The Reunion Pt. 01

We weren't kids. We'd done this before, many times with other people. But even in that context, I knew this was special. She rode me for a while, alternately being upright taking me as deep as she could as she leaned back, then leaned forward to kiss me while I put my arms around her and held her tight as we rocked her to her second orgasm. We took a little break in place as she recovered.

"You feel ..."

She cut me off. "Perfect? Because you do."

"Why the hell didn't we do this 30 years ago?"

She smiled. "To everything there is a season, and a time to every purpose under the heavens."

I laughed. "Okay, this is the first time I've ever had a woman quote me scripture while making love. Is that Ecclesiastes?"

It was her turn to laugh. "And that's the first time I've had a lover who knew the bible. I spent a lot of time in church as a kid. What's your excuse?" She laughed, not expecting an answer.

"You know I've been thinking about this a lot lately, ever since we spoke last week," she continued. "We loved each other then, why didn't we get together. I mean I was dating that jackass Richard. Why didn't I dump him and make a play for you? This is the only sense I can make of it."

"I think of all the relationships I've screwed up because of my career. If we'd been together then I probably would have screwed this up too."

We were quiet for a little bit, then I added. "I need to be honest here. I'm not proud of this, Syd, but every time I thought about acting on it, my mind went to bringing you home to meet my family, and I just wasn't brave enough to do that. I should have forced the issue. Made them choose between me and their racism."

"You can't be expected to do that when you're nineteen. My family was no better. Whenever I talked about you my father would say, 'He's that white boy you're always hanging out with?' He had a way of saying 'white boy' that made it pretty clear what his expectations were for me."

We kissed again, and I rolled her halfway over, so we were both on our sides looking at each other. "You know I looked for you. On Facebook. On Google. Anywhere I could think of. But of course I only knew your maiden name, so I never found you."

"Since my divorce, I've gone back to my maiden name. But you probably weren't looking then," she said. "What would you have done if you found me?"

"I would have reached out somehow. Called you probably. Or emailed you if I knew your email. What would you have done if I had?"

"Probably nothing. Just like when I was in Washington in 2014. I could have called the Post newsroom and got you on the phone. But I was married, and my kids were home. I wouldn't have done anything to endanger their home and their sense of security."

I rolled her over again, putting me on top of her and started stroking my cock in and out of her at an excruciatingly slow pace. The slow build I was going for was apparently not going to last.

"Damn it, are you trying to drive me crazy?" she said as her hips pushed urgently up to meet me. "Jesus Steven, fuck me!"

I did just that and in the end, we were left sweaty and limp, exhausted and as happy as I've been in a long, long while.

"You hungry?"

"I could eat."

"I ordered in Chinese before you came. I'll just go heat it up. We can eat in here."

She slipped her robe on and went off to the kitchen. I heard some plates rattling and then heard the microwave cycle on. Just as microwave dinged, my phone rang. I saw the screen and groaned. Working now, at this moment, was not in the plans. Anyone else and I would let it go to voicemail. But I couldn't, not with this particular caller.

"Steven Bradley."

"Mr. Bradley, this is the White House switchboard. Will you hold for President Richardson?"

"Of course."

Just then Sydney came back into the room with two plates. "I didn't know if you wanted chop sticks or a ..."

"Good Evening, Mr. President," I said into my phone, and gave Syd an apologetic shrug of my shoulders. For her part, Syd stood there with her mouth agape, looking like she could never be surprised by anything, ever again.

"Bradley, that's a hell of a book you've written," the President said. I had tapped the speaker icon so I could put the phone down and grab my plate, as I was suddenly famished.

"To be honest, Mr. President, I didn't expect you to be a fan."

"Don't get me wrong Bradley... listen, am I interrupting something?"

I laughed. "Well if you must know, sir, I'm having dinner with the woman of my dreams."

"Oh, you are? I'm sorry for the imposition, please give her my apologies, I won't take but a minute of your time."

"Getting a call from you is hardly an imposition, sir."

"You're good on the bullshit, Bradley, I'll give you that," he said, with a laugh. "Listen I just wanted to say that I learned a lot from your book, and a lot of what I learned made me very unhappy. That S.O.B at Health and Human Services is history."

"Is this on the record, sir?"

"Absolutely. I want him to read it in tomorrow's paper and choke on his cornflakes."

"Really sir? I assume you mean, for the record, that you've asked for Secretary Cameron's resignation?"

"You should go into PR someday Bradley, you'd be good at it. Yes, my chief of staff hand delivered a letter to that effect to his office tonight and he just emailed you a copy. He left strict instructions to not bother the secretary until morning."

"What did you tell him, sir?"

"I told him he'd let me down. More than that, he'd let the people down. Letting me down is one thing, but letting the American people down is unacceptable. Period. He lied to my face and lied to the American people on a grand scale. I won't stand for it. I'm also referring it to the Attorney General for possible prosecution."

"Jesus..."

"Well Jesus may forgive him, but I won't. He can rot in hell for all I'm concerned."

"Yes sir."

I was, at this moment, desperately glad that I'd punched the "record all" button on my phone recording app while I was waiting for the President to pick up. This was, as we liked to say, one hell of a story.

