November 7th 2012 11:48pm
Election Night. Grant Campaign Headquarters. Los Angeles California.
It was over. Finished. Done. Edison Davis was president elect of the United States. The first African American man given the arduous if not thankless task of creating a more perfect union.A winter inauguration on the horizon.
As peculiar a tradition as the electoral college was, its numbers did not lie. A nationwide election campaign which started in earnest on labour day was now complete.
He could finally exhale. The American people had spoken and Fitzgerald Thomas Grant III was not enough.
They needed more than his Kennedy-like charisma and charm. More than the republican establishment was willing to offer them.
The masses were reluctant believe in a Millennial incarnation of Camelot- infused with just the requisite amount of social conservatism to shore up a highly partisan base. In return, they were also spared a first lady whose permanent mask of southern belle gentility only existed to assuage suspicions about her true ambitions.
Maybe they had seen through Fitz as quickly as they saw through her.
Truth be told, a part of this candidate was glad to receive confirmation of what he long suspected: the recurring bouts of Impostor syndrome which plagued much of his adult life could no longer be reduced to a psychological malady. Now they lay claim to metaphysical fact.
He was not enough.
The words echoed in his brain like an ominous incantation.
Not enough. Never enough. Not enough. Never enough.
Big Gerry said so often. That observation always became more descriptive when spat out in the middle of a drunken stupor, but the intent was steadfast. Unchanging. It conveyed an understanding of a fundamental character trait. A bitter truth.
The darkest part of his soul was grateful that his father was not around to witness his prophecies come to life. A man who felt analogous to the original patriarch of the Rockefeller family would certainly not miss this opportunity to compare himself to Nostradamus. For all he knew, Fitzgerald T. Grant the second might even be congratulating himself on such foresight from a perch in purgatory, but at least Fitz was spared the earthly onslaught. Even in defeat, he remained thankful for that small miracle.
He asked to make his official concession phone call to the Davis campaign alone. If running for president completely on his own terms was never an option, then at least this ritual would be performed on his own accord.
"I can handle it" he told Mellie and Cyrus through gritted teeth as they attempted to offer consolation by sitting with him. "Its fine."
They were overbearing disciples who felt compelled to witness the agony of a crucifixion for themselves before counting it as truth. Unfortunately, their conduit to power was no messiah. He never came close. Still, the potential first lady and prospective chief of staff needed to see the last few seconds of the 2012 dream. If their presence made it possible to conceive the aspiration, the least they could do now was oversee the verification of it's demise. Such symmetry was comforting.
Could it be? Had all their grand plans and machinations truly failed?
Their faces were ghastly pale as they both tried to process this new reality, but the false smiles stayed in place for the few embedded reporters.
They watched his broad shoulders slump and his head hang low as he made a beeline for his private office located at the very back of the the top floor in a five story building which housed the Grant 2012 Campaign headquarters.
He needed to see her. Needed to hear her voice. Wanted to make sure the words said to commemorate his defeat were befitting of a worthy opponent. He had no intention of being the one who extended empty platitudes, but still needed to hide a noticeable disdain that was wholly rooted in his own self -loathing...
Fitz fumbled with the keys before the latch on the door suddenly turned. Someone was opening it from the inside.
She was here. She already knew.
The door creaked open and he stepped in. A mixture of relief and shame washed over him at the sight of her. Grey pant suit, black heels, all brilliance, steely confidence and doe eyes. Cheekbones and full lips.
Olivia walked a few paces to close the gap between them, not saying a word. She recognized the pain radiating off him immediately. That special kind of derisive anger in its most potent form, aimed squarely at himself. The toxic mixture of self-doubt and perfectionism. It had taken her years to make peace with similar indelible stains left by her own father, and even now she wished she could exchange the faint glimmer of resentment for happier, more mundane memories.
No words would suffice so she stayed quiet and gently ran her fingers through his hair. He moaned softly, not out of arousal, but immense gratitude.
She was here. She needed to see him, just like he needed to see her. His longing was not in vain.
The words finally left his mouth.
"I need to call Edison and concede", and the deep timbre of his baritone voice cracked on the last word.
"Okay" Olivia said softly.
Her hands moved to his neck and started to loosen the tight Windsor knot of his tie before lightly pressing her lips against his.
"Let's start there"
The phone call only took five minutes. Edison tempered his obvious euphoria for Fitz's benefit and thanked him for a good race. The massive screens still displayed colorful maps and info graphics. Pundits and arm chair commentators alike were already deconstructing the victory, everything from the logistics of running such a huge campaign, the billions spent, the symbolic significance of having a black man in the white house. A welcome sign that the nation on the hill had finally outgrown its limited political imagination. Olivia sat on the large desk in front of him and watched as he sunk deeper into the leather chair, absentmindedly played with a felt tip pen. She stopped his fingers by taking one large hand and held it in both of hers, letting the sound of their even breaths fill the room.
"I don't want to be alone tonight" he said
"You won't be" she replied, trying to be oblivious to his true intentions, "You have a thank- you party to attend"
"It won't last long. I doubt any one is in the mood for that", he countered, closing his eyes as he kissed her palm. She spoke before the inevitable question left his lips.
