“Is that what my husband told you? Ha! There are no cameras in the bedrooms.”
“What about the restrooms?”
“You want to do it in the restroom? I knew you were a little pervert when I saw you watching me, Mr. Jimmie.”
“The bed is fine,” he said, loosening his tie.
Chapter Fifty-One
It Happens to Plenty of Guys
As Victoria unbuttoned Jimmie’s pants, another wave of hesitation hit him. It had nothing to do with Cat or with the fact that Victoria Trump was married to the president. He knew that she was just using him to get back at her husband. She’d praised Jimmie’s “big hands,” but they both knew they were just average. To someone who’s starving, though, a crumb looks like a meal.
What was causing him to have second thoughts was the fact that a White House sex scandal was unfolding before his very eyes… and he didn’t care. This despite a story here just as salacious as anything he’d reported at the Daily Blabber. Although he’d never cared for politics, Donald J. Trump and the first lady were undoubtedly celebrities: Trump’s marital troubles with past wives had driven dirt sheet sales in the eighties and nineties. Who could forget his first wife confronting his mistress on the slopes in Colorado? The lengthy prenup battle with Marla Maples? Or the blink-and-you’ve-missed-it marriage to Megyn Kelly?
The story unzipping below Jimmie’s belt was bigger than all that. Even if he hadn’t been personally involved, the first couple were clearly having some sort of marital difficulties. Who knew how long Victoria and her husband been sleeping in separate bedrooms? Jimmie should have felt something. Anything. Well, anything besides the hand massaging him, which he definitely felt.
But no. A Trump sex scandal was small boobies compared to the rising body count at the White House. As much as it pained Jimmie to admit, whatever conspiracy was unfolding around him outside of the Lincoln Bedroom ran far deeper than what was happening inside the Lincoln Bedroom.
He never thought he’d think that there could be anything bigger than a sex scandal. But he’d found one-one that excited his journalistic instincts. One that got his blood boiling. Lester Dorset… the dead SJW… Emma Blythe being poisoned… the threat of war with America’s closest ally… and the most powerful men and women in the world. Something big was brewing, something that dwarfed a little extramarital swapping of bodily fluids.
“I can’t do this,” Jimmie said, pulling away from Victoria. “I’m sorry.”
She frowned at him. “Is it your kidnapped girlfriend?”
He nodded solemnly. It was only partially about Cat-and she wasn’t his girlfriend-but, yeah. No reason to get Victoria involved in whatever nasty business was happening at the White House.
“I can help you,” she said. “I want to help you.”
He tucked his shirt in and buttoned his pants. “I can’t get out of here with the recorder. But you can probably just walk out with it.”
“If I leave, it will be suspicious. Donny doesn’t like it when I leave.”
A woman like Victoria didn’t deserve to be locked up on the third floor of the White House like some crazy aunt who’d lost her mind. No woman deserved that. Not even crazy aunts. Victoria needed someone who cared about her… somebody who wouldn’t leave town to play golf all weekend while his wife and her amazing rack were stuck at home.
Jimmie gazed into her eyes and communicated all this with a single glance. She gazed back at him, letting him know she picked up what he was putting down.
He shot a glance at the window. The Rose Garden was directly below. If he exited the building through the rear employee entrance, he’d walk right past the flower garden on his way out. He’d be beyond the most invasive level of White House security at that point. All Victoria would have to do is toss the recorder out the window, and he’d catch it.
He glanced back at Victoria, who nodded. She understood his plan.
If things don’t work out with my girl, I’ll be back for you, Jimmie told Victoria with a wiggle of his eyebrows.
You promise? she asked with a narrowing of her eyes.
I promise, he said with a flare of his nostrils.
He bent down and kissed her on the forehead. They both knew he was lying, but they kept playing the parts. Jimmie knew that not only was it what James Bond would do… it was also, he realized with some horror, what Trump would do.
After his plan went off without a hitch, Jimmie Bernwood set the potted plant out on his deck at the Watergate. It had been a long day, but it was going to be an even longer weekend. He finally dozed off around one in the morning. He slept well and dreamt of large-breasted women.
Excerpt From the Trump/Dorset Sessions
July 1, 2018, 7:56 PM
Dorset: You believe in God.
Trump: Doesn’t everybody?
Dorset: Atheists don’t. Agnostics don’t know.
Trump: They should. They really, really should. The Bible is one of the two greatest books ever written. Right up there with The Art of the Deal. I would say that Jesus is my favorite author, besides myself.
Dorset: Jesus didn’t write the Bible.
Trump: Then He had a helluva ghostwriter. Shows you what a great manager He was.
Dorset: Manager?
Trump: He started his church with just twelve guys. Twelve! And look how many employees He has now. I have tremendous respect for the guy. He really knew how to work a room.
Dorset: Speaking of working rooms, you’ve come under fire repeatedly for working them into frenzies. At one of your campaign stops, you pointed to the press corps and called them “scum.” Journalists covering your campaign reported being pelted with batteries and ice cubes, among other objects.
Trump: That’s not true.
Dorset: No? There’s video of it…
Trump: It wasn’t just one stop. It was multiple stops. It was a part of my routine for a while. The line about “scum” always got big laughs. Brought the house down. People loved the interactive part, with the batteries and whatnot.
Dorset: Since, by your own admission, the media actually helped you out, shouldn’t you at least show them a little more respect now?
Trump: What do you want me to do, send Fox News a thank-you card? I’ll send them a fuck-you card, because fuck you, Roger Ailes. Do they make fuck-you cards?
Dorset: I’ve never checked.
Trump: Someone could make an easy million selling fuck-you cards. They wouldn’t even have to sell them on the street, because I’d buy every damn one. I’d have a long list of recipients, believe me. Longer than my Christmas card list, that’s for sure. Who’s in charge of making national holidays? Is that me?
Saturday, September 1, 2018
Chapter Fifty-Two
Stupid Is as Stupid Does
Jimmie Bernwood rose just after ten the next morning. He used the toilet and stretched his arms. He’d been up late at the White House, so he didn’t get his regular ten hours of sleep. Any other Saturday, he might have lounged around in bed until noon. Unfortunately, he had too much to do this weekend to prepare for the swap.
He’d decided that he would make a copy of the recordings. Not because of their content, but because he might need them down the line as evidence. He also needed to buy a gun. With Trump’s Affordable Arms Act, that would be relatively simple.