The World: According to Rachael Read online

  I slap the marble bathroom counter and hope for the best. “Come on, Rachael. Live up to your reputation and fire us,” I speak to myself in the mirror before I make my way to the deli.

  The aspirin has done the trick. My headache is back to a dull throb, and my stomach doesn’t revolt when the smell of salty French fries floods my nose. I slip onto the barstool at the counter, and am greeted by the blonde waitress who I flirt with every day.

  “Hi Graham,” she says, leaning forward on the counter to show me her more than ample cleavage. “Your order will be ready in about fifteen minutes. Y’all must have something big going on. That’s a lot of food.”

  “Big boss is paying us a visit today. Steve decided to be nice and buy the office lunch.” I grab one of the discarded, grease-stained Washington Posts lying nearby. Catch the hint. I don’t want to talk to anyone today. The top story is something about the Middle East. I scan the article, but don’t really read it.

  “What DO I care about?” I ask myself instead of reading. The whole office is in a panic because they’re worried about getting fired. What’s wrong with me that I’m hoping to hear those words? A smile forms on my lips. The idea of being fired is the first time that I’ve smiled when I’ve thought about my future. Pathetic.

  Mentally, I bang my head against a wall. There’s got to be something wrong with me. I picture being destitute and living on the streets to induce the feeling of stress. I picture having to call my dad and tell him that I lost my law school opportunity because I was fired by the she-devil, Rachael.

  Nothing. I feel no sense of panic. I can’t even get my breathing to pick up speed.

  I really am an apathetic loser.

  “Peace in the Middle East. What an elusive idea,” says a lyrical voice next to me.

  “Yeah.” I half-heartedly chuckle, attempting to ignore the voice by burying my nose deeper in the newspaper. This is one of the things I liked about ditching Texas. No one strikes up random conversations here. You look forward, and mind your own damn business.

  “I’d like a Diet Coke to go please,” the voice says to the flirty blonde waitress who must be hovering nearby. Her cheap perfume burns the inside of my nostrils.

  Then to me, she says, “Have you gotten to page four yet? There’s a great article on future President Jones.”

  I mean, I’m clearly holding the newspaper and perusing the second page – not that she can probably tell. No, I haven’t gotten to page four yet, and hopefully the waitress will hurry my order up so I never have to read it. “No, I just started reading the second page.” I’m giving off the biggest don’t-talk-to-me-lady vibe I can. Just let me stew in my apathy.

  “Would you mind turning to page four, and reading the article?” the voice asks. My Texas radar goes off, and I detect a faint hint of southern accent. Should have known. Talking to a stranger. Asking for absurd favors. Only someone from the south.

  I put down my newspaper, expecting to turn and give her a quick lesson on how D.C. works. We all ignore each other; that’s some free advice to make her stay here more pleasant.

  Then my heart begins to race. Not in panic, like I was trying to induce earlier. No. This is because this girl literally steals the oxygen from my lungs.

  The voice belongs to Tinker Bell. Not the sorority girls dressed in slutty Halloween costumes that showed up every year at our Halloween frat-party version of the fairy. No. She’s the Tinker Bell that Walt Disney drew that my niece is obsessed with. The woman is stunning, with light-blonde hair pulled tightly away from her heart-shaped face. Soft white bangs sweep across her forehead and disappear behind her ear. Her eyes are captivating. They’re way too large for her face, but they’re the greenest green that I’ve ever seen. Her nose is a pixie nose, tiny and cute, and just the tip points to the ceiling. I find myself longing to touch my lips to it.

  But it’s her mouth that makes my dick take notice. Her lips are so deeply red that they look burgundy. She’s captivating, sitting on the barstool next to me in a green business suit. Her body is tiny, like a pixie, and her legs, Jesus Christ. I let my eyes travel down to admire her bare, alabaster-toned legs. As if just to torture me, one of her green heels is dangling off her big toe, revealing her red, perfectly manicured toes. Feet are a big deal. They have to be well cared for. Huge, flat toes that look like rocks are major turn-offs.

  The top of her head only meets my shoulder.

