The World: According to Graham (15 page)

Max makes a dramatic whooshing noise, as if he’s held his breath for a couple of minutes. “Not near as bad as I thought. Now, go back to the tin can and fuck her brains out. Make her scream your name, big papa. Spank her ass and have her call you Daddy. Then get her on a plane, and we’ll see you tomorrow in San Diego.”

“Listen, Max. Focus for just a second, okay?” I love this guy, but I actually need real help here, and not just sex help. I’ve got that department covered—or not. God, this not sleeping with her is seeming more and more like a bad idea.

“Full attention, bro.”

“What if I scared her off?” And then, as if I needed a further dose of reality, I stare out the truck’s front window and watch a dad grab a little boy’s hand, who is about three years old. The little boy looks up at his father with round, adoring eyes. The dad must say something funny, because the little guy laughs and swings their connected arms. What a reminder of how much I have to lose.

“Then you contact a family attorney and file for your paternal rights,” he says it as if he’s telling me to buy her flowers. This is not the first or even the twentieth time he’s given me this advice. When I first told him about the baby, he instructed me to make the call and even did the research to find an attorney.

“Put Marissa on the phone,” I grit out through a locked jaw.

“Sorry. Can’t help myself. It’s like I suffer from some sort of affliction. The words just pop into my head, and they exit my mouth before I can stop them.” He pauses for a beat. “I’m working on it, but not too hard, because it’s what makes me lovable.”

With that, I slam the truck door and head into the grocery store to grab the supplies that we need.

Finally, Max gives me some decent advice. “She’s scared shitless. No job. Pregnant. Hell, Mar was terrified, and we planned for the kid. Just keep showing her how much you want and need her. Chicks love that shit. Buy her something special at the store. Be thoughtful. Mar likes it when I bring her the latest issue of
People
magazine
.
Trust your gut, Graham. I mean, look where it’s gotten you.”

I don’t bother to ask if “where it’s gotten me” is a good place. “Thanks, man. Now catch me up on the SOL. I don’t feel like listening to or reading all the messages.”

An hour later, I have enough fruit to feed us for a week and a smattering of fresh veggies. I grabbed us snack food for the truck and bottled water to throw in our new red Igloo cooler. I bought seven types of crackers, not knowing which kind helps her morning sickness, and George has some new dog treats that they don’t sell in D.C.

I pull up to the tin can that’s nestled in a grove of trees. This RV Park is nice and clean, and it feels safe. I haven’t asked Rachael yet if she plans on joining me in San Diego this weekend for our show. Fortunately, the lady who lives on the property and handles check-ins said that she would watch George for me if Rachael decides to go. We’ve tackled enough hard topics today. I’ll save the tour for tomorrow.

“Hey, Lucy! I’m home,” I call in my best Ricky Ricardo voice. My grandma made me watch
I Love Lucy
reruns in the summer. Can’t say that I liked the show, but there’s something very appropriate about the line tonight as I carry in bags of groceries.

“Just a sec,” she calls, as the door to the bathroom opens. “I knew you had watched that show at some point in your life.” She’s dressed in one of my white cotton sweaters. On her, it brushes across her legs at mid-thigh. She’s rolled the sleeves up to her wrist, and her long hair is damp from a shower. She looks even more fuckable than she did this morning. Mentally, I explain to myself why it would be a bad idea to pin her against the bathroom door and make The Cougar rock back and forth, creating quite the show for our neighbors.

“I think I found everything that you asked for.” I rest the bags in the sink, because we are lacking in counter space, and begin unpacking. My back is towards her as I try to calm my racing pulse. “Not sure what kind of crackers you wanted so I bought different kinds.”

I open the cabinet over the sink and pull down the bottle of Johnny Walker Black and prepare myself a drink. I sip it while I finish unpacking the grocery bags, struggling to find room. This kitchen is definitely fun-sized, like Rachael is.

“I made us sandwiches for supper. Seemed like the easiest. Points for me that I remembered your aversion to mayonnaise,” she says as she brushes against my back while opening the refrigerator door. I’m not sure if the touch was intentional or not, but my skin is inflamed where we made contact, and a low groan escapes from my throat.

Quickly, a quarter of the drink slides down my throat to cool me off.

