Presidential Pursuit: A Kamala Harris lesbian love story

Chapter 10

A full day passes, and nothing. I'm not too worried, though. She doesn't specify when, but she's a woman of her word. Still, that doesn't help my nerves. I check my phone every five minutes like a maniac.

The next day, around five, I hear a ding while washing the dishes. I almost throw the plate out of my hands to grab it. It's a pin drop to a location I don't recognize and less than a sentence:

30 minutes.

I don't think I've ever gotten ready for anything faster in my life. I hop in the shower, go through my entire routine, hop out, throw on baggy low-rise jeans, a tank top, white sneakers, do some very basic makeup, and fly out the door.

The Uber drops me off, and I double-check that I'm in the right place about five times. It's a dingy part of Washington, and the building looks like an abandoned auto body repair shop, given the faded car illustration on the big, rusty garage door. I spot the little side door and walk to it. Before I even have a chance to knock, the door opens, and I see her standing there in front of me. She's wearing black slacks, an open white button-down shirt, and white Converse sneakers. Her hair is down in the usual blowout, with every strand perfectly in place. Not completely casual, but definitely more relaxed than her usual outfits. I like it.

"What the hell is this place?" I say, looking up and around the building.

She pops her head out, glances side to side, then grabs my arm and pulls me in, shutting the door behind us.

"Just—come on, get inside."

"Did anyone see you?"

"See me? What? No. Why would anyone even—"

Her lips curl into a sneer, and her face twists, giving me a look that says, "You're an idiot," which makes me shut the fuck up immediately.

"How'd you get here?"

"Uber..."

"Good."

Once her little interrogation ends, I look around for the first time. I've never seen anything like it. The exterior is deceiving—it's actually a loft. The bottom floor is decked out as a working repair shop, with tools and gadgets everywhere you look. A few motorcycles occupy the area. To the far right, stairs lead up to the top deck, an open space functioning like a regular apartment. There's a fridge, table, counter, sink, sofa, bed—everything you could possibly think of. It's fascinating—everything looks pristine.

"Woah... What is this?" I ask again.

"My safe haven."

"Are these yours?" I say, moving toward the bikes and running a hand over the metal.

"Yes."

She crosses her arms and answers me in short, impatient bursts.

"Do you ride them?"

"I used to."

"That's so cool. I didn't know that."

"Yes, well, there's a lot you don't know." Her tone is icy, and I can tell she's talking about something other than motorcycles.

"How were you able to come alone?"

"Do you really want a whole explanation, or shall we just get to it?" She snaps and then takes a deep breath. "I made it happen."

"...Okay, jeez, my bad." I say widening my eyes.

"I'm not in the mood, Emily."

What I really want to say is, "Oh, really?!? Wow, I couldn't tell. No shit, Sherlock." But I bite my tongue.