by Layne Harper
Marissa is a perfect complement to Max. She has waist-long brown hair that skims the side of her face. I can tell she’s tall, because she’s Max’s height while sitting. She’s dressed stylishly in an A-line fitted T-shirt that skims her thin pregnant form. Her shirt reads, Due in March in tiny print across her perky round breasts.
“Congratulations,” I tell Marissa. “What a happy time for you guys.”
“Not for Max,” Jake chimes in. “He’s not sure he’s the father.”
Max had just taken a sip of beer, and nearly chokes on it.
Marissa, who seems to be comfortable with this crowd, replies, “I guess we’ll see when he’s born. If he has a Bozo the Clown red hair, there will be no need for the DNA test.”
Graham leans over and whispers in my ear, “They’ll keep this going all night.”
The waitress disrupts this conversation from going any further. I order a Sam Adams on draft, and Graham makes it two. We also order a plate of nachos because he swears, and his three friends confirm, that this Irish pub in D.C. has the best Mexican nachos on the planet.
“Forget to shave this morning?” Jake asks, slapping Graham’s cheek.
Graham ducks and laughs. “Rachael thinks my stubble is sexy.”
Max adds, “Maybe if you’re a lumberjack.”
I reach up and caress Graham’s cheek, and then lean over and give his jaw a kiss. “I like it. Maybe it can be a weekend thing.”
The subject is changed, and conversation flows nicely around the table. Graham shares a couple of stories about his students. One story is about an answer that his student gave to a question that he asked in class. The question sparks a lively debate, and I feel comfortable enough to chime in with my opinion.
After a little while, I realize that my heart-rate has returned to normal, and I am enjoying myself. I look at Graham, who’s laughing at something Jake said, and see that the lines between his eyes are relaxed and his eyebrows are back where they belong. Maybe he was just anxious about me meeting his friends. That’s why he’s seemed so on edge.
The nachos arrive, and they live up to the hype. I note that Graham has a flair for knowing the best junk food in the district. First onion rings, and now nachos. How can he eat like this, but look like that? He places the plate in the middle of the table, and we all snack on them while we drink our beers.
Marissa excuses herself to go to the restroom, and I decide to join her. Graham doesn’t let me leave the table without a kiss, which makes Max and Jake catcall whistle.
Marissa hits Max’s arm and says, “Just because you’ve already knocked me up doesn’t mean you can’t still be sweet like that.” She motions toward us. Max rolls his eyes and then dramatically pulls her in for a Hollywood style kiss. Everyone laughs at their antics.
We both stand up at the same time. She’s really tall, and I’m very petite. I feel like her kid sister as I walk next to her to the ladies room. I pass by Tom, who is standing up to follow me, and I make a stopping motion with my hands. I would like some alone time with Marissa.
Fortunately, the music is not as loud in the restroom hallway so as we wait our turn, we’re able to chat.
“You know the guys are just teasing Max about not being the father,” she reassures me as she rubs her cute baby bump.
“I assumed.”
“Max and I are the first of our college friends to have a baby. I mean, Jake might have a few kids populating the earth that he doesn’t know about, but I think that you’re safe with Graham.”
We shuffle forward in line. “How did you guys become friends?”
“College. The boys were all in the same pledge class for their fraternity.” Then conspiratorially, she says, “Jake and I went to prom together in high school, more as friends than anything else. He introduced me to Max and Graham.”
“Not awkward?”
She laughs. “Not at all. Jake and I were not serious, and personally, I don’t think monogamy is in his vocabulary.”
Interesting. I want to ask her some questions about Graham, but I think that it’s tacky. Silence washes over us as I try to come up with a quick response to her statement, but my mind draws a blank.
Fortunately, she lets me off the hook. “Graham is a really good guy. It’s nice to see him with someone who makes him smile.”
“Thank you. I’m glad to hear that.” And then, because I can’t help myself, “He just seems like he’s under so much pressure right now.”
