Apache Dawn - - (classic fiction .TXT) 📗

this point.” She shrugged, such a simple, gesture, yet she looked so graceful—it made him ache with longing. She sighed.

“I really thought he could handle it.” She glanced down at him and licked her lips, slowly. “I really hoped he could.”

Handle what? What’s she talking about?

The dreamy look vanished from her face. Her eyes narrowed, focused on infinity. “Yes, I’ve tested it myself. It’s fine. More than fine, it’s perfect. You’re overreacting.” He watched as she carefully removed the ring and held it up to the light, examining it. She turned it this way and that, her smooth hands gently holding the gleaming jewelry.

I miss her hands…

“No, the problem is not on my end. It’s him. He’s an addict, like I told you before. It was all there in his blood work. But you didn’t listen to me, did you?” She tossed her head, flipping her golden mane from one shoulder to the other so she could switch the phone to the other ear. “Yes, sir, I’m looking at it right now and I’m telling you, the ring is fine. The dosage is fine. Your president is the problem.”

She shook her head, the flowing, golden hair swirling about her shoulders. The President ached to run his hands through that silky goodness one more time. I can’t even sit up, how would I run my hands through her hair? This is worse than death…

“No, it’s worse than that.” She laughed, a deep throaty sound that made the blood ring in his ears. “He takes all I give and his body just wants more.” She slid her free hand down the smooth length of her bared thigh. In a soft, dreamlike voice, she said, “Don't get me wrong, it’s been…mmmm…fun…”

She straightened up suddenly and smoothed out her skirt. “Yes, sir. Of course. I—well, you know…Yes. I’m telling you, he’s in the downward spiral.” She looked at the ceiling and sighed. “No, don’t do that. I have no traction with her at all. She hates me, thanks to him. That last display during the cabinet meeting pushed her over the edge. Yes. Yes. No, I’m telling you, if you do this, you’ll be on your own. That’s right, she’ll remove me from the bunker faster than you can blink. That dried-up cow has a stick up her ass, for sure.”

The President tried to chuckle; he knew she was talking about Vice President Hillsen. She was the only person in the bunker that he figured could get such a rise out of his normally sweet, submissive, suggestive, Jayne.

She recoiled her head, causing her hair to rustle about her shoulders. It was as if she’d been slapped. “Don’t you dare. That woman is ugly as sin. If you’re going to make me do that, at least let me pick someone I can play with.” She looked at the phone and chuckled. Fingers twirling her hair, she grinned and said, “God, Reginald, you are such a prude. You need to loosen up.”

She laughed again, casting a glance over her shoulder at the form of the President of the United States, crumpled on the floor like a rag doll. He was looking at her through eyes that were just barely open and she didn’t notice. She watched him, with a wistful look on her face.

“I’ll give him one thing, he certainly knows how to show a girl a good time.”

He tried to smile, but his face was slack and unresponsive, like the rest of his body. He tried to calm himself, to not think about being incapacitated like that—conscious but unable to move—for the rest of his life. He poured all his remaining willpower into moving his tongue, his toes, his fingers… anything. Nothing moved. Just his heart and lungs, on auto-pilot.

Jayne. And Reginald. His mind plowed through the fog of her perfume at a slow pace. They drugged me. The damn ring. His heart broke with the realization that Jayne had played him expertly to the very end. I just can’t believe it…

Jayne continued to chat with Reginald, pacing the room and picking up random objects to examine while she talked. She was bored, listening to instructions, giving reports, offering suggestions.

She used me. Used me up completely and now he’s telling her to throw me away like a piece of trash. Somewhere, deep down inside his tortured body, a tiny spark appeared in the darkness. Anger began to grow inside him, competing with the frustration he felt at being denied access Jayne’s body.

He was angry for being used, angry for being propped-up as president before his time, angry that Reginald and his employers were tearing America apart piece-meal. The spark grew into an ember and his helplessness blew the ember into a furnace of rage.

They think I’m all used up, an empty husk. Useless. He seethed with raw, white-hot anger.

His fingers twitched.

Yesssss. His eyes moved slowly to follow Jayne’s progress around the room, like he was pushing his vision through jelly. But, at least his eyes were under his control again. He let his rage burn away the effects of whatever toxin Jayne had been using on him, and he kept still. Slowly, he could feel control over his extremities return. First a finger, then two, then four, then a wrist. Slowly, his feet twitched on command.

It’s working…just stay still…

Jayne returned to the desk and stood right in front of him. If he dared to move his head, he could’ve looked straight up…

Stop that. Get a hold of yourself. She’s been playing you like a fiddle. It’s time to show this bitch what you’re really made of. You are the goddamn President of the United States of America. Time to start acting like it.

He summoned all the remaining shreds of his battered willpower to fight off the lust that was building in his loins. She was so close. He could smell her shampoo, her perfume—that lovely, fragrant bouquet—the very essence of her. A whimsical, naughty thought flitted through his mind: I wonder if she’s wearing panties?

It was the same old, intoxicating wave of euphoria that threatened to drown him again. He gritted his teeth and could feel the sweat bead on his forehead. At least you’re feeling something…

“All—all right, if you say so,” Jayne said, sounding unconvinced. She glanced down at the President. “I—I have to go. Now.” The phone clicked off and then she was on her knees, cradling his head in her soft, gentle hands.

“Oh my goodness…what’s happened to you? My love, my poor sweet, love…You’re working yourself too hard…”

Out of the corner of his eye, he saw the deft movement of her right hand, as she adjusted the ring to face toward her palm. Here it comes…

Knowing what was coming, he reached out with all his senses to try and feel the pinprick of the ring. Her hand brushed his cheek and caressed his neck. He could feel the cold metal work its way under his jaw.

Still nothing…

Then, complete joy and relaxation washed over him from head to toe. He felt himself relax in her grip. He imagined her strong, gentle hands were cradling his head—holding it above a fragrant pool of swirling water. He wanted to giggle at the absurdity of that image as he lay on the carpet in the bunker under the White House.

“Sssssh,” Jayne whispered, brushing a lock of hair off his sweaty forehead. “Hush, my love. You need your rest…you have a lot of work to do…”

You bitch…The last vestige of who he was, of Harold James Barron, Esquire, defied her in a whisper from the dark recesses of his mind.

She moved her hand just so and another wave of joy crashed over him. He could resist no more. His last, feeble thought was one single word.

Revenge.

He vowed to himself he would attain that word, he would become that word, if it took a week, a month, a year, a decade. He would beat the odds, he would fight back, he would regain control over himself, and he would punish Reginald. He would punish her. The word danced in and out of his consciousness. He closed his eyes, a false smile on his lips. The last thing seared into his memory was the equally false concern for him, plastered on Jayne’s perfect face as he passed into oblivion.

I will have my revenge, Jayne…