The World: According to Rachael (27 page)

Graham sees me first and leans back on his barstool, removing his elbows from the table. The others seem to quickly catch his cue and relax back in their chairs.

“Sorry that took me so long. There was a line to wash my hands,” I lie easily as I take my seat.

Graham’s hand returns to my leg, and uses his index finger to draw small circles, gradually making their way towards my inner thigh. If this is a distraction tactic from anything that I might have seen, well, it’s working.

He leans over and kisses my cheek. Then, he announces to the table, “Rachael thinks boxing is superior to MMA.”

This launches a passionate discussion, and four beers later, it’s time to call it a night. I lean over, and whisper to Graham, “I think that
I’mmm
a little bit drunk.”

He tips my chin up and gives me an amused grin. “Time to take my girl home?”

“Not home. Back to our love-nest at the hotel,” I slur a bit. “By the way, what’s with payin’ for the room?” I ask in a way too loud voice when it was just supposed to be a whisper.

He kisses my lips as if to silence me, and then says in my ear, “I wanted to.”

As he helps me to my feet, even in my inebriated state, I don’t miss the scowl that Max gives Graham.

Graham pulls out a one-hundred dollar bill, slapping it on the table. “We’ve had all we can stand of you three. See you tomorrow.”

Thankfully I’m able to properly tell everyone goodbye, and they’re all very kind. As we make our way out of the bar, I see the worry line is back on Graham’s forehead pulling his eyebrows together. I sigh in dismay.

Once we’re settled into the back of the car, I lie down, putting my head in Graham’s lap hoping that I reassure him through my contact that everything will be okay. Through a sleepy voice, I tell him how much I liked his friends.

I know that I’m dreaming, but I can’t seem to wake myself. I’m standing at the White House podium in the James Brady Press Room without a stitch of clothing on. My hair is down and board straight like I wore it to the gala. I’m fielding questions from the media as if I’m Evan instead of me. I brush off some queries and give thoughtful answers to others. I crack jokes, hoping that my humor will camouflage that I’m naked in a room full of people.

While I’m in the middle of a rambling answer, Graham enters the back of the room. He doesn’t slip in. He strolls into the room with purpose. Our eyes lock together. Forgetting myself and that I have an audience, I rub and tweak my nipples, and move my body as if I’m performing a private dance for just him.

I step out from behind the podium so he can have a better view. The press is silent, watching me—staring at me. But I only have eyes for Graham.

When my left hand moves from my breast southward, Graham unzips his worn jeans and pulls out his massive erection.

Up and down his hand slides without his eyes ever drifting. His tempo matches mine as we watch each other pleasure ourselves.

Everyone else in the room disappears, and I’m sad to see them go. I was enjoying them witnessing how Graham makes me feel.

My fingers slide inside of me as I continue to massage my breast. My inner thighs are slick with desire.

I mouth,
come with me
, to Graham. He swipes his thumb over the head of his penis, spreading his liquid over his shaft. Up and down he moves. Faster and faster I finger myself.

I drop my head back, breaking eye contact with him …

“Wake up, Rachael!” He yells down at me while he shakes my shoulders. His eyes are wide and filled with terror.

I fly out of bed, and the shock of the cold air-conditioned hotel room burns my drenched skin. I stand next to where I was just sleeping moments ago, panting as if I have just completed a workout with Malik. The bedside lamp is on. Graham must have tried to use light to wake me.

He sits back, resting on his knees, naked in the middle of the bed. “Talk to me,” he implores.

I quickly register that we are in our hotel room at the Four Seasons. I’m naked also, and I was just having a wet dream mixed with the fear of being exposed, I guess. I didn’t even know that almost forty-year-old women could still have them. “I … I … was having a dream. I’m okay.”

“You’re not fine. You were moaning and moving up and down on the bed as if you were having a seizure.” I watch as the realization of what just happened wakes up his dick. His face morphs from one of terror to amusement. The smile that spreads across his face deepens his dimple. “You were having a sex dream.”

I throw my hands over my face, completely mortified, and nod.

