The President's Wife

by Kathy Myme

  “Mr President, we’re going to have to be quick I’m afraid.” Miss Robertson is one of Mr Andrew’s people from the press office. “The press is expecting you in half an hour. Now, we’ve prepared a number of points for you, if y-”

  I cut her off. “No, I have my own notes.” I am the President of the United States, not some illiterate fool who can’t prepare for a simple press conference. It bothers me sometimes, how much the White House staff try to do every aspect of my job for me.

  I’ve been elected on my own merits and through my own hard work. I am perfectly capable of writing my own talking points.

  Miss Robertson is giving me quite the glare.

  “As I’ve told the Press Office before, I prefer to write my own points,” I say, the glare not fading.

  She looks at me in silence a moment longer. I sigh. She is just doing her job. I don’t really need to get into this again right now.

  “Okay, let’s compare notes then.” Compromise is key, which after having said a million times on the campaign trail, I still half-believe.

  “Well,” Miss Robertson says. “We’ve reviewed the leaks in full and while they are damaging, I think we can mitigate that by…”

  I take the sheet with the notes from her hand and tune out. Someone, unmentionably likely from my inner circle of staff, has leaked some costing documents from an infrastructure project I have planned. Apparently the Treasury is estimating it will cost half a billion more than I had promised.

  That was yesterday afternoon, right in time for the evening news broadcasts.

  I spent most of the night working out how to deal with it. I hadn’t even seen the Treasury documents, so I had to check the numbers and come up with a way to convince the public that they were wrong. Because they are.

  If I wasn’t president, I would probably have met a nice woman for dinner, taken her back to mine for a glass or two of red, and then stripped her and had my way with her.

  No, I can’t afford to be distracted. I shake my head slightly and check the notes.

  The Press Office has come up with similar points to mine: misdirection and denial. Not as good, obviously, but good enough.

  “This looks good, well done,” I say. Diplomacy is important. With someone in the White House leaking information to make me look bad, I don’t need to make any more enemies. “I’ll incorporate this into my notes.”

  Miss Robertson purses her lips, seemingly satisfied. “Don’t forget. We don’t want to admit we have a leaker, so don’t answer any questions about that.”

  I nod.

  “And do you have a good soundbite prepared?” she asks. “We have a few friendly journalists in today who’ll be able to push a clip out through the major channels.”

  “Of course.”

  She looks appeased. “Alright, let’s get you over there and ready for the cameras.”

  I get up from my desk and follow her out of the room.

  Maybe I should have listened to my mother and stayed in law. The money was good… really good. Part of me misses it, being away from the public eye and free to do whatever I want.

  Free to fuck whoever I want. As president, I have to show restraint. I can’t just hit up Tinder and swipe my way into someone’s bed.

  The thought makes me laugh. Imagine, swiping your way across the President of the United States. He takes you out to dinner... romances you in candlelight, has you driven back to the White House by the Secret Service, and takes you upstairs. He guides you into the bedroom, gently at first, but before you know it you’re on your knees begging for his cock. Begging for him to fuck you, use you, take you.

  I cough. What is it with me today? Why can’t I get it all out of my mind?

  No, my thoughts don’t matter. I am in control and being President of the United States, making an actual difference to my country…

  It’s all worth it. But God, I would kill for a fuck.

  Veronica

  “Fetch me a coffee,” Mr Andrews had said. He’d only asked for a coffee.

  How have I gotten so lost? A task so simple shouldn’t be so hard. Failure isn’t a word that I’m used to.

  But… the thing I’ve now discovered about the White House is that the corridors all tend to look the same, blending into a jumbled mess of ornate furnishings and framed old-timey artifacts. And it’s not like Mr Andrews had made time to give me a tour before sending me out.

  It had all been mind-bogglingly quick. One moment I’d been slumped over in Rebecca Hamilton’s office, dreading being shipped off to some local government office in the middle of nowhere. Then Mr Andrews had appeared and offered me everything I could ever hope for.