"I am staying at Beverly Wilshire, my flight back to D.C. is tomorrow night, checked in under Anastasia Rolfe."
He smiled weakly at the return of the alias she began using two years earlier to ease their clandestine encounters while he was on the trail. Stolen moments which became increasingly difficult to arrange as the general election drew closer and closer.
She stood up, gathered a beige trench coat, and a white vintage Prada purse as she turned to walk out of the office with many words left unsaid. Fitz did not stop her.
His public concession followed just after midnight. It was short and to the point, scribbled on campaign stationary rendered useless by the night's outcome. He spoke about the importance of putting country before party, duty before pettiness, the need for reconciliation after a long six months of escalated mudslinging. His wife Melody stood by his side, and smiled brightly, expertly hiding any disappointment which threatened to spill over the surface. She resembled a mother watching her child prodigy as he accepted a silver medal at the Olympics despite her best efforts to make him a champion. They stepped off the podium and hugged as many solemn faces as possible. Fitz thanked each person he met for their time, patience and service. He commended their civic duty, told the youngest ones he was glad the future of the American polity rested in their hands.
Then Mr. and Mrs. left the building, holding hands until they were out of sight, safely ensconced behind the tinted windows of a black sports utility vehicle before sitting as far apart as possible.
A heavy silence settled between them as they avoided replaying the day's events because they were incapable of offering each other any real comfort. Such was the heavy toll of a marriage mostly based on political convenience. The pain was still too raw. That highly stylized dance of pretense which represented their life together was now glaringly off beat. They needed some time apart to readjust their masquerade masks before facing another day.
Melody Grant understood this, knew about her better half's tendency to withdraw entirely into himself in humbling moments but she lacked the will and patience to coax him out of the depths of despair. That sort of emotional burden was too much to lay at the feet of a woman who could hardly bear to spend time with her own children...
Half way through the two-hour drive back to the Grant family compound in Santa Barbara, Fitz requested a pit stop for some fresh air. They were out of Los Angeles which made the stars in the night sky more visible. A crisp wind hits his face, bringing a flush of color to his cheeks. While outside, he tells SSA Tom that he needs to get to a hotel. It is the security personnel's last few hours on duty since the campaign was officially suspended at midnight. The former presidential candidate was back to being governor of California so advance warnings and perimeter sweeps were no longer necessary. Tom considered this rendevous a parting gift...
Forty minutes later Fitz is in an elevator, heading upstairs to the presidential suite of the Beverly Wilshire and the irony of the moniker is not at all lost. Olivia waits for him with bated breath. A few seconds and swiped key card later, the doors sweep open. Immediately, he pulls her into his arms, feverishly seeking her lips but she stops him.
" Relax... we have time." The words are a benediction for their impending sins because her brown eyes are hazy with lust. It had been much too long.
A glimmer of hope rose within him, like smoke from smoldering ashes, fragile and hard to grasp, but the words sink into his soul regardless.
We have time.
There was time to worship her from head to toe, to relish in her smoky and sweet scent. Time to notice the imprints that his thumbs left on each of her inner thighs, physical signs of the brute strength needed to keep her legs from flailing wildly as her hips bucked while he courted her orgasm. Stiff tongue pressed into her white-hot center, alternating the pace of his calloused fingers on her engorged bud, leading his beloved right to the edge before bringing her back, building a storm that would eventually coil through her entire body. There was time for him to strip naked, discarding each article of clothing slowly, smiling like a shy schoolboy under her ravenous gaze...
Olivia woke up the next morning with the sound of his heart beating directly in her ear, head on her bosom. Her dark brown eyes flickered quickly as they adjusted to the light in the room. She tried to ignore the wave of guilt she felt for severing all professional ties to his campaign after only a few months of work. The tension between them was unbearable and threatened her sanity, so she made the toughest decision of her life. She resigned as quietly as she could for unspecified health reasons, and focused solely on running her namesake agency Pope and Associates.
Their personal ties, however, proved much more difficult to manage. It seemed she couldn't shake him, no matter how hard she tried. Fitz was the only one who threatened to destroy Olivia's well-honed practicality- a fact as terrifying as it was exhilarating. But in this moment, without the shadow of the presidency towering over them, all she saw was a man. A man who belonged to her as much as she belonged to him. As the morning light filtered through the curtains, a quiet resolve replaced the apprehension and fear that had marked their entire relationship. He might not have qualified for America's most eligible bachelor, but she wanted him- flaws and all. That was as good a reason as any.
There was freedom in failure. For once her heart's desires could take precedent over any expectations of who and what she was. She could live for herself alone.
His eyes opened when she began to stir and his desire halted all signs of sleep as he guided his hardened length to the most satisfying orifice in the entire universe. Olivia moaned softly as he thrust in measured strokes, stretching her inch by inch till his shaft disappeared completely, before pulling out, then repeating the same motion. She grew anxious after a few minutes and started clenching internally to pick up the pace. He grimaced but refused to give in, and took a deep breath to center himself.
It was only six am, they had enough time to take it slow...
This story will be posted as soon as i get around to editing the rest. About 20 chapters in all. Thanks for reading.