“Amanda?”

I heard the words, as if from a distance.

“Amanda?”

Finally, I jostled my head toward my friend beside me. Rachel held her wine up, and it glittered in the light. “I wanted to present a toast. To your career. And to your commitment to this—this political field.”

We clinked glasses, and then I set my finger up, pointing at the light above. “And to you. For knowing when to get out of a bad situation—“

“You mean my own political career?” Rachel asked, laughing. Her laugh was always so good-natured, hearty.

I nodded. “For knowing yourself well enough to work for what you want.”

We drank then. And we giggled into the night, allowing ourselves to ease into the morning.

The next morning, I sat at my desk in the West Wing and swept my eyes over the campaign team. Everyone seemed so rooted in the belief for this president. It was inspiring to see how everyone had firmed their work efforts in the hours since the previous campaign meeting. I nodded toward Jason, across the room. My eyes burned toward him, and he gave me an evil grin. The fear of it made my shiver.

I knew that I had a great deal to think about—that I hadn’t allowed my mind to consider all my options the previous evening. Better, I’d thought, to cling to the fun moments I had left with my friend. Surely, the seasons would change. Surely, I wouldn’t see her as often, very soon. It seemed that everything was coming to a head. We would resolve our friendship with the occasional dinner and drink; we’d find lackluster things to talk about. But we’d drift apart. Our lives were too different now.

I stood from my desk and tapped out of the West Wing, winding my way down the staircase. I nodded toward a Secret Service agent, one that held eagle eyes toward me. “Where do you think you’re going?” he asked me.

I nodded toward him primly. “For a walk in the White House grounds,” I murmured back, blinking my long eyelashes toward him.

“It’s quite chilly today. Below 50, I’d say,” the Secret Service agent answered back.

I shrugged, showing him the black coat I’d draped over my arm. I brought it around my shoulders like a cape, and I murmured toward him. “I won’t be gone long.”

At this time of the year, the Rose Garden had been shrouded up, brought to face the dull and driven winters of the Washington D.C. area. However, I felt a sense of solace out there by myself. In the summer, it was swarming with tourists, with guests of the White House. But then, it was only me. My thoughts swirled around me, staying low beneath the shaded, cloudy skies.

There, in the rose garden, I considered a future in which Xavier and I could s

tay together. I hadn’t given myself over to such fantasies, not yet. Falling into them felt oddly like falling asleep. So satisfying.

In this daydream, Xavier and I stayed together—continually sneaking around, keeping our love and our affair a secret from the greater population and from his executive staff. We would meet in our small, hidden rooms throughout the White House, and we’d allow work to fall from us with our clothes. We’d bring our bodies together, and we’d fuck until the sun came up. Only then, would we scurry back into our natural, political personas. Only then, would we face the music.

But what would happen? Would we even make it that long—all the way to the end of his term, a whole year from now? And if he won the election? What would happen, then? Would I have to find a new job? I remembered what Xavier had told me: that there was always a position for me at the White House. But if his wife knew about our affair—surely she’d want me out of the White House, for fear that I would somehow give myself away and make her life a living hell?

If I ultimately had to leave the White House, as a result of my love for Xavier, where would I go? Certainly, I’d want to receive the position on my merits alone. I wouldn’t want any sort of handout from Xavier. Sure, he’d still be the president. He’d have all the power. But I’d never gotten anywhere on simple handouts. Although, sometimes, I was inclined to believe that men gave me these higher-up positions simply because of the size of my ass or because of my breasts. I hated that feeling.

I stood at the edge of the Rose Garden, looking up at the illustrious White House before me. I stomped my foot in the ground lightly, knowing that many things about the horizon had altered with the comprehension that Camille knew about our affair. I knew that I had to reevaluate my entire career—that I had to stay out of her way. She wouldn’t destroy me, unless I made myself apparent. In many ways, I had to disappear.

This ultimately brought me to the question. Should I simply fade away from this relationship? Was my love for Xavier actually equal to the love and hard work I’d churned into my position in the political sphere? My heart ached with the question, and I sat on a bench, feeling the October wind whip against me.

Okay, okay. I sighed into my fingers. If Xavier and I did stay together, all throughout both this term, and the next one, what would happen, then? I’d heard of presidents all but retiring, folding away from the public sector. But that wouldn’t be for me. I’d be at the height of my churning career; 34 years old, at that time, and rearing toward Congress, toward a greater position, perhaps. Would I be satisfied getting married to the president at that time? Would it look “off” if he immediately divorced his wife after the four years were finished and married me? Would there be questions about my “right” to the White House, to the political world?

I knew that I needed to address many of these questions to Xavier. I knew that, beyond anything else, Xavier had a very valid comprehension of the political sphere. He had made all the right moves, climbed the correct ladders, and made friends with the right people. As a result, he was nearing the entrance to his second rally as president.

I tried to reach the root of my internal problem, and I supposed it was simply that I didn’t want to tell the public a false story of myself. I didn’t want to label myself as a money-seeker, as a woman continually looking for power and using her body to get it. God, I had slaved. I had marched the march, walked the walk. I stabbed my heel into the dead grass in the Rose Garden lawn, and I knew, in my heart, that the only person I needed to discuss these many fears with lurked, somewhere up there in an Oval Office. I wouldn’t allow him to wrap his arms around me; I wouldn’t allow him to place his lips over mine. Instead, we’d become two grown, confident, and ever-intelligent adults, discussing next steps as one discusses the peace in the Middle East.

I sniffed and righted myself from the bench beneath me, winding myself back to the gleaming White House. I felt each of my heels dipping into the mud beneath. I felt my back arch with a spark of confidence. I knew, in so many ways, that I would find my way to the top without the guiding hands of my lover. I knew I had it in me.

Chapter Four

I neared the steps from the Rose Garden, up toward the White House. I placed my delicate fingers on the stair railing. Suddenly, a figure darted from behind the dark shadow of a tree. I brought my hand to my heart, clutching at my chest. I nearly shouted. In an instant, I found myself being lurched back, toward the trees. A hand was held over my mouth and nose, blocking any air from entering my lungs. I cried out, wasting that stale oxygen. In that moment, I felt sure that I was going to die.

“Just shut up for a moment,” the voice said gruffly. I felt a shoe fall from my right foot, allowing a naked toe to be dragged back, toward the trees. I felt a pine needle pierce my skin.

Finally, the figure pushed me against a tree. I saw him, full figure before me, his right hand still pressed over my mouth so that I couldn’t scream. It was Jason. His eyes looked crazed. I realized that the previous day’s meeting had ultimately pushed him too far, that his frustration was making his brain burn. He was breathing heavily. “Well, well, well. What do we have here?” he whispered in my ear. He placed his foot on my naked foot. I felt my bones creak beneath his weight. Even as he attacked me, held me beneath the tree, he still looked like a schlub. His shirt was untucked; his eyebrows needed serious maintenance. So strange, to feel so fearful of the ugliest person you’ve ever seen.

Tags: Claire Adams Romance
Source: readsnovelonline.net