Presidential Bargain

by Rebecca Gallo

  “No, you won’t.” She pouted and I bent to capture her lip in between my teeth. I tugged playfully before releasing it and then kissed her firmly.

  “Yes, I will.” I squeezed her waist before heading for the door. I stopped short and turned back to her. She waited for me expectantly. “Georgie, I have a very important question to ask you.”

  “Yes, Jameson?”

  “What’s your favorite Beatles song?”

  “Hmm.” Her finger tapped against the lips I had just kissed, and her eyes focused on the ceiling. Then her gaze landed on me and her smile turned devilish. “Today, it’s ‘Why Don’t We Do It in the Road’.”

  She burst out laughing and then launched herself at me. Her arms wrapped around my neck and she buried her face there. I held her tightly, inhaling her familiar fragrance.

  “I love you,” she whispered before kissing me on the cheek. She released her hold on me and stepped back.

  I stared for a moment, no reply forming on my lips. And then I left.

  I wasn’t eager to get away from Georgie, but I was eager to get back to D.C., to where my life was decidedly simpler. I laughed at myself, thinking that my life as a senator was simple. Running for president was just a different kind of job, with its own unique set of challenges. Taking a temporary break from my campaign to do my job gave me the opportunity to examine my own priorities. It gave me the chance to finally figure out exactly what I wanted and how I was going to get it.

  The flight was short, which meant I had enough time to look over the bills that were being brought before the Senate. I made notes on the parts of the bill I thought were harmful to the American people, and I wrote down questions I planned on asking before casting my vote. I knew how my party was going to vote, but I hated party-line voting. I avoided it at all costs. More often than not, my vote was consistent with other Senate Democrats, but there were times when I had to break with my own party. When it came to my voting record, I had no regrets.

  I was driven to the Capitol building and I reflected on how different this was, compared to a few months ago when I would drive myself or take the Metro. Now I had Secret Service protection. When I arrived in the Senate, I was greeted warmly by my colleagues. Despite my exhaustion from the debate and the flight, I remained in the Senate chamber until business was concluded.

  “It’s good to see you, James,” one of my colleagues, Tom Chapman, said, approaching me. His hand was outstretched toward me and I took it, shaking it firmly.

  “It’s good to be back, Tom,” I replied. We exchanged meaningless pleasantries about our personal lives. He expressed his desire to meet Georgie and even though I verbally agreed, on the inside I thought, Not on your fucking life.

  Tom Chapman might have been one of my colleagues and one of the senior Democrats in the Senate, but he was also a total slimeball. He had a gorgeous wife and two kids in college, but he still employed a female companion to accompany him to events in town. It was the worst kept secret. I bet even his wife knew.

  “Are you free for dinner tonight?” His question seemed innocent enough. The thing about Tom was that even though he was slippery and slimy, he was very influential. He was also from Ohio, a state that had become crucial in the last few elections. I needed his endorsement. I needed Ohio to vote for me.

  “Absolutely.”

  And that was how I ended up at dinner with three of my Senate colleagues, two female escorts, and some random lobbyists. This was the D.C. dance and even though I wanted to be the president, I hated it. The dinner was excessively fake. Entirely full of ass-kissing. I said what was required of me and I made vague promises because, even though I respected the three senators I dined with, there was no way in hell I was going to appoint them to anything. They were typical political sleazeballs, one scandal away from resigning.

  On the way home, I sat in the back of the SUV, eager to hear only one voice. I slipped my cell phone from my suit jacket and scrolled until I found Georgie’s name. When she didn’t answer, I hit “END” without leaving a message. I wanted to talk to her, not her voicemail.

  I wasn’t worried about Georgie, though, because while I was in D.C., taking care of business, she was with Avon, campaigning. I was grateful that she and Avon had formed an alliance because Georgie needed someone to lean on, to go to when I wasn’t around. I closed my eyes and leaned against the headrest, enjoying the quiet as we passed through the streets of D.C.

