Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

The Carter Confrontation

Jimmy Carter was invited to the White House, but not by George, by his father. He wouldn’t tell him why nor would Reagan. Reagan was the one who was more fond of him, so it didn’t make sense as to why Bush would invite him. The younger George, nor any other member of his staff knows that this meeting is taking place. This is how it will go, start with some small talk, start with current news and how he's holding up, then present the real situation. Pierre Trudeau's son.

"How are you?" Bush asked, shaking his hand and pulling him into a hug. "Good, good, how are you two?" He faced him again. "Fine." They both said. They were occupying Bush's office, the son's office, and the Oval Office. Something like this isn't done, at all. Something put the other man on edge but he didn't convey it with his face.
"Okay, did you know that Pierre Trudeau had a son?" Bush angrily asked. Jimmy’s usually calm demeanor swiftly changed, but expression-wise remained the same. "Now might as well be the time, I did.” He sighed. The two men gave him shocked looks, mainly George.

"He’s in his twenties right?” Reagan asked. Jimmy nodded. “He should be 25 or 26. He has a late birthday." Bush scoffed. "I don’t give a damn if he has a late birthday. If he had a child, who has been alive for the past 25, 26 years, why the hell have we not known about it?"

Jimmy had two options, he could lie, or he could tell all. Now, it was time for a full demeanor shift.

"Hold on, I don’t know who you’re talking to, you invited me here under false pretenses and now you’re grilling me about one of my dead friends?" Carter retorted. Bush fired back at the man, and quickly. "Your? Your dead friend? He was my friend too! I knew him longer than you did! We both did!” Reagan chimed in from his chair, “We just don't understand that you knew about him. Seems very fishy..."

"So I’m asking you again if you knew that he had a son, why didn’t you say anything?"

Jimmy took a breath.

"When Pierre got sick, worse than before, he brought me, Margaret, his new girlfriend, and a couple of others into his room to talk about something. He wanted to tell us his final things before he passed. That’s when he told me and the others who didn’t know that he had a son, named Justin. He went on to explain that he was going to become the next Prime Minister. I was of course shocked, but he said that he hid his son because of that. In their country, it would've been controversial for him to hand his office over to his son immediately after he dies.” The two exchanged looks, and Carter continued. "I still didn't know why he waited to tell us this, mainly Justin as a whole. I wanted to know why Margaret didn't say anything either, that's his mom, she has to love him, and she does, right?"

Margaret Trudeau was a wonderful woman, in all of their eyes. In Carter's own words, she came second next to Rosalynn, his wife. She was sweet, caring, good-looking, compassionate, loving, and carefree in a good way, everything you could want in someone. Pierre met her when she was 18, he was 47, almost a full thirty years older than her. The age difference wasn't discussed as much due to Margaret's maturity, but it was something that still didn't sit right with Carter. They wed in 1971, four years before Justin was born. Carter was in attendance and was happy for both of them. They seemed happy, both to them and the public. It was far from that.

It was the wrong person, wrong time. The two had many talks about Pierre and the way he was verbally and mentally abusive toward her. She swore he never hit her, but to Carter, it sounded like he did.

The only thing that she had was Justin, that was her pride and joy, and she was robbed of him. He would later find out that Justin was raised outside of the Canadian government, away from his parents, mainly his father, and raised by nannies and servants. Margaret made many attempts to see her son, some successful, some not. Many of them weren't. She sobbed on the phone to him on one occasion, lamenting over her son, and how many days she hadn't seen him. The longest duration of days she hadn't seen Justin, at least the amount she had told him, was 397. That's longer than a year. That pained him. He has a child, at the time, a small child, not too older than Justin, and like Justin, an only child. Amy was, and is his pride and joy, along with Rosalynn. To go without them for 397 days would kill him. It made him physically nauseous to think about that.

"If she loved him so much, still, why didn't she go out and say anything?" Reagan asked. Bush nodded while Jimmy composed himself again. "Yeah, since you're saying she had all of this love for her son, why didn't she do anything?"

"I don’t know why! She couldn't! Margaret has a mental illness! If she would have said anything, no one would believe her! I didn't believe her when she told me this for the first time! That child was raised out of the government! And when I say that, I mean away from his own mother and father! I don’t know why he did that, but he did! Save that energy with Pierre and use it for Justin! for all I know, and all everyone else knows, he had another child, one that's older than him!" George's heart slowed, then abruptly stopped. Could that be true? Pierre told him everything, sure he didn't know about Justin, but now there's another one?

"What? What's their name? Do you know who?" Reagan asked, growing worried. "I don't, that happened way before me. He did tell me that it was a boy, not too older than Justin."

He put his hand over his mouth, preventing any scream or noise from coming out, and letting himself completely go in front of the men. Pierre told him everything, he had more time with Pierre, he was the one that loved Pierre, and he loved Pierre more than anyone else did, possibly even Margaret. He felt betrayed.

"Look, I understand that you, the both of you, we're very close with him, and had a better relationship with him, but he was very secretive. He wasn’t a perfect person at all. You need to take into account that he abused his wife and only child. He had the ability to take care of his son, he wasn't struggling, at all. He just didn't."

George was still processing all of the information but mainly questioned one part. "How is that child abuse?" George asked. Jimmy looked up in shock, then scowled at him. "What? How is that child abuse? Are you being serious right now George?" He shook his head. "No, I am being serious, explain to me how that's child abuse." Jimmy scoffed, would there be even enough time to? He took time to think, to think about all the times, ones aside from Margaret and ones with her, ones with Justin, ones with others, including himself, that he could share. There were so many, but he considered it.

"Knowingly having a child, because he was planned, and deciding out of the blue to not take care of it, and raise it, that's child abuse. You are robbing that child of a loving parent, robbing him of a father and all of the things that come with a father. Child abuse, or abuse period, doesn't revolve around hitting. There's verbal abuse, which he has done, mental abuse, which he has done, financial abuse, which he has done, and sexual abuse, I'd have to get word from Margaret for that one." He explained, holding out a finger for each point he listed. "But what I'm still trying to understand is, you both have children, more children than Pierre and I combined! You two are all about family. You two raised your children, I can imagine it was hard, but you didn't give your child away and then not allow the mother of the child not to see him. The both of you did what you needed to do, Ronald raised five beautiful children, and George raised five beautiful children. Pierre wasn't struggling, at all. In no way was that man struggling. He had the time, and the money to raise him, but didn't put forth the effort.

"Yes, he was! Sure, he might’ve had the money, but he was so scared to be a father. That was something he told us! Something he told me!" He shouted. "You don't know that! You don't know anything! You weren't even there! You don't know him like I did." Bush ranted.

"That might be true, but I knew Margaret, the entire time. She was the one who let me and Rosalynn in on what was going on. She told me more of the things she said than Rosalynn because I had some connection with Ronald. That meant that she was hoping I could get word to him, and he tell Pierre what he was doing was wrong. She was hoping that, if you or George, would say something to you, it would get through to him." There was another pause, so he went on. "Margaret came to me when she had no one else, and most of the time, she didn't. She has cried to me I don't know how many times. All she wanted, more than ever, more than fixing her marriage, was to see Justin. At one point, she told me that she would go through all of that again, all of it, just to see him. If you knew how much that was, even if I knew the entire situation and all that entails, that is so much. That's love. That's love and perseverance, all for a man that didn't love her and abused her child. Whether you like it or not. That is child abuse. That's neglect. He chose not to take care of his child. Why he did that, we will never know. To me, it looks like he cared about his image so much that he'd abuse his wife and child and not raise the child at all."

Bush scoffed once more. "That’s not neglect. When they got divorced, he made it his top priority to raise his son. Margaret wasn’t even there!"

"What? Are you kidding me? You know damn well tha-" He stopped himself before he said anything else. "Justin was either a preteen or in his teens when they got divorced. So it was only then that he made him his top priority? Is that what you’re saying? Even if he did, that means that he didn’t step up as a parent for the first twelve to thirteen years of his life! The media put it as, 'Poor Pierre, he has to raise his son by himself because his wife left him.' She tried to make it work! She tried her hardest to make it work!"
Another pause. George kept his annoyed expression as Jimmy continued talking.

"I cannot believe that you are defending him! What if he thinks what he did is normal? What if he thinks that was okay? What if he marries a girl, a nice, sweet, and caring girl, and treats her the same? What if he has a child, and does the same thing to them? Would you do what he did? Would you send one of your children away to be raised by someone you don’t even know?"

"Lord knows one of them needed it." He muttered, emphasizing the ‘one’.

It hurt how he knew which child he was talking about. Out of the five he had, he knew which one. It physically pained him that he knew which child he was referencing. "Don’t talk shit about Neil to me. Don’t talk shit about any of your children to me. Neil is perfectly fine, god bless him…" Jimmy snapped.

Though this was about Pierre and his treatment of Margaret and Justin, it could also be about George’s son. The reason why he brought their families up was that both of them loved to praise them. George didn’t do that with Neil, and Reagan didn’t do that with Ron. Reagan almost disowned Ron because he was a danseur, which is the male term for a ballerina. Both tried and tried to win their approval, but eventually, they just stopped. No child should have to do that in the first place. But again, this was about Pierre and his son.

"This isn’t about your children. This is about Pierre and his child. What he did was wrong. It was abuse, it was neglect. It was everything under the umbrella of abuse other than physical. Pierre wasn't a good person, he was a terrible person." He continued.

"And on top of all of this, there's another one..." Reagan sighed. George put his back to Jimmy after that comment, finally taking into account the validity of that if true. "There could be. Pierre has said so many things." Jimmy retorted. "Wait, is this the one he called... what was it... Alejandro? Alexandre? Sacha?" He questioned. Jimmy nodded but in disbelief. "Yep. I used to call him Sacha-Alexandre. It was very brief, but his name still came up."

"What? No. No..." George trailed. "I at least knew some ground about Justin. If Pierre had Alexandre-Sacha, or whatever his name is, I would have known about it."

"Hold on, if you knew that Justin existed, why didn't you say anything to me? I didn't know about him at all. You told me you didn't know about him." He stayed silent. They all simultaneously realized George had lied, to both of them, and himself. "Pierre kept a lot of things from us, George..." Reagan said reluctantly, realizing that Jimmy was right. "But you knew! Both of you knew! Ronald, you held him! Pierre brought him to one of the G8 summits a while back. It was the first one you had!" Jimmy exclaimed. Reagan scrunched his face before he responded. "What? No, I didn't! Pierre didn't ever let me around him. That might have been you."

Jimmy was fed up. For a man that never gets mad, is always sweet no matter what, fed up was an understatement. It was out of nowhere, but he stood. The men sunk a bit in their chairs, thinking the worse. Instead, he left for a few minutes. They didn't say anything in his absence.

"No! Not from me. I was the one he told everything!" He shouted.

"You're not the only one who misses him. In a way, I miss him too." Jimmy said. Reagan nodded.

"You can't understand how I feel, neither of you had what we had!" He shouted once more. Finally, George did it. Tears welled up in his eyes, and he let them fall. He was crying, sobbing, into Jimmy's arms. "I know. I know." He said, trying to comfort him. "He was such an asshole. You didn't deserve any of it, none of you did." Reagan let his tears fall as well, still taking in the damage and lies that have been let out.

"I was in love with him. I loved him so much, and Justin looks just like him. And that other baby... where is he?" He wailed. Jimmy hugged him tighter. "I don’t know. I promise it's okay. He was weird, very weird, but you don't have to deal with it anymore." That was the same question that Reagan started to ponder. Who is Alexandre? Where is he?

Campaign Press Secretary-Elect Pierce Bush

Papers once again cluttered the table, and now the walls for Bush's campaign. Jenna was voluntarily put in charge of her father's campaign, with her new friend Henry coming in second, having flown in from Texas to intern under their dad, and given the finance director position. Pierce got third and was given press secretary, or communications director, though she didn't want it. She called her godfather to tell him about it, and both he and her godmother advised her to take the position and make the most of it, which sounded dumb. Plus, this new guy, a friend, got a higher position than she did.

"PB, if you're not going to help, leave. There's already so much stuff in here," Jenna sighed.

"Oh, fuck you!" She yelled. "But, you know that John Kerry's daughters are doing the same thing, right?" She asked. "What are you talking about?"

Henry pulled out more stickers and pins. "Oh yeah, Kerry's kids are campaigning for him. Safe to say, I think they copied us."

Jenna sighed. "That's okay, they might be nice. We're going to have to meet them someday." Pierce frowned, not only are they campaigning for their dad, the Kerry's are doing it too. Talk about originality.

"And really, we won't have to do that much anyway. Your dad is gonna win the nomination again, simple. All we really have to do is get this stuff out." He explained. There was a big sigh from Pierce. "Oh thank God. I hate this type of stuff." She got up and tried to leave the room until Henry spoke again. "Except you. You're the press secretary, PB. You have the biggest job out of all of us."

"Don’t call me PB, I don’t even know you and you don’t know me. Besides, what do press secretaries even do?" She huffed. They both shrugged.

"Dad has one, go ask him for help or something," Jenna said. Oh, Fleischer. Isn't that the man that stayed with them during the terrorist attack? She promptly left the room.

"I'm sorry, Henry," Jenna said, "She'll have to get used to... well... everything. If she wasn’t related to me, you’d think she’s a head case…"

Laura was in the kitchen cleaning up the pots and pans she used when Pierce walked in. "There's my press secretary! How's work going?"

"Boring. Where's the actual press secretary?" She asked. "You can check the briefing room, why?" She asked. "Because I have no idea what I'm doing. I don't know what a press secretary does. And, instead of proceeding with work without knowing what I'm doing, I'm asking for help. Aren't you proud?" She asked, taking two of the cookies she made and left through the back door. She was gone before her mother could comment on anything her daughter said to her.

Instead of trying to find his office, she went to her dad's mainly because she didn't know where the room was. This was embarrassing, she didn't want to ask him for help, especially with finding a room in the house. Plus, they had a big argument and haven't spoken since. Nevertheless, this is something she had to do to prevent herself from looking stupid. She gave the door a knock. "Door's open!" She heard him say. Instead, she stood there, standing in front of the door. She has seconds to plan her next move before the door opens, or maybe he won't open it. "Look who came back," or "Look who's finally outside!", she imagines him saying. Maybe she could find his office on her own. "Doors open." He says again, slightly annoyed. She walked away but ducked behind a wall to make sure he didn't see her. "No one's out here Mr. Bush." Someone said. She didn't know who. The door shut again.

"White House Press Secretary, this is Ari Fleischer."

Ari Fleischer. Ari Fleischer! That was his name! Oh.

"Uh, hello. I don't know really what a press secretary does. This is Pierce by the way. Pierce Bush."

"Oh, okay. You're one of the president's daughters. What can I help you with, kid?"

"I'm the press secretary of my dad's campaign."

"Ooh! That sounds fun, that's what I do!"

"Yeah, that's why I wanted to get to you. I know nothing, yet it's the biggest job out of the entire campaign."

"Don't worry, I can help you out. Can you come by today?"

"I would if I knew where your room was."

"Oh, yeah, sorry about that. It's hard to find. If you go outside where the garden is, there are doors near the end of that side of the building. Walking in, there's another door. That's my office, you can't miss it."

"Thanks. I'll be there in a minute."

That was easy, asking her dad wasn't. She got to the doors of the garden but stayed back to check if anyone was out there. The coast was clear, but a reporter could be hiding somewhere in the bushes. She sprinted across the small area of the garden and into the press room. It was eerie not seeing anyone in there. Now for his office. He said she couldn't miss it, and she couldn't. Upon looking at the door in question, she was taken aback by it. It was decorated, somewhat like Jenna's was back at the house in Midland. It had his last name, a bunch of stickers, and glitter. Just like Jenna's. She knocked on the door.

"Hold on a second." She heard him say. "The door's open!"

She opened it, very slowly. He was on the phone with someone. He perked up and got his feet off the desk when she walked further in. "Yeah, yeah, tell them not to do that. But look, my intern's here, I have to go. Yeah. Love you to the moon and back." He motioned for her to sit in the chair in front of the desk. He finally got a look at her and was in shock. "Yeesh! Are you dead? Are you dying?" He asked. "No, but it feels like it." She replied, not sure if he was joking or not. "I get it, I'm just going to ask you a few questions. Are you a patient person?"

