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CHAPTER NINE
Thomas
Two months later …
Shit has been pretty terrible with things blowing up left and right. Gun violence at high schools. ISIS going fucking crazy. The Russians tampering with American social media, and god forbid, American politics. Sometimes, the truth will set you free, but what was the truth here? I had no idea what to believe, even with the best intel and advisers on hand.
“Are you ready, Sir?” asked my assistant Daniel, popping his head into the Oval Office. “Car’s waiting outside.”
The truth was that I was about ready to quit this job. Can I do that? Is it possible to step down without giving a reason? I couldn’t exactly say to the American people, “This job sucks shit and is pretty frickin’ thankless to boot.” Because everyone thinks that being President is my life’s dream, but as I admitted to Susie, that wasn’t the truth.
Which brings me to a larger issue. That night with Pearl should have ended immediately, and it did in the physical sense. I haven’t seen or heard from her in the last two months, and yet I think of the woman day in and day out. How she pulled confidences from me, things that I would never say to my friends or family, much less in public. How there was a weird parallel between our situations, her ending up at the Pink Flamingo and me in the White House. It’s sounds ludicrous, but it’s true. Shit just snowballed, and we both ended up in unexpected places, regretting our decision somewhat.
But life is what it is. I haven’t had time to contact her again, what with my busy schedule. And now it was time for the White House Correspondents’ Dinner, an annual ritual where the President cracks jokes and lets down his guard in front of a bunch of reporters. Yeah, right. Those folks are snakes and I didn’t exactly want to play along. But then again, sometimes there’s no way to say no, even for me, Mr. Commander-in-Chief.
So in a bad mood, I got into the limo that whisked me down the Beltway to the Marriott. Good god. Another rubber chicken dinner with people in finery, topped off with stilted conversation and old ladies in glittery gowns. Exactly where I didn’t want to be. What I really wanted was to spend time with Susie once more, the curvy girl naked and panting in my lap before kissing her until she ran out of breath.
But real life is stark, and I was on my way to make a speech about who knows what before people that I didn’t really like. FML. Rifling slowly through the notecards, I looked at the speech Daniel had written. Something about collaboration, cohesiveness, and co-something or other. All the buzzwords, right here and ready for the teleprompter. Great.
Leaning back, I looked out the window. What was Susie doing right now? It was Thursday, so she’d probably be going on stage soon. Ha. I didn’t mind, to be honest. I love a woman who owns her curves, and wasn’t going to hold dancing against a female so beautiful and enticing. What I’d give to be at the Flaming right now, waiting for the female to appear. Shit. It only made my mood worse, realizing that I was pretty much attending the opposite of the Tasty Thursday at the Flamingo. Fuck my life again.
And finally, we rolled up to the venue.
“Sir,” said the Secret Service guy in the seat beside me. Honestly, I’m still not used to them, and will never be used to the security detail, what with their unsmiling faces and unwavering focus on threat. Lighten up, dudes. But I guess that’s their job.
And with a smile and a wave, I got out of the car, all business. Bulbs popped, the flash blinding me for a moment. But like a veteran, I moved on forwards, striding confidently into the building. An old lady rushed over, wearing a ball gown studded with millions of shiny beads. Oh, it was Helen Monroe, who always asks the first question during press conferences.
“Hello Helen!” was my jovial greeting. The old woman leered in a malicious manner.
“Nice to see you, Mr. President,” she cackled. “Hope you brought your sense of humor.”
Oh god. It was gonna be bad tonight because obviously, no one was in the mood for civility. Fuck my life times three. Plus, there was the usual crowd of hangers-on and a scrum to push my way through.
“Mr. President!” the dude representing Al Jazeera called. “What’s your rationale behind moving the embassy?”
He was shut down by Daniel.
“We won’t be discussing that,” interrupted my aide. “The President is here to enjoy himself tonight, and we hope you will too,” he said with a pointed look.
Finally, I was escorted to the first table, right in front of the stage. A practiced smile wreathed my lips, and I hoped to god that there was something edible. But unfortunately, Daniel leaned forwards once more.
“Sir,” he murmured. “Remember, there are cameras trained on us at all times, so no eating. We’ll get you a real meal once we’re back at the White House.”
I nodded in understanding, smile still firmly in place. Fuck my life times four. I was set to starve on top of all this.
And finally, the dinner started. There were the speeches. The introductions. Even my talk went off without a hitch, with people laughing during all the pre-assigned pauses. So when it was time to leave, I was plenty relieved. Nothing had gone wrong, and I couldn’t wait to be alone in my office once more.
But suddenly, there was a commotion by the door.
“Thomas, Thomas!” came a woman’s cry. I started for a moment. No, couldn’t be. She was up in NYC, leading a completely different life. Our paths were never supposed to intersect. So what was she doing here?
But I had to know because images of the curvy brunette have been ruling my mind ever since our hot encounter two months ago. So I shook off the Secret Service, turning to where the woman stood.
And it was her. Susie Hemphill aka Pearl Evanesence. Out of place, yes, because she wore a plain sweater and skirt, nothing like the glitzy ballgowns that graced the other attendees. Yet she was a thousand times more beautiful with those big brown eyes and curvy figure.
“Hey,” I said in a low voice. “Is everything okay?”
There was a crowd forming around us, and Daniel went to step between us.
