And boring.
I scoop up my papers and mug and turn to head to my cubicle.
At least her smile sort of returns, so I assume I’m forgiven for being snippy. “Did you really work in the White House?”
I’m glad I’m an expert at holding my tongue, because I realize her awed tone is genuine. I haven’t exchanged more than a hundred words with her since she started working here. Guess it’s time I remedy that.
“Yeah. I worked at the White House for six years. East Wing.” I brace myself for the volley of questions I’d rather not answer, but I know from my recent experience it’s faster to get them over with.
Her eyes widen. “Did you ever meet the president?”
“I worked in the East Wing for her husband, Mr. Bruunt. I interacted with him, President Samuels, and their children, on a daily basis.”
“Whywould you ever leave a job like that to come workhere?”
I struggle not to shake my right wrist, and not only because I’m holding my travel mug in that hand. “Nothing lasts forever.” I force another smile. “Going to be a brutal campaign coming up, and I’ve been wanting to finish my degree. The timing worked out with the opening here, and with getting an apartment, that’s all.”
She leans in and I pray she’s not going to try to get overly chummy when she drops her voice. “Vice President Woodley is sooo cute. I plan on voting for him.”
I fight the urge to scream. “It’s better to pick a candidate based on their experience and platform.”
“But…he’s gorgeous!” She grins. “Is he dating anyone? I bet he really is, isn’t he? Probably some actress or something, right?”
This is going to be a looong damn day. I can feel it already. I want to scold her for unprofessional behavior, for improperly discussing both personal and campaign matters—veering into ethics violations—and a litany of things that mask my pain…
And which also mean absolute jackshitwithin the context of a Florida university’s design department.
This isn’t the East Wing.
This isn’t a well-run comms or policy shop.
This isn’t a campaign war room.
These aren’t ethics violations, because this isn’t the fricking White House.
This is…
Hell.
This isHell, is what it is.
I’ve planted myself firmly in Hell.
I take a step back, toward the doorway that’ll allow me to escape to my cubicle. “I’m sorry, Jessica.” I offer a final smile. “I could tell you all about that, but then I’d have to kill you. National security, you know.” I drop her what I hope she takes as a playful wink.
Her eyes widen again before she bursts out laughing. I use that as my cue to make my escape and head to my desk.
All I want to do is pop my earbuds in and start working.
I don’t want to socialize. I don’t want to fraternize.
I don’t want to think about DC, or the White House, or how tight Elliot Woodley’s ass is, or how gorgeous his cock is.
Or how I never even got to suck it.
I don’t want to…think, period.
* * * *
