CHAPTER FOUR
Robert
I saw the photos of Bridget, and I have to say that she looks even better in real life than in casual snapshots. Because the curvy brunette is stunning in a lavender cocktail dress and high heels. Her assets are on display, but modestly so, with a demure neckline and a skirt that shows off those shapely legs. Mmm, those thighs are tempting because they’re heavy and meaty, exactly my type. Plus, her décolletage is mouthwatering, showcasing heavy Double Ds.
Because I already know everything about Bridget Martin. After all, I am the President of the United States, and I have the Secret Service, FBI and the CIA at my fingertips. The spy agencies work for me and it’s no big deal to them to whip up a dossier on Ms. Bridget Martin, copy editor at the Star Gazette in New York City. In fact, I was looking through her profile right before she got here, and it’s impressive how little there is. Usually, I’m digging through at least two inches of material on this or that Russian operative, but with Bridget Martin, things were refreshingly lean and simple.
After all, no one’s going to let the President of the United States date a girl with a sketchy past. Royals in Europe now marry reality TV stars as well as actresses that have no work history, but that doesn’t hold when it comes to POTUS. Because there’s a big difference – no one can unseat a prince or princess, whereas I’m up for reelection in about three years. So yeah, my party’s not going to jeopardize our platform on some floozy who doesn’t know up from down. Instead, the girls are vetted so thoroughly that they practically qualify for top-secret clearance by the time it’s all over.
But it’s just part of the process. And I know what you’re thinking. Is it possible that the President of the United States, Robert Carter, is moonlighting as a male escort? Unfortunately, the answer isn’t a simple yes or no. Because yes, we work with Gold Medallion to get me dates. Or more precisely, Gold Medallion works for us. Because my guys actually own Gold Medallion. They incorporated a company somewhere in the Bahamas behind three different shell companies. And then they hired a bunch of staff, most of whom don’t know the real reason for their existence because I think Gold Medallion actually does provide male escorts. It’s a legitimate site with legitimate employees, providing a legitimate service. But the employees don’t realize that I’m their most important client, and that in fact, the whole thing was set up for me.
After all, a man has needs and my handlers know that. Where was I going to meet someone special? While holding meetings with four-star generals? While attending the Olympics in some far-flung country? No, I have desires just like any other red-blooded man, and as a result, the Office of Professional Ethics set up Gold Medallion specifically to meet those needs. They put up a fake profile of some dude named “Robert” using stock photos, and we get submissions daily. Women right and left love the way the man looks, not to mention the photos he has on his profile. I’ve seen it myself. They photoshopped some penguins in, and also the Taj Mahal and the Kremlin. They should have included a pic of the White House. That would have been more accurate at least.
But Robert’s my avatar, and not a bad one. He’s a guy who looks kinda like me what with the dark hair and blue eyes, but he’s a model and nothing else. He’s a stand-in for the real thing, which is Robert Carter from Little Rock, Arkansas. I’ve been a politician since I was old enough to run for president of my high school class, and once bitten by the bug, I couldn’t stop. So I went from state representative to U.S. Senator, Governor, and now finally President.
It’s not bad, to be honest. After all, being Commander-in-Chief has been my desire since I was about ten years old. But the path hasn’t been easy and it hasn’t left a lot of time for dating. Anyone who knows me knows that I’m traveling non-stop, the interior of Air Force One my real home.
So yeah, Gold Medallion was set up to service my needs. After all, I function best when I have release, just like any other alpha male. But there’s no way to go about it discreetly when you’re the President of the United States. The media scrutiny would scare anyone in their right mind off, and besides, a lot of women don’t want to date politicians. Not the good ones at least. So Gold Medallion meets my needs in a very specific way, and my employees are always sifting through submissions. A team reviews any potential women before presenting me with a select number of candidates, and then I go from there.
And Bridget stood out. I’m used to seeing beautiful women smiling at me from their headshots, not to mention women who have resumes worthy of a Nobel scientist. There are ladies who have graduate degrees up the wazoo, who can speak five languages and also communicate via sign language with monkeys. But I’m not into that because deep down, I’m still Robbie Carter from Arkansas, and a woman who has too much going on isn’t my type. I don’t want someone who’s done everything right in life. God knows I’ve made a lot of mistakes to get where I am. So instead, someone real and sassy, with curves and a good sense of humor is what I’m looking for.