"I can be. I think so. I don't know." She said. He wrote something on his notepad. "Okay, can you write fast?"

"Yep."

"Can you run without sleep for an extended period of time?" He asked. "Of course, I'm doing it right now." She said looking around his office. "I can tell. That's great!" He laughed.

"It is? My parents get onto me about it."

"Yeah, it's not that big of a deal. Not saying you don't get any sleep at all, you have days where you sleep. But the press comes before that. The press doesn't sleep at all. Don't let that get to you."

"But first, we have got to get you cleaned up. You look a mess. That's one thing about this job, you have to tell things like it is. If you want to be a press secretary, your father's campaign press secretary at that, maybe even the White House Press Secretary, you have to look good." He exclaimed, mainly motioning to himself as an example. "What are you going to do?" She asked scared. "Nothing major. You need to shower and wash your face to try to get those dark spots from under your eyes. You need to fix your hair, clothes, posture, and how you speak."

"What? I don't speak right?" She said.

"You speak perfectly fine, you just need to improve it."

"Improve it? What's wrong with it?"

"You speak too low. You don't have to get mad and yell, just speak up louder. I'll arrange something to help with that. You know who Kevin Martin is?"

"No, who is he?"

"He's the FCC Chairman. He has glasses like me, but he's younger. This is what I'll do, I'm going to arrange a mock press meeting, with real people, and really real cameras. You're not going to be recorded, but it's going to seem like you are. This will help you get used to people being in your face all the time." He explained. Pierce frowned, she forgot to tell him she hates any and every from of human interaction. Plus, she doesn't talk to her own family. "Please don't tell me you have a problem with that..." He said in her silence. She remained so, then he really became worried. "Oh no. But see, that's what this is for! Maybe your dad put you here for a reason."

"That's what you have wrong, my dad put me here because he wants help. I didn't want the job, but he made me have it. I hate doing anything with the campaign. I was barely here the last time."

"At least you have been here. We can't waste any more time, go get cleaned up, and try to look nice. Put a new hoodie on, all that jazz, but know you can't wear hoodies when you actually do this job." He said. She slowly turned to him from the door. "What? I can't wear a hoodie?" Ari laughed like she was being sarcastic, the look on her face said otherwise. "Look at what I have on, look at what anyone else that works here has on. Do you even spend time with your parents?" He asked. "Nope." She said, shutting the door.

"That explains a lot..." He muttered under his breath. Now, time to make another phone call.

"Hello?" Someone said.

"This is White House Press Secretary Ari Fleischer, can you transport me to Kevin Martin?"

"One second..."

A few moments later, he picked up.

"This is the Federal Communications Commission Chair, how may I help you?"

"Kevin, Mr. Martin. I need your help."

"What? Ari? If you're pranking me, let me know in advance so I can have time to experience it."

"Oh, it's not that at all. I do need your help. I need you to be the punching bag for one of the Bush twins competing in a debate. A mock debate. I'm training her to be the press secretary of Bush's campaign and I can already tell she's a fighter."

"Okay, I'm in. What all do I have to do?"

"Nothing, just improvise. Be careful though, this one has a lot of pent-up frustration and someone needs to be her punching bag. I'm not doing that. You're perfect for it!" He exclaimed.

"I got it, just let me know when."

"You know I will. I'll make sure not that many people are there so you won't get made fun of if your fiance comes in."

"Wait, how did you kno-"

Ari swiftly hung up, leaving Kevin still holding the phone, confused.

Bush was still in his office trying to come up with more effective ways to get his campaign rolling. Technically, it was rolling. People already have assignments to do, the last thing that needs to be in place is the announcement for re-election.

"I mean, the time is now to start campaigning. I can't think of anyone who would want to run against me." He said with glee.

Karl nodded. "I don't think there's anyone running against you, sir. Other than Kerry."

No one really discussed his opponent. It felt off. The campaign already got a late start, but there hasn't been a word said about John Forbes Kerry. All Bush knows is that he's a senator, and is the chair of a hand full of senate committees.

There is one person that can attempt to clear this up for him, someone who can make sense while explaining.

"Do you know where Condi is," Bush asked, "I need her input."

Karl shook his head. "No, I don't, sir."

"Dang it," he said picking up the phone, "I'll find her."

"White House Press Secretary, this is Ari Fleischer."

"Ari, you need to get me Condi, stat."

"Not even a 'hello' or 'how are you' first? Yeesh!" He joked.

"Whatever, just get me Condi. Let her know that I need her in my office right now."

"You got it, but do you know what you're doing about this campaign?"

Bush rolled his eyes. "Working on it now, that's why I need Condi in my office."

"What's she gonna do? She's not the campaign manager."

"That doesn't matter."

"Fine, drag other people into your campaign. You always have to put more work on me. To that, Mr. President, I say, thank you."

"You know, if I didn't have any respect for you, I'd fire you," Bush muttered.

"That means a lot," he said sarcastically, "Give Condi about ten seconds, she'll be there."

"Thanks.

He set the phone down. "He said ten seconds." Karl nodded and looked toward the door.

Condi made it to the room in what seemed like five seconds. "What's going on? Ari made whatever this is sound really urgent."

Karl and Condi saw each other and didn't know what to do. The simple answer would be to not really acknowledge each other. Condi would know to do this, but her judgment was flawed. She looked at him once before Bush caught her attention.

"Condi," Bush said smiling, "nice to see you this morning! We need your opinion on a few things."

She nods and sits down in the chair to the right of Bush's desk. "I'm all ears, Mr. President."

"It's official that I'm running for re-election. What do you know about John Kerry? And John Edwards. If they're the ones running, then I would at least want to know who he is and what he stands for."

"Hmm. Where would you want me to start? Which John would you want me to start on?"

"Start with Kerry. Edwards is Dick's problem," Bush said.

"Alright then. John Kerry attended Yale University like you, majored in political science, and has three purple hearts from his service in the military."

Karl's mouth fell open. "Three? What do you have to do to get three of those?"

"You have to be wounded or killed while serving in order to get one," Condi chimed in. "Knowing this, Kerry has been wounded at least three times whilst in the service."

"Ha," Bush laughed, "What a wuss! I've spent time in the military and wasn't hurt once! Even if I was hurt, I wouldn't make a public scene about it."

The two nodded.

"Wait," Karl said, "you said he went to Yale, right?"

"Right," Condi replied.

"You went to Yale, Mr. President. Your daughter goes to Yale. You and Kerry are around the same age, right?"

"Not really. I'm fifty-seven. Are you trying to call me old?"

Condi smiled. Seeing Condi smile made Karl smile. "No sir, but I'm pretty sure the two of you were in the same graduating class."

Bush scoffed. "There is no way he was in the same class as me. I would've seen him. We made fun of geeks like him!"

"What makes you think he was a geek? Or a nerd? People change over time. I think Kerry was one of those people," Karl explained.

An idea came to Condi's mind. "We can ask Ari to find the yearbook. Simple. He could get it to us within the next hour."

"Ari? You want to bring Ari into this?" Karl asked.

Condi stood and made her way to Bush's desk. "It's a good idea. Ari knows how to find things quickly and we can use this to our advantage. Not only can this answer a big question that we have, it could also give us more information on what kind of person John Kerry is." She explained, reaching for the phone on the desk.

Bush covered the phone with his hand just before Condi touched it. "Hold those horses Cond. We don't need too many people knowing about our search efforts."

"I agree with Bush," Karl said, "If word gets out that we forgot to do our homework way ahead of the debates, it would make us look unprepared and want to take every piece of information we can."

The two looked at Karl as he explained his reasoning. Condi's look is filled with more concern and adornment. She tries to keep up with every detail in a situation, but if she forgot something, Karl would be right behind her with the detail she forgot. That's what she likes about him. He may be prone to an anxiety attack when he gets nervous, but he pays attention to the things that other people wouldn't, similar to Ari, but it's more personal.

"Earth to Condi," Karl said waving his hand in front of her, "Did you reach a verdict?"

"Yes, I have," she said, reaching for the phone under Bush's hand.

Bush sat back and let her take the phone. Though he was concerned with how she was going to deal with this, he admired her passion. She's slightly advocating for something that she believes in. The two men stared intently at her back while she dialed Ari's extension.

"White House Press Secretary, this is Ari Fleischer."

"Hey, I need a favor from you, fast."

"Ok, who's coming to the dinner, and how many tables do we need? I can get a caterer on the horn in two minutes."

"What? No, nothing like that. This is something small."

"Oh. Go ahead then."

"I need to get a yearbook from you."

"Ooh, I feel like I'm back in high school working on the yearbook committee."

"Come on, stay focused. I need this specific book in the next hour. It's for the campaign. Yale University, graduating class of 1966."

"The campaign? How?"

"I'll tell you all about it later. Yale University, graduating class of 1966."

"Later? How about now? It gives me more of a reason to get you this book."

"No. Yale University, graduating class of 1966."

"Fine, give me thirty minutes, thirty-five at the latest. You're welcome by the way."

"Thanks, Ari, you're the best."

"I know, I know, thanks for telling me again."

She put the phone back onto the switch hook. "See, we'll have that book in no time. And speaking of time, we can't waste it. We can look up information on John Edwards while Ari's getting the book."

The men looked at each other before responding. "Sounds great," Bush said, "Karl, could you find a laptop? Three of them would work."

"Sure, I'll be back," he said, leaving the room.

The two were now left alone in the room.

"So, you have any tricks left up those sleeves?" Bush asked. "I'd love to get more input on what we can do to get this campaign on the road."

"Hm, I would have to think about what more I could do. I wouldn't want your campaign to run based on tricks and sheer luck. It's unwise."

Bush nodded in an attempt to keep himself focused. Seeing her explain things to him with what seemed like an elevated level of concern made their connection better. He is willing to make their connection even better if he knows the right things to say.

"I really appreciate that. I'd really want you to work on the campaign with us, I understand if you don't want to, you're a very busy woman. You're the best foreign policy person I have on my staff."

She almost smiled at his comment, but she quickly returned back to the topic. "Speaking of foreign policy, if I may, have you considered making a public relationship with France and their president? I noticed that the two of you have had little communication. I could say that for a few other countries, but I'm mentioning France due to its position within the European Union. We're really close with the United Kingdom, why can't the same be said for France?"

"I understand. Tony Blair is just so darn friendly. I'm not sure about the Frenchie," Bush said, timidly. "Do you speak French?"

"Je parle français. Je le parle couramment en fait. La beauté d'être enseigné comme un enfant," she said effortlessly.

Bush sat in amazement. "I have no clue what you said, but I'll take that as a yes."

This time, she did smile. "I said that I was fluent in French. It's the beauty of being taught as a child."

"That's amazing. You surprise me each time I see you. I don't know how you do it. " Bush faced her with his body. He had her full attention.

Condi moved closer to the desk. "Mr. Bush, just think about it. I know you're probably tired of all of the extravagant dinners and dancing, but for Macron you just keep it simple."

Bush nodded in agreement. He was hypnotized. "I need your entire take on this," he said.

"We could invite him and his wife to the White House, and make him feel at home. If you want to, you and the first lady could discuss things over a meal. A private meal. Just the four of you. Then maybe a tour of the house. Then you and Macron could have a private moment to talk about future relationship endeavors. The day can end with a fun activity of sorts or sightseeing. Whatever works for you," she explained.

"I don't think Laura would want to have another meal with another world leader. How about you? You could be my translator," he offered with a smile.

She would be lying if she told him she wasn't interested. Her parents took her to Paris when she was very little. Despite the negative public interpretation of France, she grew to love the country’s culture and history. Not only is this an opportunity to enhance the security of two nations, but it's also an opportunity to meet new people. This is why she loves her job. She gets to travel and meet new people from all walks of life.

Would it be appropriate? This potential meeting would be between Macron, his wife, Bush, and preferably the first lady. For the president to appear alongside another woman while the French president is with his wife sets up an imbalance between the two. More importantly, Macron could get the impression that she's the first lady. To her knowledge, Macron hasn't seen Laura.

She looked into his eyes with interest. George knew it too. She wanted to say yes badly. It became physically restraining that she couldn't find the right explanation if she did say yes. She couldn't settle on one thing to keep it short and subtle. She couldn't say no outright either.

"I think I know what you're thinking," he said, interrupting her thoughts, "If you think it's a bad idea because you're a woman talking with us about foreign relations, don't worry about that. The French aren't used to having women in power."

She couldn't believe it. He missed the point entirely.

"No, that's not it. I know I'm capable of holding diplomatic discussions, and it doesn’t matter what the French are capable of doing, but wouldn't it be preferable to you if you and your wife appeared alongside Macron and his wife?" She asked. "Also, the French president knows how to speak English," she added.

Bush scoffed and almost started laughing. "No? You are the best asset I have in this administration. Therefore, I need you to have this dinner with me."

Condi opened her mouth to protest, but George held his hand up before the sound came out of her mouth. "That's an order. I am ordering you to hold this meeting between myself and the French president."

She stood up straight and walked to the middle of the room. Now she was panicking. She shouldn't be since the event didn't have a set date.

"I guess this would be a bad time to ask you to plan this whole thing out for me," Bush said getting up from his chair.

She turned to him with raised eyebrows and wide eyes. "What-" She stopped herself. "When are you planning to do this?"

"As soon as possible. Preferably in the next week," he meekly responded.

Condi took a deep breath and collected herself. "I’ll be willing to attend this event with you, Mr. President."

George’s smile had long faded, but it wasn’t coming back now. Her tone of voice startled him. His heart raced with the possibility that she was now angry with him for what he’s said. So what if they aren’t married? So what if they aren’t together at all? It would be nice to be with her for a night, to see how things go. He desperately wanted to get some alone time with her. Now that he has it, he’s messed things up.

"I think it's time I check on Ari," she said grabbing the phone. Bush instantly looked away from her. "Sure," he sighs, "ask him about that yearbook."

She dialed his extension again. She knows it like the back of her hand.

"White House Press Secretary, this is Ari Fleischer."

"I'll never get tired of hearing that. How's the yearbook search going?

"I told you, give me thirty minutes, but I did it in twenty-five. Check outside Bush's door."

She sighed in relief. "Thanks, Ari. You don't know how much this can help us."

"I want to think I do, but I'll take your word and say that I don't."

Karl walked back into the room holding the book in one hand and two laptops in the other. "How long was the book out here?"

"Not too long, Ari just called saying he dropped it off a few minutes ago," Condi said, grabbing the book from his hands.

She opened it and found a note.

Have fun.
From, the "best" person in the world

She folded it and slipped it into her blazer pocket. She held the book in her right hand and placed it on Bush's desk. Karl passed around the laptops.

He flipped through the pages until he found his yearbook photo. "Oh, my god. I've never seen this before."

The two looked up from their laptops. "You know we could've had the laptops here in the first place? Would've made this much easier," Karl said. Bush scoffed. "Doesn't matter, come look at this."

He held up the book and pointed to his picture. "That's me. I cut my own hair before this was taken."

The photo was of a much younger version of Bush with fuller hair, brighter teeth, and a more slick smile. Condi looked up from her laptop to take a peek.

"Nice, but look for Kerry. Anything with Kerry's face can be used for our efforts," Karl said.

Bush continued flipping through the pages. Karl and Condi pulled up various Wikipedia articles and tabs all relating to John Kerry.

"All sources point back to Kerry attending Yale," Condi said. Karl nodded. Bush sighed harder.

He continued flipping through the pages, becoming more nostalgic seeing old acquaintances and friends in what seemed like their happiest. They were engaging in their hobbies, their sports, and their interests. It was refreshing to see people happy.

"I didn't know you were a cheerleader back in the day," Karl said, "To be honest, I didn't know about half of the stuff you did back in the day."

Bush chuckled. He looked back at the pages he was present in. He primarily was the captain of the cheer team. Behind closed doors, he was a member of an elite society called the Skull and Bones Society. They operated in secrecy. Most of the members disguised their student profiles by becoming involved in other activities offered at the school, such as various sports and clubs.

