The Chosen One

Published by T. B. Markinson
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Copyright © T. B. Markinson, 2016
Cover Design by
Erin Dameron-Hill / EDHGraphics
Edited by
Karin Cox
and
Jeri Walker
Proofread by
Kelly Hashway
e-book formatting by
Guido Henkel
This e-book is copyrighted and licensed for your personal enjoyment only. All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any forms or by any means without the prior permission of the copyright owner. The moral rights of the author have been asserted.
This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events, and incidents are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

Chapter One

All I could think was
va-va-voom
. At ten minutes to eight in the morning on the second Monday in September, I hadn’t expected to meet the girl of my dreams. Yet when she had arrived, I barely registered her presence.

Moments before, I had entered a lecture room at Whitlock University and chosen the third row by the door. I claimed a metal ergonomic chair on wheels, which looked more like a torture device. Each row was slightly higher than the one before it, with long tables configured at an awkward oval shape, conducive for discussion, not comfort.

I studied the room. On the far side, the floor-to-ceiling windows overlooked the Charles River. The room had recently been remodeled and still smelled of fresh paint and new carpet. The ivy-covered red brick and white columns on the exterior maintained the charm of the year it was built, 1743.

Even when dream girl stood next to me and asked whether the seat to the immediate left was taken, I didn’t peek in her direction. I shrugged without glancing up, too busy doodling on the first page of my Massachusetts history notepad and twirling ginger hair around one finger. I shifted focus, scanning
Politico
headlines on my iPad. Politics was a personal obsession that had started as a forced family obligation. I could spout the names of all the presidents and first ladies before I mastered the alphabet. By the age of ten, I was drinking the Kool-Aid.

But when the girl continued to stand next to me, a weird tingling sensation zipped through my body, compelling me to look at the source of the voice.

She smiled nervously, and that was when I noticed her soft blue-gray eyes. Such startling eyes‌—‌more gray than blue.

That was when
va-va-voom
invaded my mind. I’d never been girl-crazy before, although by the age of fourteen I knew I was into chicks. My political ambition had ruled everything out, until this morning. Avoiding scandal was the name of the game. Tick all the right boxes. Attend a top-ten college. Rack up years of dedicated volunteer service, internships, et cetera. It was all for the goal: the top prize in American politics.

Girls were a risk I didn’t need. Until now, except for a small but disastrous blip, I had stayed the course. My urges were satiated by countless lesbian romance novels and films. The safest relationships were those in my head. I could live with that.

Or so I thought.

Never before had I been turned on by someone’s eyes, but hers…
Oh my
.

Prior to this September day, gray had seemed like such a blah color. Insignificant. Now it defined everything. Her gray eyes were inquisitive, alive, sweet, and smoking hot‌—‌not to mention completely unusual for someone with darker skin. The throbbing intensified, and I shifted in my seat to smother the fire down below.

The girl cautiously slid into the vacant seat, and I pretended to stifle a yawn with my palm and peered around the room, all the while checking out the gray-eyed bombshell sitting so close I could feel her body heat. She wore a plain black T-shirt‌—‌not too tight, although it showed plenty‌—‌dark skinny jeans, and black Nikes. Her spiky, short pixie cut was a silky dark chestnut.

Her posture wasn’t slack or upright, suggesting she didn’t want to be noticed. But those bewitching eyes with lush lashes were way too noticeable, hypnotic even.

She resembled someone, but who? I peeped again. Her full lips reminded me of Rosario Dawson‌—‌a girl I’d had a crush on since seeing her sing “Out Tonight” in
Rent
. Rosario had been one of my first imaginary girlfriends when I was fourteen. For a brief moment, I imagined the girl sitting next to me dancing in a strip club, a la Rosario, in a shiny black bra, panties, and long black boots.

The warmth in my panties spread. Would there be a wet spot on the back of my dress if I stood?

I fidgeted in my seat and coughed nervously. Surely no one in the classroom sensed my longing. Crossing my legs, I leaned on the table with both arms. Then I closed my eyes and mentally chanted,
Just don’t think about her
ten times.

Okay, Ainsley, I think the leaky situation is under control
. My eyes popped open, and I couldn’t stop myself from taking another sneak peek at those wonderful eyes.

The unquenchable throbbing returned with a vengeance.

I needed a new game plan, an image that would kill all illicit thoughts.

Think, Ains
.

Grandmother.

The image of my thin, ninety-one-year-old Carmichael matriarch standing on the front porch, leaning on her cane, watching and commanding the family from afar, haunted my every action and thought.

For a moment, I forgot all about Gray Eyes.

Damn, did I just give her a nickname?

A few more students straggled in and took their seats. The room buzzed with tension, like we were waiting for a pep talk from our coach before starting a championship game. However, this wasn’t a game. Not for me, at least. It was a step. Grandmother was grooming me to become the youngest female president of the United States.

No joke.

One minute to go before the first class of my first semester at Whitlock University commenced.