  The second I’d taken his hand, he’d made me follow him out of the office and told me he had to run off to a Press Conference.

  “I’d take you with me,” he’d said, looking apologetic, “but it’s only ten minutes away and I don’t have time to prep you properly. Not on your first day of the job, anyway.”

  “I learn fast, sir,” I’d vowed. The idea of being part of a real-life press conference… being so close to power is an opportunity most people would kill for.

  “Nevertheless, I don’t want to overwhelm you.” He’d tapped me comfortingly on the arm. “Tell you what, how about you go pick me up a triple mocha hazelnut latte, sweetie?”

  I’d nodded quickly, eager to please my new boss. But how was I to know that this place was an actual maze? I assume there must be a cafeteria somewhere around here. But there are no signs or directions to indicate exactly where it might be.

  My phone buzzes. I covertly smuggle it out from my pocket and glance at it.

  Lacey Smith: hope your first day is going well! wishing you luck xxx

  Lacey Smith is my best friend. She’s the only other person apart from Trevor and my dad that I’ve been able to stay in contact regularly with for the last few years.

  However hard I’ve neglected my social life and focused on my studies, Lacey has always tried harder to be my friend. I’ll always be grateful to her for that.

  I type a message back, despite being so helplessly lost.

  Veronica Waters: It’s been a bit stressful. But I’ll tell you all about it later.

  Somehow I find myself back in reception. A new woman, with hair even blonder and straighter, has replaced Rebecca as if by magic.

  As much as I loathe asking for help, I eventually cave. It makes me feel like an idiot, but at least I’ll be able to get Mr Andrews his drink.

  “The cafeteria? It’s just down the hall,” the receptionist tells me. I can see the judgement in her eyes. She probably has me figured out as some good-for-nothing nobody. Or worse, an intern. “Just down the hall, and then to your left, and then your right, and then take the fourth corridor going upwards and turn again.”

  When I eventually find the cafeteria, it takes a few moments for my eyes to adjust. It looks absolutely alien to the kinds of cafeterias that I came across in high school and college. Gone are the grimy floors covered in half-eaten food and strands of hair. The White House cafeteria is all shiny leather chairs and freshly pressed tablecloths. Why had I ever expected anything different?

  The queue is fairly long, but standing in it is at least a brief reprieve from being lost. At least I know what I’m doing.

  But when I finally have Mr Andrews’ triple quadruple hazle-whatever in my hands, the next problem in my life rears its ugly head. Where am I supposed to go with it?

  The Press Secretary’s office sits in the West Wing. So heading west is probably a good idea, then. But where exactly is that?

  Perhaps I’ll be able to get a better understanding of the building’s layout if I step outside. I head out of the cafeteria, searching for an exit. When one appears, I take it without hesitation.

  The open sky greets me cheerily. I take a deep breath, taking in the fresh air. I’ve barely been a White House intern for two hours and yet it already feels like much longer than that. So much has happened.

  I
look around, trying to work out where I’ve come out of. I’ve never seen the White House from this angle before. The area is fairly secluded, with high stone walls surrounding me and grass growing gently at my feet. Who knows where it might lead?

  Still, I can’t afford to turn back. Mr Andrews’ coffee is growing cold with every moment I hesitate.

  But as I pass further and further through the outdoor passageway, I start to grow worried. It only seems to stretch further and further without any sign of another entrance.

  Maybe I should turn back. Maybe I’ve made a mistake.

  “Damn it,” I whisper under my breath.

  My first day - no, my first real hour - on the job and I’m already making errors. I hope Mr Andrews doesn’t think badly of me.

  I turn on my heel and spin around, sighing as I do so. But instead of marching backwards…

  I find myself with a face full of something.

  “Mmphhh!” I scream, although it comes out more like a wail.