A familiar face struck him when he came across the page showcasing the debate team. He was standing behind the row that was sitting down toward the left. He didn't think he knew him during his time at Yale. He shrugged it off and continued looking. Finally, he made it to the seniors' class page. He knew a few of those that graduated, but the face of the familiar man still lingered with him.

It started to bother him. He began to flip back to the pages that featured him. He flipped back and forth.

"Wait, show me what he looked like in the yearbook," Bush hastily asked. "I need to see something..."

He became more unnerved by the second. He called their bluff about Kerry attending Yale. He continues to call their bluff. If he attended Yale, he would've seen him somewhere. He wasn't involved in many activities like other students were, but being involved in the Skull and Bones Society allowed him to be amongst all sorts of people. He doesn't have any recollection of this man.

Condi typed something and turned the laptop around to show him. There were pictures of a much younger Kerry with a later Beatle-esque haircut. Bush nearly vomited. He looked down at the yearbook and saw that the same man with the same haircut was a member of the Skull and Bones Society. That was him. Kerry was on the debate team. He was the familiar man. He continued looking despite the aura of confusion and distress that filled the room.

In the debate picture, he proudly hoisted a first-place trophy with his name on it. There were several pictures of him with his trophies. Bush simply glossed over them.
"Well, he looks like Herman Munster to me," Karl said. Condi rolled her eyes. “Yeah, this is what we’ve been reduced to…”

He went as far as to flip to the sports pages. Kerry was in a number of them. Soccer, lacrosse, hockey, and even some aviation work.

"Are you sure you've never seen him apart from today?" Condi asked, noting the expression on his face. "I look at these and I could assume that you have seen him before."
The look on Kerry's face in the pictures seemed so arrogant. He looked at Condi briefly before looking at the same pages. "It can't be him..." He muttered.

Condi and Karl exchanged looks before looking at the president again. Karl was confused as to why seeing Kerry invoked so much emotion in him.

"He's- he-" Bush stammers.

"He's your classmate? We tried to tell you he went to school with you," Karl said.

Bush, still in shock, continued to mindlessly flip through the pages. Anything that he could find on him needs to be utilized in some form. Now standing, he realized that Kerry was

"I- I just can't believe it. That's all," he said, finally sitting down. "What have you guys come up with?"

"Kerry used to be the lieutenant governor of Massachusetts under Michael Dukakis. He's been a senator since 1985. All of his positions have been held back to back from each other." Condi said.

Bush couldn't hide how shocked he was. There is a chance that they have had a conversation or have been in the same room. He was in awe of all of it.

"Found something," said Condi, turning her screen around. "His grades weren't that great. He's a C-average student. You could use that against him."

Ari walked into the room with manilla folders in his hands. "John Kerry went to Yale but he had lackluster grades." He said, throwing them onto the coffee table in between Karl and Condi. "Almost every major text and exam is in there."

"You know you never let me have my own fun..." Condi sighed. "I was just getting to that. Technically, I got to it first."

"He couldn't have had grades worse than me. I was a 'C' student." Those in the room looked at him. Ari held his hands in the air in defeat.

"Come on! Now we can't use this!" He picked up the folders and made his way to the door again. "You win this one Condi, but next time I'll get my credit where it's due." He left the room. Condi laughed a little. Karl liked seeing her laugh and so did Bush.

They both returned to their research. Bush was still baffled by his revelation. If he and his team were looking up information on Kerry, then who's to say that Kerry's team isn't doing the same? He wanted to stop and take a break. His head was beginning to throb, and he could only think of one solution. He periodically looked at Karl to see if he could catch him staring.

He never looked at him. The only time he would look up would be to the door at his left. This went on for what seemed like forever.
Bush stood to his feet. "I wouldn't want to keep you guys here all day. I know both of you have important things to do. Just find more information on your own time and try to compile it for me." He explained.

They closed their laptops and stood. "Yes sir, Mr. President," Condi said. Karl remained silent. He looked at him and waited for him to repeat after Condi.

"Yes sir, Mr. President," he spoke. They turned their backs to him. Karl allowed Condi to walk in front of him.

God, he loved hearing that.

"Thank you," Bush said. "Karl, could you hang around for a bit? I'd like to discuss something with you."

Karl remained standing as he watched Condi leave, his back still facing the president.

"Have a seat, Karl," Bush said.

"What do you need to speak to me about?" He asked with his back still facing him. "Tell me what you need to say so I can leave."

"Turn around so I can at least see your face," he said. Karl slowly turned to face him. He didn't know what to expect out of him. George stared at him in sheer lust.

"You seem like you've been on edge for a while," George said. He was right.

“What makes you say that?” Karl asked, intentionally playing dumb. George raised an eyebrow and came from around the desk. “Close the door, will ya?” He asked.

Karl slowly walked backwards into the door and shut it with his own bodyweight. He and George never broke eye contact.

The click sound of the door flipped some sort of switch in their minds. Karl threw off his glasses while George rapidly tugged at his belt. As he was undressing himself, Karl began to do the same, almost mimicking the motions George was doing. There was some kind of art to them removing their clothes at the same time. One would look at the other while one wasn’t looking. George would start on an item of clothing and then quietly, but in a very sinful manner, admire how curvy he thought Karl was. Karl would look up periodically in order to attempt to satiate his hunger for whatever he wanted from George. He still wouldn’t allow himself to think how he wanted something so badly from a man. However, when confronted with it, his mind refused to allow him to care.

Karl made it to the zipper of his pants before he failed to notice George standing directly underneath him. “Now I see why you wear those glasses,” he joked.

Karl blushed a new shade of red, it was bright red and it looked unnatural. Not in a sickly way, but such a weird and unnatural way that it turned him on. The way he continued to fiddle with the zipper while blushing that bright red color drove George crazy.

“Here, let me help you with that…” he whispered.

He slowly and very intentionally closed the gap between themselves and snaked his free arm around Karl’s back. His right hand touched everywhere on his lower torso before reaching the zipper. He was doing this on purpose. Karl’s heart rate was faster than he could count. Each time George would touch him, he couldn’t do anything but twitch or squirm at the feeling.

“Come on now Karl,” George said, with his hand now in between his legs. “Are you going to let me do all of the talking?” Karl was in his own thoughts that he failed to notice that the zipper had been unzipped for some time.

“What could you possibly want me to say?” He shakily responded. George stopped smiling and began to inch his hand to the inside of his pants. Karl’s mouth fell open as a small, indistinct sound slowly emitted from the newfound space.

"I don't know, maybe... yes Mr. President, I want you to touch me," he said.

"Yes, Mr. President, I want you to touch me," Karl whispered. 

George began kissing the man, groping him, making sure that every part of his body was touched in some form.

The phone rang, which it hardly does. The last time it rang, and it wasn't Ari, it was Vladimir Putin. The ringing snapped him out of it and got him out of the mood.

"We can continue this another time. Catch up with your people before they notice that you're missing," Bush said. Karl nodded and reached for the doorhandle. Once outside, he realized that Condi didn't make it far.

He wondered what she would've heard if they continued.

"Why don't you ever ask me about what Bush says to me?" He asked.

"Because that's between you and the president. I've learned that the best thing I can do while in Washington is mind my own business," she replied.

He was relieved to hear her say that.

The (Practice) Debate

Pierce was given index cards with words and phrases about topics she knew nothing about. The economy, foreign policy, the wars, she knew nothing about them. Ari came from behind the curtain to see who was there, he got more people than he expected. Karen Hughes, the entire cabinet minus Cheney, and Rumsfeld, even John Ashcroft showed up.
"Mr. Fleischer, do I have to do this?" She asked. Ari put his hand over his chest. "Oh God, don't call me mister. I'm not old yet!"

She stifled a laugh. She was nervous and came short of throwing up.

"Of course, you have to do this, you'll look smart like me!" He exclaimed.

"I don't know anything on this card and, the people out there do," she lamented.

"That doesn't matter. Sometimes I don't know what reporters are talking about. In that unlikely scenario, I just roll with it. There has never been a time when I didn't have a clue what they were talking about. You'll do great!" He exclaimed.

Pierce shook her head rapidly. "No. I'm telling you right now that I don't know what this is about, and everyone's here! They're going to think I'm stupid!"

Ari took a look around the curtain himself, there were many people in the room.

"They're not. Look, just go out and all you have to do is read what's on the card when asked a question. Kevin has questions and answers on his card too. They'll ask you the questions in that order on the card."

Pierce peeked at the card but Ari snatched it when he saw her. "Also, don't look at that all the time. There are going to be a few times when you get to say stuff that isn't on a card. That's the best part for me." He explained and handed her back the card. "Let me try to draw this crowd in. Good luck Pierce!" She opened her mouth to ask another question but he was already past the curtain.

"Hello everyone, welcome to the first 2004 United States presidential mock debate. I'm Ari Fleischer and I will be moderating this debate. From the mock democratic side, we have mock Press Secretary Kevin J. Martin. He represents Kerry." There was little applause from them. "Next, from the mock Republican side, we have soon to be, actual Press Secretary Pierce M. Bush. She represents President George W. Bush and the Bush campaign."

Ari nodded giving the okay. She walked up and held her hand out for him to grab hold of it. The only problem was she held out the wrong one. It was right for her. Kevin looked confused and leaned in to whisper to her. "That's the wrong hand." Ari waved his hands in the air and pointed to his right hand. He kicked himself for not realizing she was left-handed. She quickly switched hands and shook his.

"Alright, each candidate will have one minute to make an opening statement," Ari said, "we'll start with Press Secretary Bush."

She knew that opening statements were standard for a debate, but Ari didn't tell her that she needed one. She stood in one place trying to think of something to say.

"Hello, uh- I'm Pierce Bush and I'm not related to the president in any way. Vote for Bush in 2004."

A few chuckles were heard from around the room. She looked around and shrugged.

Ari chuckled too. "Alright, now to Secretary Martin."

"Hello. If you want change, security, and a better future for our children, you should vote for me."

"Alright, you've heard it from the candidates. We'll start with basic questions. What is something that you think you would be able to bring to the White House? Something that you think your opponent can't bring? Secretary Martin, you go first."

Kevin clears his throat and turns to the audience. "Ladies and gentlemen, thank you for being with us tonight. I think I can bring a sense of normalcy to the White House. America and the American people have been through enough. I encourage all of you to look into the whole war with Iraq and Afghanistan. Or don't. The internet doesn't provide much information about the subject, negative information, on the subject has been hidden. There have been attempts to uncover information and even disprove the claim of yellowcake uranium in Africa. The only problem is, people have tried, yet their efforts have been covered up. Just look up the Plame affair, and you'll know what I'm talking about."

"I would have to say that you're wrong. Why would my father say something that's not true?" Pierce asked.

Ari sharply turned to Pierce and shot her a look.

"Why would the president openly lie to the American people at one of the biggest events of the year?" She said again, earning a nod from Ari.

"Why would the president have to lie about anything? He is the president after all. I feel like he is an upfront and honest person," she replied.

Kevin scoffed. "It doesn't matter what you think. What matters is whether or not the American people are being lied to. Now, I'll ask you a question, Ms Bush, does the Bush administration openly condone people dying on their watch? Especially if they're innocent?"

Pierce was visibly confused. Ari sighed and kept his eyes locked on Pierce in the hope that she would respond with something as clever as he would.

"What?" She simply said.

"Ladies and gentlemen, I am here to tell you that the Bush administration openly condones killing civilians to get a point across. At some points, killing civilians in a foreign country is only done for the fun of it!" Kevin exclaimed, almost laughing at what he was saying.

Pierce couldn't tell if he was joking. She flipped through her flashcards while he continued. Ari wasn't there to help her. She had no clue what to say in response. Nothing that she would say would sound intelligent or well thought out. All that she did know was that the conversation was beginning to fill her with a deep rage.

"The Bush White House hasn't done a humane thing about the attacks on our great nation. All while those we know and love are dying, Bush sits and does nothing!"

"That's not true!" Pierce shouts.

"Of course it is! What has been done between September of 2001 and now? Other than the wars and the increase of taxes. Please don't forget about the wars and the increase of taxes."

"What about the Department of Homeland Security? Bush created that just to have an extra layer of security for the American people."

"But at what cost?" Kevin asked. "I want you to humor me, Ms. Bush. At what cost when the department doesn't do anything? The Department of Homeland Security is only there so Bush, who is also your father, can lie about the safety of this country!"

"This is the problem with political nepotism! Your daddy is just a scared little man who can't count on his daddy anymore. He's scared!"

"How is he scared? Tell me how he's scared!" Pierce shouts again.

Kevin ignores her and faces the audience. "Bush is a scared little man. He is a fraction of a man! He's unfit to be your president! And so is Ms. Bush. And it's sad. It's really sad when you think about it. There's some form of validation that the Bush family yearns for. I don't get it, but that reason alone is why they're unfit. We don't need an emotional crybaby as president. We especially don't need generational trauma in the West Wing."

As those words left his lips, she punched him from behind the podium. The room went silent as Kevin held his now injured jaw, unsure if it was broken. He realized it wasn't, or so he thought. The audience collectively sunk into their seats when Kevin removed his hand. Blood almost poured out of his mouth and simultaneously from his nose. Condi immediately came up on the stage and sat Kevin down to stop the bleeding. "Bush is going to be pissed..." John Ashcroft said. Ari shooed him off and continued assisting Kevin. He looked up at her, Pierce herself was mortified. She could no longer stand in place and watch as the man tried to recuperate but failed miserably. She took off outside.
The man's blood was on her hand, literally. Her knuckles were slightly bruised and his blood covered them.

"Is it bad?" She asked. Ari turned around and saw Kevin still on the floor surrounded by members of the room. "Oh, he'll be fine." He said. "Just think of it as a minor injury." Pierce couldn't find solace in that answer. It wasn't a minor injury, he was still on the floor with blood all over him.

Jenna just so happened to be passing through while on the phone with someone else. She appeared in the doorway again upon seeing that a man was on the ground.

"Jenna!" Condi shouted. "I need you to go get your father."

For a moment, she didn't respond. She just stood in shock looking at Kevin on the ground. It was difficult to find the cause of his current state until she looked at her sister and saw her bloodied left hand that she was trying so desperately to hide. A slick smile appeared on the elder twin's face as she slowly retreated further into the hall.

"Yeah, sure thing, Condi," she said leaving the room.

"Find a doctor if you can!" John Ashcroft shouted to no avail.

Pierce's heart sank. That smile meant that she was going to heavily exaggerate what she saw. Even if she doesn't, their dad will treat this like the end of the world. It began to physically pain her that she was still in the room with the man she hurt. She concealed her bruised and bloodied knuckles within her right hand. She stood alone, away from Kevin, yet still stared at him. She couldn't be in the same room as him. It began to physically pain her that she was still looking at him. The collective noises being made by those in the room made her ears start an unbearable ringing.

"I'm sorry. I'm so sorry. I have to leave." She said turning away and running out of the room into the Rose Garden.

Ari shot up and attempted to chase after her. "Stop! It's okay! He's fine!" He shouted.

"No, I'm not!" Kevin shouted. "There's still blood coming out! I'm going to faint!"

Karl was able to grab Ari's arm before he could go any further. "No, just leave her be. We can deal with her later."

She would be okay if she was far away from the room. How far is far? She just kept running. She kept running until she was back inside the house, somehow she made it to the kitchen without realizing it. She allowed her breathing to slow and made her way down the hallway. It was like she was mindless like she had committed a much larger crime and the feeling was just now setting in.

The roof was always the place to go to get away from everything. It was too loud in the room. The concerned voices of those in the room made her sick. She doesn't hate blood, nor is she terrified at the sight of blood, but Kevin's blood on the floor and his clothes made her sick.

She allowed herself to sit in a corner near one of the air vents. The brisk air on the summer day made for a more calming atmosphere. Her breathing gradually slowed. She peeked over the roof to see the National Mall, specifically the Washington Monument. She stared at it for a minute. If she had her sketchbook, she would be drawing the entire National Mall. She pulled out her phone and dialed numbers into the keypad instead.

