Most of the place is dominated by pub-height tables with bar stools. There are neon signs hung on the walls advertising various Irish-sounding beers, and a dark wooden bar runs the length of the wall perpendicular to the dartboards. There’s music being piped out over speakers discreetly hung in the ceiling. It sounds like a mix of top forty, but it’s difficult to hear over the roar of the crowd.

  We pause when we step inside the door. Graham is scanning the crowd, looking for his friends when, after a few seconds, he raises his hand and gives a slight wave to two guys and a pregnant girl.

  They look about Graham’s age, and I remember that he mentioned
once before that the people who were visiting him were his fraternity brothers. As we approach the table, all three sets of eyes take me in. Fortunately, I have a lot of experience with appraising looks so I keep a neutral, bland face.

  Graham gives my hand two quick squeezes before releasing it in lieu of wrapping an arm around my shoulders and pulling me against his side. “Hey everyone,” he yells over the commotion. “This is Rachael.”

  I smile as warmly as I can, despite my rapidly beating heart. I want this to go well so that maybe his eyebrows will return to a neutral position. Everyone grins back, but no one jumps to their feet to shake my hand.

  We take the two seats left at the table and Graham casually rests his hand on my knee. “Rachael, this is Jacob Cartwright. He goes by Jake.” He motions towards the very handsome guy seated to my left. Jake looks like a Calvin Klein model. His light-blond hair is cut in a shag that makes him appear as if he’s just stepped out of the California waves, and his tanned skin in November further drives the surfer look home. I half expect him to say “Dude” when he speaks.

  Instead, he sounds very professional. “Pleasure to meet you Rachael. You are just as gorgeous in person.” He shakes my hand in a firm yet respectable grasp.

  The other guy leans across the table and says, “Don’t fall for his charms. He’s a player.”

  Jake shoots him a dirty look, and Graham howls with laughter.

  “I’m Max, and this is my wife, Marissa.” I nod my head in acknowledgement.

  He points to her swollen abdomen. “That’s my spawn,” he says proudly as Marissa slaps his chest.

  “Quit calling my baby a spawn.” The table chuckles.

  Max has shockingly red, curly hair. Instead of minimizing this feature, he’s definitely embraced it. It’s perfectly styled, framing his face in such a way that it could easily pass for a wig. He’s handsome in a different kind of way than Jake or Graham. He has a charismatic presence that dominates the table.