The World: According to Rachael Page 3

  Her lips wrap around the Diet Coke straw, and I barely notice. Rachael is speaking to me. My dad has essentially given me the same lecture probably one thousand times about paying my dues. For some reason, coming from Tink’s mouth, the words penetrate my thick skull so I actually hear the meaning.

  “That day, I learned that future President Jones was still paying off his student loans. He’d married Shelby, who was the only person to ever beat him in the school spelling bee. He fathered a baby with her when they were only sixteen. They gave the baby up for adoption and consider it the hardest, but best decision they’ve made. I saw Senator Jones as a human being for the first time, and not this political force to be reckoned with.”

  Oh my God, he’s a real guy. Made mistakes in his past and still got elected to the senate? Is that even possible? I’m liking the guy Rachael spoke about more and more with each passing second.

  She looks at us conspiratorially, and then does this exaggerated move where she looks over both shoulders. In a fake whisper, she says, “Most importantly, he shared with me that he hates that the political system holds words you spoke or views you expressed at a younger time against you. He said, ‘Rachael, I didn’t know I wanted to be president when I was kid, so I’ve certainly not lived my life like someone who’s running for office. I think being impulsive and fearless is a sign of youthful exuberance. I’ll forgive you bursting into my office this afternoon if you promise to work your tail off to earn the right to demand to be listened to.”’

  Rachael spends the next hour driving home future President Jones’ speaking points. She reviews the pillars of his campaign with us. No-nonsense is a good and appropriate description of her personality.

  Her charisma and enthusiasm are contagious, and by the end of the war meeting, I don’t even want to pour salt on the snail, Lucas. Instead of counting down the days until I can bid farewell to this tedious job, I actually find myself wondering if I can still volunteer for future President Jones’ campaign while attending law school.

  Also, I realize at some point while Rachael is speaking, I forget that she is gorgeous and sexy. I quit thinking about her being my pixie. Names like Attila the Hun and Ball Buster fly out the window. Instead, I see her for who she really is: a smart woman who, in her early thirties, has earned the trust of future President Jones, and become his right-hand woman. She believes in him, and she inspires me. She’s tough, because she’s proud of what they’ve built together and wants to protect it. Rachael is a force to be reckoned with. I want to be a force also.

  Clarity. They say when you get it it’s better than sex. I’m not so sure about that, but for the first time since graduation I don’t feel as lost. It’s like the haze clinging to my brain has been burned off. I know I don’t want to be a Junior CPA in Dad’s firm.

  No, that’s not quite what I mean. I will not SETTLE for being a Junior CPA in Dad’s firm. I want to get my law degree, and work for the good legislators who are making the country a better place, like future President Jones. The ones who, like me, haven’t spent their childhoods planning their futures.

  My eyes have been opened. Drape peace beads around my neck and call me a hippie, I think I just found my calling. I want to be the next Rachael Early when I grow up.

  Part II – Seven and Half Years Later

  This Kelly-green binder, open in front of me, is showing the years of wear. It houses the definitive collection of articles that chronicle the career of Rachael Early.

  JONES WINS IN A LANDSIDE one of the headlines screams. It discusses the highly successful campaign run by Rachael. It even goes as far as to call her the President’s secret weapon.

  I turn past the next group of articles and skip to the one that announces that she will be the first female White House Chief of Staff. This article, taken from Time Magazine, shows scars from the many times I’ve read it through the years. The once white paper is now a worn shade of yellow and the edges are a bit dog-eared. I slip it out of the plastic and give it one more read as I sink into one of the black rolling chairs that surround the small table.

  The historic decision for President Jones to choose Early for the position was one he made easily, he said. He’s quoted throughout the article singing her praises. It discusses her uncanny ability to navigate the male-dominated political world with tact and without losing her grace. It’s one of the few articles written about her during this time that doesn’t mention her petite size. The writer goes on to applaud the new President’s decision to appoint a female in such an important White House roll.

