Falling for My Dirty Uncle

But her handing it back to me.

I don’t know. It’s got a feeling of finality to it.

“It was your stupid dick that put you in this mess,” Ashley says, her words hitting me like venom, and her eyes cold as ice. I've never felt her as cold and distant as she is right now, not even when we first met. “Maybe your dick can think of a way out.”

She leaves, slamming the door shut behind her, and in that moment I realize that I've hurt her. This knowledge makes my mind reel.

I want to go and run after her—to wrap her in my arms and tell her that I'm so fucking sorry, more sorry than she'll ever know. I want to tell her that it all came out wrong, and that I was just pissed off at the whole situation and what's at stake, and that I'm an asshole for jumbling my words and allowing them to fall out of my mouth in such a tangled mess.

Of course, I don't do any of those things.

I've really fucked things up, and I know that.

I know that this is serious as a heart attack.

But as much as I want to run after Ashley, I know I have to handle this situation just right, with a degree of delicacy. I need to use a deft hand, or I'll not only lose Ashley, but the White House as well.

I can't let that happen. I won't let that happen.

There's a whole lot at stake here.

In fact, everything is on the fucking line. And I can't rely on anyone else to solve this for me. I have to solve it for myself. This is just another hurdle, in a series of never-ending hurdles that life is going to throw my way, and I've got to overcome them.

Haven't I overcome gigantic roadblocks in my life before? I need to think of this as just another one. I need to keep a cool, calm head.

And I'm Austin fucking Bain. I refuse to be a footnote in history.

Remember when I told you that I'm a competitive person? Yeah, well, competitive is an understatement. I don't even know the meaning of the word 'lose.'

And Ashley's words haunt me. She said to check the Oval Office for bugs, and it makes sense, now that I think about it.

I think she's right. Why wouldn't Bob Walker try to bug this place?

I just wish I had thought of that sooner.

Immediately, I call Tracy into my office, and as she steps in, I close the door behind her. "Listen, have the Oval Office swept for bugs," I instruct her, "and quickly."

"I'm assuming you don't mean the kind that crawl on multiple legs. You think someone's been spying on us?" she asks, her eyes wide.

"Not someone," I say, "Bob fucking Walker."

I can see the realization of it dawn on her face. There's a moment of recognition, and she seems to agree. The more I think about it, the more sense it continues to make.

"I'm on it," she says.

"And one more thing," I continue. "Arrange a televised press conference."

When?" she asks.

"For tomorrow night, I can't waste any time."

"What are you going to say?" Tracy asks.

That's a damn good question. I'm wracking my brain.

"Truthfully, I don't know," I reply. "But I'll figure that out."

Tracy nods, making notes in an app on her cell phone.