President Daddy (Dark Daddies 4)

She’s fun, she’s funny, and she’s constantly breaking the rules. I don’t know where they found her, but she’s absolutely fantastic.

I gesture at the bartender for another drink as Iris starts to break down what the results mean for the midterms, using ideas like his “hotness quotient” and his “bangability factor.”

As my drink arrives, I feel my phone start to vibrate. I take it from my clutch and frown at the private number. I silence the vibration, figuring it’s just some telemarketer.

But as soon as it stops, it starts ringing again.

I frown, holding my phone up. “This asshole keeps calling,” I say to Iris. “Sorry. I should get it.”

“Go ahead,” she says. “You’re just going to miss some really erudite analysis of President Clark’s slightly cleft chin.”

“It’s not cleft,” I say, standing.

“Isn’t it?”

I shake my head. “Look closer,” I say, walking away.

“This changes everything!” she calls after me, and I grin to myself as I head back toward the bathrooms.

It’s quieter back here. I pick up the phone this time, the third time this person has called.

“Hello?” I say.

There’s a short pause. I’m about to hang up, annoyed about this telemarketer, but something stops me. “Is this Maggie Thomas?” a voice says. It’s familiar, but I can’t place it.

“Er, yes,” I say. “Who is this?”

“President Clark for you. Please wait one moment.”

There’s a short pause and my heart starts to hammer in my chest as that voice suddenly makes sense. That was Adam’s executive secretary, Susie.

The line clicks. “Maggie?”

It’s Adam’s voice, all right. I’ve heard him speak so many times these last couple of years, all through the campaign season and up until now. It’s a voice that’s etched into my brain.

“Er, hello, sir,” I say.

“Adam,” he corrects gently. “Are you busy?”

“No, I’m not.” My heart’s beating so fast I can barely breathe.

“Where are you right now?”

“Poor David’s,” I say.

He laughs. “That dive? I bet it’s full of lobbyists and frat aides.”

“It sure is,” I say, grinning. “They swarm this place. I think it’s the cheap light beer.”

“Yep, that’s what fuels them, all right.” He chuckles to himself. “Listen, there’s going to be a car outside for you in two minutes. Can you be in it?”

I bite my lip. “Of course. What’s this about?”

He hesitates a second. “I’m looking for opinions. Do you mind?”

“Of course not.”

“Good. I’ll see you soon.” He hangs up and I stare at my phone.

For a second, I think this is some crazy dream. I mean, the President himself sending a car to pick me up? All because he wants my opinion on something? I mean, it’s what every single one of these assholes in this bar dream of.

I bet Iris would scream if I told her, but I know I can’t. I mean, maybe I could, but I won’t. For some reason, I want this to be a little secret.

I head back in the main room and hop back into my seat. Iris looks up at me, sipping her wine.

“Hey, I’m sorry, I have to run,” I say, throwing some money down on the bar. “I’ll see you tomorrow.”

“You’re going to leave me in enemy territory?”

“I’m sorry. It’s important.”

She shrugs. “Suit yourself. I’ll go find some pharma lobbyist to buy my drinks.”

“Good luck,” I say, grinning, before I leave the bar.

I wait outside for maybe two minutes before a black car pulls up. It’s unmistakable here in DC: nondescript, almost boring, but so obviously hiding what it really is. The driver rolls down the window.

“Maggie?” he asks me.

I nod. “That’s me.”

“Get in back.”

I open the back door and slide in. As soon as I shut the door, the driver takes off. He doesn’t say a word to me as we speed back toward the White House.

I don’t have a lot of time to stew in this, but I’m practically shivering when the car parks and the Secret Service guy ushers me inside. He says something into a walkie, refers to me as “Poll Girl,” which isn’t very creative.

Secret Service nicknames are legendary. Getting a lame one is like… the worst ting imaginable.

Well, I guess it could be worse. I could just not have one at all, which most people don’t.

The agent leads me through the halls and stops outside of a conference room. “He’s inside, miss,” he says.

“Thank you.”

He nods, and I hesitate. “Poll Girl is an awful nickname,” I say.

“Code name, miss,” he corrects, and grins. “But you’re right. Not my idea.”

I grin and head into the conference room. I’m still smiling as I spot Adam, sitting alone and looking at some papers in a binder. He shuts it as I walk toward him.

“Oh, Maggie,” he says, smiling. “I’m glad you made it.”

“Of course.” I walk up to him and we shake hands. It’s strangely intimate, and he moves close to me before offering me a chair. I sit down next to him as he stretches his legs out.