Friday, October 31, 2014

Halloween Treat! Preview Of "The World: According to Rachael"

Happy Halloween! Here's a little treat - no tricks. This is your first The World: According to Rachael teaser. Enjoy!

“Let’s be clear,” I say as my way of a greeting as I slide into the backseat of the black government-owned car waiting outside my townhome. “If your hand so much as brushes across my behind again, I’ll use my five-inch spiked heel and will drive it into your big toe with the intention of snapping the bone. Got it?”
Roan Perez nods as a small smile curls his full lips. “I love it when you’re feisty. Gives me a preview of what I’ll get to tame when you finally let me in those sexy panties I’m sure that you’re wearing.”
I all but hug the passenger door. “You’re an asshole.” I turn and spit in his direction, “I’d rather forgo sex with another human being for the rest of my life than let you near my panties.”
That’s not entirely true. I hate Roan Perez, but my dating life is non-existent. I’ve toyed with the idea of making Roan my next “let’s just have sex, no strings attached” relationship. No, not relationship. That implies that it could possibly lead to something more, which will happen when pigs fly. One-night stand? No. That has more of a passionate, I-want-you-now connotation. Mutual exchange of orgasms? Yes. That’s the right term. I should add the word “planned” in front. So I’ve considered a planned mutual exchange of orgasms with Roan.
Roan Perez was fortunate enough to be born at just the right planetary alignment so that he is able to spew nonsense, but the rest of the world only hears pure genius. It’s seriously a gift that the guy has. He built the most successful Hispanic-targeted advertising agency in the country. By the way, the only thing Hispanic about him is his last name, from a stepfather who adopted him when he was five. Every Fortune 100 company is mentioned on his About Us page on his Web site. Five years ago, he sold his share in the agency to his partners and started a Hispanic affairs consulting group here in D.C. Unfortunately, it seems that his gift is in high demand. Every candidate who desires to dip their big toe in politics is after two untapped demographicsthe Hispanic vote, and voters under the age of thirty.
“An asshole that your boss respects,” he says with a satisfied shrug. “We look good together . . . Even Page Six thinks so.”
My boss seems to believe that Roan will be able to sell his immigration reform plan to not only congress, but also the American people. We’re placing a lot of stock in this yahoo.
Why am I sitting in a government-owned town car in a black cocktail dress with the biggest jerk on the planet? It’s simple. Politics. Roan is consistently on the Most Eligible Bachelor list and the Most Influential list, and meetings with his consulting firm are considered golden tickets. This is Washington, people. Nothing, and I do mean nothing is done without an ulterior motive.
I despise the man, but we use each other frequently for photo-opp purposes at nonsense events, such as the one that we’re headed to now. It looks good for the White House to be consulting with such an influential man. Roan’s credibility and hourly rate is boosted when he mentions that he has the White House’s ear. It’s a win/win situation for everyone involved, except for me, who has to deal with his arrogance.
“Here’s the scoop,” I say clutching my black beaded bag as if it could be used as a weapon. “We’re going to hold hands as we walk the red carpet. We’ll do the standard posing business. You’ll keep your hand on my back, not my ass, got it?” I glare at him.
The bastard just smirks, one eyebrow raised toward his perfectly-coiffed hair.
“We’ll walk inside and pose for a few pictures with the new exhibit. I have plans at nine o’clock at the White House, so don’t expect me to hang on your arm all night long like one of your sluts.”
“What plans?” His eyes brighten and I know that it’s because he has a glimmer of hope that he might be able to score a social invite to hang out with the President.
I’m kicking myself for even saying anything. “Plans that don’t include you,” I reply tartly.
“You’re the White House Chief of Staff. Score me an invite, Rach . . .” he says in a goading voice as he leers toward me.
Fortunately, we arrive at the Smithsonian, which ends this conversation. I slip my game face on and wait for the car door to swing open. Roan steps out first, buttoning his black suit jacket, and I get an unguarded moment to admire the beauty of the man.
He’s in his mid-forties with milk-chocolate salt-and-peppered hair, and eyes that can only be described as aquamarine. Roan is always clean-shaven and impeccably dressed. It’s such a shame that his beautiful outside is matched only by his ugly insides, but he does have a nice bulge in his pants. Probably a pair of socks.
He reaches for my hand, and I offer it to him. With the grace and charm of a suave lover, he helps me out of the vehicle, giving a wave to the reporters.
His palm rests just where I asked it to stay as we make our way along the red carpet.
The Vice-President was supposed to be in attendance to dedicate the new Smithsonian Exhibit this evening, but a campaign opportunity arose, so he asked me to cover for him. Just another day doing my job.
Roan and I stop in front of the backdrop and pose while the cameras snap away. Like the pros that we are, we turn in different directions, making sure that the photographers get every angle. Right before Roan steps out of the shot so I can be photographed solo, he leans in and whispers in my ear, “Your hot little ass will look gorgeous laid out underneath me on my white sheets.” Then, he discreetly runs his tongue over the shell of my ear.
Goose bumps plague my arms at his dirty words. I loathe Roan as a human being, but there isn’t a girl in the world that can tell her body not to respond to his charisma.
I’m sure that the photographers got a great candid shot of my shocked face.
There are so many things that I should say to him as we make our way into the museum. I war between taking him up on his offerbecause let’s face facts, my sex life is nonexistentand telling him that his little stunt has earned him banishment as my date ever again.