“Want chips with yours?” she asks as she stands on her tip toes reaching for the bag of Lay’s on top of the freezer. My eyes travel down her legs and watch my sweater ride up, revealing her toned hip. There is just a hint of her pale pink lace that slips out. It’s teasing—mocking me.

Dear God, please give me whiskey dick.
I slam another quarter of the drink. What guy has ever prayed for that?

We sit across from each other at the table. I have no idea what kind of sandwich she made. I don’t taste it. It’s as if one minute there’s a plate full of food in front of me, and the next minute it’s gone.

She talks through dinner. I’m not paying attention. Maybe something about writing her book? I can’t focus. I must respond appropriately, because she doesn’t call me out. Her lips wrapped around the top of a water bottle make me fucking jealous of the bottle.

“I’m going into the studio to work. I’ll see you in the morning.” I fly into the second bedroom and slam the door behind me.

“What the hell am I doing?” I ask myself as I take a seat in front of the computer. My testosterone-addled brain can’t focus on anything but her. She’s like some sort of siren that calls to every cell of my body. I remind myself why I can’t have her sexually yet.
Yet
. We’re learning to communicate verbally instead of just physically. Our conversations in the car were tough but necessary. No. This is good. Although my dick would beg to differ.

It’s clear to a blind man that I’m still crazy in love with her. She has me behaving like a teenage boy. The first time I touch her body again I might explode in my pants, like the time that I lost my porno virginity.

“She’s just a girl, like every other girl,” I tell the wood-paneled wall. But even I know that’s not true. No. She’s my muse—my
it
girl who I’ve been fawning over since I was a stupid college graduate interning for then Senator Jones’s campaign.

I need a distraction, so I decide to focus on my job. I open clips of the daily political talk shows that we watch to make sure our topics are relevant. The videos begin and end, and I watch them with a small degree of focus. Work is always a good distraction from my pixie, but today not even the most insightful commentary can fully replace Rachael in my brain. The brainstormed list of topics for future shows that I send to the guys is thoughtful at best, and at least they can see that I’m contributing.

The Betsy Ross email folder on my computer is a great place to check when I’m looking for interesting tips for the show or a much needed laugh. We get some crazy leads.
Attention! Attention! The President is being mind controlled by Aliens
or
President Jones has a terminal illness and the First Lady is running the White House.
Those leads get moved into the comedy folder.

I’ve created a network of sources around D.C. —everyone from bartenders, to strippers, to high-end call girls, to Uber drivers, to secretaries, to waitresses, to housekeepers—politicians themselves even email us gossip, overheard snippets of conversation and complete stories. Some of our best insider knowledge came from the students at my school. It’s amazing how little candor kids have.

Rachael hasn’t asked who my inside source at the White House is. She’d die if she knew that her assistant, Maggie, is one of my Betsy Rosses. We met at the vet’s office. George needed his yearly checkup, and she was in the waiting room with one of her cats. I make it a habit to visit with everyone. Being friendly has paid off more than once and yielded some nice tips. She mentioned that she worked for Rachael Early and my heart had caught in my throat. This was the assistant to the woman who had inspired the Sons of Liberty. We’d traded information as I’d pretended to be a journalist. A few email and text exchanges later and Maggie had been more than happy to share tidbits of interesting information—nothing that has compromised Rachael, but I still think I’ll keep this bit of information to myself.

As I scroll through the leads, my mind drifts back to Rachael. I think what would happen to me if I had all of this taken away. She’s walked away from her career—her safety net. I know that she’s scared. She admitted as much. I know that she feels unlovable. I sensed that on our first date. It’s my job to make sure that she knows how important she is to me. It’s also my job to ensure that the Sons of Liberty continue profitably. Max’s words of “don’t forget I have a wife and child” resonate with me. SOL is our financial future.

Focus
, I tell myself. I need to focus on the Sons of Liberty, for my sake as well as the guys’.

The Betsy Ross folder has a few notable tips, but nothing that we can build a full segment around. Next, I check my email inbox. It’s flooded with more requests for my time. I ignore it and turn my attention to my phone. More problems. We still don’t have a pyro team in place. The right-to-life people are complaining about their location versus the women’s rights group. We have too many strippers hired for the pole-dancing routine when we break in between our first and second set, and some asshole has been printing fake tickets and selling them on Craigslist. Unfortunately, these problems ultimately become my issue.