"Can you come to the White House tomorrow? I want to go over some of the details and give you our plan for straightening out this mess."

"Well, sir, er... I did have some plans for tomorrow, but if..."

"With the woman of your dreams, I take it?"

"As a matter of fact, sir, yes."

"Good for you Bradley. I'm glad to hear it. Okay, how about Sunday afternoon? After the football game, unless you and the young lady would like to come to the residence and watch the Packers?"

"Thank you for the invitation, sir. But you know I can't accept."

He laughed again. "Can't blame me for testing you." He added, "Alright. Let's make about it 4 p.m. then? Check in at the briefing room and the duty officer there will know to bring you up. Feel free to bring the young lady with you. I'll ask the First Lady to give her the tour. Send Crawford her name so she can get in the gate." Crawford was his chief of staff.

"Thank you Mr. President. I'll see if she'd like to come." I could see in my peripheral vision that Sydney was vigorously nodding her acceptance. "Now if I'm going to make the Secretary choke on his cornflakes, I need to get a move on."

The line went dead. This president was notorious for not saying goodbye.

"Holy shit! How often does that happen?" Sydney asked, as I put the phone down.

"Not that often, thank God. Listen, I need to call the newsroom or we won't have any chance of getting this in tomorrow morning's paper." I kissed her quickly and tapped the number in my contacts reaching the rim editor answering the phone tonight.

"Billy, who's in the slot tonight?" I asked between mouthfuls of Szechuan Beef.

"Jenkins."

"Aw, crap. Well, there's no escaping it. Tell him I need to talk to him about a new lead story for tomorrow's paper."

"Jesus, he's going to love that."

When I got Jenkins, I told him I we need to tear up page one.

"Do you know what time it is?" he snarled at me.

"I do."

"Then you know I can't tear up page one and start over at this hour. Maybe an inside page, but even then..."

"Listen, Jenkins. The President of the United States just called me and told me he was firing Secretary Cameron at Health and Human Services as a result of what he read in my book and is referring Cameron to the Attorney General for possible prosecution. He gave it to me, exclusively, so if you think I should call the Times and give them the story instead, then just say so."

"Jesus Christ on a crutch... Hang on." Then I heard him muffling the phone against his chest as he shouted across the newsroom. "Tell the press room we need to hold, I repeat we are holding the early edition and re-plating page one. Got that?" And then, back to me, "Ok you're going to email the story?"

"I can't. I'm out and don't have my laptop. The President called me when I was at dinner. By the time I got the laptop it would be too late. Do you have someone to take dictation?"

He laughed. "Old school, eh? Well I'm probably the only person in the building who's ever done that, so give me a second." I could hear him tapping keys on the keyboard. "Okay, shoot."

I dictated from memory, mostly, but stopped occasionally to review the transcript I had ordered from an AI company that did transcripts in seconds and emailed the transcript back to me. After a lifetime in the news business, the slowest part of putting together a straight-forward news story like this one was the time I spent typing. Jenkins occasionally would add a word or two or reformulate a sentence and read it back to me, making the process easier and the product better. He was a son of a bitch, but he was a good journalist.

"Okay, I think that's it. Can you have someone rustle up a few graphs of background on Cameron and on the book?"

"Already done. This thing will be online in 10 minutes, in print in an hour. We've already moved a national news alert."

"Okay, thanks John. I feel a little awkward reporting a story about fallout from my book, but I don't know what choice there is."

"Hey, ideally, we'd have someone else doing this, but he didn't call someone else, he called you. Don't give it another thought," Jenkins said. "Listen, interrupt my night anytime with a story like this one. The Times is left sucking wind. Great story Bradley."

Then he was gone. What was it about tonight that people kept hanging up on me?

Sydney put her arms around my neck and kissed me.

"Woman of your dreams?"

"Yeah... The President is all gruff and grouchy on the outside, but on the inside he's a total romantic."

"Romantic, eh? Well, maybe I'll vote for him. But probably not, just saying."

I laughed. "Well, reserve judgment until you meet his wife. I'd vote for her in a heartbeat."

"Really?"

"Yeah, I've only had a couple of conversations with her, but I was very impressed. There's no doubt she's been a great asset. And by all signs, he really loves her."

Sydney took my now empty plate from my hand and took it to the kitchen, and when she returned, she took my phone from my hand and put it on the dresser in her bedroom.

"Do you need a charger?"

"I have one in my hotel room."

"Yes, but you're sleeping here."

With that she slipped her robe off her shoulders and put a knee on each side of my thighs and sat on my lap facing me.

"I've done two things -- no three things -- tonight that I've never done before."

"Really? I can think of one," she said as she stroked my now rock hard cock. "What are the other two?"

"Well, let's see. I talked to the President while naked, that's definitely a first."

"Mmmm" she said, as she kissed me. "And what's the other?"

"I put my love life ahead of my job."

"You mean putting him off until Sunday?"

"Yeah."

"Well, that's a good start. Let me give you a reward." She slid off my lap and onto the floor and took me into her mouth.