“They all are,” she says with a roll of her eyes. “I mean, talk about a great problem to have.”
I have no clue what she’s talking about and just nod in agreement, hoping she’ll elaborate. Unfortunately, she doesn’t.
“Oh! My turn,” she says as she walks toward the now empty stall. “I’ll meet you back at the table.”
I turn her phrase over and over again in my head as I enter the next empty bathroom stall. “Talk about a great problem to have.” What does that mean? How is it a good problem that all three of the boys share it? From what I learned from Graham, the guys are in different lines of work, with Jake being a commercial real estate broker in New York, and Max an investment banker in Atlanta. Those two might have something in common, but Graham is a teacher. I don’t see how the three could share a business opportunity.
Could it be personal? They seem to be great friends. Maybe they’re going in together to purchase a vacation home, or invest in a business. But why wouldn’t Graham have mentioned it to me? We certainly share a lot about our jobs with each other.
As I wash my hands under the warm water, I come to the conclusion that I have to know what this “good problem to have” is. If I even want to contemplate having a life with Graham, I need to know the secrets that he is obviously hiding.
Marissa beats me back to the table. The group doesn’t see me approaching, and all four of their heads are close together in what seems like a tense conversation with Jake looking around to make sure no one is eavesdropping. I hang back behind a very tall inflatable beer bottle and watch, giving them a moment to work out whatever is causing the tension. Marissa keeps putting her hands up in a defensive position and shaking her head while she turns her body toward Max. Graham runs his fingers through his hair in what looks like frustration. His waves just flop back in their long and unruly order. Jake is obviously the one who is leading the conversation. He keeps leaning into the circle and using his hands to talk in an aggressive manner. I can’t see Max’s face.
My self-doubt asks if this heated conversation is about me. I review everything that I’ve said tonight, and nothing stands out that could be considered controversial. I haven’t had too much to drink. I’m not being obnoxious. I thought tonight was going rather well.
Hang on! If this is about the “good problem to have,” and Marissa hinted at it to me … maybe they’re having this serious conversation because now they think that I’ve learned their secret.
It occurs to me that I’ve been gone too long and that I need to rejoin the group. I’d rather act like nothing happened than be spotted spying on them. It would make the rest of the evening awkward.
I roll my shoulders back and stick my chest out in a confident posture. I slap a fake smile on my face, strolling toward the table as if I hadn’t just been a witness to something quite troubling.
Graham sees me first and leans back on his barstool, removing his elbows from the table. The others seem to quickly catch his cue and relax back in their chairs.
“Sorry that took me so long. There was a line to wash my hands,” I lie easily as I take my seat.
Graham’s hand returns to my leg, and uses his index finger to draw small circles, gradually making their way towards my inner thigh. If this is a distraction tactic from anything that I might have seen, well, it’s working.
He leans over and kisses my cheek. Then, he announces to the table, “Rachael thinks boxing is superior to MMA.”
This launches a passionate discussion, and four beers later, it’s
time to call it a night. I lean over, and whisper to Graham, “I think that I’mmm a little bit drunk.”
He tips my chin up and gives me an amused grin. “Time to take my girl home?”
“Not home. Back to our love-nest at the hotel,” I slur a bit. “By the way, what’s with payin’ for the room?” I ask in a way too loud voice when it was just supposed to be a whisper.
He kisses my lips as if to silence me, and then says in my ear, “I wanted to.”
As he helps me to my feet, even in my inebriated state, I don’t miss the scowl that Max gives Graham.
Graham pulls out a one-hundred dollar bill, slapping it on the table. “We’ve had all we can stand of you three. See you tomorrow.”
Thankfully I’m able to properly tell everyone goodbye, and they’re all very kind. As we make our way out of the bar, I see the worry line is back on Graham’s forehead pulling his eyebrows together. I sigh in dismay.
Once we’re settled into the back of the car, I lie down, putting my head in Graham’s lap hoping that I reassure him through my contact that everything will be okay. Through a sleepy voice, I tell him how much I liked his friends.
