Two Bad Boys, One Heart

Georgina

I, Georgina Carter Aschberg, leader of a charity group and daughter of Arturo Aschberg, the very traditional President of the United States, am looking at a box made of cardboard filled with inflatable dolls. And no, these are not toys for kids. I know what's inside because the box has bright orange letters saying: LIFELIKE PERSONAL ROMANCE DOLLS! NOW WITH FREE GLOW-IN-THE-DARK CONDOMS AND LUBRICANT!

It might be useful to know what's in the box if you're trying to find your personal romance dolls among many boxes. I thought places selling items like these would be more secretive, but maybe showing off what you buy is the new trend. I wouldn't know because I've never been to a store like that. Imagine going there with your security team glaring at you, even though they try to hide it behind their serious faces.

I've never ordered condoms and lube online, either. That’s just the kind of story the media loves to get ahold of, and pretty soon you're not the smart capable First Daughter who runs a foundation; you're the pervy First Daughter who orders stuff from a sex shop.

No, thanks.

"Do you think it's the lube or the condoms that glow in the dark?" Vi asks over the phone.

I sip my glass of wine and stare at the box like it's going to answer that question. It doesn't. "Have you ever heard of glow-in-the-dark-lube?"

"You ask that question like I'm an expert on sex accessories," Vi sniffs.

"Really? You're going to go with the virginal-good-girl thing?" I tease. "Because I could remind you of our days in boarding school if you'd like." Vi and I attended boarding school in Switzerland. So posh, right? We're poster children for wealth, privilege, and power. I reacted to that by knuckling down, trying to stay out of the public eye as much as possible, and throwing myself into work. Even in high school, I was the ultimate good girl. Vi reacted to that by whooping it up and broadcasting her I-don’t-give-a-shit attitude far and wide.

Her father thought that sending her off to a boarding school with other children of politicians and world leaders would rein her in. Do you want to know what's wilder than a boarding school full of the bored children of wealthy and powerful parents?

Answer: absolutely nothing.

Vi is the exact opposite of someone I "should" be friends with, per my parents, who are very concerned with that sort of thing ("You have standards to uphold, Georgina," my father reminds me sternly every time I see him), but the fact is, Vi and I were friends long before Switzerland. We were an unlikely pair – total opposites – thrust together in solidarity as children in the limelight when my father was Governor of Colorado and Vi's was Lieutenant Governor.

"I'm monogamous currently." Vi laughs. "Well, mostly." Vi's flavor of the month is a professional snowboarder whose name I can't remember.

"You're a paragon of virtue. But wouldn't glow-in-the-dark lube look like a scene out of CSI?" I wonder.

Vi snorts. "That's both true and repulsive."

"I'm not the one who ordered glow-in-the-dark condoms and lube," I argue, squatting down to read the address label on the box. "Mr. Dick Donovan is."

Vi cackles. "Please tell me you'll deliver that box to your neighbor personally."

"Or I could have it redelivered to the correct address," I suggest.

"It's right next door!" Vi shouts. "And you haven't met your new neighbor."

"I don't need to meet my neighbor," I protest. "I've already heard him quite enough, thank you very much." He moved in just last week and already I've heard enough loud music and splashing in the pool than any one person should have to endure. I swear the other night I heard him playing bongos. Who plays bongos other than Martino McConaughey??

Vi snickers. "Yeah, you told me about the bongos. Don't you want to see if he plays them naked?"

I make a gagging sound. "Yeah, I want to see if my new next door neighbor, Dick Donovan, inflatable sex doll connoisseur, plays naked bongos in his backyard."

"You know the blow-up dolls are a prank. Dick Donovan is the fakest name ever."

"What if it isn't?" I take a sip of my wine and almost choke because I start giggling so hard at the thought. "What if that is his real, actual name?"

"Then you have to meet him. Why don't we just look up online who bought the house? Maybe he's hot."

"Yeah, right." I snort. I purchased my house in this quiet, off-the-grid historical neighborhood specifically because it was filled with retired professors and older business people. It's the most uncool neighborhood ever - which means that it's really private and people leave me alone. And that's exactly what you need when your father is the President and he's in the middle of a reelection campaign.

Even if he is the incumbent candidate, reporters are still interested in digging up anything salacious they can on my conservative father, whose campaign is laser-focused on family values. That means that I'm under the microscope almost as much as he is, so this out-of-the-way neighborhood was the best place in Denver to stay out of the limelight.