“Oh Rachael,” he says as he moves across the bed, scooping me up and cradling me against his chest. “That’s so hot, sweetheart. Don’t be ashamed.” The mirth in his tone makes me further wish that I could just die.

I shake my head, and still keep my face covered as I scramble out of his lap.
Oh, God. Please give me the ability to rewind time.
My legs are drawn up against my chest, and I lie in the fetal position. I wish that a sinkhole would open up and swallow me whole.

“Take your hands away from your face, and look at me,” he orders in the same voice he uses when we’re having sex.

I obey that voice and slowly place my arms over my head, but I keep my eyes closed.

His lips peck each eyelid. “My girl, was the dream about me?”

I open one eye and see the huge smile on his face before I reluctantly reply, “Yes.”

“Thank God.” He lets out a breath. “Will you tell me about it?”

“Can’t we just go back to sleep and pretend that this never happened?” I plead, shutting my eyes again and trying to turn away from him.

He opens my knees and samples my wetness. He commands me to open my eyes again. When I obey, he shows me the evidence of my dream. “This tells me that you really don’t want to do that.”

My body yearns for the release that it was denied, but my brain wants to forget that this ever happened. I lie there motionless, waiting for him to decide for me.

“Was I doing this in your dream?” he asks, as he positions himself in between my spread legs and brushes his thumb across my oversensitive clit.

I don’t bother answering, and lose myself in this sexy, secretive and complicated man.

When we wake late on Sunday morning, it’s apparent that we must return to reality. I finally check my email, and my inbox is flooded with even more urgent messages. Graham seems antsy to get home to his houseguests. We part ways in front of the Four Seasons with a quick kiss goodbye, and without making future plans.

He opts to take a taxi instead of letting me bring him home. I assume it’s because he doesn’t want me to visit his house. I remind myself that I set the deadline for after Thanksgiving. If I haven’t received an invite by then, I’ll discuss it with him.

After a much-needed shower, I unpack my shopping purchases and hang my beautiful green dress on a clothing rack near the door. I’m leaving on Wednesday for a trip with the President and then there is Thanksgiving break. I’ll be gone ten days. I’m not spending all of my time at Caroline’s home, in the middle of nowhere, Texas. Three of those days, I’ll be in Baton Rouge with the President. LSU has generously offered to host his Presidential Library. He’s asked me to be a part of the discussions.

I’m also showing Drake around the campus of Texas A&M. Caroline is a professor there. When she mentioned to her boss that the President of the United States of America’s kid was thinking about attending their school, they immediately contacted me about arranging a VIP visit. My plan was to take Drake to the local landmarks, like the Dixie Chicken, with a brief stop on campus just to say we had been there. Now, it’s turned into a guided tour and football tickets for Friday’s game, which happens to be against LSU.

I ignore my laptop for as long as I can, not wanting to end my mini-vacation. I watch my recorded political shows. Then I make myself a peanut butter and jelly sandwich for a late lunch/early supper. At five o’clock, I reluctantly give in to my job’s demands and turn on my laptop.

While it’s booting, I contemplate whether or not it was a good idea to sneak out of the office early on Friday and ignore my job all day yesterday and most of today. It felt damn good to have a mini-vacation, but I’m dreading the piles of work that I must sort through before tomorrow morning.

I VPN into the White House network, and click on the email tab. I sip my water while the thousands of emails flood in. The first email I open is the one I starred yesterday. The subject line is
Sons of Liberty: Urgent
. It’s from Hillary Knox, who works for Evan. She’s the person who he assigned to transcribe and gather important sound bites that I need to hear. He’s also tasked her with becoming the SOL expert. I smile at her title, as I wonder what she did to piss Evan off. No one, and I do mean no one, wants to be the Shit Out of Luck expert.

Her email is to Evan and me. It’s only three sentences.
I believe I’ve uncovered the identity of one of the Sons of Liberty. Max Schultz let it slip in a crowded restaurant that he is Solomon. I’ve attached a background report
.

