Best Friend's Ex Box Set

I reached my apartment and removed my keys from my coat. I entered the apartment—it had been an upgrade for me a few years back, this one with much more square feet. I flung my stuff on a chair and began unbuttoning my shirt one button at a time, gazing around the room. The wine bottle I’d opened the previous evening was still resting on the counter. I reached my hand up to grab a wine glass from the top shelf, feeling my bra tighten against my breasts with the stretch. I poured the glass of wine, remembering all the long-lost nights of college and post-college, drinking my red wine by myself in the shadows of my living room.

I took in the first sip of wine slowly, easily, tasting every morsel of it. I walked toward the chair by the window, still removing each button from my shirt. I tapped the wine on the table and removed the rest of my clothes, standing in only my tights and my gray bra, feeling the warm air emanating from the window. I felt relaxed for the first time all day.

I peeled off my tights and then collapsed into the chair, continuing to drink the wine slowly, tapping the remote control to my side to create tip-tapping jazz music in the background. I allowed my mind to ease a bit as I sat there, lost in thought. I’d been so consumed with thoughts of the interview all week, I hadn’t had time to do anything else.

Of course, this wasn’t strange. The past year and a half, I hadn’t thought about much beyond work. I’d been consumed with it, truly. Working beneath George Carlman was a continuous struggle. He wanted the best of everything, of course, and I gave it to him. I stayed up countless nights making phone calls, assuring his re-election—everything. He trusted me to do good by him, and goddammit, I did. But at what cost? I already felt like I was aging far too quickly. And in many ways, I wanted to be old: to have those wrinkles that George Carlman dripped onto your face, making you look wise beyond your years. I knew that those wrinkles made you formidable in office.

Of course, because of this continuous struggle, I’d lost my interest in men, in relationships. I’d had a boyfriend in college, certainly, but he’d been a passing fad. He’d moved to New York to make millions on Wall Street—and I didn’t miss him. I knew we were both driven by our goals. I respected this.

There’d been that man in Congress, as well, during the past election. But I’d lost interest in him during the course of the campaign. He’d been sexy, in this elusive, older way; a rea

l silver fox. His power had certainly captured my attention—not that I slept with him for the power. But I’d lost interest in him, just as I’d lost interest in all the others. During the campaign process, my eyes had flitted upon something else—something incredible. Something I knew was special.

I couldn’t linger on those thoughts. I couldn’t linger on the fact that every time I met with the president, or even stood in his presence, my heart started beating rapidly—my mind started racing. I never felt like myself around him. I felt like a blushing girl—like the kind of girl I rejected so readily in the rest of the world. His passionate eyes and those firm, handsome eyebrows, that curled head of hair, the way he looked in suits. God. I moved this way, then that in the chair, feeling the nakedness of my body, exposed to the rest of the room.

I remembered the afternoon’s interview, the way he’d looked at me with such curiosity. Layered in clothing, I’d felt nearly naked in his presence. However, I’d interrupted that romantic moment.

I’d turned his attention toward his wife.

I knew that he and his wife, Camille, weren’t happy people—not together. They’d been married right after college. Many in his staff—including myself—speculated that the marriage had been a sort of political decision. Camille’s father was an important man in the south, and Xavier had needed backing. They did look beautiful together on camera. All throughout the past 20 years—the entire length of my political comprehension—I’d seen them photographed from place to place, as Xavier moved up the political ladder. I remembered thinking that they were the most beautiful people in the world. And they knew, in many ways, that they fit the bill of what the American people wanted.

But the reports of fights at home, whispered throughout the White House and throughout the Hill made many in his staff nervous that a divorce or a scandal would spark. For this reason, Xavier was continually watched. He wasn’t to have an affair; the Secret Service men would be sure of it.

Knowing that there were problems at home—or at least, rumor of it—made me feel safe to engage in my fantasies. Letting my mind wander, I could tell myself that he’d be much happier with me. We’d be happy together, the two of us. I imagined standing before him, naked; I imagined him wrapping his arms around me, leaning toward me—the dark eyebrows furrowed…

My daydream was interrupted by a sudden vibration in my bag that was sitting on the counter. I jumped from my chair and rushed toward it, leafing through the papers for my phone. George sometimes called me that late in the evening with a job emergency. I immediately prepared myself to stay up all night.

But the number was unrecognizable. The area code was D.C., and I tapped the screen, ready to answer. I breathed into it casually. “Hello? Amanda Martin speaking.”

“Amanda. Yes. Miss Martin, could I please invite you back to the White House?”

My heart dropped into my stomach. It was Xavier. It was the President of the United States.

I swallowed. “Absolutely, sir. I can be there first thing tomorrow morning.” I couldn’t focus; my tongue felt so heavy in my mouth. Did this mean I got the job?

“No, no. I don’t think you understand. I need you to arrive as soon as possible. I’m sending a car now.” Suddenly, I heard him call into the distance. “Dimitri! Take a car. Go pick up Miss Martin!”

I heard emptiness after that. He’d hung up on me. Realizing I had less than 15 minutes, I gasped, grabbing my skirt and shirt from the floor and flinging them over my body once more. I needed to hurry. I flounced up my brunette hair and spun around, already feeling the vibrations, the excitement of the following few hours. I didn’t bother with the tights—I knew I didn’t have the time.

I’d gotten the job, I knew then. I was literally on top of the world.

Chapter Four

I rushed out onto the sidewalk and found Dimitri already outside, waiting for me in a simple, elegant, black vehicle. I opened the rear door and swept in. “Long time, no see!” I called up to him, tapping the back of his seat in hello.

“I told you, Amanda,” he said with a grin, peering at me through the rear window. “You have to start trusting your old friend, Dimitri.”

“All right, all right,” I said sarcastically, laughing. I gazed out the window at the incredible city—my adopted home. In the darkness, it looked so beautiful. The moon shone on some of the statues we passed as we swept along. “What’s going on up there?” I asked Dimitri, trying to orient myself into the chaos.

“I think you’ll see. It’s—it’s madness,” Dimitri said, laughing.

Dimitri parked the car in the exterior garage, and he walked me into the White House, giving me a brief pat-down in the hallway. “Sorry. Every goddamned time, I swear,” he said.

I didn’t have time to banter. My head was elsewhere. I tapped away from him after he swatted my ass once, and he didn’t say anything, already so aware that I was in the zone, ready to take over the show.

I walked into the West Wing, already feeling the chaos brewing before me. Several desks were positioned in the great room, side by side. People in various states of panic were calling into their phones, even at 9 o’ clock at night, spitting words with anger. I blinked my eyes wildly, wondering where to turn. Had I gotten the job? Or was this some sort of mad ruse?

Suddenly, a man approached me. He was wearing this suit that seemed nearly lived-in. He was a bit overweight and bald. His mouth was nearly barking at me as he spoke. “Thank God you’re here. Finally, he made a decision on who to lead us.” He brought his hand forward and grabbed mine, shaking it. “I’m Jason Ritz. Your second-in-command.”