Tanya
What kind of cruel fucking joke is this?
As an instinct, I turn around to make sure the hallway is empty. With the late hour- we've only gotten lucky. Normal working hours don't really apply to the White House- so it's pretty common for the west wing to be alive all hours of the night.
I want to slap the shit out him with every bit of strength I have. Maybe that'd make me feel better- but when I look in his eyes again I see it: He's not lying. At least he doesn't think he is.
"How...what... I....when....huh?" I had every intention of asking what the fuck, but the words never come out.
"What....I.... That's not possible." Darrel shakes his head. "I.... When..."
"Apparently it is-" Walter's eyes meet those of a janitor that walks by us and mumbles excuse me, Madam President. "Back to the office."
I nod, terrified.
What...
What the FUCK?
As soon as the door's closed and locked again, I look at the both of them.
"Hold on how... how the hell would you know something like that anyways? Wh..What?" I stutter, my brain still buffering.
"Tanya.... Do you remember the company Genlabs?" He turns to Darrel.
"Yeah they... dealt with my genetic diseases screening during the transition to my first term. Wha... what do they have to do with.... this?" He swallows.
"They also deal with genetic testing for inmates on death row to ensure they don't have the two most common genes that correlate with those who survive lethal injection or go painfully because their body is capable of resisting the chemicals."
"No...no that's not...." I shake my head.
"Apparently a lab technician found the relation between.... her and Darrel when he put her results in their system. The technician leaked it to.... Meg Haines. She's giving us forty eight hours to respond before she publishes the story."
"It..." I shrug. "It's not like it matters because that's... there's no way that's true I... I think I would have remembered sleeping with a thirty five year old when I was eighteen."
"Tanya- may I speak freely?" Walter asks.
Oh boy.
"That's your damn job." I snap. "What?"
"How many sexual partners did you have between May 1st to 10th of 2004?"
"I..." I try to count on my fingers. "Five. Technically six."
"Oh god...." Darrel's faces falls.
"What? We were both ho's back in the day-"
"No I didn't mean it like that-" He says.
"Were you in New York City then?" Walter asks.
"Yes but... oh my god." He places a hand over his mouth. "Fuck fuck fuck fuck-"
"Darrel."
"I was in town for my best friend's brother's birthday. The costume party? 432 Park Avenue? Well over a thousand guests."
My eyes widen. I sit down, feeling lightheaded.
"Madam President?" Walter never calls me that anymore. "What are you remembering?"
-18 years ago-
I wipe the corners of my mouth, stand up, and playfully shove him back.
"Our parents are gonna kill us both, together- if they find out about this." I flop back on the bed, panting.
"Maybe." My maid's son admits. "But it's not like I work for them. They can't do anything to me without going to federal prison."
"A girl can only dream-" I roll my eyes. "But seriously. Get out."
"Wha-"
"Now. Right now. I'm not losing a multi billion dollar inheritance over you."
"Tanya-"
"NOW!" I scream like a toddler having a temper tantrum- though I feel like it's quite appropriate for the situation. I'd do just about anything- short of killing them myself, to get that money. I don't think I'd have the guts even to hire a hit man, but my parents have made plenty of enemies in their life so I'm counting on that.
I look myself up and down in the full-wall mirror. And for a second, I am in awe at myself. I have the body and face most people spend thousand of dollars to get- and I've never had to work out or watch what I eat a day in my life. But then I look closer and the little things get me- as they always do.
I have three tiny pimples on my jawline that, while not visible unless I look up- hurt like a bitch all the time. I look like I haven't slept in days- though I have. My hair is always frizzy no matter what I do, and I have a singular stretch mark on my right hip.
I'm lucky enough that my skin is normally the perfect balance between oily and dry, so I don't have to use any products. I breathe. Knowing the fact that I thought that- it'll only be a matter of time before it all goes downhill.
My mother said after you reach a certain age there's no point in trying- which was surprising coming from her because she's not that old. I press the button on my wall that connects to the kitchen.
Less than a minute later, the chef's appeared.
"What are you feeling today, Ms.Clark?"
"Surprise me." I shrug.
"Surprise you?" She raises an eyebrow. "Are you sure?"
"Yep."
"Meaning...."
"Anything at all. I have a party to get ready for so make sure it's something quick."
"Yes Ma'm." She nods, scurrying off. I don't like her too much. No matter how many times I tell her not to call me Ma'm, she does it anyways- having worked in five star restaurants most of her career.
I walk over to my closet, looking for the black latex bodysuit I bought a few months ago and have worn an unnatural number of times since. My fingers have just closed around the fabric when the chef is putting a plate down on my desk. I shout a thank you, she whisper-shouts a you're welcome.
