The World: According to Rachael (28 page)

I march upstairs to my bathroom and splash cold water on my face. I apply heavy makeup for an evening-on-the-town look. Next, I go into my closet and open my lingerie drawer. I put on a black sexy little bustier number, black lace crotch-less panties and real silk black stockings. Then, I pull my green trench-coat dress off of the hanger and button it over my undergarments tying the sash near my hip.

Next, I sweep my long bangs over my forehead and pull my hair back into a tight chignon. The final touch to my ensemble is the pair of four-inch spiked black Prada heels.

I’m pleased with my femme fatale image, and walk out of my front door and into the waiting town car with one thing on my mind—Graham Jackson. That name used to make me swoon. Now, it makes me sick.

I give my driver Graham’s address that I had uncovered by using Google. Turns out he doesn’t live all that far from me. This is good because it doesn’t give me time to second guess my actions.

The house we arrive at looks like the satellite image I saw on the map, except it appears that he’s used some of his SOL dollars to spruce up the landscaping.

I take a deep breath and count to ten before I step out of the car. Tom walks ahead of me, as if he plans to check out the place for danger first.
He’s already used me and crushed my heart. Damage to me is done.

“Please wait in the car,” I instruct.

“But, Miss Early, it is my job to—”

I wish Lou were here.
I cut him off. “I know exactly what your job is. However, I’ve asked you to wait in the car.”

He curtly nods and heads back to the driver’s seat.

I wait until his door closes before I walk up Graham’s sidewalk and stand before his doorbell.

One
… I breathe in.

Two
… I breathe out.

Three …
I breathe in.

I push the button and hold my breath while I wait.

He doesn’t disappoint. His door opens, and a very surprised Graham Jackson fills the doorway. He reminds me of one of the cartoon characters he discusses on his show. His mouth all but hits the ground, and his eyes bug out of his head. He’s only wearing a pair of black gym shorts and a thin layer of sweat rests on his skin. I assume that he’s been working out.

“Close your mouth, Graham. Shocked looks like shit on you,” I sneer.

“What are you doing here?” he asks. “What’s wrong?” He looks over my shoulder with his eyes sweeping back and forth, as if there are Ninjas hiding in the trees about to attack his village. The evening sun, just setting for the day, casts his yard in menacing shadows, and his porch-light flips on.

I try to peer around him and see if Max, Marissa, and Jake are still here. Unfortunately, there is a wall behind him, blocking me from an inside view.

An idea pops into my head telling me I should barge my way in, but I dismiss it and remain on the front porch.

When he focuses back on me, he asks again, “Are you okay? What’s going on?”

His concern would be endearing if I didn’t want to kick him in the balls.

“Hmmm …” I say, as I tap my finger against my head. “Could it be that you’ve lied to me? I mean, why would that upset me? Every girl loves to think that they’ve given their heart to a man who is just using them.”

Before I can register what’s happening, he’s yanked me inside of the house and has me pressed up against the wall that was behind him. He slams the front door with his foot.

He’s towering over me, and I’m pinned between his arms. Graham lowers his face so we’re eye to eye. “I’m going to ask you one more time. What the fuck are you talking about?” he growls. His blue eyes that I thought I could read so well are a stormy shade of navy. I don’t know what that color means. His eyebrows are drawn together with tension trenches in his forehead, and his jaw is set so tightly that his neck muscles bulge as if he’d just lifted a heavy bar at the gym.

My years of boxing pay off. Even in my absurdly tall high heels, I duck under his arm and stroll into his living room, escaping his Graham cage.

I’m not sure what I was expecting, but it wasn’t this. It looks like it could be featured in a Pottery Barn store. The beige slipcover couches are anchored by a cobalt blue and tan chevron print rug. He has black and white pictures hung on the walls depicting different city skylines at night. In fact, I would swear in court that I just saw those framed prints in last season’s catalog.

I take a seat and run my hand over the cushion next to me, doing an impression of a model on
The Price is Right
. In my best sex kitten voice I purr, “You pick these out yourself, or did you have one of your other Betsy Rosses decorate your place? She did an excellent job.”