Frankly, Bridget blew the others out of the water. My assistant Dan had come into my office, making sure to shut the door behind him. It was eleven p.m. and we were still working, the hallways of the White House quiet and dark.
“Sir,” he said, sitting down before the coffee table. “Are you ready for the selection?”
I laughed, lounging in the club chair across from him.
“Don’t make it sound like we’re choosing a sheep for slaughter,” I said. “There’s no need to be so serious.”
Dan immediately straightened, nodding while blinking behind heavy-framed glasses.
“Of course sir. I just want you to get the best of the best.”
I rolled my eyes at that one.
“I’m the President of the United States,” I said dryly. “You can rest assured I’m getting the best of the best.”
“Of course,” Dan nodded, laying the folders out on the glass tabletop, my sarcasm lost on him. “But this time there are only four women, so I hope you like the choices.”
I sighed, taking a sip of my whiskey. Damn, it was late and we still had a shit ton to do. But this was a nice break from figuring out the world’s problems.
“Hit me,” I said with my brows lifted. “Let’s see what we’ve got.”
Dan nodded and opened the first folder.
“This is Talia,” he said. “Italian-American, with a degree from Harvard in the Romance languages.”
I stopped him right there.
“I think we saw her last week,” I said. “I already rejected her for being too skinny. I need some meat on them bones.”
“Oh right,” Daniel nodded, flushing. His glasses trembled a bit on the bridge of his nose. “Um, let’s see who’s next. Danielle, that’s right,” he said. “She’s blonde and five foot ten, and a champion skier. In fact, she medaled at the World Championships last year and is a real Olympic prospect.”
I sighed because this was exactly what I didn’t want.
“Stop,” I said. “The Office of Professional Ethics is screwing up because whoever’s doing the first pass on these women is getting it all wrong. I don’t want a champion skier, or a champion anything for that matter. I’m looking for a normal girl and not one who has ten medals around her neck.”
“Really?” asked Daniel, completely befuddled while staring at Danielle’s photo. “This one’s really pretty and accomplished, sir. I think you’ll like her.”
I sighed again because my assistant is a product of his background and upbringing. Just like most staffers at the White House, he had a list of Ivy League degrees and a long resume that said all the right things. That’s fine for a job, but that’s not what I’m looking for in a woman. So I grunted and shook my head.
“Next,” was my command.
Daniel reluctantly put down Danielle’s folder and picked up another one.
“Hmm,” he said. “I think there’s something wrong with this profile.”
“Why?” I asked.
Daniel’s eyes squinted as he scanned the dossier.
“Well, she just seems really average,” he said slowly, eyes looking over the fine print. “I mean, she’s cute and all, but you know ….”
With an exasperated sigh, I leaned over and snatched the file from his fingers, flipping it open. And I almost choked then because the candid shot of the girl was the first thing I saw, and she was absolutely stunning. Curly brown hair with warm caramel eyes, and a smile that made me grow hard just like that. They’d caught her exiting a store of some sort with a coffee and cupcake in hand.
“See?” asked Daniel, frowning a bit. “Nothing special.”
“Speak for yourself,” I growled under my breath. The next photo was even more tempting because the full-figure snap showed off the brunette’s curves in gym clothes, and shit but she was tempting. A huge ass that begged to be spanked paired with wide hips and giant, jiggly boobs. Exactly my type.
“See?” asked Daniel with a perplexed frown. “How did this woman get in there?”
I scanned her profile quickly, not bothering to answer. Hmm, Bridget Martin. Twenty-five years old, and a copy editor at some rag in New York City. Political affiliation: none. In fact, she hadn’t even voted in the last three elections. A bachelor’s degree from CUNY, followed with a brief stint at a writer’s workshop somewhere in Indiana. Perfect.