"Hello?" A female voice said.

"Hey Chelsea, you won't believe what I just did."

"Oh, Pierce, what did you do?"

"The FCC guy. I think his name is Kevin. We were having a mock debate about my new job as press secretary. Well, he was talking some real smack. Anyway, he said something that made me mad. I forgot exactly what it was, but I punched him in the face."

"What? Why? Is he okay?"

"Yeah, he'll be fine. If I really wanted to hurt him, I would've."

"Pierce, that's not good..."

"Yeah, yeah, I know. I believe me, I do feel bad."

"You should," said Chelsea. "So, what's the damage looking like?"

"What?"

"How bad did you fuck him up? I want to know. You said you punched him."

Pierce stifled a laugh. "Chelsea Clinton! How dare you use those words! You know your mother would not be happy with you!"

"Oh, whatever, she doesn't care. Not too much at least. But you need to answer my question."

"Hm. Well, for starters, there's blood everywhere. I think I broke his nose."

Chelsea let out a large gasp. "No..."

"Yeah. But I feel bad," Pierce giggled, "I feel really bad."

"I have to go. My dad is having another dinner with his friends and he wants me to go. I'll be sure to call you when I'm finished with it."

"Deal."

She pushed the end call button and slumped up against the bearing. There was a feeling in her heart that wouldn't go away, even after ending the call with Chelsea. She desperately wanted to go to Chappaqua now.

"Barbara Bush! A word..." Cheney said looming over her.

"What do you want?" She asked, slipping the phone into her pocket.

"I know what you did," he began, "Kevin Martin's little 'accident'. An accident that you caused."

Pierce remained sitting as Cheney began to pace back and forth. She started to think of any options she had. She could try to run past him and hurry downstairs. She could attempt to shove him out of the way and tell him off, then run. She could even jump off the roof.

She was in the middle of questioning her next move when she stood and ran past him. Cheney simply turned and raised his hand, catching the end of Pierce's ponytail. She nearly fell backward from the force.

"What are you doing? Let go of me!" She shouted.

Cheney sighed. "You may want to stop talking. If someone hears you, they'll ask what's wrong and blow this thing wide open. We don't need the press to know the president's daughter has the potential to be a violent criminal."

Pierce stopped struggling and let her arms fall to her sides. "What?"

"Don't play stupid, Ms. Bush-"

She immediately cut him off. "Don't ever call me that again. You call me by my name, and I should call you by yours."

He momentarily let go of her hair. "Alright then, Barbara. I've been made aware of what you did to Mr. Martin. A lot of blood is on your hands. Literally." He said, taking note of the dried blood on her bruised knuckles.

"You want to talk about blood being on someone's hands? At least Kevin is alive!" She shot back.

"Really," Cheney asked, "is that what we're going to do? You're going to try to turn the blame on me? Why, Ms. Bush, I wasn't present."

Pierce rolled her eyes and backed further away from him. "First of all, it's Pierce. Second, this further proves my point. If you weren't there, how did you hear about it?"

"It's called being the vice president, you have to know things ahead of time." He scoffed.

Pierce didn't understand how she was still standing and conversing with him. She made a mental note of her surroundings and planned to run again. "I'm not doing this with you. If you want to know about something, just ask instead of stalking someone." She said, promptly sprinting away.

All Cheney had to do was hold his right hand up again and wait for her hair to get caught around his fingers. He clamped down on the end of her ponytail again as she nearly fell. Upon losing her balance, he inched closer and grabbed the hair closest to her scalp.

"Let go of me," she shouted, "Get your hands off of me!"

"Now, you have two options, Barbara. You could walk with me and we'll go sit in your father's office and I'll allow you to tell him about what you did. On the other hand, I'll tell him that you decided to punch the FCC Chairman in the face and let you deal with the consequences entirely by yourself."

Pierce tried to give her dilemma a bit of consideration. There weren't that many options. She was being held by her hair and forced into a position of submission. She could still try to fight him, but that would make her case worse.

"Fine," she sighed, "I'll tell my dad. Could you let go of me now?"

Cheney released his grasp. "Now, it wouldn't be wise at this point to run. Stay in front of me as we walk down to the oval." Pierce silently complied, feeling disgusted that she had to follow the directions of a man she despised.

"I'm going to shave my head, you know. Normal people don't like having their hair grabbed by someone to restrain them."

"That doesn't concern me," he said, "nor do I care." Cheney had a feeling that it was an empty threat.

"Dad! I think you want to see this one," Jenna said standing in the doorway.

As much as he didn't want to get up, the day began in the bedroom this time. Laura was already awake and dressed. "What's going on Jennabee?" He groggily said. "The real question is, what's going on with Pierce? I saw that she punched the communications guy in the face." That made him sit upright. "What?" They both said. Jenna smirked and nodded. "Yep. I don't know what he asked her but she pulled an Al Gore but this time she hit him. Hard."
George felt a burning sensation within him. He was already fed up with her and her attitude. "I'll handle this." He said quickly getting his clothes on and beginning a power walk down the hall. He walked near the Oval Office and overheard a voice from the room. "Now you know what you did was wrong, right?" He could tell it was Cheney. Finally, in the room, he saw who he was talking to, Pierce. Cheney turned to him then back to his child. "Oh, there you are. Finally, I heard that this one had a little incident with the FCC Chairman."

"Pierce, what is wrong with you? Honestly?" He asked. "He made you so mad that you punched him?" She sunk in her seat with every question he asked. "Would you like to explain to your father how this happened?" He asked as if he were a teacher reprimanding a student.

"It was a practice debate. The guy kept laying into me about foreign policy and terrorism and I didn't know what to say. Then he started talking shit about the family, and about you." She explained. Cheney perked up at the sound of her swearing. "Language." She scoffed and continued. "He kept going on and on about how lousy he thinks you are, so I had to do something about it! I'd punch him again if given the chance." Both men felt as if she was proud of what she had done. Bush's feeling quickly diminished when he remembered who she did this to.

"Kevin? She did this to Kevin?" He saw the dried blood and bluish area on her knuckles while she was trying to hide them. "Mr. Martin is looking at either a broken jaw or a broken nose..." Cheney began. "Proves I have range," she said.

"You've already been in jail once, do you really want to go back?" He asked. "This house feels like jail. I'm pretty sure he won't press charges anyway." She scoffed. "You're still going to apologize, without help from me."

"I'm pretty sure I can form an apology on my own..." She muttered. George sighed and continued looking through his papers. "Can you? Do you have the ability to say that you're sorry?" Jenna questioned. "I really don't think you do. Everything about you just screams that you're unable to own up to anything that you do."

"Do you ever shut the fuck up?" Pierce asked. "Or do you have to be the honorary spokesperson for Dad 24/7?"

George held his head in his hands. "Watch your mouth..."

"No," Jenna interjected, "I want to see her continually embarrass herself when people are trying to help her." The men looked at each other and then back at Pierce.

"If I have to defend myself and embarrass myself at the same time, so be it! I'd rather die defending myself than live being embarrassed," Pierce shouted as she left the room.
Kevin Martin was still on the floor. The bleeding had stopped and the White House doctor was tending to him. Everyone had calmed down. Pierce crept into the room without anyone seeing and stood behind John Ashcroft.

"This should heal in a few weeks," the doctor said, "if you continue bleeding, you may need to go to a hospital. You should be good for now."

Pierce stepped out from behind Ashcroft and held out her hand to Kevin. The others in the room quickly fell silent when they saw her.

He looked up at her, his glasses still having spots of blood on them. "You sure you're not going to punch me?"

"I promise," she said, taking his hand and helping him up. "I'm so sorry," she continued, "I swear I didn't mean to hit you that bad. Or hit you at all..."

Kevin shrugged. "It'll be fine after a while. Don't worry about it. I was too into the moment a few minutes ago."

When the others saw Kevin get up, the room lightened up. The sense of urgency magically disappeared. No one questioned her appearance or tried to speak with her about what she had done.

Kevin briefly peeled back the protective garment over his nose to feel the damage. The bridge of his nose was shifted more to the right side of his face. He rubbed his fingers along it, wincing in pain before placing the garment back over his nose.

He almost looked different. She didn't know who he looked like, but it was someone she had seen before. The new formation in his nose made the resemblance more uncanny, but she couldn't place it in her mind.

"Alright, I have more work to do. It would make it easier on everyone if you didn't punch anyone else. Not today at least," Ari said walking out. Karen followed him.

"So, the girl has anger issues..." Karen said. Ari shrugged and adjusted his tie. "Who doesn't have anger issues? In this kind of climate, it's hard not to."

"Do you seriously think she can handle this kind of responsibility? He didn't even insult Bush that badly, now he has a broken nose to show for it," she went on.

Ari continued walking in silence. Of course, what she was saying was right. Bush himself isn't a violent person. Cheney is a violent person due to provocation. Based on the interaction, Pierce has the potential to be violent and uses it physically. However, he knows in his heart that she’s not a bad kid. It seems like she’s been pushed around too many times.

"All I'm saying is that she can't go around punching people on the campaign trail," she sighed.

Ari takes a deep breath and rubs his hands over his face. "I'm not saying that. What I am saying is that I'm not doubting her. She needs guidance. She's our best option for the campaign. I know she'll be able to handle it. I can feel it."
Karen stopped walking when those words left his mouth. It took Ari a few seconds to realize she stopped in the hallway.

"What," he asked, "Why did you stop?"

"You can feel it? All of a sudden, you believe in someone?" She asked.

He folded his arms and walked closer in front of her. "What's your point?"

"My point, the point, is that you're not supposed to believe in anyone. This is Washington D.C.! We are standing inside the White House, not because we believed in someone, but because we didn't believe or depend on anyone else. Putting your trust in someone in this town is risky, putting your trust in someone that you don't know? How long have you even known her? Obviously not long enough to know that she's prone to breaking someone's nose when she's upset."

He stared at her in silence. His silence spoke volumes to her.

"This is just a surprise for me. You never put faith or your belief in anyone. I would understand why since I do it myself. It's the unspoken code of Washington. You're opening yourself up for failure and disappointment," she said.

The two were still standing in front of each other. Conversations like this usually involve getting into another person's face or yelling. Ari took what she was alleging as something serious, but he didn't yell. Karen believed what she was saying to be significant, but didn't feel the need to yell at him.

"This is just a tiny setback. Everything will blow over in a matter of days," he said resuming his walk.

"Sure. I have something to show you when you have a moment," she responded.

Karl saw Condi swiftly leave the room. He followed like a lost puppy, eventually catching up to her. "So, that was eventful."

"Very. Glad it's over now," she said looking behind her.

He grew concerned. The tone of her voice seemed agitated or on edge. It concerned him. During their walk, he slowly inched closer to her.

"So, how was your day?" He asked, putting an arm around her.

"Not bad. I have to stand beside Bush when the French president comes to town."

Karl smiled. "Why sound down about it? I think that should be fun."

"Let’s hope it will be. His wife will be there too," she added, hoping it would invoke some emotion in him.

"What, do you not like the wife?"

"I can't really have an opinion. I've never met her. That doesn't excuse me being uncomfortable," she refuted. “I just don’t want to have that dinner.”

"Oh, I didn't know it was like that. Maybe they'll make you feel welcome. I'm sure you'll be fine."

She sighed. There wasn't anyone she could turn to that voiced her opinion. If anything, if she appears alongside Bush, it would make it obvious that a woman can hold a very high position of power like this. Maybe it could invoke fear in them. Why would she want that? Everything about this meeting is about first impressions.

"Maybe you're right," she sighed.

Karl saw the uneasiness on her face. He couldn't understand why. She's a very powerful woman in his eyes. In his mind, she's a powerful woman no matter her title. However, no matter the title, this job brings stress and obstacles to anyone in its path.

As they walked, he held his hand out to hers.

"I swear, no one is around here," he said smiling, "it's safe."

She took his hand and smiled.

"If there's one thing that I'm proud to say I can do, it's that I can make you smile," he said, placing a kiss on her forehead.

"Do you want to get dinner again?" He asked.

She smiled. "How could I say no to that?"

Someone was still watching. Someone was still lurking around, ducking corners, and hiding.

Pierce’s phone vibrated from within her hoodie pocket. It was a text from Craig.

when are we jamming again? ur so awesome

She didn’t respond.

She felt so disgusted with herself. Despite apologizing, the lingering feeling of her being responsible for someone's injury made her sick. She felt like crying but the tears weren't forming in her eyes. The fact there weren't any tears made her more upset. Her hands painfully clutched the edges of the bathroom sink, dried blood still on her knuckles. It sickened her to still have the man's blood still on her. She hastily turned on the water to rinse it off.

Her phone rang. It was Chelsea calling her back like she said she would. She didn't answer. She couldn't.

She stepped out of the bathroom to see if anyone lurked in the hall. The coast was clear. If anyone was roaming the halls, it'd be Jenna or the press secretary. Peering into her parent's room, she saw they weren't there. She made a dash to the bathroom and grabbed her father's electric razor. She returned to the bathroom down the hall before anyone could see.

She felt sick but didn't feel the need to vomit. She felt sick because of the way the vice president treated her. She wished she would have fought him. If she had put her hands on him, the entire situation could've ended much faster. She could've escaped his grasp. If she could tell someone, who could she tell? If she tells her dad or anyone on his staff, how could they believe her? There isn't any concrete evidence.

Slowly, this information didn't matter to her. She switched on the razor and held it to her head.

Still Beating

Laura was making her rounds throughout the house, thoroughly sprucing up areas she felt needed attention. She stopped by the bathroom in the hall of her children's rooms. There wasn't anything that needed too much attention. Just a few surfaces to wipe down, nothing major. She turned to see the trash can, but it was filled with something black. It looked like a large heap of spiders. Upon staring at it for a while longer, it looked more like hair.

Her eyes weren't playing tricks on her. There was hair in the trash can. Large lumps of hair in the trash can. Black hair.

"Pierce? Are you in there? You need to come out," she said.

To her surprise, the door opened not long after she spoke. Pierce stood in front of her in silence. Laura couldn't find any words to say to her daughter, who now stood with a shaved head.

"I'm going to spend some time with Ari. The whole press secretary thing," she bluntly stated. She closed the door and rushed past her.

She could only look at her child walking down the stairs with extreme concern. She didn't know what to say. Pierce was the only person in the family that didn't cut her hair. She was surprised that she didn't cut it beforehand. Her hair has been with her for the past twenty years. Even when she dyed it jet black, it was still her hair. She thought her hair was beautiful. Even when George was initially distraught over her dying her hair, she never thought it was taking away from her beauty. It's what added to her personality. No matter how she styled it or what color she dyed it, it was always beautiful. Now, it's gone.

It physically set her aback to see her like that. She stood in one place until she heard the conversation downstairs between George and Jenna continue. Thankfully, she was able to walk downstairs.

Pierce sat at the table next to her sister, which was a first.

"Who are you supposed to be, the Unabomber?" Her father asked, laughing. He promptly continued reading the paper. It was about his approval rating.

Pierce only shot one look at him before removing her hood. George looked up from his paper and froze. Jenna turned to her as her mouth fell open. They both expected her long ponytail to slowly flow behind her. Their eyes widened. Pierce fixed her plate knowing that daggers were being stared into her. They were simply in shock. Not only was she eating, she completely buzzed her head.

Laura trickled down the stairs, still in shock from her daughter's appearance.

"Uh," George tried to say, "you look different." No response from Pierce.

Jenna couldn’t find anything to say. She felt it was another stab at seeking attention. Why would she do this to herself if she wasn’t trying to make a statement? The two would argue if she did say something, effectively making the situation worse. Plus, it was a little too early to argue with her.
Laura stood behind her husband and stared at her daughter. George turned to see her behind him. "Good morning! How long has it been since we've all had a good breakfast together?"

Her eyes remained widened. Jenna stopped caring and continued eating her food. The parents continued to look at her.

"I'm only going to say this once," she began, "get your vice president the hell away from me. He thinks he's in here running shit when he's not. You're the president, you need to put him in his place." She stood, put her plate in the sink, and exited the room.

