Mr. President | jb

one

A few months ago, if you would've asked me if I would ever become romantically involved with the president, I'd laugh it off and I would only have dreamed of it--if only I knew that my imagination would become reality; a reality in which I wish I'd forget and never made real in the first place.

*

When President Bieber called me down to his office, I was nervous. Oh, I was so nervous.

My heart was beating quickly, skipping over some beats and heading toward other ones; my hands were sweating and my palms were clammy. I had to wipe my sweat on my dress shirt. My legs instantly felt itchy from the pair of tights I had on and somehow, my body made me feel like I was going to burst out of my clothes. I can't even walk straight. That's how severe I have it.

Being called to the President's office is a huge deal. It could either mean three things, one, you were getting a promotion, two, you were getting fired--or three: he wants a favor. 

"Do you know what he wants?" I question Sahara, my partner in crime. Sahara has been at the White House for two years, a year before I was hired for a permanent position. We even have an apartment together now. We figured that the rent might be cheaper if we lived closer to the job and well, living inside of the city will make you go broke.

"I'm not sure," she answers, holding her clipboard tight in between her arms, "but, I think it's a good thing. He asked for you with a smile. Is there anything I should know about?" Sahara giggles, bumping my arm with her elbow.

"No, I don't think so. But, I forgot to brush my teeth today,"

Sahara gives me an 'are you kidding me' look.

"I'm joking," I snicker, keeping my laughs low.

It was bad enough that everyone in here thought that we were undersized and less deserving of our jobs. Every day we took the slander and judgment from the people who have been working here for years, some longer than I've been on this Earth.

I received this job through an internship here. I studied at Harvard University for business and I figured to apply just to have experience at the nation's powerhouse and it'd look great on my resume. And, believe it or not, I received the job after not even applying seriously. I was excited and even more enthused that I was working amongst some of the most powerful people in the country.

"And here we are," the brown doors were tall and wide, they almost covered the entire wall. They were intimidating, almost like they would swallow me up.

"I'm nervous, Sahara. Is it that obvious?"

"More than a little," We watch as the security guard shines our ideas on his scanner. The light turned green and approves us for entrance.

Sahara touches the gold panel and pushed open the door to reveal the vast room with a desk on the right side and various portraits on the other.

The carpet was a light sandy brown with the presidential seal in the middle of the room. Wooden floors bordered the room and golden curtains hung on the striped walls.

The president was on the phone, his feet propped on his wooden desk, a smile wide on his adolescent face.

After a while, he spots Sahara and I and tells the person he's talking to that he has something to do and hangs up.

He removes his long legs from the desk and uses his office chair to slide from underneath it, his chair gliding on the beige carpet.

He stands.

"Good afternoon, Ms. Duvall, Mrs. Wright," Mr. Bieber greets us and kisses my our hands.

"Oh, um, it's Ms. Wright," I say, hoping that he doesn't take any offense to my correction.

"My apologies, Ms. Wright," he corrects himself, enunciating my title more thoroughly.

I've never taken a good look at the President.

But, now that I have, I've noticed how young and handsome he is. He has honey brown eyes that glisten under light and hands were smooth as a baby's behind.

He appeared to have a little stubble on his chin and a peach fuzz above his top lip.

"Miss Duvall, you are dismissed. Thank you for your service, I'll be sure to mark that on your report." Sahara nods and winks at me before she walks out of the historic room.

"Would you like a drink?" Justin asks, grabbing the bottle of whiskey from a cabinet.

"Oh, no. Thank you," I wipe my sweaty hands on my skirt.

"You know, Mrs. Wright, there's no reason to be nervous. Just relax. I won't bite," He brings the small glass to his lips. "Oh, Ms. Wright. My apologies for the Mrs. I just thought...that you would be married seeing how beautiful you are."

Is the *president* flirting with me?

I smugly smile take a look at the pictures on the wall of previous presidents.

"Thank you," I humbly respond to President Bieber.

"I bet you're wondering why I requested for your presence,"

"Yeah, I am," I reply, happy that he was finally getting to the point.

"Have a seat, Lana." I follow Justin to the couches in the middle of the room. I sit on the suede couch across from him.

"I was thinking this over last night. My current assistant, Karen, is expecting her first child. My wife and I both agreed that I needed to hire a new assistant. We both agreed on you," Justin takes his last drink of whiskey before placing it on the glass table to the right of him.

"And I was looking through your records and your resume. You have an impressive track-record. You've worked at Google, Interned at Microsoft, had an interest in politics--this is perfect." Justin rubs his hands together and licks his lips.

"Do you want this job, Lana?"

Do I? I would hate to leave Sahara in that office alone, but this isn't about Sahara. I didn't know that I was called all the way to his office--his personal, actual office just to receive a promotion.

Without even thinking straight, the words spewed out of my mouth, "I would love to become your assistant, Mr. Bieber." and the rest was history.

I HAVE OFFICIALLY RESTARTED AND UPDATED THE BOOK.
THERE ARE NEW WORDS IN THE CHAPTER AND THINGS WILL GO SLOWER AND EVOLVE MORE.

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