“See what I mean?” interrupted Daniel again. “She hasn’t won a single award or prize, not to mention her academic performance. Ms. Martin didn’t graduate with honors,” he added in a scandalized voice.
But I’d had it with these snobby assistants. Sure, I recognize the benefit of being educated up the wazoo, but as President, I know there’s more to life than a bunch of degrees after your name. It’s common sense and real-life experience that make the difference, and Bridget looked like she could have a good dose of it.
“I’ll take her,” I said abruptly, closing the folder. “Book her.”
“That’s it?” Daniel goggled. “But didn’t you want to look through her security clearance? At least scrutinize her credit report?”
I sighed again.
“That’s what I have you guys for,” I replied in a wry voice. “The legwork’s already been done, and I like what I see. So Ms. Martin it is.”
Daniel nodded quickly, standing up and gathering the files.
“Of course sir. It’s just … I didn’t know you’d be so fast. Don’t you want to at least look at the final candidate?”
But I didn’t need to because Bridget’s profile had been perfect, and my cock stirred knowing that I was going to meet her soon.
“Naw,” I drawled. “No more gold medal contenders or spelling bee champions. Just bring the girl to me, and we’ll be on our way.”
“Of course,” Daniel nodded, tucking the files under his arm. “If you need anything else sir, please let me know.”
And with that, my assistant stepped quickly out of the Oval Office, leaving me in peace. Shit, it was almost midnight now, and yet we weren’t done yet. There are so many things on my plate still, from hammering out domestic policy to negotiating with tyrants from obscure third-world countries. A President’s work is never done.
But at least I had something to look forward to now. I knew my team would book a date with the curvy Bridget Martin soon enough. It might not be until I got back from my tour of Africa, but it would absolutely happen.
And now, here we were. I was ensconced in the apartment where I usually stay when I’m in Manhattan. No hotels because these places have to be scanned and de-bugged before I arrive. It’s easier for the Secret Service to have a permanent hidey-hole, and thus the modest apartment building with a plain stone façade. No one would suspect that this is where the President of the United States sleeps when he’s in town. They always think it’s the Waldorf or some other fancy place.
But now I was surrounded by discreet luxury as Bridget stood before me, eyes wide.
“P-President Carter?” she stammered. “What are you doing here?”
I grinned, lazily swirling the bourbon in my glass.
“You ordered me,” I drawled. “What else?”
She shook her head furiously, brown curls bouncing.
“No, I didn’t,” she said. “I ordered a man named Robert. Wait, but you’re Robert.”
“I am,” I nodded, “but I’m not the Robert on the website, that’s true. They put a fake profile up because who would believe it if POTUS were offering himself as a male escort? Gold Medallion might as well be shut down right away. Not to mention, I’d distance myself from them immediately and my people would denounce the whole thing as a crock of baloney.”
Bridget stared at me still, mouth opening slightly before closing one more.
“But you’re the male escort?” she asked, as if she couldn’t believe the words. “Why would you do that? Don’t you meet women everywhere you go?”
I nodded, taking a sip while glancing at her over the rim of the glass. Before answering, I stood, unfolding to my full six four and letting her get a look at my muscled bod, outfitted in a custom black suit.
“I do meet women everywhere,” I nodded, striding over to the liquor cabinet. “But where are my manners? Here, have some of this. Do you drink bourbon sweetheart? Woodford Reserve is some of the best.”
Bridget was still staring at me from the couch, those caramel eyes wide, and I didn’t blame her. Because how often do you show up somewhere and the President of the United States is waiting for you? Not only that, but he was a male escort you’d ordered on-line?
Enjoying her confusion, I sat down once more before raising an eyebrow.
“Go on,” I rumbled. “I can see you’re full of questions so shoot.”
Bridget gulped again, those big boobs heaving. My fingers itched to touch and stroke and I desperately wanted to weigh the sacks of cream in my hands. But first things first, and I sat back, grinning like a motherfucker.
Because shit, this was where I exactly wanted to be. Alone with a beautiful woman, who was obviously surprised but also turned on. I can see it in her eyes. The way her chest rises and falls with excitement, and the pink stain on her cheeks. The way her nipples were pebbling, evident through the soft fabric of her dress. Oh yeah, I’d chosen right. Bridget Martin was going to work out just fine.