  My condo in D.C. was the exact opposite of the townhouse in Boston. It was cold and sterile, all glass and steel. It was two stories and nearly every single exterior wall was floor-to-ceiling windows. I lived there most of the time and it was comfortable for me. It was enough for the bachelor who brought the occasional woman home for a night, but I couldn’t picture Georgie living there. She belonged in the comfortable elegance of my home in Boston. I made a note to put the condo on the market soon.

  When I entered the unit, I dropped my bag in the entryway and unloaded my pockets, dropping everything in a tray that sat on a long table. I walked toward the galley kitchen and pulled a beer from the sub-zero refrigerator, then turned toward the entire wall of windows that gave me an incredible view of the city. The lights twinkled in the darkness and in the distance, I could see the glowing dome of the Capital. This view was the reason why I purchased this unit. I felt like a king looking out over my dominion whenever I stood in front of these windows. Now I just felt lost and a little hollow without my queen. I finished my beer quickly and disposed of it in the recycle bin.

  I started toward the stairs when I heard my phone ringing. I hurried toward the hall where I’d dropped my things and fumbled for my phone. The caller ID let me know that Georgie was returning my call.

  “Hello? Georgie?” I hoped I’d answered the phone in enough time.

  “Jameson?” Her voice on the other end was the sweetest sound I ever heard. I closed my eyes and leaned against the wall.

  “Yeah, it’s me.”

  “How are you doing? I saw that you called while I was in the bath.” An image of Georgie, up to her neck in bubbles, flickered into my mind and my cock stiffened. I ignored it because there was no way I was wasting a perfectly good erection on my palm.

  “I’m exhausted. I just had dinner with some colleagues and lobbyists.”

  “How was that?”

  “Awful. They’re the most lecherous senators, but I need their support because they’re all from swing states. Is it terrible of me to hope they get snared in some kind of corruption scandal? Or defeated by the next person who challenges them?”

  She giggled on the other end and I slid down the wall until I was sitting on the floor. I stretched my legs out in front of me and tried to relax against the hard surfaces.

  “Just give them the worst ambassadorships.”

  “You’re an evil genius.” I sighed and on the other end, she echoed it.

  “I miss you,” we both said at the same time.

  “One more day and then I’ll see you again. We’ll be hobnobbing with celebrities.”

  I was scheduled to fly out the next night to California. We were going to meet there for the West Coast leg of my campaign. With only a week until the second debate in Phoenix, the schedule was jam-packed. I had a slew of celebrity dinners to attend and while I knew that would be exciting for Georgie, I really didn’t care. Then we would make our way back east. I was working on having the renovations on her family home completed by then and planning to surprise her during a campaign stop in New Hampshire.

  “I’d rather hob with your nob,” she replied cheekily.

  I laughed out loud, the sound thunderous in the nearly empty hallway.

  “An evil genius and a sexual deviant? I definitely picked the right woman.”

  “Of course you did.”

  “Georgie?”

  “Yes, Jameson?”

  “What’s your favorite Springsteen song?”

  “Is this really an important question?”

  “Of course
it is. I take The Boss very seriously.”

  “Today it’s ‘Thunder Road’,” she replied.

  “Good choice. Sleep well, little darling.”

  California was warm and sunny, but all that mattered was seeing Jameson tonight. The flight was long and I spent the entire time wrapped up in his policy. The bound books he printed for me, containing everything I needed to know about Jameson politically, kept me connected to him. I learned so much about him reading through these proposals. He was a complete humanist; many of his proposals demonstrated not only an understanding of the human condition, but also a respect for it. He was also exceptionally fiscally responsible. While he wanted to help as many people as possible, he wasn’t about spending crazy amounts of money. The most astonishing thing about Jameson Martin, the politician, was his ability to find ways to pay for things. He had an incredible knack for numbers that I didn’t completely understand.