What do I do? Nothing. I just silently allow him to escort me into the museum where we are both thankfully bombarded with guests attending the function. I am not forced to discuss his transgression, and fortunately, we’re able to separate.
I turn my attention to my reason for being herenetworking on behalf of the President. Time passes quickly, and I don’t see Roan again until he’s sneaking off with one of the waitresses who appears to have been hired for her large assets rather than her drink-passing skills. She has already spilled a tray of crab cakes, and dumped a soda in some poor guy’s lap.
I make my speech about the President’s commitment to preserving our nation’s history, pose for pictures with an oversized red ribbon, and ceremonially hold a gigantic pair of silver scissors that are larger than I am. The curtain falls as the guests begin to move in closer for a better look.
That’s my cue to slip out. Lou, the Secret Service agent assigned to me, knows the drill. I lock eyes with him. He moves through the crowd and escorts me to the waiting town car. Roan will find his own way home, probably with the waitress in tow. He’s one of the many unfortunate bullet points of my job description.
The Smithsonian is not too far from the White House. If I didn’t have on ridiculously high heels, I would suggest that Lou and I walk. It’s unseasonably warm in D.C. for the beginning of November, and it happens to be a lovely, clear night. 
Lou drops me off at the employee entrance, and I head straight for my office to change out of this constrictive cocktail dress and into my casual clothes, which are much more appropriate for this evening. On Friday, I’d left a pair of jeans, a green sweater, and brown leather boots inside the closet in my office suite.
Opening the door, I grab my duffle bag, and carry it into the bathroom that’s attached to my office. Quickly, I remove my clothes from the bag and lay them out on the countertop by the sink.
Next, I kick off my heels. One of the black weapons lands near the door. The other one hits the wall. I fantasize for just a brief moment how it would feel to break Roan’s toe as punishment for his red carpet transgressions. I’d get to watch him walk with a limp. That’s sick, Rachael. Stop it. I shake my head to clear the ugly thoughts, and focus on getting dressed for an evening with the First Family.
This gorgeous cocktail dress has an unfortunate closure, but because I live alone, I’ve mastered the art of contorting my body so I can zip and unzip my own dresses. In fact, the few times that I do get to watch a movie or TV show and the main character asks her partner to unzip her dress, I almost gag. In the real world, us single girls list that as a survival skill.
I hang the dress on a wooden hanger that I keep in my bathroom for just such occasions, and place my sleek weapons/heels in the duffle bag. I enter a reminder in my phone to grab the dress and shoes on my way home tonight. The dress is on loan from a boutique. It’s important that it is returned in a timely manner so they’ll let me borrow another formal dress for my next event.
I do a quick check in the mirror to make sure that I look presentable. My platinum-blond hair is still in a severe knot at the nape of my neck, and I have on too much makeup for my casual outfit, but it will just have to do.
I exit my home-away-from-home, and make my way through the White House. This is a very familiar walk for me.
“Good evening, ma’am,” Samuel says as I near the double doors he’s guarding. I like him. He’s about the size of a house, poker-faced, and does his jobwell. That’s a huge positive in my eyes. Finding people who are good at what they do is a rarity.
“Samuel.” I nod in his direction as I stop in front of the entrance to the First Family’s private living quarters. “The President and First Lady are expecting me.”
“Yes, ma’am,” he confirms as he double-checks the typed list. “Just a moment. There’s another guest who’ll be here shortly.”
“Oh, okay,” I reply a bit perplexed. I’m not usually kept waiting. Glancing at my watch, I note that I’m right on timenine o’clock.
“Hi,” a confused male voice says behind me. “Is this where I’m supposed to be? This place is a maze.”
“Graham Jackson?” Samuel asks.
“Yes,” the voice replies.
The smell of Ivory soap with a hint of woodsy cologne causes me to turn my head just enough to check out the man entering my peripheral vision.
This guy is way too pretty.
He offers me his hand when he arrives at the double doors. “Graham Jackson. I’m Drake’s lacrosse coach and history teacher.” He looks like he should be starring on some contrived soap opera instead of teaching and coaching high school kids. He’s wearing dark jeans that appear to have been painted on his body. I might actually see the outline of his thigh muscles. His white, tucked-in Brooks Brothers polo accentuates his dark olive complexion. His wavy mahogany hair falls nicely against his prominent cheekbones, and shows off his strong jaw. He’s maybe in his early thirties, or he could be in his late twenties.
But then he smiles. His clear blue eyes light up, and one single dimple appears under his right eye. Is this guy for real? Something that I’ve learned in my thirty-eight years on this planet is if they’re pretty, they’re either gay or way too high maintenance for my taste.
“Rachael Early, White House Chief of Staff,” I reply as I shake his hand. I bet all his female students have had at least one wet dream starring their history teacher.
“I know,” he says with a shy smile and a dip of his chin. “I watch and read the news. You’re better looking in person.”
For some reason, I find his comment, or maybe it’s how he delivers it, disarming, and I laugh. “Usually, I hear, ‘I thought you were taller.’ I’ll definitely take better looking.” I change the subject off of my appearance. “You here for fight night?”
“I am.” He nods. “Drake invited me after we started talking about MMA versus boxing at practice.”

Samuel interrupts, “You can enter now.” He opens the heavy doorprobably not heavy for himallowing us access to the First Family.

The World: According to Rachael will be available on Amazon Tuesday, November 25. You can pre-order it now at


Post a Comment