  Skimming the words of this story that I could recite by heart still makes me feel the same way that it did the first time I read it almost seven years ago. My reaction makes no sense at all. I know that I really don’t know this woman. Our encounter was brief. But I am so proud of her accomplishments. I cheer for her, and applaud all of her successes.

  The article also features a series of candid photos taken of Rachael during the long campaign trail. In every shot, she appears to be the unsinkable Rachael Early. Her hair is always neatly tied back—just like it was when I met her. Her face never shows the evidence of lack of sleep, or the stress that she must have been under. She’s polished—smooth. Her professional mask is always in place.

  I like that the editor chose to use candid shots instead of posed pictures, like the ones that the other news outlets ran. But there is one picture that I love. It’s on the last page of the article near the bottom. The picture that I find both beautiful and so human is a shot that someone took of her delivering the news to Senator Jones that he was going to be the next President of the United States of America. Her platinum-blond hair is down and lying neatly against her chest. Her normal dress of a tailored business suit is replaced with a pair of casual black yoga pants, and a “Jones for President” T-shirt that dwarfs her frame. It turns out that she had spilled a cup of coffee on her business suit, and this outfit is what a staffer managed to put together at the last minute. Rachael refused to leave the campaign headquarters even for a quick change. Instead of the photographer capturing the new President’s reaction to the news, he stood behind Jones and captured Rachael’s. Her eyes are shiny and her rosy cheeks are drawn into such a large smile that creases radiate from her eyes. She looks like the girl that I met in the deli that wanted me to read the article about her boss. She looks like a high school student that just aced a test, or a lacrosse player that just scored the winning goal. This is the person that I wish she showed more in her interviews. This is the girl, the one in the mismatched outfit with a flushed face, who has shaped my career post law school.

  The green binder is three inches thick, filled with the highlights of Rachael’s career. It resides with other binders that I keep on notable politicians. Unfortunately, not all of these binders chronicle such storied careers. Most are filled with scandal and the loss of the public’s trust.

  This is my reference area. The guys give me shit about it. They’ve pointed out that there is this new magical box that connects me to endless amounts of knowledge with the click of a button.

  Ha! Ha! I get it, but there’s something that I find cathartic about reading and printing or cutting out news articles and chronicling them in these binders. It makes it more permanent in my mind, more important.

  I usually pull Rachael’s notebook off the shelf in my makeshift library when I need inspiration. Her story is one that never disappoints. There is not so much as a whisper of impropriety. It’s filled with hard work, making good choices, and working behind the scenes to make her boss look good, instead of grabbing attention in the headlines. Even the other party has nothing bad to stay about Rachael Early except she’s one tough lady. I’m sure she takes that as a compliment.

  Today, I’ve opened the green binder for another reason. I am meeting the woman who inspired all of this. I look around the room, still awed at what we’ve built from the ground up. I wonder if she has any idea the impact her words had so many years ago on a lost twenty-three
-year-old kid. From what I have seen of her career, I think she only sees her role in furthering President Jones’ initiatives and her huge impact on D.C. politics.

  I turn my wrist to check the time. One hour before I have to leave.

  I flip to the end of the binder, to the tab labeled gossip. I don’t read the celebrity magazines or any of that garbage, but I do follow the political galas, charity events, and fundraisers. This section holds the fluffy side of politics, but it’s just as important in the political chess game.

  The last picture that I’ve added is one of Rachael with Roan Perez. His hand is brushing against the small of her back on top of her conservative navy-blue cocktail dress. The hand looks uncomfortably out of place. A black fly in a glass of champagne. He wears a devilish grin and her smile seems to be strained—there’s a small crease between her eyebrows. There’s nothing wrong with this picture, but it makes me feel a bit sorry for Rachael. A man’s hand touching a woman should bring her comfort and reassurance, not cause stress.

  Rachael, Rachael, Rachael … what was going through your mind when this photo was snapped?