Chapter Thirteen
I know that I’m dreaming, but I can’t seem to wake myself. I’m standing at the White House podium in the James Brady Press Room without a stitch of clothing on. My hair is down and board straight like I wore it to the gala. I’m fielding questions from the media as if I’m Evan instead of me. I brush off some queries and give thoughtful answers to others. I crack jokes, hoping that my humor will camouflage that I’m naked in a room full of people.
While I’m in the middle of a rambling answer, Graham enters the back of the room. He doesn’t slip in. He strolls into the room with purpose. Our eyes lock together. Forgetting myself and that I have an audience, I rub and tweak my nipples, and move my body as if I’m performing a private dance for just him.
I step out from behind the podium so he can have a better view. The press is silent, watching me—staring at me. But I only have eyes for Graham.
When my left hand moves from my breast southward, Graham unzips his worn jeans and pulls out his massive erection.
Up and down his hand slides without his eyes ever drifting. His tempo matches mine as we watch each other pleasure ourselves.
Everyone else in the room disappears, and I’m sad to see them go. I was enjoying them witnessing how Graham makes me feel.
My fingers slide inside of me as I continue to massage my breast. My inner thighs are slick with desire.
I mouth, come with me, to Graham. He swipes his thumb over the head of his penis, spreading his liquid over his shaft. Up and down he moves. Faster and faster I finger myself.
I drop my head back, breaking eye contact with him …
“Wake up, Rachael!” He yells down at me while he shakes my shoulders. His eyes are wide and filled with terror.
I fly out of bed, and the shock of the cold air-conditioned hotel room burns my drenched skin. I stand next to where I was just sleeping moments ago, panting as if I have just completed a workout with Malik. The bedside lamp is on. Graham must have tried to use light to wake me.
He sits back, resting on his knees, naked in the middle of the bed. “Talk to me,” he implores.
I quickly register that we are in our hotel room at the Four Seasons. I’m naked also, and I was just having a wet dream mixed with the fear of being exposed, I guess. I didn’t even know that almost forty-year-old women could still have them. “I … I … was having a dream. I’m okay.”
“You’re not fine. You were moaning and moving up and down on the bed as if you were having a seizure.” I watch as the realization of what just happened wakes up his dick. His face morphs from one of terror to amusement. The smile that spreads across his face deepens his dimple. “You were having a sex dream.”
I throw my hands over my face, completely mortified, and nod.
“Oh Rachael,” he says as he moves across the bed, scooping me up and cradling me against his chest. “That’s so hot, sweetheart. Don’t be ashamed.” The mirth in his tone makes me further wish that I could just die.
I shake my head, and still keep my face covered as I scramble out of his lap. Oh, God. Please give me the ability to rewind time. My legs are drawn up against my chest, and I lie in the fetal position. I wish that a sinkhole would open up and swallow me whole.
“Take your hands away from your face, and look at me,” he orders in the same voice he uses when we’re having sex.
I obey that voice and slowly place my arms over my head, but I keep my eyes closed.
His lips peck each eyelid. “My girl, was the dream about me?”
I open one eye and see the huge smile on his face before I reluctantly reply, “Yes.”
“Thank God.” He lets out a breath. “Will you tell me about it?”
“Can’t we just go back to sleep and pretend that this never happened?” I plead, shutting my eyes again and trying to turn away from him.
He opens my knees and samples my wetness. He commands me to open my eyes again. When I obey, he shows me the evidence of my dream. “This tells me that you really don’t want to do that.”
My body yearns for the release that it was denied, but my brain wants to forget that this ever happened. I lie there motionless, waiting for him to decide for me.
“Was I doing this in your dream?” he asks, as he positions himself in between my spread legs and brushes his thumb across my oversensitive clit.
I don’t bother answering, and lose myself in this sexy, secretive and complicated man.