The sun was beaming through the windows. Mixed with the white paint, it created a brighter effect on the eyes. It almost blinded Pierce as she walked through the hallways in order to get to Ari's office.

She abruptly stopped walking. She remembered Craig's text and Chelsea's phone call. Just as she thought about it, her phone vibrated again. It was Craig.

hey. u coming 2 work 2day?

She hastily typed away.

yeah. be there for nite shift.

She tapped on the phone icon, then pressed Chelsea's name. She has a few moments to spare before she meets with Ari.

"Hello?"

"Hey. Sorry I didn't pick up yesterday," she said.

"Oh, good morning Pierce," Chelsea said, yawning, "What are you doing up so early?"

"What are you doing still sleeping in? I thought your parents woke up at dawn like clockwork."

"My mom does. She does when she's here that is. She's back in New York."

"Nice. I have something to show you."

"What?"

Pierce hung up the call and swiftly took a picture of herself. She pointed at her head to put further emphasis. The picture of herself popped back up on her screen, she sent it to her without a second thought. All she had to do was wait.

The phone rang again.

"Hello?"

"What did you do? Why did- How did-" Chelsea stammered.

"Oh, come on. It's obvious what I did. My parents barely spoke to me this morning."

"Are they mad?"

"If they are, I don't care. If they aren't, I don't care."

"Why? Why did you do it?"

"I just did."

"Are you sure? Are you sure there isn't any underlying reason that you may have buzzed your entire head?"

"Nope," she said, lying.

"I don't agree with you, but I'll take your word for it now."

"Thanks."

"What do you have planned for the day?"

"I have to meet with the press secretary, then I have work for the night."

"I'm going to be in New York for a bit. Would you want to come? I'd be able to drive there and back."

Pierce smiled on the other side of the line. "Yeah! Of course! It'd be better if you did drive. The last time someone drove me around, I flew out the window and broke my arm."

"Oh, I remember that. Well, I promise I'm a good driver and you'll be safe. Just let your parents know."

"I will. I can't wait."

“Hey, Chels?”

“What?”

“I miss you,” Pierce sighed.

“I miss you too Pierce. I have to go now.”

“Right. Bye.”

The call disconnected. She found comfort in being with Chelsea. She's not like a sister or a fun cousin, she's a friend. She accepts her, and her parents accept her. It's a great environment to be in. It's an environment that she wanted to be in.

Now, she hesitated to go to Ari's office. She could be in for a stern talking to if he was still upset. The consequence would be worse if she didn't show up at all. She swallowed her pride and made her way to his office.

The door was cracked when she got there. Usually, he'd be on the phone or loudly talking about something. Somehow, she would be able to hear him. This time, she couldn't. She entered slowly. He was reading from a large binder in his lap with his legs on his desk.

"Pierce, good to see you!" He exclaimed, taking his feet off the desk and sitting forward. "Ready to seize the political world without using violence?"

She was smiling a little until she heard that.

"Well, you have a really good left hook. I can't blame you for that. So in case someone does try fighting you, you can use that."

"Oh, I like what you've done with your hair! You're the newer Sinead O'Connor," he said, pointing at her.

"Glad you don't draw too much attention to it," she sighed.

Ari took a final look at the binder before closing it. He set it across from him and motioned for Pierce to sit in the chair in front of the desk. "Of course I wouldn't. You can do whatever you want to your hair."

Pierce looked around the room. It was still messy. Everything was cluttered, including the walls. He had changed some of the sticky notes on the wall, but that was about it.

"I see you've gotten your cast off! How’d that go?" He asked.

She was confused at first but looked down at her arm. The cast was gone. She had gotten it off about three months ago. "Yeah, it took a while. My arm wasn't facing the right way."

"That's gross." He said. "At least it's not the hand you write with. Then it would've been a real hiccup."

She's surprised that he even remembered any of this about her. Sometimes her parents forget what hand she writes with. They'll go as far as to act shocked if she reaches out with her left hand and not her right.

"Now, next on our list is what I actually do," he said.

"What?" Pierce asked with a good amount of reason. "You do more than what you've told me? How? I don't see you that often."

"There's a lot that I do behind the scenes. I know I can't truly summarize everything that I do, but I'm the sole bearer of information when it comes to this administration and the world. I give daily press conferences to let the media know what's going on. It's like a game of tennis. Each day. A game of tennis..." He explained.

"That sounds miserable..."

"Believe me, it was at first. Then once 9/11 happened... It was hell. People talk about JFK and how he lost sleep during the Cuban Missile Crisis, people are going to talk about how we lost all of that and more from September to December," he sighed playfully.

Pierce listened intently. She remembers those months. He may not remember, but he was the same man who hid with them in the bunker. However, she questioned her father's self-righteousness. The people that she sees doing the most amount of work are people like Ari. They work day in and day out and have to deal with the media hurling questions at them at all times.

"Still sounds miserable," she said.

Ari rolled his eyes and scoffed. "It has its highs and lows. Not only do I get to make quick jokes and get my picture taken a million times, but I also get paid pretty well. I don't let the money influence me much."

"You have to get used to people making slight jabs at you. If I had the ability to punch anyone that insulted or something like that, I'd be right there with you. I can't do it though."

She knew he was right. She only punched him because of the things he was saying about her dad.

"I get where you're coming from, but you can't punch everyone that pisses you off," he concluded. "Now, let's get into all the other stuff that I do..."

Pierce nodded. She felt a genuine connection between the two of them.

"For this job, you have to know everything. It's the number one rule for the job, at least in my book. Just don't act like you know everything."

"So, what do you know?" He asked. "What school do you go to?"

"I go to Yale, but not in person. I'm graduating next year with a BA in humanities."

"I know. I was just asking to see if my source was right."

"What? Who's the source?" She asked. "Why are there people reporting on me?"

"No one is reporting on you, hopefully. The source was your dad. All I have to do is ask him."

She sighed.

"Next order of business," he said, "I need you to apologize to Kevin. Face to face."

"What?" Pierce said. “Why?”

Ari looked up and scoffed. “Why? Are you really asking me why? Come on, I know you’re not dumb.”

“Fine, I’ll do it, but I’ll have you know that I actually do feel bad for what happened to him. I wouldn’t want to wear one of those things on my face either.”

“Well, don’t let him hear you say that,” he said. “We told him that he would look fine once he got settled into that kind of injury. But he’ll be fine in the long run.”

Pierce didn’t buy his explanation. “I don’t think so. I saw what his nose looked like after I punched him. It was like the bone moved to the other side of his face. Everyone has the bridge of their nose in the middle of their face unless you were just born with it somewhere else. Kevin is not one of those people. It was in the middle at first, now it’s more toward the left.”

“Don’t let the CIA hear you talking like that, or else they might just want to hire you,” Ari sighed. “Besides, middle, left, right, whatever, I still want you to apologize. Poor Kevin is afraid of blood when he sees it.”

“Deal,” Pierce said. “I’ll do it when we’re all at lunch.”

Ari smiled. “See I knew you would come around eventually.”

Condi appeared in the doorway, not knowing who the person in the chair was at first. "Ari, we're going to have lunch. Karl wants to go to some restaurant called the Hamilton,

Colin says he wants something from the Lafayette, Kevin wants something from an Italian place, and Karen just wants to leave."

"Jesus Christ, that's a lot of 'K' and 'C' names," Pierce sighed, turning to Condi.

Condi furrowed her brows and slightly tilted her head. If she was told that it was Pierce in front of her the entire time, she wouldn't have believed it.

"Hello Pierce, it's good to see you again. New haircut?" She asked with a smile.

"Yep." She says running her hand along the surface of her head. "Just a quick trim, that's all." Condi chuckles. "Well, it looks great on you. I didn't think that you were sitting there."

Ari sighs and turns toward his colleague. "They should know that we can't do that," he said. "They should all know that we can't just up and leave. If Bush doesn't throw a fit, then Cheney will."

"I still need your opinion," Condi said. "Cast your vote for one of the choices I listed and we'll go with that. I'll order the food and pick it up just in time for lunch."

He thought for a second before turning back to Pierce. "What do you want for lunch, Pierce?"

"Uh," she hesitates, "it’s up to y’all. I probably won’t eat anyway."

"I need you to decide on this. I know for a fact that whatever I choose, someone is going to get mad. Kevin might be the one to say something," Ari explained.

"It doesn't matter who decides on what. Someone tell me what they want and I'll go for it," Condi sighed, leaning up against the doorway.

"Whichever is the cheapest then," Pierce said, feeling put on the spot.

"Hm. Good choice. We're eating from the Hamilton. Pierce, you could do me a huge favor and get everyone's orders for me." Condi tears a piece of paper from a notepad she has and hands it to her. "Ari and I are already here, so the ones that are missing are Colin, Karl, Kevin, and Karen."

Pierce took the paper and looked confused. "I don't know who those people are. Other than Kevin, I know Kevin."

"This is a perfect opportunity for you to get to know the people that work here," Condi said. "Maybe Ari could show you around instead of acting like a shut-in."

"Very funny, Ms. Rice. I'll have you know that I leave this room on a day-to-day basis."

"Well, you could do it again. I have a meeting to get to. I'll let you know where I am so I can take the orders. Take Pierce with you so she can get properly introduced to the others."

Ari rolled his eyes playfully as she left. "So, you're meeting the rest of the crew..."

"What? Is that a bad thing?" She asked.

He had to stare at her for a few seconds. "Well, you did punch one of them in the face. Plus, you broke his nose."

Pierce's mind was soon flooded with the memory of the extent of her knuckles crashing into the side of Kevin's nose. How the blood poured from his wound and onto the floor.

How he screamed and continued to scream well after she had left the room. How she saw the malicious smile of her sister and knew that she was going to exaggerate the situation. Her heart sank. She wanted to forget the situation entirely. Ari saw the disassociated look on her face and regretted his comment.

"It won't be too bad. Kevin is fine. He just wears that hideous-looking thing on his nose. He finally got a proper one instead of the one he was given at the scene. He'll have that for two weeks and then a much smaller one for the last week. Trust me, he's fine." Ari explained.

Pierce nodded, but she couldn't fully believe him. Someone can always be fine physically.

He stood from his chair and grabbed a small notepad and a pen. He slid the pen into the rings of the notepad before handing it to her.

"So how about that food? This will be the perfect opportunity for your brain to run a million miles a minute like mine does," he said. "Lucky for you, it doesn't have to run like that 24/7."

She looked at the notepad before standing. Ari had made it to the door. "Try to keep that on you at all times. You'll never know when you'll need it."

"But why can't you do it?"

"Because I have a job to do. We both have jobs to do," he said, walking in the other direction down the hall. He was gone before she could get another word in.

Ari walked into the copy room. It was only so Pierce couldn't find him. Once he thought the coast was clear, he emerged and walked back to his office.

There were an array of things for him to do. He practically acts as the president's schedule. There are many future events he could plan. He could also address current scandals in the White House. The entire "Plame Affair" is a situation where people couldn't keep their mouths shut. Now a seemingly innocent couple has to suffer. However, the husband of that couple claimed that the uranium in Africa thing was fake.

It's confusing, headache-inducing, and ignorant to deal with, but someone has to deal with it. He's just the person that has to deal with it.

He pulled out one of his many notepads from his top desk drawer. This one was clean, unwritten. He made a mental note to reserve this notepad for a dyer crisis. He began writing. He outlined the events of the Plame affair to the best of his ability. After that, he can type out a statement. The White House has ignored this subject for a long time. The situation doesn't make too much sense at first glance, even for Ari, it didn't make too much sense. He'll make it make sense.
He slowly turned himself in his chair, almost frantically spinning around the more he wrote. He spun around one last time, stopping with his back facing the doorway, failing to notice the man who recently occupied the space.

"What are you doing with her?" Cheney asked almost with an ear-piercing tone.

Ari quickly turned around and put his hand over his heart. "Jesus! When will you learn to stop doing that?" He closed the notepad and set his pen down.

"Answer my question. What are you doing with her?" He asked again, now more threateningly.

"You know you can calm down, right? She's working for me so your campaign can run as smoothly as possible." he refuted. "She's doing a pretty good job."

"So she knows how to take orders and write them down? Interesting. That's perfect for a waitress..."

"There's some meaning behind it! All of this is key to her learning what to do and not what to do," he said. "Why do you care so much anyway? You don't seem to care about anything I do and criticize me for what you think I don't do."

Cheney stood in silence, blankly staring at the man until it was clear that he was not going to say anything else.

"Are you done?" He asked.

"Sure. Say what you need to say and get the hell away from me."

Cheney glared at the man. "I don't know what you're trying to do, but I have an idea. If you're trying to weaponize your new puppet against the president, you won't get away with it."

Ari scoffed. "What are you talking about? Weaponize? It's not my fault that she's a hothead! We can work on that!"

"And how's that going for you? You may suffer from short-term memory loss, but she punched the FCC chairman in the face. He has to wear that damn thing on his nose for months."

"Okay? I've already talked to her about that. She's talked to me and she's apologized to Kevin. At least, she's going to."
Cheney remained silent and began pacing around the room, much to Ari's annoyance.

"Can you just get the hell out of here? If you're not asking me about legitimate business, I'm going to have to ask you to leave. I'm tired of you continuously coming in here and acting like this is your office. The only person I deem in charge of me is the president, and you aren't the president," he said.

Cheney glared at him, his hatred of the man almost overcoming him. His ungodly urge just to cave his face in, the urge just to do something that would hurt him. Ari couldn't care less about what he was doing, just as long as he was out of his office.

"Are you deaf?" He asked. "I know you're getting to be old, but did you not hear a word of what I said?"

He was able to come back to reality. His face was finally able to relax. There wasn't much else he could say about Ari's handling of his new apprentice.

"Whatever you're doing, whatever you're planning, it isn't going to work," Cheney said. After that, he finally left, leaving Ari back with his thoughts.

It was one thing for Cheney to take his anger out on him, but it was another to hash that same anger out on someone who doesn’t work there.

Pierce drew little notes to herself as she walked through the halls.

"I think this is my first time seeing you without your father," he said, silently taking notice of the lack of hair on her head. "What brings you to my office?"

"I'm trying to get lunch orders together. Ari says that this will help me with being the campaign press secretary," she answered.

"That sounds... entertaining, to say the least," Colin winced. "What place will the food be from?" He asked.

"The Hamilton," Pierce responded.

Colin sat back and looked at the ceiling for a few seconds. "Let me make this a million times easier for you." He gestured for her to hand him the notepad and pen. She handed it to him. Once it was in his hand, he began to write.

"If you're going to be the press secretary, or be anywhere working for the White House, you need to know everything. I don't know how Ari does it, but he just does. I have never seen him not know anything. He's also weirdly good at math. You don't have to be good at math," he said as he wrote.

"Thank God, because I'm not," Pierce joked.

"That's alright then," he said, flipping the paper in the notepad to start a new page.

"What I will tell you to know is what we all like to eat. We all like burgers, but after a while, Condi, Kevin, and Karen will get tired of them. A "while" is maybe three weeks. All of us can enjoy drinks such as sodas, tea, and even fancier things like wine. We understand that your father doesn't like having alcoholic drinks around, so that's why we have a separate room to eat in if we have drinks like that. There also aren't any major allergies, just small ones to look out for. No one is allergic to peanuts or anything," he explained, finally handing her the notepad back.

All of their names were on the paper with the food orders next to them. Under each name, there were any food allergies if applicable. Kevin is allergic to shellfish.

"Oh, you can stay in here and use my phone to place the order. I have to make a quick run to deliver something. Just type in the phone number to the place and you'll be set."
She nodded and took a seat in his chair as he walked out of the room.

His office wasn’t a bad space, but it was nothing like she was expecting. There were military accolades in every corner of the room. She never would’ve thought that he was ever in the service.

She reviewed the orders before picking up the phone, but that’s when Rumsfeld appeared.

"So, they must've promoted you to national security advisor," he said.

"What?" She questioned as he walked into the room.

"This is Colin's office. You're sitting in his office, in his chair, using his phone and writing on a notepad that I can only assume isn't yours," he lists with a hint of condescension in his voice.