  I’m hoping that my instincts are correct and Roan is not someone that she is seriously dating. I mean, why else would the President’s son try to fix me up with the person that he thinks of as his older sister?

  Chapter One

  “Let’s be clear,” I say as my way of a greeting as I slide into the backseat of the black government-owned car waiting outside my townhome. “If your hand so much as brushes across my behind again, I’ll use my five-inch spiked heel and will drive it into your big toe with the intention of snapping the bone. Got it?”

  Roan Perez nods as a small smile curls his full lips. “I love it when you’re feisty. Gives me a preview of what I’ll get to tame when you finally let me in those sexy panties I’m sure that you’re wearing.”

  I all but hug the passenger door. “You’re an asshole.” I turn and spit in his direction, “I’d rather forgo sex with another human being for the rest of my life than let you near my panties.”

  That’s not entirely true. I hate Roan Perez, but my dating life is non-existent. I’ve toyed with the idea of making Roan my next “let’s just have sex, no strings attached” relationship. No, not relationship. That implies that it could possibly lead to something more, which will happen when pigs fly. One-night stand? No. That has more of a passionate, I-want-you-now connotation. Mutual exchange of orgasms? Yes. That’s the right term. I should add the word “planned” in front. So I’ve considered a planned mutual exchange of orgasms with Roan.

  Roan Perez was fortunate enough to be born at just the right planetary alignment so that he is able to spew nonsense, but the rest of the world only hears pure genius. It’s seriously a gift that the guy has. He built the most successful Hispanic-targeted advertising agency in the country. By the way, the only thing Hispanic about him is his last name, from a stepfather who adopted him when he was five. Every Fortune 100 company is mentioned on his About Us page on his Web site. Five years ago, he sold his share in the agency to his partners and started a Hispanic affairs consulting group here in D.C. Unfortunately, it seems that his gift is in high demand. Every candidate who desires to dip their big toe in politics is after two untapped demographics—the Hispanic vote, and voters under the age of thirty.

  “An asshole that your boss respects,” he says with a satisfied shrug. “We look good together … even Page Six thinks so.”

  My boss seems to believe that Roan will be able to sell his immigration reform plan to not only congress, but also the American people. We’re placing a lot of stock in this yahoo.

  Why am I sitting in a government-owned town car in a black cocktail dress with the biggest jerk on the planet? It’s simple. Politics. Roan is consistently on the Most Eligible Bachelor list and the Most Influential list, and meetings with his consulting firm are considered golden tickets. This is Washington, people. Nothing, and I do mean nothing, is done without an ulterior motive.

  I despise the man, but we use each other frequently for photo-opp purposes at nonsense events, such as the one that we’re headed to now. It looks good for the White House to be consulting with such an influential man. Roan’s credibility and hourly rate is boosted when he mentions that he has the White House’s ear. It’s a win/win situation for everyone involved, except for me, who has to deal with his arrogance.

  “Here’s the scoop,” I say clutching my black beaded bag as if it could be used as a weapon. “We’re going to hold hands as we walk the red carpet. We’ll do the standard posing business. You’ll keep your hand on my back, not my ass, got it?” I glare at him.

  The bastard just smirks, one eyebrow raised toward his perfectly-coiffed hair.

  “We’ll walk inside and pose for a few pictures with the new exhibit. I have plans at nine o’clock at the White House, so don’t expect me to hang on your arm all night long like one of your sluts.”

  “What plans?” His eyes brighten and I know that it’s because he has a glimmer of hope that he might be able to score a social invite to hang out with the President.

  I’m kicking myself for even saying anything. “Plans that don’t include you,” I reply tartly.

  “You’re the White House Chief of Staff. Score me an invite, Rach …” he says in a goading voice as he leers toward me.

  Fortunately, we arrive at the Smithsonian, which ends this conversation. I slip my game face on and wait for the car door to swing open. Roan steps out first, buttoning his black suit jacket, and I get an unguarded moment to admire the beauty of the man.

