The World: According to Rachael (4 page)

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?

“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 ceremonially 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.

I hang the dress on a wooden hanger that I keep in my bathroom for just such occasions, and place my sleek weapons/heels in the duffle bag. I enter a reminder in my phone to grab the dress and shoes on my way home tonight. The dress is on loan from a boutique. It’s important that it is returned in a timely manner so they’ll let me borrow another formal dress for my next event.

I do a quick check in the mirror to make sure that I look presentable. My platinum-blond hair is still in a severe knot at the nape of my neck, and I have on too much makeup for my casual outfit, but it will just have to do.

I exit my home-away-from-home, and make my way through the White House. This is a very familiar walk for me.

“Good evening, ma’am,” Samuel says as I near the double doors he’s guarding. I like him. He’s about the size of a house, poker-faced, and does his job—well. That’s a huge positive in my eyes. Finding people who are good at what they do is a rarity.