Alright! Who wants more action?!?!?!? If yes, then wait and read more. If no, then keep reading. Either way, keep reading. I'm gonna jazz it up. Everything branches from the first chapter. I'm gonna write a story and its gonna be good. Kk? Make me famous people and put me on a schedule. I wanna make this book good. More than 50 chapters if possible. If not, then :( BUT I NEED THE HELP OF THE READERS FOR IDEAS. THIS IS A DEMOCRACY, THE GOVERNMENT IS IN THE HANDS OF THE PEOPLE!
Anybody know how to be an editor and I only send this to them? I need one.
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After a long, silent, plane ride on Air Force 1 with Ashton boggling at me shirtless on the bench for 1 hour and 55 minutes, we finally landed at D.C.
One of the doctor's stayed with me super-vise me because she didn't trust me to sit still and heal. Maybe I wasn't planning on it anyway.
Dr. Clark walked over after the flight. She whispered, "He likes you doesn't he?" She does a little eyebrow raise.
"He's just a player. He goes out with everyone. This is his regular slutty self." I defend.
"What ever you say sweet heart."
I growl in response.
Ashton really is a slut. He hasn't been a virgin since... well. let's see..... umm... NEVER! As I've said, he's gone out with almost every girl and has repetitively failed on me. We are both smart and that's the only thing we have in common. THE ONLY THING. Whenever someone touches my bare skin on my back, my heart rate might pick up a little. I can't help it that I'm a virgin and my boyfriend isn't the touchy type. I'm not used to being touched. I don't wear bikinis or even tikinis or tight one pieces. I wear non-dynamic shirt and shorts in the water. I don't often exercise in a sports bra and short, I wear exercise clothes. I was born and raised to wear clothes that cover my self in public. But I'm not modest, my clothes are. But being touched is something I have unintentionally tried to avoid. But it wasn't so bad after all....
"Ashton! Jasmine!" A man called. Strangely like the... ITS THE PRESIDENT! OMFG! I'M SHIRTLESS! Official clickly shoes climb up to greet us. "Hey kiddos. Ready for your mission. Let's," he stops when he looks towards my torso. "Are you alright?" A paternal voice comes out of the man we call Mr. President.
"Yes, yes. I'm totally fine and taken care of. Sorry for my attire." I sputtered.
"I understand with the circumstances. I heard all about it." Funny thing is, none of the S.S. agents spoke... at least I didn't heart them........
"Well, let's get to the briefing. The others are on their way also." Mr. President adressed.
The Conference room was like any other. Brown, glossy table with spiny chairs (YAY) and a projector and a screen. All the normal stuff. But when everyone sat there quietly waiting for the briefing and the doors closed, they were locked down into a secure, fireproof room with dead bolt doors and windows.
I wonder how classified this briefing is. I don't think its even classified at all.
One kid, very pale, I bet he's from Vermont, yell, "Wait. What the fuck? Is anybody going to tell me what's going on? I feel like I'm being kidnapped!"
Everyone erupts into yelling and cursing and demanding to know.
I scream over everyone, "AT LEAST YOU DIDN'T GET ATTACKED! I HAVE 7 STICHES SO STOP COMPLAINING BITCHES!" And everyone stared at me. I feel like the bitch now.
