by Kathy Myme
Yet public relations seemed to be dictating my entire life. How I work, how I live, who I live with…
I frown and collapse onto the couch. It’s going to be a long four years. No relationships, public or otherwise, are allowed.
Sometimes I wish I could just forget about my public image and do whatever I damn well please. Do whoever I damn well please. I slowly begin to smile.
I think I’d start with that intern. It would be so easy to call her into my office just as everyone was starting to leave. Distract her with a few questions about some unimportant paperwork. Pretend to notice the time, offer her a drink and then guide her to the couch. She’d laugh at some obvious joke I’d make, and twirl her hair.
Then I’d gently place my hand on her knee. Slowly, as I stared into her tawny brown eyes, my hand would make its way up until it was resting on her inner thigh.
She’d bite her lip.
I’d inch closer.
And then I’d kiss her. Hard. She would buckle under me, moaning in pleasure as I’d kiss her neck. My hand would slide further up her skirt, while the other made its way inside her blouse.
Then, as I felt her wetness seeping through her panties, I’d pull off her top, and smoothly remove her bra. Those two, glorious breasts would be mine, and I would worship them with my mouth.
She would moan for me, and beg for me, and only when I couldn’t resist any further would I take her. I would fuck her right her on the couch, thrusting hard and deep until-
There’s a knock at the door and it opens.
I practically shoot to my feet. “Hello?”
“Mr President, I - ah.” It’s Mr Andrews. “Sorry, I didn’t mean to interrupt.”
“It’s no bother, I was just changing my shirt after spilling a little…” And then I see her, behind him. The intern that spilt coffee on me. The intern I’ve spent the last five minutes fantasizing about fucking the brains out of. The intern who has me half hard right now. I almost blush. “Coffee. Just a minute.”
I quickly turn, hoping neither notice the slight protrusion in my pants.
Get it together, I think, as I quickly slide on a new shirt and button it up. I need to be professional.
As I button the last button, I take a deep breath.
“Sorry about that,” I say with a smile. “Now, how can I help you?”
Out of that skirt, maybe? No, I can’t get distracted, especially not in front of Mr Andrews. I don’t need it spread around that I am getting all hot and bothered by the new intern.
“Mr President, I’d like you to meet my new intern, Veronica,” Mr Andrews says, gently nudging her forward.
“Nice to meet you,” I say, stretching out my hand for her to shake. “It’s always good to meet the bright, new faces our internship program brings in.”
She pauses for a moment, hesitant. Then she takes my hand. “Nice to meet you Mr President. I look forward to serving under you. Or rather, for your administration.”
My heart skips a beat. Serving under me? If only she knew just how much I want... no, need her under me.
I cough and frown slightly. “So, Mr Andrews, have you got the focus group feedback on that project I wanted?”
He nods. “I can get the report to you once I’m back in my office, but the general gist is that…”
As he continues to talk I struggle to pay attention. Instead, I find my eyes wandering down to the coffee stain on Veronica’s shirt.
Veronica. It’s a good name, a name I could almost imagine moaning in pleasure. Veronica.
Then I realize I’ve been staring at her breasts for the last few seconds. I quickly dart my eyes up and away. Oh god, I hope neither of them noticed. If Mr Andrews has seen me leering at his rather well-endowed intern’s breasts, I imagine he won’t be too keen on bringing her along next time.
And if she’s noticed… I wonder what she would think? I glance back at her tawny brown eyes, but she’s looking down at her feet.
What is she thinking right now? Can she feel the heat between us? Do I even want her to?
Mr Andrews finishes speaking.
“That sounds good, I look forward to the full report,” I say, barely cognizant of what I’m agreeing to. “If that’s all, I have a meeting I need to head to.”
“Have a good afternoon,” Mr Andrews says. “Come on Veronica, the tour’s not over yet.”
“Afternoon.”
I watch Veronica walk towards the door. Her heels are doing wonders for her ass, which is round and firm under the tight skirt she’s wearing.
I close my eyes, unable to watch any more.
“And Veronica,” I say, wanting one last look. She turns and looks me dead in the eye as I continue. “Welcome to the White House.”
I stare, petrified in lustful awe, as her eyes flicker. “Thank you, sir. It was nice to formally meet you.”
She leaves and I let out a breath. I didn’t even realize I was holding it, I’m that distracted. Veronica. Oh, I could tell by that look, there’s something there. If it wasn’t for this job, this responsibility, she would be mine. And somehow, whether she knows it or not, she wants the same.
Veronica
If you’d asked me before yesterday, I might have struggled to pinpoint the exact most embarrassing day of my life.
Well, maybe I would have said the time in third grade when Michael McCormac threw my clothes in the pool after swim practice. Or the time I’d ended up with a bowl haircut after trying to ‘neaten up my hair’ after school. Or the first time Trevor and I had ever slept together when I’d forgotten to shave my legs.
But I can wipe all of those clean off the slate. We have a new all-time-high record. From now on, I know with absolute surety that the most embarrassing day of my life is the day that I yelled at the President of the United States and told him he’s a pervert. And then proceeded to walk in on him without a shirt...