“What does any of that have to do with me?” She asked, continuing to scribble on the notepad.

“I just said how it has something to do with you,” he said. “Do you lack basic comprehension skills?”

She looked up at him and glared. His voice was starting to make her sick. She was only a few seconds away from retaliating in some form.

“Colin told me that I could stay in here so I could do a favor for Ari,” she hissed.

Rumsfeld cocked his head to the side, slowly walking forward to the front of the desk.

“You know, Barbara, one of the problems I have with your generation is the complete lack of respect when it comes to your elders,” he spoke.

“So what?” She said, “I don’t know who you’re talking about. If I disrespect anyone, they deserve it. Respect is earned. And my name is Pierce.”

“Right…” He sighed. “A boy's name for a girl… How fitting. I bet you’ve been around Cheney’s younger daughter.”
Pierce was puzzled, rightfully so. He insulted her in many ways, but she was trying to choose which remark she could respond to.

“Cheney has daughters?” She asked.

“Yes. And one of them is a carpet muncher,” he replied. “She has a wife and everything.”

“I don’t care about that, but using your logic, that means that my grandmother, who I think you know, my uncle, and I’m pretty sure a whole group of people in my family are all carpet munchers.”

He removed his hands from the front of the desk and crossed his arms.

“What are you talking about?” He spat.

“We all have the name Pierce. As much as I hate it, I was named after my grandmother. So was my uncle,” she smirked. “The uncle that I am referring to is Marvin. You should know that. But does that mean we’re all carpet munchers?”

Rumsfeld opened his mouth to speak again but no sound came from his mouth. He knows her grandmother and uncle personally. While he thinks that her uncle is, or was too big for his britches, her grandmother is a saint. Possibly the best first lady that the country has ever had. The girl seems like the type to tell everyone about a conversation that was just had. He knows not to reveal too much information about his opinions.

Pierce didn’t make too much eye contact with him. Holding the phone in her hand, she dialed the number to the restaurant and waited for an answer.

“What’s wrong now?” She asked. “Cat got your tongue?”

Rumsfeld could only glare. He straightened his suit and left the room.

Ari entered the hallway that Colin’s office was located and saw him exiting the office. His blood began to boil knowing Pierce was in the same room. He sprinted at such a pace so Rumsfeld wouldn’t hear his steps.

Frantically shutting the door, he slowly turned to Pierce, who still had the phone in her hand.

“What did he say to you?”

“What?” She asked.

“I saw Rumsfeld leave the room. What did he say to you?”

“He was talking nonsense like he always does.”

Ari nodded and took a seat in one of the chairs in front of the desk. “That’s good at least. Has the food been ordered or did he fuck that up too?”

“Yeah, it’s been ordered,” Pierce said, stifling a laugh.

“Great! That means I can go ahead and pick it up. Meanwhile, you can go ahead and go to the mess hall and just wait for us there. I’ll be back in 10.” He said, checking his watch and walking out of the room.

She didn’t know where the mess hall was, but now she was determined to find it. There was time to kill, so she could grab some of her art supplies and draw in the meantime.

Making her way back to her room, she overheard her sister laughing and talking to someone on the phone. She had to leave the area before she saw her again. It made her angry that she could consistently converse with someone knowing what kind of personality she has.

Out of the many sketchbooks she had on the floor next to her dresser, she picked up the one second from the top and flipped through it. It had seldom been used. It was perfect. She quickly grabbed a pencil from her nightstand and left the room before her sister could notice.

The mess hall was empty. Ari said ten minutes. Ari is late.

There was a table that was situated in the middle of the room with exactly seven seats. Ari may be late, but he made room for an extra seat before he left. She chose the seat in the middle away from the door. She began to sketch her surroundings, but very lightly. She started with her perception of only the things directly in front of her. Drawing people is easy, but drawing furniture and other objects is a different story. So much so, she failed to notice Karl’s footsteps from down the hallway.

“Hello Pierce,” Karl said, scaring her. “Funny seeing you here.”

“Yeah, you too…” She said in between breaths. “I’m just waiting for Ari to come back with the food.”

Karl nodded, noting that he scared her. He took his seat diagonally across from her. Both were unsure of what to say next. Thankfully, Condi walked into the room. She took her seat to the left of him so she could sit in front of Pierce.

“So, what’s been up with you? You got a boyfriend or something?” He asked. Condi gave him a swift kick under the table.

“Ow! What was that for?” He yelped. Pierce hid her laugh.

“Sorry Pierce, some men just don’t know how to ask the right questions…” She said, side eyeing Karl.

“I wouldn’t give him too much hell, he realized who I was without having to look at my face,” she explained. “You know, since I don’t have much hair now.”

“See? At least I’m the one trying to make small talk…” Karl pouted. Condi rolled her eyes.

The others began filing in. Pierce frantically began pulling out her sketchbook and pencil to attempt to get facial profiles as they walked in.

“Where is he?” Karl asked. “I’m practically starving.”

Condi scoffed and looked at her watch. “Number one, you aren’t starving. Number two, Pierce, when did he say he would be back?”

“In 10 minutes. He’s late.”

Condi shut her eyes for a brief moment before looking at her watch again. “No, he’s not late. He’s going to be right on time. He’ll be here in five.”

Pierce was confused, they were all confused. “In what? Five minutes?”

“Never fear, Ari’s here and he’s brought gifts!” A voice boomed from down the hall. Just as she predicted. Within a few seconds, Ari stood at the door, hoisting the bags of food in the air along with the drinks that were ordered.

The smell of the food immediately made Pierce put her notebook down and focus her attention on those now in the room.

At first, those at the table didn’t take notice to the lack of hair on Pierce’s head. That was until Kevin entered the room. Pierce had failed to notice that Kevin was missing from the group.

The room fell eerily silent. Kevin remained standing at the door, his heavily bandaged nose being his most defining feature. His face wasn’t one of anger or resentment, but one of disassociation. He only stared at Pierce, debating if he should eat his food somewhere else.

“I remembered you having hair…” He said.

“Yeah, let it be known to everyone that I am technically bald,” Pierce refuted.

The tension was so thick that one could cut it with a knife. Ari could feel it. It was his job to know when a situation was about to go awry.

“You know, you could eat your food standing up,” Ari began, “But there’s an empty chair. You’d be better sitting down.”

Kevin moved from the doorway and took his seat next to Karl. His food was already in front of the chair left open for him. It seemed as if his reaction time was slowed, yet he appeared to be awake and able to process a conversation. Ari made sure to keep a close eye on him as he ate.

“So,” Condi began, “This is one of the first times we’ve all been together in a while.”

“For reasons out of their control.” Kevin blurted, glaring at Pierce.

Ari knew that this would happen. He put his fork down and rolled his eyes at Collin.

“Can we not let bygones be bygones? The bandages don’t even look that bad! They suit you!” Ari said.

Collin leaned forward. “You owe me ten dollars,” he whispered.

Pierce sighed and stopped eating. “Well, Mr. Martin, just to clear the air, I’m sorry about your nose. I didn’t know that I had that good of a left hook,” she said.

“Sometimes I can’t recognize myself when I wake up and look in the mirror,” Kevin continued. “Whenever I take these things off my face, all I see is someone I don’t know. It’s someone that isn’t me.”

“I agree,” Pierce said. Everyone looked at her like she missed the point. She realized her mistake and quickly thought to correct herself. “Not about you recognizing yourself or anything, but I agree that you do look different.”

Kevin continued glaring. Finally, he reached for his bandages and slowly pulled them off. Everyone at the table visibly recoiled and cringed at the sight of his disfigured nose. Pierce was right. She hit him so hard that the bridge of his nose had not only broken, but shifted to the left hand side by half an inch. It was like a squiggly line with blue, purple, and red coloring. Dried blood made up the visible red flakes both on his nose and the bandages.

Everyone was transfixed on his nose, but not Ari. His attention was focused on Pierce and her knuckles. They were still bruised from the punch. Ari was shocked. For the first time in his life, he was shocked. He might be dealing with a violent, uncontrollable young adult. What if Karen was right? Even worse, what if Cheney was right?

Pierce saw him staring and quickly hid her hands underneath the table.

Ari snapped out of his gaze and quickly thought of a way to distract the table from Kevin.

“Every single one of you has food in front of your face and you aren’t eating it?” Ari said after taking a big swig from his cup. The table slowly became full of life again. People resumed eating and having smaller conversations.

“It’s fine,” Kevin said, wrapping his nose back up. “They’re putting people’s hands in toasters and shocking the life out of them over in Iraq. Far worse than what I have going on.”

The small murmurs from the group sharply came to a halt. The room was silent once again. Ari was getting frustrated. He wasn’t frustrated enough to realize that Colin had perked up at the mention of Iraq.

Looking forward, Condi was staring into Colin.

“What is he talking about?” Condi mouthed to him. He subtly shrugged his shoulders.

“Oh Kevin,” Ari began, “My dearest Kevin. Why don’t you leave the national security issues to people like me, Condi, Colin, the vice president, and the president. It would save you a lot of time and stress.”

Karen snickered. “My God, you sound just like Cheney.”

"Don't say that," he said. "That's not my intention. I'm not a nut-job..."

Ari frowned and rolled his eyes. “How about we just enjoy a nice lunch while we still can! How long has it been since all of us have been able to eat together in the one place we can hide from Rumsfeld?”

“That’s true, I swear he and and Cheney spy on everyone whenever they can,” Karl said.

As if it were on cue, Scooter appeared in the doorway. “What is this?”

“Speak of the devil…” Karl whispered.

“We’re eating, what’s it look like?” Pierce said. Scooter’s face fell as he glared at Pierce.

“Wait, who is that?” He asked, staring her down, yet keeping his poised stance. “Barbara? Barbara Pierce Bush? The same “sweet” little girl who punched Kevin Martin in the face so hard that she broke his nose? Man, I didn’t know the president’s daughter was a freak.”

The entire table sighed. Pierce slowly turned to him with a blank expression.

“Don’t you ever call me Barbara again. Plus, I didn’t know you were Cheney’s butt-buddy,” she said through her teeth. "Who even are you?"

Karen couldn’t contain her laughter. Ari knew what was happening. It was the Kevin situation all over again. Pierce could snap at any moment.

“Oh please, if there’s anyone being a “but-buddy,” or whatever the hell that implies, it would be Ari and his cronies.” He made sure to give individual sneers around the room before continuing. “Why don’t you stop being “emo” or “goth” and get your shit together.”

Pierce shot up from her chair and nearly lunged at Scooter before getting flashbacks from what happened to Kevin. It was out of sheer guilt that she didn’t put a finger on him.

She looked around the room before backing away.

“That’s what I thought,” he said. “I’m not like Mr. Martin over there. I don’t go down without a fight. Hit me and I’ll have you killed.”

Again, the room was silent. Pierce was embarrassed.

“Scooter, if you’re in here to only make threats, I’m going to ask you to leave,” Condi said, taking up for Pierce.

“Thank you for your consideration, Condi, but that’s not why I’m here,” Scooter said. “The vice president says that we all need to start taking our reelection seriously. Everyone does their part to contribute to the effort, I’ll do mine.”

“We know what we’re doing. Why don’t you make like a good senior advisor to the vice president and go back to wherever your office is,” Ari said.

Scooter scoffed and turned around. “Oh yeah, Mr. Fleischer, if your little candidate for press secretary ever crosses me again, she’s gone.” Finally, he left the room.

“I’d beat the shit out of him if you’d let me,” she muttered.

“Yeah, we know.” Karl said. “I would’ve allowed it.”

Ari remained silent. His speculation for Pierce is showing. Everyone in the room can sense it. Now Scooter can sense it. He’s going to tell Cheney about it. Ari still thinks Pierce is a good fit for the job. He still has hope for her when many people don’t. She’s a broken girl. He doesn’t intend on fully fixing her, but he’ll try.

Waltz Of The Flowers

Condi was steadily getting ready for the French president's first official visit to the White House. She had gathered everything she needed to assemble her outfit. It was now a matter of putting everything together. Her dress is low, but not too low. It's a blue dress with black shoes to match. Her makeup supplies, though not many of them, are spread out in a line in the order she will apply them. A string of pearls sits on the right side of the vanity, the final piece of her puzzle.

Karl walked past the bathroom but caught a small glimpse of her setup. He instantly jerked back to see what she was doing. His emotions took control over him.

He stood behind her, closely watching her every move.

"I love that dress," he said, his voice trailing off.

"Merci beaucoup. Je l'ai acheté il n'y a pas si longtemps," she spoke facing the mirror.

Karl stood and walked slowly toward her as she put in her earrings. "I have no idea what you just said, but it sounds really sexy."

She rolled her eyes. "I bought this dress not too long ago. Trying to get into the groove of speaking French before I'm in front of them."

He nodded. He only wanted to hear the sound of her voice. "You should do it more..." A smirk began to slide across his face. She glanced at him for a few seconds but quickly looked away to tend to her makeup. She started speaking again.

"Bonjour. Je m'appelle Condoleezza Rice et c'est un honneur de vous rencontrer, Monsieur le Président. J'ai le plaisir de vous informer que le président Bush souhaiterait renforcer le lien entre les Etats-Unis et la France. Vous avez une femme adorable. C'est un plaisir de vous rencontrer, épouse du président Macron. Comment allez-vous?"

He stood behind her for a few seconds before slowly wrapping his hands around her waist and resting his head on her collarbone. He watched her prepare for the event very closely. He admired how much attention to detail she put toward herself. Was she doing this for him? She couldn't be.

"Blue dress today?" He asked.

"Flag colors," she said, "Red would make me seem evil or even worse, seductive."

The last word of the sentence read his mind perfectly. At least, in an age-appropriate way.

"Give me five minutes," he said, slightly tightening the grip on her waist. "Five minutes."

She paused, frozen while still applying makeup. "What? What are you asking me?"

He didn't answer her on purpose. He wanted to see if she'd ask again, or come up with her own conclusion and voice it to him. Instead, she stayed silent.

"You don't seem like the type to let your feelings influence your decisions, especially, how can I put this, your sexual feelings." He moved his hands along her body as spoke, making her bite her lip to hold herself back.

"What are you trying to say," she asked, "What are you saying I should do?"

Karl swallows hard, his arms still wrapped around Condi almost holding her in place. The two stare at each other in the mirror. He allows his head to touch hers and inches closer so his bulge could rest on Condi's backside through her dress. She could feel it. It wasn't intruding or forceful. It was just there. There was a level of curiousness about what he was doing, and whether or not

"Five minutes," he says again in a low voice. She knew what he was talking about. All she could do was stare at him. Part of her wanted to see how far he would go to get his way. She would get a kick out of it regardless.
That sentiment changed when he put his lips to the bare skin on her collarbone. He started gently sucking the area and grabbing at any part of her body that he could while not looking.

She was finished with her makeup. She had been finished for a while. She slowly turned to him and only stared. Karl’s mind filled with more desire.

"I promise I’ll be quick," he whispered, leaning in.

She stopped his lips from touching hers with her hand. He was inches away from her face. Her hand moved from his lips to his cheek. He moved his head into her hand. She allowed it to become so quiet that she could hear both of their hearts beating in unison. She wanted to say something but she couldn't open her mouth.

"Say what's on your mind," he said, taking her hand and kissing it, "I know you have something, you know I'll listen."

As she contemplated speaking, he kissed her arm, becoming closer to her.

"All I ask for is five minutes," he kisses her again, "Whoever is outside can wait."

She holds his head and pulls it back again to stare into his eyes. She can sense her poker face starting to fade, and so can he. She's allowing herself to succumb to his efforts to seduce her.

"Come on-" His voice fell silent as he tried to get as close to her as possible. His body is now fully touching hers. She feels every bit of him. The feeling of his erection makes the offer even more tempting.

"No," she sighs, kissing him on the cheek, leaving a print of her lipstick. She turns her back to him and applies new lipstick. All he can do is look and admire what he sees. In a sense, he is defeated. He shrugs and backs away, but not too far.

"Do you feel anything right now?" He asked. "Do you have any desire at all to do anything with me?"

