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Authors: Andrew Shaffer
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on Instagram any second now.
Jimmie’s phone chirped in his pocket—the president hadn’t posted to social media. He’d sent a group text. Jimmie’d forgotten to switch his phone to silent! Shit.
It chirped again, and Trump swiveled around.
Without thinking, Jimmie dove headfirst into the Rose Garden.
Chapter Eighteen
Roses Are Red, Lester Is Blue
I f he’d had time to hesitate, Jimmie would have balked at jumping into a flower bed filled with so many roses. Where there were roses, there were thorns. Even a boob like Bret Michaels knew that.
However, as he lay flat on his stomach under the cover of the flower bushes, Jimmie realized he hadn’t been scratched. He was going to have to dust the dirt off his suit, but there wasn’t a single thorn that had poked him. The flowers were fake. Every single one of them. No wonder the Rose Garden looked so majestic in late August.
Jimmie silenced his phone and rolled over onto his back. Looking up, his eye was drawn to some lettering on the underside of a rose petal: “Made in China.” Through the faux foliage, he could see that Trump had disappeared back inside, chasing after Victoria. What the hell had Jimmie been thinking? And more important . . . what the hell had she been thinking?
Something scurried through the dirt near him. Before he could even turn his head to check it out, the thing was on his chest.
The first family’s dachshund, Opulence, was staring him in the face. It yipped twice, shrill and piercing, then sniffed at his lips. The dog could probably smell the coffee on his breath. If it was looking for food, it would have to look elsewhere—Jimmie had decided to start showing up to work with an empty stomach to avoid any further “incidents.”
Opulence turned its attention to the paper bag in Jimmie’s hand.
“Not my tuna sandwich,” he mumbled. Though, really, what did he care? He was going to get seventy-five bucks every day to spend on food. He was going to pack the pounds on. The dog looked scrawny, and winter was coming.
The skinny wiener dog darted for Jimmie’s lunch bag . . . and pushed it out of the way. It started digging in the dirt. Looking for a bone it had buried? Maybe dachshunds weren’t into tuna salad.
The dog popped its head back up, and what it had in its mouth was not the bone Jimmie was expecting.
It was a human finger.
A gray, rotted human finger covered in dirt, but a human finger nonetheless.
Jimmie had a good guess whose finger it was even before he saw the gaudy golden ring on it. The inscription encircling the oversized ruby confirmed his suspicions: 1993 PULITZER PRIZE WINNER.
Connor Brent was right. The previous ghostwriter was most certainly dead.
Chapter Nineteen
We Don’t Dial 9-1-1
EMPLOYEES ONLY. NO TRESPASSING. WE DONT [ sic ] DIAL 9-1-1!
T he sign was meant to keep intruders at bay. There was even a little icon of a pistol, in case you were too dim to get the point.
Jimmie, however, wasn’t a trespasser. He was a White House employee. He ran his badge over the card reader and heard the door unlock.
He hesitated with his hand on the knob. Despite his obscenely high clearance level, he couldn’t entirely be sure he wouldn’t be shot on the other side. If he was going to do this, though, he had to move quickly. The White House opened up for tourists in another sixty seconds. He was in one of the most popular rooms: the Reagan Library. The room was stocked with VHS copies of Ronald Reagan’s favorite movies—everything from outlaw Westerns to gunfighter Westerns. No books. If there was a single book in the White House outside of Trump’s own, Jimmie hadn’t seen it yet.
Jimmie slipped through the door. He descended the maintenance staircase on the other side, down into the bowels of the White House. Past the basement . . . and to the subbasement.
There were only two ways to get to the subbasement: via the Reagan Library and via a service elevator in the family quarters. A men’s
Jimmie’s phone chirped in his pocket—the president hadn’t posted to social media. He’d sent a group text. Jimmie’d forgotten to switch his phone to silent! Shit.
It chirped again, and Trump swiveled around.
Without thinking, Jimmie dove headfirst into the Rose Garden.
Chapter Eighteen
Roses Are Red, Lester Is Blue
I f he’d had time to hesitate, Jimmie would have balked at jumping into a flower bed filled with so many roses. Where there were roses, there were thorns. Even a boob like Bret Michaels knew that.
However, as he lay flat on his stomach under the cover of the flower bushes, Jimmie realized he hadn’t been scratched. He was going to have to dust the dirt off his suit, but there wasn’t a single thorn that had poked him. The flowers were fake. Every single one of them. No wonder the Rose Garden looked so majestic in late August.
Jimmie silenced his phone and rolled over onto his back. Looking up, his eye was drawn to some lettering on the underside of a rose petal: “Made in China.” Through the faux foliage, he could see that Trump had disappeared back inside, chasing after Victoria. What the hell had Jimmie been thinking? And more important . . . what the hell had she been thinking?
Something scurried through the dirt near him. Before he could even turn his head to check it out, the thing was on his chest.
The first family’s dachshund, Opulence, was staring him in the face. It yipped twice, shrill and piercing, then sniffed at his lips. The dog could probably smell the coffee on his breath. If it was looking for food, it would have to look elsewhere—Jimmie had decided to start showing up to work with an empty stomach to avoid any further “incidents.”
Opulence turned its attention to the paper bag in Jimmie’s hand.
“Not my tuna sandwich,” he mumbled. Though, really, what did he care? He was going to get seventy-five bucks every day to spend on food. He was going to pack the pounds on. The dog looked scrawny, and winter was coming.
The skinny wiener dog darted for Jimmie’s lunch bag . . . and pushed it out of the way. It started digging in the dirt. Looking for a bone it had buried? Maybe dachshunds weren’t into tuna salad.
The dog popped its head back up, and what it had in its mouth was not the bone Jimmie was expecting.
It was a human finger.
A gray, rotted human finger covered in dirt, but a human finger nonetheless.
Jimmie had a good guess whose finger it was even before he saw the gaudy golden ring on it. The inscription encircling the oversized ruby confirmed his suspicions: 1993 PULITZER PRIZE WINNER.
Connor Brent was right. The previous ghostwriter was most certainly dead.
Chapter Nineteen
We Don’t Dial 9-1-1
EMPLOYEES ONLY. NO TRESPASSING. WE DONT [ sic ] DIAL 9-1-1!
T he sign was meant to keep intruders at bay. There was even a little icon of a pistol, in case you were too dim to get the point.
Jimmie, however, wasn’t a trespasser. He was a White House employee. He ran his badge over the card reader and heard the door unlock.
He hesitated with his hand on the knob. Despite his obscenely high clearance level, he couldn’t entirely be sure he wouldn’t be shot on the other side. If he was going to do this, though, he had to move quickly. The White House opened up for tourists in another sixty seconds. He was in one of the most popular rooms: the Reagan Library. The room was stocked with VHS copies of Ronald Reagan’s favorite movies—everything from outlaw Westerns to gunfighter Westerns. No books. If there was a single book in the White House outside of Trump’s own, Jimmie hadn’t seen it yet.
Jimmie slipped through the door. He descended the maintenance staircase on the other side, down into the bowels of the White House. Past the basement . . . and to the subbasement.
There were only two ways to get to the subbasement: via the Reagan Library and via a service elevator in the family quarters. A men’s
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