Finally, all will be revealed, well at least I’ll know the identity of one of the SOL members. Max Schultz, the name doesn’t sound familiar. I know that he isn’t a politician, and I don’t think that he’s an actor. Although, he would have to be pretty famous for me to recognize his name if he’s Hollywood. With anticipation, I click on the attachment and take a sip of water while it opens. I look away for only a split second, but when my eyes lock in on my computer screen, I nearly lose my peanut butter and jelly sandwich. Staring back at me is Max Schultz. His bright red curly hair makes recognizing him quite easy.

I gasp as my mind starts reassembling shards of glass as if they’re bits of a vase shattered on a tile floor.

“Good problem to have …”
Marissa meant their newfound public attention at having such a strong influence in the election.

If Max is one of the Sons of Liberty, Jake and Graham must be the other two.

Graham’s anxiety over me meeting his friends.

Their radio program is the reason that his friends come to town every weekend.

Is this why I can’t go to his home?

Then, like I’ve been punched in the gut, I stand up from my kitchen table and stumble away from my laptop before collapsing on the couch. My mind is reeling with the new realization that slaps me across my face. I’m one of their Betsy Ross girls. I’ve. Been. Used.

I’ve shared with Graham things that happen during my workday. Small things. Nothing things—or so I’d thought. But if he were gathering material for his radio show, they’d be worth a lot. I mentioned meeting about the immigration reform bill. I told him about Roan, who was in those meetings, making a racist joke. I despise Roan, but I’d never want to be the cause of someone facing public humiliation.

My breath catches in my chest when I remember telling Graham that I had a meeting with the President and his physician.
Oh God! Please don’t let Graham find out about his Parkinson’s diagnosis.
I ball my fist, grinding it against my heart to minimize the pain.

Graham sought me out and used me as his ultimate source for a scoop. That’s why he wanted to attend the gala with me. That’s why he pursued me so hard. This is a nightmare—my own personal hell. Oh God, I bet he bragged to the other guys about how he conned me into falling for him.

My chest tightens to the point where I find it difficult to take a breath, and my fist beating against my chest is not doing a bit of good. My mind screams to my heart,
I told you not to fall in love with him.

And that’s when I realize that the tiny piece of my soul that I thought I’d kept protected from Graham has been given to him already. I curl into a ball, trying to ease the ache in my gut. I feel nauseous, and stupid, and so damn disappointed.

Waves of grief overtake me, and I feel like if I can just sob hard enough then maybe I can take a breath again, but the tears don’t fall. The thoughts that I allowed myself to indulge in, like having a tomorrow with someone to share my life with, and being able to make love instead of just fucking, exit my body in a tortured scream. I actually envisioned having this man’s child. The black-haired, light-eyed little boy evaporates before my eyes as if he were a ghost. My hope has been replaced with all the reminders of my bleak existence—a job that I love that has an expiration date, living in this dreary home that holds nothing personal, and having no one that will ever make me feel like Graham did ever again.

It was all a lie. A ruse. He used me. He made me fall in love with him just to break my heart.

I suck in a deep breath and finally, I can let it out, and the sobs come with it. Years of unshed tears soak my dingy second-hand sofa. If the burning hole in my chest is what a broken heart feels like, I’m shocked that anyone puts him or herself through this a second time.

I remember Maggie’s words.
“Work is the best lover one can have. You try hard at it, and it rewards you with a paycheck and praise. Not like a relationship where you give it your all, and it turns around and buries its head in Molly McCall’s panties.”

My pain morphs from grief and sadness to anger.
How dare he do this to me? How could he use and then publically shame me? Bastard fucking calls me Tinker Bell.

I stand up, raising my arms over my head trying to calm myself down, begging my lungs to take in air. The tightness in my chest will not abate. Doubling over, I sink back to the sofa, not sure if I’m having a panic attack, if I will lose my stomach or faint.
Calm down, Rachael. You’ve got to take a breath.

I sit up board-straight, and am so relieved when I draw in the precious oxygen that my lungs need. I do focused breathing.
Inhale in. Exhale out. Inhale in. Exhale out.
This basic task helps focus my brain.

I need to confront Graham. He owes me an explanation. I want him to feel as much pain as he’s caused me. He needs to see that his heartless actions have injured me. And if I’m honest with myself, I hope against hope that there is an explanation for all of this, and I’m wrong about him.