***
When we wake late on Sunday morning, it’s apparent that we must return to reality. I finally check my email, and my inbox is flooded with even more urgent messages. Graham seems antsy to get home to his houseguests. We part ways in front of the Four Seasons with a quick kiss goodbye, and without making future plans.
He opts to take a taxi instead of letting me bring him home. I assume it’s because he doesn’t want me to visit his house. I remind myself that I set the deadline for after Thanksgiving. If I haven’t received an invite by then, I’ll discuss it with him.
After a much-needed shower, I unpack my shopping purchases and hang my beautiful green dress on a clothing rack near the door. I’m leaving on Wednesday for a trip with the President and then there is Thanksgiving break. I’ll be gone ten days. I’m not spending all of my time at Caroline’s home, in the middle of nowhere, Texas. Three of those days, I’ll be in Baton Rouge with the President. LSU has generously offered to host his Presidential Library. He’s asked me to be a part of the discussions.
I’m also showing Drake around the campus of Texas A&M. Caroline is a professor there. When she mentioned to her boss that the President of the United States of America’s kid was thinking about attending their school, they immediately contacted me about arranging a VIP visit. My plan was to take Drake to the local landmarks, like the Dixie Chicken, with a brief stop on campus just to say we had been there. Now, it’s turned into a guided tour and football tickets for Friday’s game, which happens to be against LSU.
I ignore my laptop for as long as I can, not wanting to end my mini-vacation. I watch my recorded political shows. Then I make myself a peanut butter and jelly sandwich for a late lunch/early supper. At five o’clock, I reluctantly give in to my job’s demands and turn on my laptop.
While it’s booting, I contemplate whether or not it was a good idea to sneak out of the office early on Friday and ignore my job all day yesterday and most of today. It felt damn good to have a mini-vacation, but I’m dreading the piles of work that I must sort through before tomorrow morning.
I VPN into the White House network, and click on the email tab. I sip my water while the thousands of emails flood in. The first email I open is the one I starred yesterday. The subject line is Sons of Liberty: Urgent. It’s from Hillary Knox, who works for Evan. She’s the person who he assigned to transcribe and gather important sound bit
es that I need to hear. He’s also tasked her with becoming the SOL expert. I smile at her title, as I wonder what she did to piss Evan off. No one, and I do mean no one, wants to be the Shit Out of Luck expert.
Her email is to Evan and me. It’s only three sentences. I believe I’ve uncovered the identity of one of the Sons of Liberty. Max Schultz let it slip in a crowded restaurant that he is Solomon. I’ve attached a background report.
Finally, all will be revealed, well at least I’ll know the identity of one of the SOL members. Max Schultz, the name doesn’t sound familiar. I know that he isn’t a politician, and I don’t think that he’s an actor. Although, he would have to be pretty famous for me to recognize his name if he’s Hollywood. With anticipation, I click on the attachment and take a sip of water while it opens. I look away for only a split second, but when my eyes lock in on my computer screen, I nearly lose my peanut butter and jelly sandwich. Staring back at me is Max Schultz. His bright red curly hair makes recognizing him quite easy.
I gasp as my mind starts reassembling shards of glass as if they’re bits of a vase shattered on a tile floor.
“Good problem to have …” Marissa meant their newfound public attention at having such a strong influence in the election.
If Max is one of the Sons of Liberty, Jake and Graham must be the other two.
Graham’s anxiety over me meeting his friends.
Their radio program is the reason that his friends come to town every weekend.
Is this why I can’t go to his home?
Then, like I’ve been punched in the gut, I stand up from my kitchen table and stumble away from my laptop before collapsing on the couch. My mind is reeling with the new realization that slaps me across my face. I’m one of their Betsy Ross girls. I’ve. Been. Used.
I’ve shared with Graham things that happen during my workday. Small things. Nothing things—or so I’d thought. But if he were gathering material for his radio show, they’d be worth a lot. I mentioned meeting about the immigration reform bill. I told him about Roan, who was in those meetings, making a racist joke. I despise Roan, but I’d never want to be the cause of someone facing public humiliation.