  I’m staring. I know I am, but I can’t help myself. This woman isn’t close to my type. I normally like very tall women. There’s nothing sexier than a woman who almost reaches my six-foot one-inch height. I also like long, brown hair. But my type flies out the window as I check out my fairy next to me.

  She smiles, revealing gorgeous, straight, white teeth. I long to run my tongue over those teeth, exploring the smooth porcelain before I nibble on her maroon lips. God, I need those lips.

  What’s wrong with me? I’m Graham Jackson. I don’t chase girls. Girls come after me.

  “Your order is ready.” Tinker Bell tilts her small head and nods to the pile of food in front of me.

  “What?” I ask, clearly forgetting where I am, and what I’m doing in this cramped deli at noon on a Thursday.

  She picks up a white Styrofoam cup and purses her lips around the tip of the straw. My dick takes notice, and all but begs those lips to move further south.

  “Isn’t that your food?” she asks again. Her dark brown arching brows meet together in confusion.

  Food. Yes. The reason I’m in a deli. Yes. Rachael, A.K.A. Attila the Hun will be at our office in just a few minutes. “Yeah. Sorry,” I mumble as I stand up, and grab the mound of stacked sandwich platters and white bag filled with the salads.

  I balance the four plastic platters on my arms and put the bag on top, making my way for the door.

  Desperately, I want to turn around and take in one more sight of Tink before I enter my personal hell, but I don’t dare. I can’t afford to do anything that throws off the balance of the trays. Yay! I was fired for dropping Attila’s food.

  “Let me get the door for you,” the polite southern voice calls from behind me.

  My heart falls in relief. I can see her one more time. “Thanks. That would be awesome of you.”

  When she rushes past me to push open the glass door, I notice just how petite she really is. She is a pixie. I don’t think she’s even adult height, but she’s so in proportion, almost as if a mature, athletic female has been left too long in the dryer.

  I scoot past her, turning on my southern charm. “Isn’t it my job to hold the door for you?” Is there a worse pick-up line? No. I don’t think so. FAIL.

  “Well, how I was raised, you help out your fellow man.” She pauses, and adds, “Or woman whenever they’re in need.” She doesn’t say it catty or mean-spirited, like a lot of girls I know would have. It’s said in a very matter-of-fact, self-assured tone. I like that. And she’s not making me feel like an idiot for dropping such a lame line.

  Next, she’s opening the double doors of my office building. How’d she know where I was going? Who cares? She’s apparently coming upstairs with me.

  “Second floor?”

  “Yes. Thanks for your help. My boss’s boss is visiting today, so the whole office is freaking out. He’d kill me if these,” I nod toward the pile of food, “didn’t arrive in pristine condition.”

  “Planned visit?” she asks as she leans against the elevator railing, crossing her arms over her chest. I’ve yet to see if she has nice tits, but for once, I don’t think I care.

  I find myself not wanting the elevator ride to be over.

  “Arrives any minute. Apparently it’s been scheduled for a couple of days, because all we’ve done is prepare. Like, a work stoppage.” I roll my eyes so she knows just exactly how I feel about this.

  “What your boss’s boss like?” she asks conspiratorially.

  “Never met her. Word in the office is she’s a real ball-breaker.” Fuck! I just said the word
s ball-breaker to Tinker Bell.

  “Really?” Tink asks. I carefully examine her face to see if I’ve offended her. Fortunately, she seems okay.

  The elevator doors open, and she walks ahead of me, opening the campaign office’s doors. As soon as she does, I hear the roar of greetings from inside.

  My stupid, beer-soaked brain from last night actually ponders for a moment why she’s getting such a nice greeting. I mean, she just hit buttons and opened doors for me. Then, the light bulb turns on inside my head. Oh, shit! Tink is Attila the Hun. But where is her facial hair?

  If I could kick my own ass, I would.

  I just told her—the enemy—our secrets. Reviewing the conversation in my mind makes it even worse. My chin falls to my chest, and I pretend to carefully watch what I’m doing as I begin to arrange the trays across our conference room table.

