Chapter 1
I'm afraid of heights, snakes, normalcy, mediocrity, Hollywood, the initial silence of an empty house, the enduring darkness of a poorly lit street, evil clowns, professional failure, the intellectual impact of Barbie dolls, letting my father down, being paralyzed, hospitals, doctors, the cancer that killed my mother, dying unexpectedly, dying for a stupid reason, dying painfully, and, worst of all, dying alone. But I'm not afraid of power--which is why I work in the White House.
As I sit in the passenger seat of my beat-up, rusty blue Jeep, I can't help but stare at my date, the beautiful young woman who's driving my car. Her long, thin fingers hold the steering wheel in a commanding grip that lets both of us know who's in charge. I could care less, though--as the car flies up Connecticut Avenue, I'm far more content studying the way her short black hair licks the back of her neck. For security reasons, we keep the windows closed, but that doesn't stop her from opening the sunroof. Letting the warm, early-September air sweep through her hair, she leans back and enjoys the freedom. She then adds her final personal touch to the car: She turns on the radio, flips through my preset stations, and shakes her head.
'This is what you like?' Nora asks. 'Talk radio?'
'It's for work.' Pointing to the dashboard and hoping to be cool, I add, 'The last one has music.'
She calls my bluff and hits the last button. More talk radio. 'You always this predictable?' she asks.
'Only when I--' Before I can finish, the shriek of an electric guitar pierces my eardrum. She's found her station.
Tapping her thumbs against the steering wheel and bobbing her head to the beat, Nora looks completely alive.
'This is what you like?' I shout back over the noise. 'Thrash radio?'
'Only way to stay young,' she says with a grin. She's kicking my shins and she loves it. At twenty-two years of age, Nora Hartson is smart. And way too confident. She knows I'm self-conscious about the difference in our ages--she knew it the first moment I told her I was twenty-nine. She didn't care, though.
'Think that's going to scare me off?' she had asked.
'If it does, that's your mistake.'
That's when I had her. She needed the challenge. Especially a sexual one. For too long, things had been easy for her. And as Nora is so keenly aware, there's no fun in always getting what you want. The thing is, that's likely to be her lot in life. For better or worse, that's her power. Nora is attractive, engaging, and extremely captivating. She's also the daughter of the President of the United States.
As I said, I'm not afraid of power.
The car heads toward Dupont Circle, and I glance at my watch, wondering when our first date is going to end. It's quarter past eleven, but Nora seems to just be getting started. As we pull up to a place called Tequila Mockingbird, I roll my eyes. 'Another bar?'
'You gotta have at least a little foreplay,' she teases. I look over like I hear it all the time. It doesn't fool her for a second. God, I love America. 'Besides,' she adds, 'this is a good one--no one knows this place.'
'So we'll actually have some privacy?' Instinctively, I check the rearview mirror. The black Chevy Suburban that followed us out of the White House gate and to every subsequent stop we made is still right behind us. The Secret Service never lets go.
'Don't worry about them,' she says. 'They don't know what's coming.'
Before I can ask her to explain, I see a man in khakis standing at the side entrance of Tequila Mockingbird. He points to a reserved parking spot and waves us toward him. Even before he pushes the button in his hand and whispers into the collar of his struggling-to-be-casual polo shirt, I know who he is. Secret Service. Which means we don't have to wait in the long line out front--he'll take us in the side. Not a bad way to bar-hop, if you ask me. Of course, Nora sees it differently.
'Ready to rain on his parade?' she asks.
I nod, unsure of what she's up to, but barely able to contain my smile. The First Daughter, and I mean the First Daughter, is sitting next to me, in my crappy car, asking me to follow her under the limbo stick. I can already taste the salsa.
Just as we make eye contact with the agent outside the Mockingbird, Nora rolls past the bar, and instead heads to a dance club halfway up the block. I turn around and check out the agent's expression. He's not amused. I can read his lips from here. 'Shadow moving,' he growls into his collar.
'Wait a minute--didn't you tell them we were going to the Mockingbird?'
'Let me ask you a question: When you go out, do you think it's fun to have the Secret Service check out the place before you get there?'
I pause to think about it. 'Actually, it seems pretty cool to me.'
She laughs. 'Well, I hate it. The moment they walk in, the really interesting people hit the exits.' Pointing to the Suburban that's still behind us, she adds, 'The ones who follow me, I can deal with. It's the advance guys that wreck the party. Besides, this keeps everyone on their toes.'
As we pull up to the valet, I try to think of something witty to say. That's when I see him. Standing at the front entrance of our newest destination is another man whispering into the collar of his shirt. Like the agent who was standing outside the Mockingbird, he's dressed in Secret Service casual standards: khakis and a short-sleeve polo. To call as little attention to Nora as possible, the agents try their best to be invisible--their attire is keyed to their protectee's. Of course, they think they blend in, but last I checked, most people in khakis don't carry guns and talk into the collars of their shirts. Either way, though, I'm impressed. They know her better than I thought.
'So, we going in or what?' I ask, motioning toward the valet, who's waiting for Nora to open her door.
Nora doesn't answer. Her piercing green eyes, which were persuasive enough to convince me to let her drive, are now staring vacantly out the window.
I tap her playfully on the shoulder. 'So they knew you were coming. Big deal--that's their job.'
'That's not it.'
'Nora, we're all creatures of habit. Just because they know your routine--'
'That's the problem!' she shouts. 'I was being spontaneous!'
Behind the outburst, there's a pain in her voice that catches me off guard. Despite the years of watching her on TV, it's the first time I've seen her open her soft side, and even though it's with a yell, I jump right in. My playful shoulder-tap turns into a soothing caress. 'Forget this place--we'll find somewhere new.'
She glares angrily at the agent near the front door. He grins back. They've played this game before. 'We're out of here,' she growls. With a quick pump of the gas, our tires screech and we're on to our next stop. As we take off, I again check the rearview mirror. The Suburban, as always, is right behind us.
'They ever let up?' I ask.
'Goes with the territory,' she says, sounding like she's been kicked in the gut.
Hoping to cheer her up, I say, 'Forget those monkeys. Who cares if they know where you--'
'Spend two weeks doing it. That'll change your tune.'
'Not me. My tune stays the same: Love the guys with guns. Love the guys with guns. Love the guys with guns. We're talkin' mantra here.'
The joke is easy, but it works. She fights back the tiniest smile. 'Gotta love those guns.' Taking a deep breath, she runs her hand across the back of her neck and through the tips of her black hair. I think she's finally starting to relax. 'Thanks again for letting me drive--I was starting to miss it.'
'If it makes you feel better, you're an excellent driver.'
'And you're an excellent liar.'