I set the bodysuit down on my bed and turn to the plate. My mouth waters at the mere sight- you can tell her speciality was presentation. The Oreo cheesecake she made this morning, finally set, makes me ignore everything else as I shovel bites in my mouth. I won't be the only one eating it. Even in this house- with a dad who doesn't like cheesecake and a mother who tries to avoid carbs, it'll be gone in a day or two.
I hate myself with the last bite, having forgotten how rich it is- but I manage to get it down with a thought - "I'm gonna do this to myself again, aren't I?"
I lick the plate and wipe the corners of my mouth again.
I throw my robe over the desk chair and look around for my underwear, skin tight enough not to show under the bodysuit, and step into it.
I manage to get myself into the thing, but I have to call one of the maids to zip me up. I turn to the SFX makeup kit sitting beside the vanity- when you're an eighteen year old who doesn't work and doesn't go to college you need some sort of hobby, and pull out different powders, bases and paints.
I'm not going as a cheap skeleton- I'm going as one who's lived in a mansion their entire existence and has access to skeleton spas.
Three hours later, when I'm satisfied with the look-
(Picture this)
I spray everything down for what feels like the hundredth time. I check the clock- ten minutes late now. Perfect.
"Andrewwwwww!" This time it's the driver appearing in my doorway.
"Park Avenue party?" He says without having to ask. I nod. "I'll be in the limo."
Instead of spending an hour contemplating whether or not my makeup's going to stay, if you can still see my pimples under them or if my hips look too wide in this outfit, I follow him out. He takes off immediately, and slowly, the city fades into view.
I will never get tired of this.
I used to come here with a staff member or two when I was a kid to get away from my parents. We'd stay in the most expensive hotel, order the most expensive foods- all to spite them because most of the staff can't stand them either. And the fucked thing? They never noticed the money missing. Hell- they hardly ever noticed their own daughter being gone for two days at a time multiple times a month.
We pass my favorite hotel- one that serves you five star restaurant food in bed every morning of your stay unless you opt out, then we go by another that has a free, full service spa for its guests.
What feels like two seconds later- we're in front of the apartment building notorious for its penthouse- and for having the most expensive ones available in NYC. Still- it doesn't compare to the price tag on my parents house. I asked the woman who sold it to them how much it cost up front- never again.
The parking garage across the street has a line going out it, and there are plenty just walking in. Andrew opens the door, tells me he'll be right here whenever I'm ready to leave, but I protest.
"No its fine I... I'll probably end up staying the night. You should go home. Get some sleep."
"Oh...okay. Call me when you need a ride? No matter what time it is?"
"Of course. I take great pleasure in waking you from your REM cycle."
I wave to him as he drives off and Continue in the building. On the ninety third to ninety fifth floor- not quite the penthouse but close enough, is where the party takes place. The building's staff are quite accommodating security wise during the owner's parties because of how expensive it is, so a security guard stands by the elevator- making sure you live here or are on the guest list.
"Name?"
"Tanya Elizabeth Clark." I purse my lips together, holding my breath.
"Go ahead." He waves me on, putting a check next to my name- so he can put it in the computer system that I was here in case something goes missing and they have to investigate. Now- there will always be a record of me being here.
I'm the only person on the elevator ride, but when I reach the apartment I'm immediately hit with just how many actually showed up- wanting to get a glimpse of this building. Three police officers are scattered through the crowd, trying to blend in but miserably failing if you know what to look for. No costume- no badge on either, but standing awkwardly and not talking to anybody.
I push past one of them to go find the alcohol everyone seems to be drinking plenty of.
In the oversized kitchen, I find the entire island covered in premade glasses- and try to remember what I learned about roofies in self defense class.
You can't tell- in most cases, until after the fact.
I decide I don't have anything to worry about with how many people are coming in and out grabbing their own glasses and cautiously take one for myself, walking through the crowds of dancing people with my hand over the top- until I slam into a man twice my size.
"Watch it you fucking- oh. Hi." My eyes trail up until they reach the guy's face- also painted with skeletal makeup.
"At least neither of us has to clean that up." He shrugs. "I'll... buy you a new body suit."
"Oh that's not necessary." I shake my head. "I can just... wash it."
In his eyes and the lines around his mouth, it's clear he's at least ten years older than me, but I am eighteen. Neither of us would technically be doing anything wrong.
"Okay..." he mumbles, then clears his throat. "What brings you here?"
"Needed to get away- even for a few hours. You?"
"Same. Politics is fucking brutal."
"You're a politician?"
"Sort of." He shrugs. "I try not to be. At the moment I'm kind of failing. You don't want to... know who I am so you can.... run to the media about this interaction?"
"Nope." I shrug. "But you can come help me out of this bodysuit if you want."