  There’s no need for me to find a mirror. I know my face is bright red.

  The infamous Rachael is being fawned over by Steve. He’s offering to give her a tour of the office. Then Lucas inserts himself in the conversation, shoving some report he wrote under her upturned nose that I wanted to kiss moments ago. Out of my peripheral vision, I watch the bastard hand her his plastic-covered report. His red, glistening palm touches the exposed white skin of her wrist that her jacket has revealed. I long to nibble on that wrist and feel her pulse against my tongue.

  Then, I rage. How dare the snail-trail Lucas touch her skin? Shoving his head in the toilet and flushing it for touching my Tink sounds like a brilliant idea.

  What’s wrong with me? Jealous? That’s not my style.

  I walk to the window, watching the cars pass along the street. Thousands of people are rushing to their small jobs. Each one is a cog in the system that keeps this democracy running.

  I’ve got to get myself under control.

  “Graham Jackson does not fawn over girls,” I whisper to myself. He’s the one who has his pick of the girls at the end of the night. There is a little voice in the back of my head that says, “That was the Graham Jackson, star lacrosse-player, president of his frat, and college big man. Maybe this Graham Jackson, out in the real world, has to chase girls.”

  A yellow taxicab aims for a red SUV inserting itself into traffic. For a second, I hope against hope for a T-bone accident. Maybe it would cancel this meeting, and I could just go home. No luck. The SUV lets the cab safely into the next lane.

  This is ridiculous. She’s a world-class ball-buster. Everyone knows that. She’s not Tinker Bell. In fact, she’s more like Captain Hook. Makes staffers cry. Fuck. Now, I’m an adult man thinking about Peter Fucking Pan.

  Steve asks everyone to take a seat, shaking me out of my own head, which is probably a very good thing. I plop down in a chair at the end of the table and fiddle with the yellow legal tablet and pen in front of me. It must have been placed there by one of the staffers so we can take “notes” on all the important things Rachael has to regale us with.

  The guy to my left suggests I make a plate. It actually takes me a few second to figure out how in the hell one makes a plate. My face must betray my confusion, because he motions toward the food. My stomach is in knots, and it isn’t from the beer last night. I finally have the moment I’ve heard about when you have lust at first sight, and it has to be her.

  I’m confused, and my head and body are at war with each other. She was nice. Nothing like what the rumors said about her. Would she be interested in a guy like me? Does she care I’m probably seven years younger than she is?

  She travels the country being the future President Jones’ right-hand woman. The last thing she wants is to date a much younger college graduate who doesn’t know what he wants to be when he grows up. Hell! If I asked her on a date, my dad’s credit card would pay. Pathetic.

  No. I need to forget Tinker Bell/Attila the Hun ever existed. She doesn’t have facial hair. In fact, she has the sexist green eyes …

  Stop it!

  Once everyone settles with their heaping plates of food, Steve stands up and makes the obvious introduction. “Room of pathetic individuals, this is the fairy, Rachael. Rachael, meet the scabs of the earth.”

  Rachael stands and takes a sip of the Diet Coke she ordered in the deli. “Hello everyone. It’s a pleasure to meet you. Steve talks so highly of the efforts you’re putting forth to share future President Jones’ message. I’ve come today to meet you in person, and thank you for your on-the-street efforts, and to make sure that this campaign is a positive experience for everyone.”

  She might as well have been speaking Spanish. I didn’t hear a word she said, only listened to how her voice sounded like a song. Is that her fuck-voice? When her petite legs are wrapped around my waist, that’s the voice she’ll use to scream out “Graham!”

  I’ve resolved myself to the fact my dick will stand firmly at attention until she leaves. Let’s hope I don’t have to write on the dry-erase board, or war board, as Steve calls it.

  The next thing I know, Lucas is talking. I usually just tune him out until I hear my name exit his nasty mouth. “Graham really doesn’t seem to have his heart in the campaign. It’s like he’s just here to collect a paycheck.” His voice sounds like he’s my niece, tattling on me for something horrible I said, like “shut up.”

