“Equal treatment for Kardashians! Let them in! Let them in! Let them-”
The woman’s chanting was abruptly cut off when a man who looked like a middle school social studies teacher backhanded her across the mouth. Then the man balled his hand into a fist and punched her square in the face, garnering applause from the crowd and knocking the woman to the pavement.
“Okay, okay, that’s enough,” said Trump from the podium. “No more of that. What have I told you? Two punches is plenty for a broad. Let her up.”
The crowd obediently pulled the protestor to her feet, even though it had technically been one punch and one slap.
“Okay, look, lady. I don’t know what it is that sent you on the warpath-though we can guess, it’s probably cramps,” said Trump, drawing a huge roar of laughter. The danger had passed; they were having fun again.
“But you need to understand, I love the freedom of religion. It’s one of the five top freedoms. Those Kardashians can be any religion they want. But if it’s a religion that wants to blow us up, they don’t get to come here. Anybody is welcome in America-they just have to change to a religion that doesn’t want to blow us up. I don’t think that’s too much to ask.”
As the crowd cheered, several security personnel appeared, each holding an oversized American flag. With swift, practiced movements, they wrapped the flags around the protestor before pinning her arms and legs, then covering her completely. They lifted her on their shoulders like a roll of American-flag carpet and carried her out of the arena.
“Husbands, this is what happens when you don’t give your wives enough attention,” Trump said. “Be good to them. Even if they’re as ugly as that one.”
The station cut to the in-studio host, Lena Dunham. She rolled her eyes so hard that Jimmie worried she might have been having a seizure. “That was the president, speaking at a rally promoting his new program retraining out-of-work coal miners as golf caddies-”
The TV went black. Jimmie glanced around the room. He spied a dark-haired woman in a sharp, navy-blue blazer pointing a remote at the television. Her matching skirt only made it to midthigh, giving him a not-unpleasing view of her long legs.
She spun around in one fluid motion, like she’d reached the end of a catwalk. “Look who’s done napping,” she said with a polished British accent. “Think you can stay awake this time?”
“Do we know each other?” Jimmie asked. He doubted they’d met-he would have remembered those legs.
“You’ve been in and out of consciousness for over seventy-two hours. This is the third time we’ve had this conversation.”
“Sorry about that.”
“That’s the third time you’ve apologized as well,” she said. “You’re nothing if not consistent.”
“First time I’ve ever heard that.”
The woman said, “Third time.” She paused. “Anyway, since I don’t have all day, here’s the pitch: My name is Emma Blythe. I’m with the White House.”
“You’re a Brit in the White House? Not a Prince Charles sympathizer, then?”
She smiled a patient, thin-lipped smile and continued. “I’m here to extend you an offer of employment as a ghostwriter.”
He’d never tried his hand at ghostwriting before. Hadn’t even attempted a book-length manuscript, outside of an abandoned novel or two. Or five. Okay, nine, but who was counting? Point was, she’d mistaken him for someone else.
“Too bad you came all this way,” he said. “Doesn’t sound like my sort of thing. And even if I was into ghostwriting, I couldn’t care less about politics. But I’ve already told you this.”
She nodded. “You’re not interested in politics, but you are interested in writing about the American migrant experience for Cigar Aficionado magazine. Strange, isn’t it?”
“Apparently their readers enjoy chomping on stogies while reading about poor, unemployed people crawling around in the dirt,” Jimmie said. “It’s just a paycheck.”
“What are they paying you?”
He told her the number, which wasn’t much.
“Here’s what we can offer you,” she said, quoting a number four times as large. Maybe five times-his math wasn’t super.
“For the entire project? Do I get, like, half now, half later?”
“That would be your salary. Per week. And to answer your next question, you would be ghostwriting the president’s memoir.”
“The president of…”
“The United States.”
“You want me to help write the autobiography… of Donald Trump?”
Chapter Four
An Offer You Can’t Refuse
“There are dozens of Trump biographies on the shelves,” Emma said. “Even before he was elected president, the American people were fascinated with him. Half of the books about him are full of shit.”
“And the rest?” Jimmie asked.
“Are only half full of shit. Those are the ones he wrote himself.”
Jimmie laughed and immediately regretted it. Not just because he felt a sharp pain in his abs, but also because this woman clearly wasn’t joking.
“He doesn’t want another cookie-cutter biography,” Emma said. “He wants to write a memoir of his time in office. The working title is America’s Greatest Decade.”
“Decade?”
“He’ll have to remove term limits, but he considers that a formality.”
“Still, sounds a little optimistic.”
“He could wait to write the book until after his term, but he doesn’t know when that will be. He’s afraid he’s going to miss the yacht,” she said. “Besides, he wants it on shelves during his reelection campaign. He wants to tout all he’s done for the country. Discharging our debt to China, the buyout of Cuba, the program to put chandeliers in every classroom in the country.”
Jimmie felt his cheeks flush. “And my name was the first that came to mind.”
“Let’s just say you weren’t too far down the list. He’s a big fan of your work. You’ll be given total access. You can follow him into the bathroom if you want to.” She paused. “He actually specifically asked me to mention that to you. That he has nothing to hide in that department.”
That message delivered, her tone brightened: “He wants to come across as open and honest. You won’t be asked to sugarcoat anything. No restrictions. I know this is a lot to take in,” she said. “But I’m going to need an answer before I leave.”
“When are you leaving?”
“I need to catch my flight in an hour and thirty-seven minutes. Which means you have five minutes to decide, James.” She glanced at her phone. “Four minutes.”
Although Jimmie had never heard from the president before, it made perfect sense that Trump was a fan of his. Jimmie had been the one whose reporting had forced Ted Cruz out of the race. It was right when Cruz was preparing his all-out “This time we’ll really stop him” surprise reactivation of his campaign a week before the Republican National Convention. The story had also cost Jimmie his career. There was the lawsuit brought by SeaWorld against the Daily Blabber. The jury trial, where Jimmie’s ethics were called into question. The $180 million verdict. The appeal. The upheld verdict.
After that, his name was poison. No disreputable blog would have him, and he had no interest in working for the reputable ones. The assignment for Cigar Aficionado had come about through an old editor who still tossed him a freelance gig from time to time.
So while his past was painful, his present wasn’t exactly all kittens and rainbows. And this opportunity was almost too good to be true. Forget crawling around in the dirt-he’d be working in the White House. Or, as some of the administration’s critics called it, the “Gold House.” (Trump took this as a tremendous compliment.) What interested Jimmie more than the steady work, however, was the opportunity to see his ex-girlfriend again-Cat Diaz. What would she say if she saw him palling around with the president?