Oh my god.
How exactly are you meant to get dressed for your second day at the office when you spent most of your first one writhing around in shame and disappointing the Commander-in-Chief? It’s not like you can Google that one or read about it in some coffee table magazine.
In the end, I really do end up throwing out most of my professional wardrobe. Even without all of the ‘intern’ comments, the idea of getting rid of all evidence suggesting Veronica-from-yesterday exists is incredibly appealing. As soon as Mr Andrews let me go home at six-thirty - it had been a painfully long day - I headed to the mall and had myself fitted for three new White House appropriate skirt suits.
My bank account certainly hadn’t appreciated my efforts. Not on an intern’s wage. I’m barely covering rent as it is. But getting pinched and pulled in so many different directions nicely distracted me from the events of the day, so that alone might have been worth it.
It’s 6:45AM. I have to take two buses to get to the White House on time, so I should be moving.
Beep beep. Beep beep.
I glance down at my iPhone, fearing the worst. It has to be Mr Andrews, my brain says. Maybe the President has told him what you’ve done - what happened yesterday morning - and he’s calling to ensure you don’t come in this morning.
But when my brain finally processes the text on the screen, my colossal, all-consuming fear changes into a different kind of nervousness.
Trevor Randall MOBILE calling.
I bite down on my lip. Trevor. He’s a whole different problem and I don’t want to be late for my bus. But guilt paws at me with every second my phone continues to beep at me.
“Hello?” I answer tentatively, pressing my iPhone to my ear. “Trevor?”
“Veronica,” he says. He sounds wide awake, but then Trevor has always been an early riser. He works for my dad’s construction company which means he usually gets up at crazy o’clock. “I have two tickets for the big game this weekend. Are you coming home?”
There it is. This time he didn’t even bother to engage in pleasantries before asking the question. Are y
ou coming home? I’m fairly sure that phrase haunts my dreams these days.
“Trevor,” I protest, “I only just got here-”
“Are you in or out?” His voice is hard.
“I’ve been in DC three days,” I say. “I haven’t even unpacked.” It’s true. I look around my apartment, taking in the piles and piles of cardboard moving boxes. “You need to give me time to get settled in.”
“I bought tickets, Veronica.” Trevor doesn’t sound happy. “I’m your boyfriend. If you won’t even spend time with me, then what even are we?”
I frown. That’s not fair. “When we agreed that I’d move to DC, we said we’d give it time. That we’d try it out.”
“When you agreed, Veronica. I didn’t agree to anything.”
“I have a job here, Trevor,” I press. “You’re welcome to join me-”
“Just forget it.” His voice is breezy, airy, but I know him well enough to figure out that he feels anything but. “How did your first day yesterday go?”
Now that’s a loaded question if I ever heard one. How am I supposed to go about answering it? ‘Not bad, I just spilt coffee over myself and… you know, the leader of the free world’. ‘Okay, I insulted President Shepard and made him really mad at me’.
Both options are still better than ‘the President and I tripped over and he ended up with his hands on my chest’.
Telling Trevor about that is sure to end badly. He’d probably insist that I quit my internship and come home right there and then. And as supportive as my dad is, if Trevor told him that the President’s hands had come anywhere near me… my dad might begin to push for the same thing.
“It went okay,” I lie. There’s no need to add more fuel to the fire. If I suggest I’m in any way unhappy here, that’ll only give Trevor more ammunition. “Busy. I got a tour of the White House.”
“Did you meet ‘President Shepard’?” Trevor snickers. He says the President’s name mockingly.
One thing about Trevor and I is that we have very different political views. Different as in… worlds apart different. No matter who the President is, Trevor is guaranteed to hate the guy. We’ve been together for two years now and he hated the last President just as much as Shepard. Something about politics just really sets him off.
“Actually, yes,” I say, feeling strangely defensive. My interaction with the President yesterday… wasn’t exactly a positive one. But I work for the man’s administration. Something about Trevor attacking him now feels strangely personal.
“Really?” Trevor snorts. “Wow. He’s just been elected and he has nothing better to do than hang around with interns. What a guy.”
“Trevor, I work for him,” I protest. “Be nice.”
“To that guy?” Trevor says. “No fucking way, babe. I’ll be nice when he stops being such a trust fund dickhead who’s so insufferably full of himself just because he isn’t as ugly as most other politicians.”
“Actually, he came from a working-class family and paid for himself to go to law schoo-”
“Veronica…” I can hear the malice in Trevor’s voice. “What is it? Do you think he’s hot?”
“What?” I gasp, confused. Where is this coming from?
“You want to fuck the President?”
“No!” I almost throw my iPhone across the room. “Don’t be… don’t be crude, Trev.”
Do I think the President is hot? Well… not that it’s anyone’s business, but I suppose that in an objective, non-personal, way… it’s pretty clear that President David Shepard is an attractive man. He ticks all the boxes when it comes to being tall, dark, and handsome.