"I mean, I feel apprehensive. Secondly, not really." She turned and faced him, placing her hands on the vanity behind her.
Karl put a hand over his heart. "Ouch, you're cold Condi." They both smiled. "Can I at least help you put on your necklace?" Karl asked.

"That's not what I meant. I just have something I'm doing. That's it. If I didn't have anything to do, I would take your offer into further consideration."

He wrapped his arms around her once again, bringing their warm bodies closer together. She ran her hand down his chest, trying to remember how it felt before she left. It was her first time doing so. It wouldn't be too much of a risk or harm to indulge a bit. Karl allowed her hands to roam his body, hoping they'd go lower. She saw his hands slowly reaching further down and grabbed his wrists.

"I refuse to believe that you don't feel any kind of way from any of this," Karl said. "What I will say is, you're going to get that feeling again when you least expect it. I'm trying to warn you. When you feel it, just think about me and what you're missing out on." He promptly planted a kiss on her neck.

"I’m sure I will," she said. He remained on the side of her neck with his arms wrapped around her. His teeth slowly began to sink into the base of her neck.

"Karl, you're biting me," Condi said. Her breath began to hitch. He mumbled something, but she couldn't understand. "Karl..." She said again. "I can feel your teeth..."

"No, you can't," he groaned, "you just feel how great this is..."

She began to think about what would happen if she was late greeting Bush. Would it matter if she attended the event? She technically shouldn't be there, the first lady should. It wouldn't matter if she was a few minutes late, right? She stared into her reflection in the mirror. She could agree to whatever Karl wanted to do in the moment and no one would know.

Something was still telling her to leave. Something was telling her to attend the dinner and not stay.

"What kind of woman would I be if I walked out of this room and into the presence of the president of the United States, and the president of France with marks all over my neck?" She asked. Her question proved to be so thought-provoking that Karl released her neck from his teeth.

"You do have a point. What kind of man would I be letting the secretary of state go out in public looking immodest?" He joked, giving her one final kiss and releasing her from his grasp.

Karl remained in the same place as she walked up the stairs. She could feel him staring. That made her grin to some extent. He was still watching her. All she had to do now was meet up with Bush.

She picked this dress on purpose. Not only did she think it looked nice, she thought it gave the perfect amount of assertion in a setting like this. Nothing too revealing, and not anything too concealed. It was blue, in her mind, blue means wisdom, intelligence, faith, and loyalty. It has significance with both the French and American flags. It was a perfect color. It was the perfect length, stopping at the floor. Even if it didn't go to the floor, it was still a nice dress to her. Just as long as it stopped below her ankles.
She could go the rest of the night without seeing Bush. She has planned it out in her head. She can just duck in a corner the entire time. If someone finds her, preferably the French president or his wife, so be it. She would sit and listen to their stories about foreign affairs, about what life is like in France. She would ask them where their clothes were from. They would hold conversations in French. They will be impressed.

But she can't do any of that. She has to enter in with the president. She has to sit through whatever the president is going to do or say, and she'll have to go along with it. Better late than never. She began walking down a hallway until she saw Bush standing at the bottom of a flight of stairs.

"Wow, you look... amazing," Bush said looking up at her.

"Thanks, I bought this dress not too long ago," she responded.

He couldn't stop looking at her. In his mind, the dress was more like a ball gown. It showed the right amount of skin in the right places. He wished she revealed more. How yearned for a physical image of that.

"Well, are you going to come down the stairs?" He asked.

She remained in one place. Bush held his hand out to her, which made her want to stay in the same spot even more.

"You'll have to come down eventually," he said. "I'm pretty sure the French president would kill to see how you look."

He has a point. If he continues speaking to her, it would make her remain still. Bush put his hand to his side for a brief moment.

"Why do you say that?" She began walking down, holding the side of her dress in her left hand to avoid tripping.

No matter what she said, he couldn't find it in himself to remove her from his gaze. "I say that because he hasn't met you before. Has he? He probably doesn't know you're a woman."

'No, we haven't met," she said, "I don't know that much about him."

George held his arm out for her to grab. This was one of the best moments in his life. She looked like a princess. He was with his princess, finally. She wasn't engaging with him though.

"What's wrong? Are you scared to even touch me?" He asked, jokingly. "You don't need to be scared."

"I'm not scared. I just want this to be as professional as possible. Why not make a good impression?" She said, pulling up the strap on her shoulder.

"I know how much you like being in uniform. Why not be uniform?" He wiggled his arm for emphasis. She figured it would be best to play into his game so he could stop having to hear him talk.

Before she could do anything though, he grabbed her wrist and snaked it through the space between his arm and torso. "Doesn't that feel much better?"

Now she couldn't pull away. If she pulls away, that could add more fuel to his longing fire.

"Shall we?" He asked, motioning toward the long hallway. Condi only nodded. The tension was so thick that she didn't want to speak. "Sure," she muttered.

Ari really knows how to set up a room on short notice. Everything was set up and color-coordinated with the French and American flags. Even the podiums, which normally only had the seals of the two governments, simply had their flags on them. A sea of reporters and journalists were seated in chairs. A cacophony of shutters and clicks sounded as the doors opened. Condi tried to wiggle her arm out from George but she couldn't in time.

"Mr. President," Bush said.

"Mr. President," Macron replied. His stern exterior didn't change. Bush smiled at his wife, then looked back into Macron's eyes. It was like there wasn't anything behind them.

Condi saw her chance to remove herself from Bush's arm, so she took it. She nearly snatched her hand away from Bush to shake the hand of the French president.

"Condoleezza Rice, secretary of state," she said.

She realized that she was being too hasty after their hands were against each other.

"Condoleezza?" He questioned. She ecstatically nodded. "A pleasure to meet you, Ms. Rice." He leaned down and kissed her hand, a gesture that she wasn't expecting. She fixed her composure the best that she could and moved her attention to Macron's wife. Bush did the same.

"Well, I can assume that you're President Bush." Bridgitte Macron said. Bush smiled and nodded. "Yes ma'am, best job in the whole world!" He held his hand out but briefly looked back at Macron and Condi. Macron was staring deeply at what he thought was Condi while she wasn't paying him any attention. He thought it would be fitting to do the same gesture as him, simply for formalities. He held her hand and kissed it, an unusual feeling.

Both parties realized that Bridgitte Macron was not within the same age range as her husband. They couldn't convey their shock at the moment. Condi was determined to get to the bottom of her hypothesis: Did they marry when Emmanuel was young?

Hypothesis aside, both parties were excited to meet the French leader. Bush felt as if it was his first time meeting him.

"Funny seeing you here, huh?" Bush said. For once, Macron smiled.

"Yes, funny..." He said, shaking his hand.

"Il est un peu en avant, n'est-ce pas?" Bridgitte mumbled to her husband. Condi was able to hear her. Her smile quickly turned into a straight face. She realized and tried to modify it before anyone else could notice.

This was also an opportunity for her to show them that they can't exactly disrespect the president in his own house. She had the perfect idea.

"En avant n’est peut-être pas le mot. Au nom de la Maison Blanche, nous souhaitons officiellement vous souhaiter la bienvenue aux États-Unis d'Amérique. Terre de liberté, patrie des courageux," she said.

"Your French accent is pretty good for an American girl," he said in fluent English. "It was perfect."

"Thank you, I've been fluent in it since I was a little girl."

She felt a strong level of confidence and pride with him complimenting her. It was a relief to finally do something she wanted to do without Bush hovering over her.

"I didn't know President Bush was interested in..." he began.

She turned to him with genuine confusion. "Interested in what?"

"It's nothing against you. I just didn't think President Bush would've married you. I could've sworn I saw another woman who was his wife."

Her smile quickly faded. 'Married?' she thought. 'Wife?' she thought. She became incredibly repulsed by the idea in a matter of seconds. "Married? Wife?" she said. "No, I'm the Secretary of State. We've met before, I'm sure."

"Well, that's a relief to know that you didn't marry your boss. I can't imagine such a thing," he said.

His words came off as condescending and borderline sexist. Or racist. She couldn't look him in his eyes anymore. She felt embarrassed to be around him. She looked forward and had her arms to her sides.

"I do apologize, Ms. Rice. I didn't mean to have that comment be my first impression," he spoke, pausing his walk and waiting for her to turn around. "You seem like a very lovely and intelligent woman. I have never been in the presence of such grace."

It was sad that his comment won her back over. It shouldn't have. She still didn't find it in herself to turn around to face him. He slowly advanced toward her, grabbing her hand while she still refused to face him. He momentarily let go to walk around in front of her.

"Thank you, Mr. President," she spoke. Macron smiled again. She began to ponder why he would kiss her hand again, but she soon let it go.

Bush couldn't stand to be with Bridgitte any longer. He was bored out of his mind listening to her talk. He'd rather be with Condi than anyone else there. Or Emmanuel. He didn't know at this point. Only that he did know. He just thinks that he doesn't. Neither person could make him feel the way he wants to feel, whatever that is. At this current moment, he wanted Tony. Tony would be able to help with the situation, ease his nerves, and just bring a better light to the situation.

In the middle of Bridgitte's sentence, he had an idea.

"Sorry, I have to go. I'll be back though!" He got up and nearly sprinted out of the room before she could say anything else.

He continued walking until he found a restroom. He entered while holding his phone in his hand. No one else was in the restroom. The coast was clear.

"Office of the prime minister," a female voice said.

George was confused. Usually, Tony would take the call directly.

"Um, hi." He said.

"Hello, may I ask what you may be inquiring about?" She asked.

"I need to talk to Tony. My name is George W. Bush by the way."

There was a moment of silence before she spoke again.

"Hold on, sir."

It fell silent again.

"Hello?"

That one word made him feel at home again. It made him feel comfortable.

"Hello?" He asked again.

"Oh, hey Tony! How’ve you been?"

"I’ve been fine. How about yourself?"

"I've been good, everything is good. I'm just at this dinner that I don't want to be at." He said.

Tony paused for a second before responding. "Dinner? You're at a dinner?"

"Yeah," Bush said.

"Then why are you on the phone with me?" Tony asked.

"Because I don't want to be there. Condi went ahead and started talking to Emmanuel Macron and she seems to be doing a real good job. I was left with his wife. She's better off talking to someone like my mom than me," he explained.

"Wait, what's that supposed to mean?"

"Well, she's old! Really old! I can't imagine being married to someone closer in age than my mom than me."

Tony tried to hold his laughter, but he was no longer able to control it.

"George! That's not appropriate!" He laughed. "What happens in the French president's bedroom is none of our concern."

He paused. They both paused.

"Wait, I didn't say anything about the French president's bedroom," George said. "Is there something you need to tell me?"

"What? No! I only said that so you could- but you said- because you said-" he stammered.

George laughed. "Alright, I believe you."

Tony began to laugh too. "Well, good! This conversation can be over!"

"Right! Now we can talk about something else."

"I wish you could be here, man," George said. "I'd rather spend the rest of this stupid dinner with you. You'd make it less stupid."

Tony sighed and began to fiddle with the phone cord. "I know. I wish I could be there too. If I could, I'd make plans to be there now, but who would take care of Leo? Cherie is off on a business trip and I wouldn't want to hand him over to one of my other children. They all have their things going on." He explained.

"You can bring him here. Just like you did the last time! I'll watch him, or I'll have one of my kids watch him," he said. "I'll even watch him, we won't mind one bit."

"I know that, and I appreciate it, but-"

"Just like the last time! I can get you on the next flight here, and no one would know! He had so much fun here. You can trust me with him! He played with the press secretary and was out like a light by the end of the night!" George continued.

"George! Just listen to me, for one second."

George fell silent. Tony took a couple of moments before speaking again.

"I would love to do that again, but it can't be today. Last time I took him, Cherie had an issue with it, so I would have to speak with her first. Just... just keep this between us, alright?" He asked.

"Now, you need to get back to your dinner. I'm sure Mrs. Macron is wondering why you disappeared like that." He said, trying to reassure him.

"Right," George said.

"You'll be the first to know if I'm coming back to the United States, I can promise you that," Tony said.

"And I'll hold you to that."

"I know you will," Tony sighed. "But you have that dinner, and you have to get back to it before anyone says anything, if they haven't already."

He had a good point. Condi is probably throwing a fit and wondering where he is.

"You're right. I'll talk to you later," George finally said.

"Mhm, I'll be looking forward to talking to you again," Tony said. George could hear the smile in his voice.

George finally closed his phone and looked around his surroundings. The coast was clear, but how long had he been in the restroom? Condi is going to be pissed. If Ari is here, Ari is going to be pissed.

He slowly walked back into the room. He wasn't greeted by anyone. Condi was at a table, sitting in front of Macron and his wife, keeping them entertained. Even without anything in front of them besides beverages, she was making them smile and laugh. They were laughing, but he couldn't determine what they were talking about. Then it hit him. They were talking in French.

"So, what'd I miss?" He asked, pulling the chair beside Condi out from under the table.

"I see why you made her the state secretary. She is very articulate!" Bridgitte said. Bush smiled and took a seat. "Yep, and she can do a million things that you wouldn't think she can do!" He exclaimed. "She can play the trombone! I think..."

Condi slightly cringed but appreciated Bush's attention to detail in remembering the many instruments that she was able to play. "Yes, I can play the trombone, but I prefer to play violin or piano. Or bass guitar if I'm really in the mood for something different," Condi answered. "However, there is no need to talk about me as if I am a child."
"I bet you and Tony Blair would make a great band," Bush interjected. "You know he wanted to be a rockstar when he was little?"

Macron rolled his eyes at the mention. Bridgitte laughed. Bush noticed that Macron rolled his eyes.

Bush felt offended. Why the need for disrespect? He wanted to say something to defend his friend, but this wasn’t the place to do it. All he could do was give Macron a confused look.

"Maybe we could make a great band, but the prospects of our country are far greater than the instruments that we play," Condi said.

“That is correct, Ms. Rice. Though I do hope that your talents aren’t just limited to your musical abilities,” Macron added with a slick smile on his face.

Condi smiled while George began to frown. That response could have two meanings. He’s beginning to see the way Macron continues to look at her. It filled him with rage. Who does he think he is coming into his house and making these slick comments? Especially against the same woman he is interested in.

“Whatever talents you might be referring to, it does apply there. Ms. Rice is the most talented, and dare I say, most intelligent member of my cabinet. There’s a reason why she’s secretary of state,” he refuted.

Macron’s smile quickly faded. “Yes, there is no doubt in my mind that she is intelligent, but I was just inquiring on whether or not that intelligence is present in another area.”

Both women could sense the hostility. Condi looked at Brigitte for some kind of confirmation that the exchange was off putting. She grabbed her husband’s hand and guided it under the table.

“While I do believe that Ms. Rice is extremely intelligent, I also think that there are greater issues to discuss,” she spoke, smiling at Condi.

The men both exhaled rather loudly.

“I agree. This dinner was called in order for us to discuss important unfoldings with our national security,” Condi added.

The Macron’s stopped chewing their food and eagerly stared at her, mainly Emmanuel.

“Our national security?” He asked. “What kind could you be referring to?”

“Well, as you know, as you both know, we have solid evidence that the Iraqi government is seeking to buy yellowcake uranium from Niger. This kind of uranium would be used to build more weapons of mass destruction to cause havoc on anyone as they please. Seeing that your country is closer to the middle east than our’s is, we were hoping that we could get additional support,” Condi explained.

“So you brought us here to ask for money to fund your war?” Macron asked.

Bush put his hand up before Condi could respond. “Now hold on there, where in what she just said did she ask for any money?”

Silence ensued. Condi was contemplating what she could say based on Macron’s response and Brigitte’s silence. Macron picked up his fork again and continued eating, but his eyes never left Bush. At some points, they would drift to Condi just to see if her expression would change. Bush was quietly growing angry with Macron’s arrogance. Bush and Condi only had one thing in common, they wanted, and needed to hear a yes come from Macron’s mouth.

Macron put his fork down once more.

“I understand the struggle, and the energy it must take to put on a brave face and persuade people to join your cause to fight totalitarianism, remove these weapons of mass destruction, and overthrow a government. It’s a shame what had happened to your country just a few years ago. So much of a shame that I understand where you are coming from, so just give me a little bit of time to think about it,” he said.