I handle what I can and decide that San Diego might just be a shit show, which will, of course, do nothing to inspire the guys’ confidence in my absence.

This is for you, Rachael . . . and for me.
I push back from the computer and spin around in the chair, looking at the makeshift studio. It’s small, but it has what I need to tape our show and still spend this time with her. Bill, the guy who installed all of this, told me that he could make it work. The fact that he built me a studio with one week’s notice is nothing short of spectacular.

“I did this for us,” I mumble under my breath.

Standing up, the rolling chair slides backwards and I exit the studio.
I can just hold her tonight, right?
No making love, just feeling her body pressed against mine. To show her that I can make her feel safe and wanted without an orgasm.

I open the studio door and walk through the main room towards the front bedroom, needing her more right now than I’ve ever needed another human being. I’m a man on a mission . . . I want to fall asleep protecting her baby bump. I need to prove to her that it’s now my job and I can be trusted—that I’m the only man she needs.

As I approach the door, I hear a faint buzzing sound and gentle moans of pleasure coming from behind the wall. Instantly, my head registers what’s happening before my heart will admit it.
She’s doing my job because I’m not.

The realization doubles me over, and I grasp the wall for support. It’s one thing to have a lover pleasure herself when you can’t be there or for your entrainment. I mean, that’s really fucking hot. It’s another thing to be fifteen feet away and she chooses a toy over the real thing.
She wanted you. You denied her.

I slide down the wall, letting my legs splay out in front of me. Listening to her whimpers and quiet cries of pleasure simultaneously makes my heart ache and my dick hard. I deny myself the pleasure of zipping down my pants and finishing with her. My fist clenches and I repeatedly pound my thigh until I’m sure there will be a bruise. It’s my punishment—my cross to bear for denying her and myself. I will not give in to my needs.

This is pathetic. I should storm into the room, smash the vibrator against the wall and make her come until her bones turn liquid. I should tell her that her pleasure is mine to worry about also. I’m in charge of that along with everything else. She has one job and one job only—to take care of our baby.

Her tortured cry of pleasure shatters what’s left of my control. I leap to my feet, not bothering to adjust myself, so the zipper of my jeans bites painfully against my throbbing cock. I leash George in a sprint out of The Cougar.

The chilly night air stings my inflamed, sweat-drenched skin. I feel wild, as if I’ve become feral. When I’m far enough away from the camper, I scream out, “Rachael.” The release is cathartic. I double over, resting my arms on my knees while I work to get my breathing under control. Finally, I give in to gravity and sit on a fallen tree near the path.

“What the fuck just happened in there?” I question George. He walks over to my resting spot and lies down across my shoes. His loud sigh holds no truths for me.

“Why the fuck didn’t I stop her?” I stroke George’s head as I stare into the inky black night.

Of course my partner-in-crime has no answers for me.

Nature offers a certain peace—a stillness that I’ve always craved. My eyes shut as I drink in the campground noises. In the distance, someone is playing what sounds like a Bob Dylan song on the guitar. I can only catch certain notes as the wind shifts. There’s a smell of smoke in the air—someone’s grilling chicken, I think. This place came well recommended. It’s been cut out of a forest with rather private camping spots. I like it. If I weren’t here tonight, I’d be in San Diego with the guys, Veronica, and the rest of the touring staff that follow us around. Let’s see. It’s a Thursday night. I bet the guys are having dinner with a large money donor to either the Democrat or the Republican Party. He or she is trying to influence their perception on a particular subject that is near and dear to their heart.

It’s so damn hard to stay above the influence when you’re in the bubble. This trip will be a good reminder as to why I started the Sons of Liberty. The lady who checked me out at the grocery store had such a kind smile that I asked her about her day. This was her second job. She worked at the fast food restaurant on the corner until five o’clock, and then went straight to the grocery store until close. Her husband had been laid off and was having a hard time finding steady work. Katelyn was her name. I need to remember to tell the guys about her. She’s who the Sons of Liberty were founded for.