I glanced at Gray Eyes. It seemed to be her first time as well. She had pen and paper ready. Not many of the other students had bothered to open their bags, let alone drag out materials to take notes. A few had powered up their laptops, but I think they were catching up with social media, not prepping for a lecture. The girl in front of me updated her Facebook status to “Starting another semester. Can’t wait to graduate this May.” I stifled a laugh. She had waited three years to take a freshman-level course.
What an amateur
.

My mind wandered back to Gray Eyes, and I wanted her to turn toward me so I could feast on those eyes. From stolen glimpses, I sensed roiling emotions ranging from angry to scared to cocky. Seeing all those feelings crammed into one pair of eyes was simultaneously disconcerting and comforting. I hungered for a better chance to detect the range of her emotions, but immediately started up the “no-relationships” mantra in my head again. As Grandma repeatedly said, “You were put on this earth to be president. Nothing else.” I believed it.

A woman in her late fifties paraded in, set a black leather briefcase next to the lectern, and wrote her name on the whiteboard. She gripped the pen with meaty fingers, as if she wanted to snap it in half. Her name, Dr. Gingas, appeared with the final stroke of the marker, but I already knew it.

Rustling filled the lecture hall as everyone waited for the professor to begin. The portly woman, stuffed into a nondescript black skirt and blazer, didn’t seem to be in a hurry. Instead, Dr. Gingas momentarily locked eyes with each student‌—‌roughly forty-five pupils. Her beady eyes, set behind a long, sharp nose and puffy cheeks, conjured up some nasty similarities in my mind, the most apropos being a comparison to Genghis Khan, the cruel Mongol conqueror of the 1200s. I had a hunch that Dr. Gingas had experienced a difficult childhood and now repeatedly sought revenge on her unsuspecting students.

I sized up Gray Eyes in her dark clothes, took a gander at Dr. Gingas, and then stared down at my outfit. My pink sundress stood out like a flamingo in Alaska, which brought a smile to my face. My mother had always insisted I should never wear pink, stating it didn’t suit the curly red locks I wore swept back in a ponytail most days. Unless I spent an ample amount of time in the morning taming the unruliness, my tight curls sprang in every direction like weeds in a hanging flower basket. I was an early riser, however, I preferred to cram every waking moment with working out, reading political tomes and blogs, studying history, scouring newspapers, absorbing the daily briefing reports I received from Grandmother’s goons, listening to political podcasts, volunteering, and so much more than styling my hair. Wearing pink wasn’t a blatant attempt to throw off my parental shackles, though. It had been my favorite color ever since preschool, when I’d had to forego carrying my pink Beanie Baby sock monkey everywhere. And I didn’t give a damn if the color clashed with my Scottish heritage.

“Good morning, class. From the looks of it, some of your colleagues decided to skip the first day, thinking we’d only go over the syllabus.” The professor smirked, happy to rain on people’s parade.

I glanced around the room, noticing a few empty seats but not enough to warrant the statement. Something told me Dr. Gingas didn’t like being dissed, period.

“That’s a shame, since I like to jump right in. Everyone take out a piece of paper. Don’t forget to write your name in the upper right-hand corner, along with your student ID number. This will count for your attendance today.”

She waited behind the podium while everyone followed her directions. Her fingers glommed the edges, whitening her knuckles. Was she always this uptight, or was she trying to scare the crapola out of me? Either way, it was working.

“Here’s the first of many pop quizzes.”

Several groans came from the audience.

She put a palm up to silence the protests. “You aren’t in high school anymore. I’m not here to hold your hand. Trust me, the real world is a fucking bitch. It’s best you learn that now.” From the glint in her eyes, she took great pleasure in teaching us that lesson. It was something I’d already learned. Before I was born, my eldest brother died from leukemia, and my father was killed in a car accident the day before my birth.

Dr. Gingas ignored the gasps and busied herself by flipping on a projector and firing up a PowerPoint presentation. A list of ten ridiculously simple questions appeared on the whiteboard. “Who is the current governor of Massachusetts? What year did Massachusetts become a state? What was its nickname(s)?” It was hard not to laugh as I scanned them before quickly jotting down the answers.

Several minutes ticked by. Some students stared at the questions and then down at their papers, lost.
Really?
Okay, some of these jokers might be from a different state, but the questions were child’s play. Just keeping up with the local news and blogs would answer half of them. This entry-level class wasn’t mandatory unless a student planned to pursue a career in politics. Everyone knew that. At least, I thought so. I viewed this class as the first step in my presidential quest.

It sounded preposterous, but my family had been involved in politics since before the Revolutionary War.

I could practically hear my grandmother’s monologue about the Carmichael scion in my head:
The Carmichael drive to succeed on American soil started back in the mid-1600s, Ainsley. Our first Scottish ancestor didn’t immigrate to America by choice. He was captured during the Battle of Dunbar in Scotland, which took place on September 3, 1650. English forces under Oliver Cromwell defeated a Scottish army, who supported King Charles II. The Scots were soundly beaten and hundreds died on the battlefield. The prisoners of war were forced to march south, toward England. Hundreds, if not thousands, perished. The survivors arrived at Durham Cathedral, where they were imprisoned. The remaining prisoners were eventually shipped to the colonies in New England, Virginia, and the Caribbean as
convict
laborers.