  He’s in his mid-forties with milk-chocolate salt-and-peppered hair, and eyes that can only be described as aquamarine. Roan is always clean-shaven and impeccably dressed. It’s such a shame that his beautiful outside is matched only by his ugly insides, but he does have a nice bulge in his pants. Probably a pair of socks.

  He reaches for my hand, and I offer it to him. With the grace and charm of a suave lover, he helps me out of the vehicle, giving a wave to the reporters.

  His palm rests just where I asked it to stay as we make our way along the red carpet.

  The Vice-President was supposed to be in attendance to dedicate the new Smithsonian Exhibit this evening, but a campaign opportunity arose, so he asked me to cover for him. Just another day doing my job.

  Roan and I stop in front of the backdrop and pose while the cameras snap away. Like the pros that we are, we turn in different directions, making sure that the photographers get every angle. Right before Roan steps out of the shot so I can be photographed solo, he leans in and whispers in my ear, “Your hot little ass will look gorgeous laid out underneath me on my white sheets.” Then, he discreetly runs his tongue over the shell of my ear.

  Goose bumps plague my arms at his dirty words. I loathe Roan as a human being, but there isn’t a girl in the world that can tell her body not to respond to his charisma.

  I’m sure that the photographers got a great candid shot of my shocked face.

  There are so many things that I should say to him as we make our way into the museum. I war between taking him up on his offer—because let’s face facts, my sex life is nonexistent—and telling him that his little stunt has earned him banishment as my date ever again.

  What do I do? Nothing. I just silently allow him to escort me into the museum where we are both thankfully bombarded with guests attending the function. I am not forced to discuss his transgression, and fortunately, we’re able to separate.

  I turn my attention to my reason for being here—networking on behalf of the President. Time passes quickly, and I don’t see Roan again until he’s sneaking off with one of the waitresses who appears to have been hired for her large assets rather than her drink-passing skills. She has already spilled a tray of crab cakes, and dumped a soda in some poor guy’s lap.

  I make my speech about the President’s commitment to preserving our nation’s history, pose for pictures with an oversized red ribbon, and ceremoniall
y hold a gigantic pair of silver scissors that are larger than I am. The curtain falls as the guests begin to move in closer for a better look.

  That’s my cue to slip out. Lou, the Secret Service agent assigned to me, knows the drill. I lock eyes with him. He moves through the crowd and escorts me to the waiting town car. Roan will find his own way home, probably with the waitress in tow. He’s one of the many unfortunate bullet points of my job description.

  The Smithsonian is not too far from the White House. If I didn’t have on ridiculously high heels, I would suggest that Lou and I walk. It’s unseasonably warm in D.C. for the beginning of November, and it happens to be a lovely, clear night.

  Lou drops me off at the employee entrance, and I head straight for my office to change out of this constrictive cocktail dress and into my casual clothes, which are much more appropriate for this evening. On Friday, I’d left a pair of jeans, a green sweater, and brown leather boots inside the closet in my office suite.

  Opening the door, I grab my duffle bag, and carry it into the bathroom that’s attached to my office. Quickly, I remove my clothes from the bag and lay them out on the countertop by the sink.

  Next, I kick off my heels. One of the black weapons lands near the door. The other one hits the wall. I fantasize for just a brief moment how it would feel to break Roan’s toe as punishment for his red carpet transgressions. I’d get to watch him walk with a limp. That’s sick, Rachael. Stop it. I shake my head to clear the ugly thoughts, and focus on getting dressed for an evening with the First Family.

  This gorgeous cocktail dress has an unfortunate closure, but because I live alone, I’ve mastered the art of contorting my body so I can zip and unzip my own dresses. In fact, the few times that I do get to watch a movie or TV show and the main character asks her partner to unzip her dress, I almost gag. In the real world, us single girls list that as a survival skill.