  Did that bastard just say that? I’m in shock. Are we an office of seven-year-olds? Okay. It’s partially true. But, I mean, seriously. Why call me out in front of everyone? My weeks are numbered here … twelve weeks, to be exact.

  Rachael’s voice cuts through the fog of immaturity. “I’m not here to play referee, Lucas. That is your name, correct?” She drips honey, and I love it. She’s cutting and authoritative without being snippy. “Let me tell you why I believe Langford Jones should be the next President of the United States of America.”

  She’s so confident, and her presence alone commands our attention. Maybe the rumors about her are wrong …

  I lean back in my chair and prepare to listen. I’ve read the talking points of the campaign hundreds of times while I stapled them together. Frankly, if there were a pop quiz, I’d make a one hundred. Maybe if I can record Rachael reading them to me, the job will be less mentally numbing.

  “Langford is my friend,” she begins as she stands up straight at the head of the conference room table. “I was hired to work in his office when he first earned his senate seat. I was fresh out of graduate school, and didn’t know what I didn’t know.” Jesus, I can relate to that. “I interviewed with him, not one of his assistants. He told me his goals; his dreams for the future of our country. I was captivated by him, and his vision. And after that meeting, I was inspired enough to turn down a job offer from Trump International, making a lot more money. Ready to take on the world, he hired me. I was prepared to campaign and march into battle with him.”

  Her mouth twists into a little smile, and I push my plate of food away and lean back in my chair to listen. “Then, I was handed a ream of paper and told to go make copies. When I was done, I sorted and stapled everything I’d copied. Not a glamorous job.”

  Is this lady speaking my language, or what? That’s me right now. I’m half tempted to raise my hand and ask how she got herself out of copy-room hell.

  Rachael pauses and places a fork full of mayo potato salad into her mouth. Potato salad has never looked so damn appetizing.

  “I put a smile on my face, and made copies every single day. Two months later, I received a promotion to errand girl. You get the idea. My idealized job was far beneath what I thought a Wharton School of Business graduate should be doing. Every day, I wished that I’d accepted the offer of working for Donald Trump. I reasoned that he wouldn’t have made me make copies.” She pauses while she licks some stray mayo off her burgundy lips. Her tongue darting out and swiping over the offending glob of whiteness.

  “Oh God!” I groan as my eyes drop to my cock.

  “One day, I’d had enough. I put on my power suit, newest heels, and marched into the Senator’s p
ersonal office without an appointment.”

  She smirks. “Apparently, no one did that.” Her musical laugh fills our dreary conference room making it feel more cheerful. “Like I said. I didn’t know what I didn’t know.”

  Her face lights up at the memory, and she’s the most mesmerizing thing I’ve ever seen. “I told him that I believed in everything he stood for, and I was being underutilized, stuck as messenger girl in his office. I reiterated for him my schooling, GPA, and I threw in the turned-down Trump job offer. Then, because I wanted to really hammer my point home, I repeated my accomplishments in all the different languages I speak.”

  The room chuckles, and I notice Rachael has everyone’s attention. Pens are resting on the yellow legal pads, and all eyes are captivated by my own little fairy.

  “Instead of responding and telling me I was a snot-nosed brat, he stood up, and grabbed his suit jacket. Then, he spun on his heels and invited me to his home for dinner. I was dumbfounded, and muttered something like a thanks.

  “When we arrived at his townhome, dinner was on the table. The boys, who were very young at the time, minded their table manners. His wife, Shelby, was lovely to me. She asked about my childhood and college. This was the most normal family meal I’d been a part of.

  “After dinner, we all went into the backyard and played catch. Shelby put the kids to bed, while Langford sat me down for a fatherly chat. He said we all have to start at the bottom and pay our dues. All a college degree does is prove you can complete something. He told me to keep working hard, and eventually I’d get to be on the battle lines, fighting alongside him for our country. He thanked me for taking the job, and reassured me he appreciated all the things that I thought were small I did every day. He reminded me I was the face of his office. I was the staffer who interfaced with the other senator’s offices. I was the one who the other employees based their assumptions upon.”