It’s not as if I’ve ever thought much about it. It’s just a fact of life. When President Shepard was elected, the tabloids ran tons of headlines for days about how attractive he is. How single and attractive is. A lot of the more conservative papers don’t like the fact that he’s unmarried, but I think enough women (enough voting women) fantasize about him to spin it to his favor.
“That isn’t an answer,” Trevor says. There’s a warning in his voice.
“I’m not doing this with you, Trevor.” I sigh. I can’t deal with this right now. “I have to go to work.”
“Veronica, I’m trying to have a conversation with you-”
“Goodbye, Trevor.”
I hang up the phone and stare wordlessly at the now-silent device. Call ended.
Trevor is probably pissed with me right now. But I have to get to work.
Veronica
By some miracle of clear traffic and perfect timing, I’m at my desk by 7:30AM and ready for the day. 30 minutes early. Just the way I like it.
“We have a lot to get through today, Veronica,” Mr Andrews says as he arrives. “Are you familiar with the world of public relations?”
“No, sir,” I say, honestly. “My internship was supposed to be more to do with administration.”
“I wouldn’t worry about that,” he assures me. “Stick with me and I’ll keep you right.”
Several other people work in the Press Office, but all of them are a lot older than me and very serious looking. Not one of them raised their heads to greet me as I came in. The only person to say a word to me is Mr Andrews, but that’s okay. I’m used to fighting to get what I want.
Mr Andrews is patient as he walks me through how things are done. The first task he puts me to - well, first after the disastrous coffee incident - comes in the form of social media analysis. He sets me in charge of looking over Twitter and Facebook and all the other time-wasting apps out there, trying to figure out what people are saying about the Shepard administration.
It’s a kind of work that I’ve never really done before. But after an hour or two of getting my head around things, it starts to come a lot more easily.
I’m happy to find that most people out there are still feeling positive about the President and his work so far. The #ShepardForPres movement had been big - really, really big - but I’d read a lot of articles in the press that claimed support for him was dying down. Learning that it isn’t really true is a huge relief.
“Good work, Miss Waters,” Mr Andrews says to me when he leans over my shoulder to read what I’ve come up with. “You’ve really got the hang of this. I’m impressed.”
Pride warms my stomach. “Thank you, sir.”
“You’re quite welcome,” he replies. “I think you’ll really fit in around here.”
The rest of the silent, standoffish Press Office might not agree… but I can’t help but feel happy at Mr Andrews’ praise.
There’s only one snag. I spot the only problem with my job fairly early on. My desk is in a pretty good location, looking out over a patch of outdoors. Ordinarily, I’d have killed for such a nice seat.
But it just so happens that my seat gives me a prime view of the President as he goes about his daily walks.
I try to concentrate. I really do. But when the President of the United States is only meters away from you, it’s shockingly hard to think about collecting data. There’s just something about him that commands attention, whether he’s asking for it or not. Even from afar, every molecule of my body wants to sit up a little bit straighter as he walks by. That’s just the kind of man the President is.
So I look. Now and then. Occasionally.
Far more often than I should.
It’s sometime in the afternoon when I look up once more, all subtlety and carefulness. But this time I don’t get away with it so easily. Because the President is looking back.
Immediately my whole body stops. I am a deer, frozen as I am stared down by prey.
Being stared at by the President of the United States would freak anyone out, I’m sure. But it’s not just that. I feel something else too.
Desire.
God. The gossip mags were right. Meeting eyes with the President makes me feel terrified, like I’m some sheltered girl who’s never seen a man before. And in a lot of ways… maybe I haven’t. Not a man like the President, anyway.
Just as soon as I acknowledge what I’m feeling - the heightened attention, the raised pulse, the curling in the bottom of my stomach - I hate myself for it. I’m being shockingly unprofessional. That man isn’t only my boss’ boss, which would be bad enough… He’s also my President.
It’s obscene for me to even think about this type of thing.
I break eye contact violently, forcing myself to look down at my screen and praying to every deity out there for him to leave. One of them was clearly the right god to pray to, because when I sneak a peek again there's no more President outside.
I try to throw myself further into my work for the rest of the afternoon. To not think about what I’ve just acknowledged. And for a time, it works.
Until the chaos starts.
It starts around 3:17PM, to be precise. I see it roughly two minutes after the initial tweet is published. The one that links to the article.
But I don’t move until at least five minutes after that. Because what I see on my screen can’t be real. It shouldn’t be real. My brain has to work overtime to even make out the words and string the sentence together properly.
@NewsNewsUSANow at 3:17:
You’ve heard the rumors about dreamboat President David Shepard. Now READ the TRUTH here…
There’s also a link in the tweet that leads to NewsNewsUSA’s homepage. And on that homepage, there’s an article. An article that has a picture front and centre underneath its headline.
Oh no, I sigh. I’ve only really been working this job, what, a handful of hours? And still I know what trouble looks like when I see it.
I scroll down, trying to get a better look at the picture.
There are two people in the frame. To my horror, it’s crystal clear who the man is. I’ve been stealing glimpses of his face for half the day.
President Shepard looks as handsome as ever. It’s a side profile of him, revealing so much of his hard cut jawline and tilted neck that it seriously should be illegal.