The World: According to Rachael

The World: According to Rachael
is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or locales is entirely coincidental.

The World: According to Rachael

All rights reserved

Copyright © 2014 by Layne Harper

This book may not be reproduced, transmitted, or stored in whole or in part by any means, including graphic, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, or recording without express consent of the author Layne Harper.

ISBN: 978-0-9960854-1-0 (ebook)

Cover Design: Michelle Preast

Formatting: Polgarus Studio

Dear Reader,

First of all, thank you for purchasing this book. As an indie author, your support means everything to me and my family.

Second of all, let me give you a brief explanation of how this book came to be if you haven’t read the
Infinity
Series. Rachael is a secondary character that makes appearances in all four books. However, you do not need to have read the
Infinity
books to enjoy
The World: According to Rachael.
Rachael developed a bit of a fan following, and I was asked if I would ever write her story. Honestly, I never thought that I would. She’s certainly not your typical romance leading lady, but that’s what I love about her. Anyway, I had a three a.m. epiphany, and that lead to Rachael’s book. I hope you fall in love with her as much as I have.

Finally, your support is what keeps us Indie writers going. Love or hate this book? It’s okay. Please leave a review. Also, follow me on Facebook. I’m Layne-Harper-Author. I’m also on Twitter @Layne_Harper. My email is
[email protected]
.

Sincerely,

Layne Harper

I shouldn’t have had that last beer. Hell. If I’m honest with myself, I shouldn’t have had the last pitcher. I knew how important today was before I agreed to meet my fraternity brothers who invaded D.C. for a visit.

If I had the least bit of intelligence, I would have said, “Sorry guys. Big day at work tomorrow. Hit ya up tomorrow night.” There are probably twenty-three-year-old guys who exist in this world who would have done that. They’re the responsible ones that my dad preaches about. The men, he calls them, who know exactly what they want out of life: God, family, and a job.

I’m not one of those men. I’m an escaped Texas refugee who fled to Virginia on a lacrosse scholarship. I love the green hills of Virginia. I love being half a continent away from my mother, father, and overbearing big sister more.

The guys and I closed down the bar last night. It’s one of my favorite haunts here in the metropolis of Washington D.C. It’s casual, unpretentious, and full of Irishmen—just my kind of scene. The three of us kept girls off the radar last night. It was a bros night. Max didn’t discuss his almost-fiancée, Marissa. Jake and I threw away the girl’s numbers we received. No, last night, seemed like a finale of sorts. It was like we were all tiptoeing around the inevitable, giant, pink elephant in the room: we’re growing up. We relived the glory days of college, told and retold our favorite stories, and discussed important world events. You know, things like,
Is boxing a dead sport now that MMA is so popular
?

We all had graduated in December. Max and Marissa had moved to Atlanta, and were just beginning their careers in finance. They share a playing card-sized one-bedroom apartment, and hand-me-down furniture and kitchen gadgets. Jake is in New York, trying his hand at his dad’s real estate company, and looking to score with anything that has long legs and says she’s a model. Me? Well, I’m using the nine months between the end of college and the beginning of law school to “experience the real world.” My dad got me this job as a campaign aid for Senator Jones, the next president of the United States of America.

Am I a republican? Not necessarily. Personally, I like to keep the money I make in my checking account, but I also can’t pass a homeless guy on the street without stuffing at least a buck in his cup. I haven’t figured myself out enough to even come close to knowing if Langford Jones will make a decent President.

My dad said my job title of Campaign Aid will look great on future resumes. I’m sure he’s right. In fact, the man is rarely wrong. Doesn’t mean that this job doesn’t suck gigantic sweaty balls.

I’m one of the lucky few who are actually paid to staff this office hellhole. What am I paid to do? Any shit job my boss asks. Sometimes I use my double major in political science and finance to do very difficult tasks, like stapling information packets on our candidate’s talking points. Other mental exercises include making coffee, scheduling appointments, grabbing lunch from the corner deli, and answering the phone.

Nowhere in any college brochure I read said that if you graduated with an almost perfect GPA and a double major, you’d start out your career placing and picking up sandwich orders.

Bitter? Maybe. I knew I wasn’t ready for the real world yet, so I decided to escape to even more higher education at George Washington Law. What am I going to do with a law degree? Who knows? What I am NOT going to do is stay in politics. I can guaran-damn-tee you that. What this job working in the campaign headquarters has taught me is to stay far, far away from the gory world of our country’s political system.

“Want a donut?”

I look up from my menial task of filing—there are no stray papers lying around because the dragon lady is visiting today—and see Lucas leaning against one of the old, grey, dented metal filing cabinets. Lucas is one of the reasons that this job sucks so much. He’s maybe five-feet five-inches in heels, and as round as he is tall. I mention his appearance only because, well, I think of him as the slime a snail leaves behind. He’s my boss Steve’s assistant.