The look on his face is all the confirmation that I need that I am right, and he’s one of the Sons of Liberty. His face pales and then turns a sickening shade of green.

I undo the buttons and then open the tie on my trench-coat dress revealing my risqué lingerie. “Want to fuck me one more time? I mean, I bet you can use that skilled tongue of yours to get another juicy bit of gossip for tomorrow’s show.” To further enhance my words, I drag my hand over my breast like I did in my dream, and drop my chin while I nibble on my bottom lip. I spread my legs revealing my crotch-less panties.

His face falls, and he appears to age in front of my eyes. He leans against a wall across from me as if his legs cannot support his weight. He mumbles something that I can’t make out.

“What was that, you say?” I cup my ear, pretending I’m trying to hear him better. “I was your biggest conquest? I bet you guys had a hell of a party when you told them that you were fucking the White House Chief of Staff. Did you tell them that you wouldn’t sleep with me on the first date because you, and I do quote,” I yell while I make quotation marks with my fingers, “
wanted to get to know my mind before you took my body
.”

“Rachael … I …” he says in a pleading voice. “That’s not true. I mean, I did want to get to know you.”

“Oh, really?” I walk over to the French doors that lead to the backyard, leaving my dress flapping like a cape behind me. George is peering in the window, probably wondering what in the world is going on inside his home. With my back to Graham, I ask, “So are you or are you not one of the Sons of Liberty?”

Thank God that he doesn’t deny it. “Yes, b … but …” he stammers. “I didn’t use you.” His voice is flat and emotionless.

I spin around on my heels and glare at him. “What do you call it, then? Collateral damage? Using your talents to line your pockets? If you were a female, I’d call you a whore. You fucked me to boost your precious show.”

He looks like an abused dog on one of those late-night commercials where Sarah Mclachlan sings, hoping to break your heart so you’ll pull out your credit card and make a donation. If my heart wasn’t so destroyed, I might pity him. Unfortunately for him, there’s not enough of it inside of me to feel anything other than hatred.

“Rachael, please, let me explain. Let me show you something,” he pleads as he approaches, offering me his hand. His eyes are glassy, and the confident man that I’ve come to know—or at least, thought I knew—has slumped shoulders.

I stand there, motionless, contemplating whether or not I care to hear what he has to say. There is a little voice that tells me I need closure. Aiden and I never ended our relationship like we should have. Even though Graham and I have not been together long, my heart needs to see this through to the end. If I’m going to move on from this betrayal, then I need to know everything. And even in my extreme emotional state, I’m still just a little bit curious to see what he wants to show me, hoping that there’s a reasonable explanation.

I slap his hand away but follow as he leads me down a hallway with four closed doors. My heels make a
click, click, click
noise that sounds deafening in this dark tension-filled space. An air conditioning vent overhead blows cool air as I walk underneath it causing my nipples to pebble. Suddenly, feeling very vulnerable, I tie my dress closed.

Graham stops in front of the last closed door which has a keypad built into it. He turns and stares at me with sad eyes. “This is not how I wanted to tell you. I swear … I …” He pauses and drags a hand through his hair. “I was going to tell you. I was trying to find the right time and the right way.”

“Open the door, Graham,” I demand, putting my hands on my hips.

He looks down at the hardwood floors, and then at me. His eyes have changed. They’re softer—more relaxed. He opens his mouth to speak, but shuts it again. I’m tempted to scream
spit it out
, but I don’t. He takes a deep breath, lets it out, and then grabs me by my waist.

My initial reaction is to slap his hands away. I don’t, because even though I hate him right now, there’s something I find soothing about his touch.

He licks his lips, and makes sure that he has captured my eyes before he speaks. “Rachael, I love you. I’ve …”

Before I can stop my hand, I’ve slapped him across the face. His mouth drops open as his head whips to the side. He stoically reaches up and begins to massage his cheek. I’m also surprised by my actions, but then again, everything that I’ve done since I met him has been a surprise.

“How dare you?” I scream as I back away from him. “How could you let the word ‘love’ exit your mouth after what you’ve done? You’re a bastard. And an asshole. And a …”

His mouth slams into mine, silencing me. I use my teeth to seal my lips tightly as his tongue pleads for entry. Using all of my strength, I place my hands on his chest to push him away from me, but he’s an unmoving statue. Violently, I snap my head to the side, stopping his advances.