  My legs give out from underneath me and the colors of the world around me spin. I’m half aware of myself toppling to the ground and half-aware of something else. Something unspeakably mortifying.

  I’m not alone.

  Someone is falling with me. Another human body hits mine and within seconds, it’s all over. Our legs are a jumbled mess, clashing and struggling against each other in a fight to stay upright.

  My eyes are closed tight but I brace myself for pain. The moment before I hit the ground seems to draw itself out, stretching out longer and longer…

  And longer…

  And longer?

  I open my eyes in confusion.

  There’s a man on top of me.

  A man who has his hands on my chest. Tightly.

  Without thinking about it, I scream again.

  “Hang on.” The man, it appears, has a voice. “Give me one second-”

  Mercifully he extracts himself from me and rolls over, pushing himself onto his feet. I know I should move too… but it’s all I can do to lie there on the grass, blinking up at him. What just happened?

  He offers me a hand. I stare at it. It’s another few seconds before I realize he’s asking me to take it.

  I consider it for a moment, but then-

  “My coffee!” I gasp, sitting upwards.

  I look around frantically, searching for the cup. When I find it, it isn’t good news. I hope the grass was thirsty because it’s being treated to a nice hot serving of latte.

  I groan.

  “I don’t expect you have much of that coffee left,” the man says, following my gaze. “Now take my hand.”

  It’s an order. But I shake my head disappointedly, pushing myself to my feet. Not only have I failed to get Mr Andrews’ coffee, but I’ve also managed to crash headfirst into another White House employee. It’s one thing to mess up yourself… and it’s another to be a liability towards others.

  “I’m sorry, sir,” I say, pushing myself up with my own two hands. “I didn’t mean to inconvenience you.”

  But then I make a mistake. I look at him.

  Holy shit.

  It’s like looking at the sun. My natural instinct is to avert my eyes and look away for fear of being blinded. I can’t feel anything but disbelief. This man cannot be real. He has the type of face that looks like it belongs on a TV screen and nowhere else.

  His dark hair looks freshly cut and styled, impossibly perfect in a way I am sure doesn’t just happen naturally. High, angled cheekbones cut across a smooth, slightly flushed complexion.

  It’s his stormy grey eyes that pull me in the most. They stare at me, unblinkingly, like his entire world is waiting on my response.

  His lips are pursed tightly. I swallow thickly, hanging my head. He’s angry with me.

  “So, do you make a habit of pushing people to the ground?” he asks me, his voice cool.

  “No, sir. I’m sorry. It’s my first day here and I’m lost,” I try to explain.

  “Just be more careful next time,” he snaps.

  There’s something weirdly familiar about the shape of his face. Something I can’t quite put my finger on.

  I frown, trying to smooth down the wrinkles in my skirt. “It was an accident. There’s no need to be rude.”

  “I don’t have time for accidents,” he grumbles, rolling his eyes at me. “Not today.”

  I don’t want to start a fight. But this whole thing has been an honest mistake. And although it’s my fault too, the guy bumped into me just as hard as I bumped into him. I’m not expecting an apology, but he doesn’t have to be so annoying about it all.

  When I don’t respond, he gives me a stern look and turns around with an entitled flair. Like he owns the place.

  I still don’t know what it is, but even the back of his head makes me think that I know him from somewhere...

  “You’re the one that had your hands on my boobs a minute ago, pervert,” I call out. “You don’t see me being an asshole about it, do you?”

  With his back to me, the man stops. Slowly, he spins around.

  And I gasp.

  The reason he’s so familiar… is because I know who he is. Exactly who he is. In fact, I’d be shocked if anyone on the entire planet didn’t recognize him.

  I’m talking to President Shepard.

  The President Shepard.

  The youngest man ever to become President of the United States. The thirty-year-old genius lawyer-turned-politician who rose to power with the highest percentage of the popular vote in history. The man who ran for president without being attached to either major political party… and somehow came out on top. The #1 entry for Hello Magazine’s ‘Hottest Celebrity Bachelors Ranked’ article that I’d been reading just this morning.