Lucas gets off on making me, who he calls “pretty boy,” do all the crap tasks in the office. I could overlook his SHORTcomings if he hadn’t of asked me on my first week, and in front of the other staffers and volunteers, if I were gay. Because apparently men who do things like wear matching clothes, brush their teeth twice a day, comb their hair and put some product in it are gay. My mouth had gaped open. First of all, it’s none of his business. Secondly, who does that? I mean have some tact—manners, for God’s sake. That’s like asking a woman what she weighs, or if the carpet matches the drapes. Rudeness is the biggest turn-off for me. Call me a southern gentleman. Call me a ladies’ man. Whatever, but poor manners are the surest way to get on my bad side.

Lucas waves a donut under my nose as if he’s taunting me with it. I shake my head. The dude has a shiny glaze that surrounds his mouth with flakes of sugar dotting his poorly-groomed beard.

My top lip rises in disgust. “No thanks.”

“What? Pretty boy doesn’t want to ruin his perfect abs?” he says using some sophomoric voice from grade school.

My hands ball into tight fists and I mentally count to ten before I tell him to go fuck himself. My body relaxes as I pretend to shuffle through the papers I’m supposed to be filing. “Something like that,” I reply as I attempt to hide my disdain.

He shrugs his shoulders and says, “More for me,” as he shoves another jelly-filled bit of fried dough into his pie hole.

I look down at my stack of paper, hoping that Lucas will move on to harassing someone else. I sort through the
H
file folders, looking for the name Darrius Howard. Whoever had this job before me must’ve failed Alphabetizing 101. These filing cabinets look like a frat house after an all-weekend party.

Apparently, Lucas hasn’t left. “Don’t forget Rachael Early, the next President’s Chief of Staff, is stopping by today. We’re all supposed to be on our best behavior.” This is all said through an open mouth, revealing the mushed contents of the red jam and light-tan dough.

I ignore Lucas, and all but let an
F
bomb fly at the realization that once again, these files are so out of order. Darrius Howard’s file is nowhere even remotely near the other “Ho” file folders.

The dull headache from too much beer last night flares into a migraine. I’m sure it’s somehow Lucas’s fault. I reach up and use my thumb to press where the pain is the most intense.

Normal people would interpret this as me not feeling well, and leave me alone. Not Lucas. He goes on - full speed ahead.

“Steve told me to tell you to order a couple of sandwich trays, that carrot and raisin salad, and …”

I look up from what I am doing and turn to Lucas with a caustic grin on my face. “Let me guess … and a large tub of mayonnaise potato salad.” My stomach flips at just the thought. I swear to God, when this job is over I will never, and I do mean ever, eat, look at, or be in the same room as a jar of mayo. How Steve and Lucas can consume it every single day is really beyond me.

Lucas nods and says, “Yeah. Exactly.”

When he finally leaves, I reach into my pants’ pocket and pull out the aspirin I was smart enough to grab this morning on my way out the door. I pop two tablets into my mouth and dry-swallow. It’s one of my many talents.

Next, I check my watch. I’ll need to place the deli order in thirty minutes so I have enough time to pick it up and have it arranged as Steve likes it before our “war meeting” with Rachael.

I haven’t met the infamous Rachael before. Rumor has it she’s a mega bitch. Like, she eats people that cross her for breakfast. Just her name makes Steve tremble in his wing-tipped shoes.

I picture her looking like the female version of Attila the Hun. The facial hair is still present, and she carries a sword for chopping off the heads of campaign staffers who fail in their tasks.

My first day on the job, I was told to avoid Rachael if I ever met her, and never look her directly in the eye. She can apparently sense weakness, and likes to make young campaign staffers cry.

One of my coworkers likes to tell the story of Rachael bringing two well-known senators from different sides of the aisle to a Kumbaya kind of moment by just threatening to intervene in their negotiations. Trust me, I’m about as excited for this war meeting as I am ordering mayonnaise potato salad.

We’ve been preparing the office for this momentous occasion all week. I kid you not. Lucas handed me a bottle of spray bleach and had me scrub the wood around the bottom of the walls. I’m sure this was by far the best use of my double degree.

Maybe I should be like Max and Jacob, and go ahead and face the real world. What am I going to do with a law degree anyway? It’s not like I want to actually practice law.

I set my stack of papers that need to be filed to the side and make my way to my desk.
Desk
is really a misnomer. It’s a folding table for my personal laptop to rest on. My desk chair? It’s a metal folding thing, probably picked up at the Salvation Army. I seriously don’t wear the nice slacks to work my mom insisted on buying for me because I’m convinced they’ll be stained from the rust. Plus, the tags are still on them, so if I need beer money I can take them back to Brooks Brothers.

I bring up the web page of the deli that’s bookmarked in my Internet browser and grab one of the millions of phones on the folding table. Campaign offices may not have desks, but we’ve got probably two hundred landline phones for dialing for dollars.