He steps back to the locked door. His cheek is red, and his eyes are black. The vein that’s bulging on his forehead matches the ones that are straining on his neck. I don’t care if he’s angry. He can join my party. The nerve of him, to think that telling me he loves me, and then trying to kiss me will solve this. I’m not a love-sick teenage girl.

“Fuck you, Jackson. Open the door,” I spit.

He turns around and punches a code into the panel next to the doorknob. He flings the door open with such force that I half expect the knob to dent the wall. He steps back, allowing me entrance.

The room is large. I’m not sure if it was once the master bedroom or if he converted a garage into a recording studio, but it’s definitely an anomaly for whenever this home was built. There are mixing boards with knobs and dials along one side of the wall. Speakers dot the ceiling and are mounted in all four corners of the room. I stand there in awe of what they’ve built.

There’s what appears to be a large telephone booth that dominates a quarter of the room. I walk towards the entrance, very curious as to what’s inside. Upon entering, I feel like I’ve been transported to a recording studio on the Sunset Strip. There are multiple microphones on stands, and the walls are lined with grey foam that would seem to dampen the sound. I tap on the glass. It’s so thick. I have no experience with recording studios, but even to a novice, I can tell that this is a very expensive set-up.

I exit the booth and walk over to handcrafted shelves hung above the mixing boards. They’re lined with rows of colorful binders that remind me of a bag of Skittles candy. The binders are labeled with politicians’ names that I recognize, but I don’t bother to stand there long enough to discover who they’ve deemed worthy of their own binder.

There’s a circular table nestled in the corner with four rolling chairs surrounding it. Two dry-erase boards hang near the table. I walk over to them, studying what the Sons of Liberty have written. I can only assume that I’m reading the notes for this week’s shows. The first bullet point reads,
Border Security: We spend $$$ on kids from other countries while American kids die from the flu
.

The next bullet point asks the question,
Did American men and women die in vain in Iraq just to have the country worse off than when Hussein was in charge?

All ten bullet-points ask questions that are important like these. Hell, this same board could easily hang in the White House. These are issues that me, along with a team of the smartest people in the world, struggle with on a hourly/daily/weekly basis.

The other dry-erase board is filled with phrases one would expect to find in a fraternity-house basement.
How many dates before a guy can ask for a blow job?
and
Tips for how to get out of licking puss if it smells
.

The one that hits particularly close to home is,
Ways to avoid having to bring her home for the holidays.

There’s also a chart that looks something like a matching game. It seems to be how they keep their sources straight. I read
White House Betsy Ross
. Next to it is a line drawn to the words
immigration reform.

My face twists in disgust. This is the man who I thought I was falling in love with—maybe even already have. The man who I saw as my future could write and discuss such filthy and degrading topics about women. Here I am, Rachael Early, glass-ceiling breaker, first woman to hold the title of White House Chief of Staff to the President of the United States, and I let myself be tricked into falling for a misogynist. I almost laugh out loud when I remember him using that word to describe the Sons of Liberty.

Suddenly, I feel as stupid as the girls that go on reality television shows to find their husbands.

“Wow, Graham. I see you have important topics to discuss this week with your friends.” I turn around and head for the door. “I’d hate for my presence to keep you from your noble job.” I can’t look at him. I stare at my shoes as I walk away.

“Wait, Rachael. I have something else to show you.” His desperation stops my retreat, and I’m not sure why.

I turn around, meeting his eyes. I feel pity for the creature that stands before me. He truly believes that whatever else he wants me to see will change my opinion of him, but frankly, there is nothing that can do that. This is every bit as awful as I had imagined.

I reach up, running my hand over the red mark on his cheek, and give him a sad smile. “I was falling in love with you also. You played me well. It’s not very often that I concede, but you’ve won. I’m sure your listeners will get a kick out of hearing about how you fucked Tinker Bell. Make sure you mention that you were so good that the pixie had a wet dream about you. Your followers will really get a kick out of that,” I say, sardonically.