  A man who is changing the world every single day.

  And I just got cranky with him.

  “You’re…” I can’t help stumbling over my words. “Oh my god. You’re him.”

  The man - President goddamn Shepard - raises an eyebrow. “Oh? Who is ‘him’, exactly?”

  When I open my mouth, struggling to remember the English language, nothing comes out.

  “Be careful where you walk,” he says, after a few excruciating moments of me staring at him slack-jawed. “Not everyone is as forgiving as I am.”

  And then just like that… he’s gone. So quickly that I’d doubt any of it really happened if it wasn’t for the ruined mess of a coffee cup sitting on the lawn.

  I just spilt my coffee after crashing into the President of the United States.

  Scratch that. I called the President of the United States an asshole. And a pervert.

  Accident or not, the President of the United States had his hands on my breasts.

  I groan. All I want is to slump down to the floor again and curl up in a ball of embarrassment. This can’t be happening to me. For God’s sake, it’s only my first day on the job. The most stressful thing I should have to be worrying about is remembering the names of everyone I’m introduced to, not accusing the most powerful man in the world of feeling me up.

  Oh God. I’m going to get fired.

  “Miss Waters? Is that you?”

  Filled with dread, I turn around. The last person I want to see right now - other than the freaking President, which is something I never thought I’d say - is tapping me on the shoulder.

  “Mr Andrews,” I exclaim. “Sir! I was, um, just looking for you.” The lie isn’t a particularly good one.

  “Just the girl I was trying to find,” he says. “Come on, the press conference is over. I need you to come with me. I’ll give you the full tour, okay?”

  I blink in confusion. “But what about your coffee?”

  “My…” He looks confused for a moment, then shakes his head. “Oh, never mind that. Did you put it in my office? It’ll be cold by the time we get back, anyway.”

  I don’t know whether to scream in frustration or punch the air wildly in relief. My heart feels as if it’s about to explode o
ut of my chest.

  “Let’s go, then,” Mr Andrews says, nudging me forwards. “I hope my absence wasn’t too confusing for you. But that’s the kind of life we live here. There’s never a spare moment to relax, you’ll see.”

  “I’m starting to understand that, sir,” I say, nodding.

  “You’ll get used to it all eventually I’m sure,” he says, patting my arm. “I’m- huh. Is that a coffee stain on your shirt?”

  I flush a deep red. “I’m sorry, sir. I’ll try to wash it out immediately.”

  “Oh, I’m sure nobody else will notice. Come on.” He gives me an understanding smile that I’m grateful for. “We have a lot to cover. And if you’re lucky…” He winks at me. “You might even get to meet the President.”

  David

  I step into my office. It’s just my luck, someone spilling secrets in the White House and an intern spilling coffee all over me. It’s hard to say which is more annoying.

  I close the door behind me and begin to unbutton my shirt.

  It was obvious she was an intern. I could tell by the way she dressed. Though she is hardly the type of intern I am used to. I mean… calling me a ‘pervert’, really?

  I won’t deny the touch of her breast felt shockingly good in my hand. And yes, I am currently thinking about her breasts, and that glimpse I got of them down her shirt as I offered to help her up. And what I’d like to do to them if I-

  No, those thoughts are not appropriate for the President of the United States to be having about an intern.

  I slide my shirt off. It’s a good thing I have a spare in the office, otherwise I’d have to spend the day in a stained shirt and people would talk. Or perhaps I could have spent it without a shirt, and given them something proper to talk about. Like how the President manages to have a six-pack while working his ludicrous hours.

  And I’ve certainly pulled some ludicrous hours lately. This whole situation, someone leaking to the press, is taking nearly all my time to deal with. I didn’t want it to be like this. The presidency was supposed to be about making a difference for the people of this country, not to mess around in PR.