All For Us

Chapter 2 (Astra)

"Astra, are you even listening?" my dad demands, setting the papers on his desk down. He's in his fifties, thick salt and pepper hair styled perfectly on his head. He's got a sharp jaw and even sharper eyes to match. He's decently built, tall and muscular. Dad's incredibly well groomed, always looking so polished.

I sigh. We both know I hadn't been listening even the slightest bit. It's the first day of summer break and I'm already being deprived of all my fun. 

When my father told us he was running for office three years ago, I never realized how much of a personal sacrifice it was going to be for me. And yet, here I am, being given a detailed itinerary of what my summer as the President of the United States' eldest daughter will entail.

"Nope. I'll just have Dove brief me on it again later," I say, waving a hand dismissively. Dove's my personal assistant; why I have a personal assistant at the age of eighteen (well, technically seventeen, but my birthday is tomorrow) is beyond me. My dad gives me one of his best "I'm disappointed in you" faces at my response, but I'm used to it.

"Astra, I know it's your last summer before you leave for college, but we as a family have an image to uphold," Dad tells me for what's probably the thousandth time since he's taken office. 

I groan, but I'm not an idiot. If we don't make my father look great, he isn't going to get re-elected. And as much as it pains me to acknowledge it because he's my dad, he makes a rather good leader.

"Fine. What were you saying?" I ask, returning my attention back to him. He proceeds to run through the plan for the following week, wherein I'm supposed to make appearances at several charity events. We go over my talking points, my outfit requirements, and my general behavioral expectations.

I start to tune him out again because this is far from my first rodeo. I've been making appearances and impressions on behalf of my dad since I was fifteen. Why he insists on going over what's expected of me every time is something I have yet to figure out. It's likely his sorry attempt to strengthen his relationship with me. Given how busy his schedule is, he rarely has time for my siblings and I. I suppose going over itineraries with me is his idea of father-daughter bonding.

I start to tap my foot against the ground, anxious to be done with the meeting Dad trapped me in. It's boring. It's tiresome. And I certainly have so many other things I need to be doing, considering I have just a few short months before I start college at UCLA in the fall.

Dad must sense my restlessness because he finally releases me. Part of me feels guilty for making no effort to hide how little I care about the meeting, but we've been doing them for years, and I'm growing less capable of not acknowledging their pointlessness.

I make sure to give him a kiss on the cheek before leaving. "Bye, Dad, love you. I'll see you at dinner!" I tell him before practically skipping out of the room.

I check my watch and see that, per usual, my meeting with my father ran slightly late; which means that I'm running behind for my training at 4. I make eye contact with Kayson Anderson, the head Secret Service Agent (I call them the A's) assigned to protect me who's been waiting for me in the hall. 

"Sorry, meeting ran late."

"Figured," Kayson replies gruffly. He's somewhere in his mid-twenties, with thick jet black hair that falls down to his ears in neat lines, his eyes just as dark and piercing. He's tall, tan, and impossibly muscular. His face is angular, hard, and looks like it's been carved from granite. Kayson is devastatingly handsome, and the sharp black suits he wears only further enhance his already ridiculously good looks.

When I first met him, he intimidated the hell out of me, all stoicism and stern faces. But after three years with him, I've come to learn that that's just how Kayson is. Always serious, always quietly brooding. He's been the head of my security detail for the entirety of my time at the White House, and is by far the A I'm the closest to.