It’s not like I would be hitting up the bars or clubbing or doing anything wild, even if I weren't under the microscope, anyway. Vi says I'm an eighty-year-old woman in the body of a twenty-six-year-old, and that's probably true. The wildest thing I do is drink a glass of wine and consider personally redelivering a box of blow-up dolls to my neighbor next door.

"I bet he's hot as hell and tattooed and –"

I interrupt her, laughing. "I'll give you a hundred bucks if Dick Donovan is under the age of sixty-five. I'm going to be delivering this box to a crazy old man who probably has a collection of blow-up dolls he has conversations with."

"Whatever you do, don't step inside for a cup of tea," Vi advises. "That's how you wind up in a hole in the backyard rubbing lotion on your skin before someone makes a suit out of you."

"Sage advice."

"Go deliver the box," Vi demands. "Your life is boring. This is literally the most interesting thing to happen to you in forever."

"It is not!" I argue, although deep down, I know she's correct. You'd think being the daughter of the President of the United States would be automatically fascinating, but surprisingly, it's not. The constant scrutiny and high expectations that accompany being the First Daughter only serve to make life rather dull.

In fact, it's been two years since I've been this close to a condom. Pathetic, isn't it? I'm twenty-six years old. Most people my age are out dating, hooking up, and having a great time. But as the First Daughter, even going on a single date is a major event. The man must be suitable, vetted, and seen as a serious potential partner. Goodness, I can't even imagine what would happen if I had a casual fling. According to my father, it would spell the end of democracy as we know it.

Vi makes a kissing sound over the phone. "If I don't hear from you in an hour, I'll assume your flesh is being made into a jacket."

"I'm pretty sure my security detail wouldn't approve of that."

"The new neighbor is going to be attractive, and you owe me a hundred dollars."

After one more glass of wine, I'm officially tipsy and feeling adventurous. And, alright, my curiosity is getting the better of me. I could simply look up who bought the house online, but I kind of want to see Mr. Dick Donovan for myself.

Through slightly blurry eyes, I slip my shoes back on, holding the box and stepping outside. My day shift security detail, Blair and David, as they prefer to be called instead of Jane and Alice, reach out to steady the box as I nearly drop it the moment I step beyond my gated driveway.

"I'm walking this next door," I protest, my heel catching on the sidewalk. In retrospect, maybe I should have changed out of my work attire - suit and heels - to lug a box of blow-up dolls around. Or maybe I shouldn't have had that second glass of wine. Probably the latter.

"Would you like some help, ma’am?" Blair asks.

"Hey, do you remember that time when my father insisted that I have a security detail and I agreed, but only on the condition that my detail not interfere with my life in any way, shape, or form? That's a fond memory I have."

I swear I can hear Blair and David rolling their eyes behind me right now. They're just being polite by asking. It's against protocol for them to carry a box even if I wanted them to, since it would interfere with their job of protecting me. I’d be just fine without protection, though. My father’s approval rating is the highest of any president in the last ten years; the economy is good and there are no active threats to my life - that I know of, anyway. But my parents are overprotective, to say the least.

And honestly, Blair and David are not bad at all as far as security details go. They are humorless, of course. I think that's a job requirement. Contrary to popular belief, we are allowed to decline protection, although my father would probably have an actual heart attack if I did. I only relented to having a security detail if they were female (how impossible would it be to have a relatively normal existence with a team of brutes in suits following me around?) and if they were not reporting my every move to my father.

Follow me around… Fine. But I draw the line at them helping me with routine, everyday tasks.

You know, like hauling a box of inflatable sex dolls and lube to my neighbor's house.

I stand outside the gate with the box, Books and David a safe distance behind me, as a male voice answers. "Yo."

Yo. Definitely not a retiree. "I'm your neighbor. I have something… well… um…of a personal nature that was mistakenly delivered to my house."

He laughs. "Of a personal nature?" he asks, obviously mocking the formality of my words.

I immediately bristle. I mean, yeah, I've gotten called stuck-up a lot and Perfect Presidential Daughter, but really, I'm doing this guy a favor. I could have just inflated his dolls and thrown them over the stone wall that separates our properties. On second thought, I definitely should have delivered the contents of the box that way.

The gate opens and I stand there for a second, looking at his house. I've not seen beyond the gates of any of the houses in my neighborhood; I've never even met any of my neighbors. His driveway is short and cobblestone, just like mine; and his house is similar to mine except it's at least twice as large. It's fucking huge. Decorative trees line the edge of the wall between our properties and I make a mental note to landscape better. I'm more than halfway up the driveway when he steps out of the house.

Buck naked and carrying a set of strategically-placed bongo drums.