Bush’s face finally relaxed. Condi was sure that his answer was no. There was no need to say anything else. She was dismayed, but tried her best not to show that emotion on her face. Macron took notice of that before he spoke again.

“I will let you know my decision by the end of the night, I am sure,” he added.

Bush put on the fakest smile he could. “That’s wonderful. I’m sure Ms. Rice is delighted to hear that.”

Condi refused to say anything. She smiled, but refused to engage in whatever game her boss was trying to play. “Well, if everyone is done eating, I would love to show Mrs. Macron around the White House. We have a lovely library.”

“That sounds amazing! I bet my husband could use some exploring as well with the president,” she added.

The men glared at each other.

“Wonderful,” Macron muttered. “That sounds absolutely exquisite. Like your friend Tony Blair would say.”

Bush almost gave a sharp comeback, but the look on Condi’s face indicated one of stern, silently telling him to stop.

“Well, Mr. Macron, if you could follow me, I’ll be able to show you the green room, or something…”

He remained silent as he walked behind Bush.

“You have a very sharp secretary. I’ve never seen anyone like her before. We don’t have that many black individuals in politics in France,” he said.

Each word that came out of his mouth about her began to irritate him.

“Yeah, she’s black, has a long name, intelligent, and is the highest ranking official in all of my cabinet aside from the vice president,” he rapidly spat. “Oh, and not to mention, she’s black! It must offend you that she’s black. It’s been the subject of every sentence that you’ve had with her!”

Macron was left in silence as he tried to formulate any response.

“I don’t like your tone, Mr. Bush. All I am trying to do is experience a bit of… how do you say, culture shock? I never said, or tried to imply that Ms. Rice is incapable of doing her job, or is unfit to serve as secretary of your fine country.” Macron turned his back to the man and continued walking forward.

“You know you can’t talk to me like this in my house. This is my freakin’ house!” George exclaimed. “You don’t even know where you’re going!”

“You act like all Americans are so smart. All of you are the same with the exception of your secretary,” He said.

George’s anger almost boiled over. “She has a name and her name is Condoleezza. She’s not just a secretary, she’s the secretary of state for this goddamn country!”

“And you seem to take up for her very well,” he spat. “Are you trying to impress her? Win her by chance?”

George instantly got red in the face. That wasn’t like him at all. A reaction like that only happens when he was either extremely embarrassed, or in love. This time it was a mixture of both. The feeling stung him. It burned him. Macron was now looking down at him. He knows what George is in denial about.

“Oh, I see how it is. It all makes sense now,” Macron said.

“What? What are you talking about? Whatever you’re thinking, it’s wrong.” George said, turning his back to him and rubbing his face, attempting to somehow rid himself of the color.

“All I have to ask is, do you remember what happened the last time something like this happened?” He asked.

George remained silent, but stopped rubbing his face.

“I know you know what I’m talking about,” he spoke again. “The man who was in this house before you who had relations with an intern and lied about it. I’m pretty sure you’ve heard of it.”

“Condi isn’t an intern, also, that man is Bill Clinton. It was a huge mistake on his part and that entire situation is over,” George said, turning around again.

Macron slowly formed a sinister grin on his face. “So, you’re having relations with your secretary?”

“Prove it to me then,” he taunted. “Prove it to me that you are not in love with your secretary.”

George felt the burning sensation slowly coming back to his face. He had an idea on what he could do, but he wanted to play dumb.

"Oh really? How could I prove it to you?"

Macron had a sinister smirk on his face, but it was subtle. He almost wanted George to continue probing the question. Then Macron realized that he was blushing. 

George turned his back to the man and led him to a nearby broom closet that was feet away from them. He opened the door and led him into the tight space. Macron locked the door, but kept his eyes on George. As if it were clockwork, the men worked on undressing themselves. 

“I just have one question, before we start this,” George said, taking his bowtie off. “Do you have any kind of… you know…”

“Any kind of what?” Macron questioned.

“Feelings for my secretary of state.” He said.

“Mr. Bush,” Emmanuel began, continuing to undress. “With all due respect, I am about to surrender my morals, my loyalty, and in part, my dignity by having intercourse with you in this enclosed space. I would appreciate it if you did not mention her name for the next few moments.”

A short lived smile appeared on George’s face as he continued to remove his clothes. If one person should have Condi in mind throughout this, it should be him. No one should be able to take, or replicate the feelings he has toward her, no matter how hard they try.

Emmanuel was down to his boxers once George came back to Earth.

“I can’t stand here and be idle. If you want to stare at me, you can do that outside,” he said.

George was amazed by his body. He was very chiseled, almost like Justin Trudeau. Both are young men, but Emmanuel’s body was more worn. His body had more experience. His chest hair was neatly dispersed in one area on his pectorals, assuming he shaves everywhere else on his torso but there. He has nice legs, very active legs. His face was on fire doing the very same thing Emmanuel just scorned him about.

“You must work out…” He said, still ogling him.

Emmanuel took several steps forward to close the gap between them. “Yes, I do. Don’t you?”

“I try,” George sighed. “I go for a jog each morning.”

Within seconds, the space between them was more than closed. It was filled with the sounds of Emmanuel’s heavy breathing and noisily attempting to get deeper inside George’s mouth.

“Turn around.” Emmanuel said.

“Huh?”

“Turn around. Now.”

George, though confused, slowly turned around and faced the wall. Emmanuel yanked both of his hands and held them to the wall. Emmanuel pulled George's underwear to his knees and started leaving a trail of marks and bruises along his back. It was taking everything within George's power to not make a sound. The women could find their way to them and discover the atrocity being committed inside. It would soon not matter to him. 

"Have you ever taken it the other way before?" Emmanuel asked.

George was breathing heavily, wondering what he was talking about. "What?"

"You know, the other way," he said. "With a man."

"No," George said meekly.

Emmanuel scoffed and continued biting at his neck. George's heart somehow began to beat even faster than it was before. It could jump right out of his chest if it could. While biting him, Emmanuel began massaging his chest and back. George could feel every inch of his manhood between his cheeks. 

Suddenly, Emmanuel's hands slapped George's shoulders. Not even a second passed by and Emmanuel was already inside him, from the other way. George moaned loudly. He inches out slowly, but surely. He entered again, but would go a bit deeper each time. 

"I didn't know French people were fond of this," George sputtered. "Does your wife do this to you?"

"Just shut up and let me do what I'm doing..." Emmanuel spat. 

George did as he was told and continued to suppress any noise that could come out of his mouth. He might have taken his order too seriously. He had no prior impression on how big Emmanuel would be. This took him by complete surprise. It was enough to make him squirm almost uncontrollably. The wall he was up against offered no support. The sensation was beginning to get to him. It was new, but he wasn't opposed to it. Each time Emmanuel inserted himself deeper, George's cheek would brush against the cold wall. It was in sharp contrast to the warmth of Emmanuel's cock inside him, and his own. It was nice, but not nice enough to let completely loose. He bit his lip to hold back his moans. 

"Oh, fuck..." Emmanuel groaned. 

His hand moved from George's side to his neck. Then he gripped his neck pushing his face into the wall. Had he pushed any harder, he would've had a concussion. Emmanuel was close to a climax, but George didn't want this feeling to end. 

"Keep going," he said. "D-don't stop..."

Emmanuel's thrusts changed. He briefly paused. It was only for a second. That second felt like hours. George was tempted to turn his head, if he could, to see what was wrong. 

This needed to end swiftly.

Emmanuel sped up his thrusts to an unfathomable pace. George nearly yelped out in arousal at the feeling. Their breaths were now in unison, intertwined with one another in an equal state of euphoria. Emmanuel's breaths began to rise in volume. 

"Gloire à Dieu! Gloire à la France!" Emmanuel shouted, shooting his load deeper into George's ass.

George clenched his teeth as the thrusts came to a stop. Emmanuel's hand still held George's face to the wall, almost cracking his skull. He remained with his cock inside the man and his hand still firmly on the back of his neck. The only sound in the room was their heavy breathing. With his hand still on George's neck, Emmanuel removed himself from George.

George slowly shut his eyes trying to imagine what just transpired. Part of him didn't care. Part of him also enjoyed it. He needed this kind of release. Actual release. Emmanuel slowly took his and away from his neck. What was left was the imprint of how his fingers were around his neck.

"God, give me a minute," George said, pulling up his boxers. "I can't go out looking like this."

"Don't be so shameful," Emmanuel said, "I know there's someone out there who wants to see their commander in chief with an erect penis." 

George was beginning to feel disturbed. Emmanuel continues to make these comment as if he's joking. He can't tell if he's serious or not.

"You say that while I can still feel your cum in my ass. It's not pleasant." George scoffed.

"You'll get used to it. After a while, you'll be asking me to do it again while it's still wet." Emmanuel said, finishing the last button on his blazer. George was dressed, but his belt and fly remained undone. 

Emmanuel turned to look at him. "You look somewhat desperate, Mr. Bush. I wonder if there's anything I can do to help with that?" He began to move closer.

"No," George said. "It will only make things worse."

Despite what he said, Emmanuel inched even closer until he was inches away from George's face. They both closed their eyes as Emmanuel closed the gap between their lips on final time.

"There, that should do it." He said. George obediently nodded. 

"You should wait here for a while, but don't be too long. People will start to wonder." Macron said.

"Yeah, I'll be here..." Bush whispered.

Macron left the room, leaving Bush alone with his thoughts and his pants undone. After a while, he lost his erection and fixed his clothes, finally making it out of the dark room. 

"Where were you! Do you know how long I had to stand there and pretend I knew a thing about being married while talking to that woman?" Condi whispered.

"I-uh, had a change of heart," Bush said, trying to come back to reality. 

"Change of heart?" She asked. "About what? Do you like him now?"

"I guess you could say that," he said, without thinking. 

She wondered what he meant. Whatever it was, it certainly wasn't worth spending what felt like hours with Bridgitte Macron. At this point, she didn't care. The event is over and she no longer has to be near his wife. She was relieved. 

The press was in the next room. It was time for the Macron's to depart. They walked out side by side, inadvertently violating their protocol. Condi and Bush were supposed to be standing next to each other, but to get away from Bush, Condi stood next to Macron, leaving Bridgitte next to Bush. That left Macron and Bush next to each other. The camera flashes were almost blinding. 

"Can you take two steps in the right?" Condi muttered.

"My dress, you're stepping on my dress."

Bush was too lost into his own mind that he didn't realize he was scuffing the bottom of her dress, somehow. He moved over and accidentally brushed against Macron. His heart started pounding. One wrong move and he could be fully erect standing next to another man. The flashes of the cameras made Bush become dizzy. He had to remain in the same position for a few more seconds for the press. 

Macron, suddenly, grabbed Bush's wrists and forced him to face him. The women partially moved out of the way. 

"What are you doing..." Bush whispered. 

"Don't stress. Us French are, how you say, very affectionate," Macron smirked. 

He leaned in to give Bush a hug. Bush, again, was too focused on preventing a possible erection to hold his arms up. Macron almost had to yank Bush out of his place in order to properly wrap his arms around him. As he grew closer to him, Bush shut his eyes and replayed what happened in the hallway closet in his mind. He was starting to remember how everything felt. How Macron 

"I hope you take this as a lesson in politics," he said. "Because I'd want to do this again."

They let go. Macron looked down at the seat of Bush's pants and saw no erection. He smirked again. They both knew that their jobs were done. Bush gave a half hearted smile. Bridgitte came from around from behind the men and gave Condi two kisses, one on each side of her face. After that, Macron and Bridgitte walked down the flight of stairs with the cameras following them. Bush and Condi remained at the top of the stairs, waving, until the Macron's were out of sight. 

No one suspected a thing. No one had any basis to suspect anything.

As soon as Condi couldn't see them anymore, she raced around the corner. George remained in the same place, holding his breath, biting his lip. He wondered if he needed to relieve himself of whatever feeling he was feeling. He isn't even erect, yet the rest of his body is under the impression that he is. None of it makes sense. Finally, he noticed Condi was gone. The redness from his face slowly went away. The weakness He hiked up the stairs to wherever she could've run off to.

Carrying her heels in her hand, Condi was giving everything in her power to not collapse on the floor. The experience did not go as planned, hardly at all. She was embarrassed. She felt humiliated. She should've just told Bush that she didn't want to do the dinner. There were too many instances of being mistaken for the first lady, and, God forbid, the president's mistress by both guests. It wasn't a good first impression. At all. She needed to find Karl, and fast.

"Ms. Rice," a voice said from down the hall behind her. "Where are you coming from, especially dressed like that?"

She knew whose voice that was, and it terrified her. It was Cheney. She stopped dead in her tracks and slowly turned around.

"Good evening, Mr. Vice President," she said. "I just had dinner with the French president and First Lady. It just ended."

Cheney remained in the same place as Condi was trying to continue walking.

"Sounds... interesting. And that explains your outfit choice," he responded in a condescending tone. 

"With all due respect, Mr. Cheney, why else would I be dressed like this?" She asked. 

Karl appeared from around the corner. He was tempted to walk in the other direction, but then he saw Condi. Somehow he missed her while only focusing on Cheney. 

Condi turned to him and smiled, but only a half smile.

"Well, if it isn't Karl Rove," he said. "I think we should just start keeping tags on all of you. I had no idea that the French president was even here and I've had no idea where Karl has been this entire day."

Karl could sense the uneasiness in Condi's face. It hurt him. She seemed tired and just ready to take a long nap. It angered him that Cheney is still relying on the same tactics to hold some form of leverage over those under him. 

"Hey, unless if it's something serious, you don't need to know where I am," Karl said. "Now, if you will excuse the both of us, we have places that we need to be that aren't here."

"Well," Cheney sighed. "That's all you had to say. You guys have a good night." 

He said that but he didn't move from his position. Karl was waiting on him to move. If he waited any longer, they would never leave. Condi gave Cheney one final look before walking toward Karl, her eyes wide with admiration.

Karl let her walk in front of him before turning the corner. Once out of Cheney's line of sight, he couldn't contain himself. He wrapped his arms around her and began kissing her neck. He tried to make sure that neither of them would make any significant sounds if Cheney was still around the corner. Who knows what he would do if he heard them. 

"I hope you didn't forget about what happened earlier..." He groaned. "I've been trying to hide this all day..."

"I know, I know. I just want to lie down," she sighed. "The entire night was rough. They were surprised that I was a woman... and black."

He didn't understand what that could mean. He was waiting to see if she really meant that she was tired. She could be physically tired or tired of the day and its events or both. He came up with a better idea. He reached for her legs and instantly threw her over his shoulder, then positioned her to where he could properly carry her.

"Karl! What are you doing?" She exclaimed. 

"Why walk when I can carry you there?" He asked. "Just make sure you keep up with your shoes. They look expensive."

She smiled and let her head rest on Karl's shoulder. She felt at ease and comfortable. He was able to carry her with ease and no sign of trouble. This made it apparent of how strong he was.

"You know we actually have to start doing our jobs as far as the campaign goes, right?" Condi asked. 

"I know. but that's a task for a different day. I don't think I can stomach looking at Kerry and Edwards for too long anyway," Karl sighed. 

"If you're going to vomit, don't do it on me," she chuckled. 

"Oh yeah? I know something else I can do to you... and on you..." 

Condi blushed a bright red and jokingly hit Karl. "What has gotten into you? You're making me think you could be a sex addict. Where is this even coming from?"

"I also know something that's coming," he smirked. 

"Enough," she said.

"Alright, but just know that I'm saying all of this to cheer you up, and because I love you."

That was the first time she heard those words come from his mouth. It surprised her. It surprised her even more because she knew that he meant it. It made her truly think about her situation. Her coworker is carrying her bridal style around the White House corridors late at night. Her coworker just said that he loved her. She didn't necessarily consider it as such, but more like a boyfriend is carrying his girlfriend because he loves her. Karl loves her. 

"I know, I love you too," she said.

The two continued to make their way around the halls, but someone was still watching. Someone was still lurking around corners and observing, hearing every word that was said.