  I had a series of appointments that kept me busy, and my mind off Jameson. I met with some politically active female celebrities, which was completely nerve-wracking. I had met so many people campaigning with and for Jameson, but I was speechless when I met these women. However, I found their commitment to women’s issues and education inspiring, and eventually relaxed.

  This is going to be your life now, I told myself. No more late night tiramisu and wine binges. No more weekends without bathing. My life was going to be filled with celebrities and foreign dignitaries. I suddenly felt inelegant around these women.

  The next stop was at a hospital and I immediately felt back in my element, meeting with patients and their families. Jameson supported more funding for cancer research. He found it a worthy investment and I was eager to share that information with the people I met at the hospital.

  “Have faith in him,” I told the patients who probably wouldn’t live to see him elected. “He wants to restore the funding that has been cut. Finding a cure is incredibly important to both of us.”

  That visit drained me. As I sat in the back of the sedan that chauffeured me from appointment to appointment, I longed for Jameson. I wanted to curl up in his arms and rest my head on his shoulder. I looked down at the simple watch on my wrist. A few more hours and then we’d be together again. I could make it that long without breaking down.

  Luckily, the people in charge of my physical appearance scheduled a hair appointment for me. No more smiles and speeches.

  I easily relaxed into the salon chair and let the stylist work her magic. Everyone swirled around us in the busy salon, but I hardly noticed because I retreated into the quiet of my own thoughts.

  It was highly probable that I was going to be the next First Lady of the United States of America. That thought should have freaked me out and sent me running for the nearest bakery. But I was strangely excited about this new role. I became a teacher because I wanted to make a difference in the lives of my students. I wanted to open their eyes to the amazing world of literature and the freedom that came with disappearing into the worlds created by so many talented authors. I wanted to help them find their voice, and to express themselves in writing. More often than not, I made little difference in their lives. The percentage of students I personally affected was minimal. As the First Lady, I had the opportunity to really make a lasting impact. A ridiculous amount of resources would be at my disposal, something I didn’t have as a teacher. Not to mention, Jameson had agreed to consider my choices for Secretary of Education.

  The thought of spending the rest of my life with Jameson made my heart race with excitement. I fell probably instantly, before he even approached me with his ludicrous arrangement. Not only was Jameson deliciously handsome with his fine, straight features, jet-black hair and bright blue eyes, but he was the total package. Looks, brain, heart. He had it all and he won more than just my vote when he added his name to the list of candidates. Agreeing to his unorthodox proposal was a no-brainer, even if I did give him an unnecessary amount of grief.

  What made me nervous was not the idea of spending my life with him. That was just as enticing as being First Lady. My unease came from him. He sent mixed signals. He said that I was his often, but he still kept some distance between us. The defiant part of him wanted to prove that he could be the president without a First Lady, which created the walls between us. Having a relationship with me wasn’t his priority, but if he thought it would never happen, that he would be able to keep me at arm’s length forever and never develop feelings, then he was insane.

  The sound of the blow-dryer shutting off snapped me out of my own thoughts and the stylist spun me around until I was faced with my own reflection. She had turned my normally dark amber-colored hair into a vibrant golden shade, which made my green eyes sparkle like little emeralds. I smiled as I thought about Jameson. He would have a very difficult time resisting me tonight.

  I thanked her and proceeded to the front of the salon, where I attempted to pay for the services myself.

  “The campaign has already forwarded payment to us,” the receptionist informed me.

  “Well, I’d rather pay for the services myself. What’s the total?”

  “Three hundred dollars,” she said matter-of-factly.

  “Oh.” I didn’t have three hundred dollars on a credit card and there was a good chance I didn’t even have that amount in my checking account. I used up most of my cash and available credit with Avon when we bought supplies for the school we visited and made care packages for the women at the shelter.

  “I’ll just reimburse the campaign then. Thank you.”

  The receptionist gave me a tight smile and I turned around, covering my eyes with dark sunglasses. I walked out of the salon and into the waiting sedan.