But she shook her head again, brown curls tumbling.
“Mr. President,” she said, taking a deep breath. “What’s going on? You can’t possibly be a male escort. Who …? What…?”
I let out another deep chuckle.
“I’m not an escort exactly, that’s true,” I said wryly. “After all, I’m not getting paid for this. The money charged to your credit card will be refunded, don’t worry. But this is how I meet women,” I shrugged. “It’s not so easy when you’re in a position of power with millions of eyes trained on you every single day. Not to mention the press,” I growled, suddenly angry. “Those people are dogs.”
The brunette nodded faintly, still unable to move from the couch.
“But why go to all this hassle?” she asked, still befuddled. “Why go through Gold Medallion? Aren’t there billions of women dying to go out with you? I mean, you’re handsome, powerful, and ….”
Her voice trailed off, cheeks flushing. Because I understood what she was saying. The press sometimes labels me as the “Boy Prince” for my good looks, and I’m relatively young compared to most presidents. The average of a world leader is probably sixty-five, and I’m a good two decades younger.
So I smiled again, amused.
“Sure there are women dying to meet me, but they’re not really my type,” I said lightly. “They women angling to date a President aren’t usually the ones you’d bring home to Mom. They have an agenda, and generally want fame, power, and fortune, not to mention the allure of the spotlight. And I’m not into that,” I said simply. “I’m looking for someone normal, and sometimes normal is hard to find.”
Bridget nodded dumbly.
“But wouldn’t it be easier for you to hire a female escort instead?” she asked slowly, still shaking her head. “There must be hundreds of options out there, if not thousands.”
I nodded, but the answer was easy.
“That’s true, but what kind of women do you think offer themselves as female escorts?”
She flushed then, and I could tell Bridget knew exactly what I was talking about. Because female escorts are usually hooches. They’re not all bad, but most often, they’re underemployed actresses and porn stars waiting for their big break in Hollywood. Not exactly the type that a President wants to bring to a State dinner. Or even worse, the female escorts were the married housewives desperate to make a buck on the side. There’s an element of sadness to those women, and I wasn’t getting entangled with a married lady, no way. Imagine the headache, not to mention the scandal. My political career would be over.
Bridget nodded then, understanding dawning in her eyes.
“I see,” she said, biting her lip. “I’m just surprised, that’s all.”
“You and me both,” I said wryly. “When my office proposed setting up Gold Medallion, I was stunned. All this, so I could get a date?” I asked humorously. “It seemed crazy, and it still is.”
But Bridget was still puzzled.
“Gold Medallion is owned by you?” she asked disbelievingly, now almost falling off the couch. “But what about all the other guys on the site?”
I shrugged.
“I have no idea,” was my careless reply. “They could be decoys, or they could be real. I have no idea. But no, I don’t own Gold Medallion directly. It was set up by the Office of Ethics and Professionalism as a way to solicit decent women who might be interested in meeting Robert Carter on a romantic level, without letting on who exactly I was from the get go.”
Bridget took a deep breath then, pausing to think. I didn’t blame her. The revelations were coming one after another and they were all doozies. It’s not every day you realize that your date is a powerful, famous man, and that the escort agency you were working with is actually run by the United States government.
But hey, Big Brother is everywhere, and we’ve gotten used to it over the years. We’re used to cameras on every street corner, with digital timestamps and face recognition. We’re used to using our credit cards and iPhones to make purchases, realizing that every transaction leaves an electronic record. So Bridget was thinking fast and I could see the gears churning in her head. Here was an opportunity to date the leader of the free world. Was she gonna go for it, or politely decline?
And when she lifted her chin and looked at me, I knew what it was going to be. Because the brunette smiled hesitantly and tipped her chin ever so slightly to the side.
“So Mr. President,” she mewled softly. “What’s next? I think I have two hours until the car comes again. Is there something you wanted to do in particular? I’m a very flexible girl.”
The question made the air in my lungs freeze because in fact, there was something I wanted from the curvy girl … and fortunately, the time was right.