  As soon as the door was shut, I checked my watch. One more hour until I saw Jameson. I made a mental note to discuss my financial situation with him. Even though I was most likely completely broke, I didn’t feel right taking the five million dollars he had offered. But money still made me anxious, especially since I knew the First Lady and president paid for a lot of their personal expenses. I didn’t have any savings. I lived paycheck-to-paycheck. Maybe I could be the most frugal First Lady ever. I wondered how America would feel about the First Lady using coupons.

  I was deposited at the hotel, which was more posh and luxurious than previous hotels. Secret Service escorted me up to the suite, which was drenched in the golden California sun shining through walls of windows. There were no other events on tonight’s agenda because of Jameson’s arrival. Tomorrow, though, would be chaotic, as would the next few weeks. I sat on the suite’s cavernous balcony and flipped through the printed agenda I had been given by my press secretary. Multiple appearances during the day and fundraising dinners at night. I closed the agenda and set it on the table. There was only one thing left to do: take a nap.

  Strong arms enveloped me and warm lips pressed against my skin. I turned in my sleepy state and pressed my face into a very familiar chest. I stretched my body along the length of his and smiled to myself. Jameson was here. My eyes popped open and I was face-to-face with the man who consumed all of my thoughts and invaded my dreams.

  “Jameson,” I breathed out. My hands glided up his chest until they wrapped around his neck. I pulled his face down toward mine and found his lips. My kiss began softly, but my body started to wake up, along with my need for him. Softness turned into greediness. I was greedy for his mouth, for his touch. We kissed and kissed, until we were both breathless.

  “I missed you so much,” I murmured against his skin as I trailed open-mouthed kisses down his neck. Nimble fingers worked deftly on his buttons, spreading the front of his shirt open to reveal his broad, defined chest. My lips traveled there, kissing the wide expanse of flesh that was exposed to me.

  “Georgie,” Jameson hummed as I made my way down to the waistband of his trousers. His hands were lost in my hair, tugging on the salon-perfected tresses.

  I worked on unbuckling and unbuttoning him until I was tugging his pants
open. I snaked my hand down the front of his boxer briefs, reaching for his thickness. He groaned as my hand clasped around his length tightly.

  I was hungry for him. I felt starved of his touch and the only way to satisfy me was to have him inside me, filling me. I pulled Jameson’s cock free and wrapped my lips around him, sucking him deeply until I heard a hiss escape his lips. I held him with one hand while the other hand disappeared under my skirt. I stroked myself while I feasted on him.

  I was dripping wet when I climbed on top of him. My skirt was gathered around my waist, my panties bunched around my ankles. Jameson shoved his trousers down his legs quickly once he realized my intent. I held his cock firmly while I guided myself on top of him, and he held my hips tightly while I sank down. The moment he was fully sheathed inside me, both of our heads snapped back and our hisses of pleasure echoed each other.

  I started a sensuous rhythm, grinding myself slowly back and forth against him. We finally made eye contact and my own greediness was reflected in his heated gaze.

  I braced myself with my hands against his chest, using it as leverage to move over him, to take him deeply inside. His fingers dug sharply into my hips as he held me up.

  I felt insatiable. I wanted his hands all over me. I stopped briefly to remove my top and bra, exposing my breasts. Jameson’s hands skated up my bared chest until his hands covered each mound, grabbing and kneading them.

  I leaned back and used his thighs to keep me steady. Jameson kept one hand on my breasts, alternating between my sensitive nipples while he used his other hand to massage my clit. The friction of his hands on me, combined with my own erotic dance, sent me straight to the edge.

  “I’m so close,” I said breathlessly.

  “Give it to me,” Jameson growled. Both of his strong hands stopped their attention to grip my hips again. He held me in place while he lifted his hips and slammed himself into me over and over. The friction of his body against my already sensitive flesh had me falling right over the precipice of orgasm. Jameson was right there with me and we tumbled together until I collapsed onto his chest.