Ch. 3

Upstate New York, September, 1986

"Hey, I'm... er... I'm Steven Bradley. I'm here to work for The Pioneer."

A tall man with a full ginger beard at the desk looked at me over the top of his glasses. It wasn't until he spoke that I realized he was a student, too.

"Okay, Bradley. I'm Alan Roman. What do you want to do?"

"I want to work for the paper."

Roman shook his head like he was trying to explain something to a toddler, or some kind of village idiot. Then spoke to me slowly, like I wouldn't understand if he spoke at a regular pace.

"I know you want to work for the paper, that's why you're here. Now, what do you want to do for the paper?"

"Oh... I ... uh.. I want to write stories."

"Now we're getting somewhere. You ever write anything before?"

"Yes. I used to write stories for my hometown weekly."

"Okay, that's more than most people can say. You have any clips?"

"Clips?"

"Yeah, you know, of the stuff you've written."

"Oh... yeah I do."

I reached into the duffle bag I used for books and came up with a folder of clippings from my hometown paper. I handed it to Roman, who looked through them one by one, tossing the ones he'd read onto the table.

"Not bad, uhh... What's your name?"

"Steven Bradley."

"Okay, Bradley, not bad. Most of the assignments for this week have already gone out. But I've got another freshman here who's got an assignment and could probably use some help with it," Roman said, then turned toward the door and shouted.

"Thomas!"

In a few seconds this drop dead gorgeous black girl with an afro that nearly filled up the doorway stuck her head in the office.

"My name is Sydney."

"Yeah... Well, you're Thomas around here. I've got you some help with that story I gave you. This is Bradley. Bradley meet Thomas. He's going to help you write that story."

"I don't need any help."

"Well I don't know about that. This guy has written a few stories, which is more than you can say. I need that story by Friday and I can't take any chances."

"Hi, Sydney, I've Steven." I stuck my hand out. She looked at my hand for a second, like she was deciding whether she was going to catch something from it and finally reached over and shook it. Then she treated me to the first of many million-watt smiles. I admit I turned to jelly with that smile.

"Hi Steven. Nothing personal, I just don't need any help. But it is what it is. C'mon. Let's go get a cup of coffee."

She turned around and walked out of Roman's office and I got my first look at Sydney's amazing ass, in a pair of crazy tight blue jeans. At that point in my 17-year-old life, I would have followed her anywhere. I started after her in something of a daze.

"Bradley!" Roman yelled after me. "You want these clips back or you want me to round-file them?"

"Oh, uhh... yeah, I guess." I will admit to being distracted and just a little afraid that Sydney wouldn't wait for me. I stepped back into Roman's office and grabbed the file that was in Roman's outstretched hand. But Roman wasn't done with me.

"Listen, Bradley," he said with a somewhat conspiratorial tone, putting his hand on my shoulder and talking to me like an older brother. "I know she's hot, but cool it with the little puppy dog routine, you know? Hot chicks from the city want a confident guy. Now beat it."

I was just absorbing this advice when I look up to see Sydney waiting for me. I walked out to join her.

"Roman give you his advice about how to get into my pants?"

"Huh?"

She laughed. "He's always giving people unsolicited advice about their love life. Now, let's get that coffee."

I followed her, torn between Roman's advice and Syd's unaffected, no-bullshit take on things. I never did take my eyes off her ass.

In 1986 there was no such thing as a latte, at least not in upstate New York. There were two choices -- black or regular. Regular was cream and about three pounds of sugar. I asked for black. Sidney looked askance.

"Black coffee? What's the point?"

"The point is caffeine. Who needs all that sugar buzz?"

She laughed. "You're weird Bradley."

"I could say the same."

She looked back, over her shoulder at me and raised her eyebrows just a bit, then flashed me another of those million-watt smiles. "We might just get along, after all."

Syd and I sat in the coffee shop for an hour talking about the story, but then we started talking about our life stories.

"So I grew up in the Bronx," Syd told me.

"You don't sound like someone from the Bronx," I replied.

"My family is from Antigua. My mom and dad were born there. I guess I picked up a little bit of their Caribbean accent."

I smiled. "More than a little, I think. How did they get to New York?"

"My dad is a smart man. The only jobs on Antigua were serving tourists, and he didn't think he could do that for his whole life, so he arranged for them to come to New York. He went to Bernard Baruch College and studied accounting. He went to work as a bookkeeper for a shoe factory in the Bronx."

"What about your mom?"

"When he was in college, she worked at a hotel to support them. But once I was born, he insisted she stay home."

"Are you an only child?"

She nodded.

"They still live in the Bronx?"

"Yes, even though they don't need to." She sounded exasperated. "Our neighborhood is bad. They should move, but he won't hear of it. Says he not going to 'waste money' by moving to Queens. Like Queens is some kind of Beverly Hills or something. My mother won't even go out of the house. He is a stubborn man."

I laughed. "Aren't all fathers?"

She smiled. "So, your turn. Tell me about your life."

"I grew up in Watervliet, just a few miles up the river from Albany. Went to school there. I have one brother and one sister."

Syd could see that it was going to take some work to get my story out of me, so she warmed to the task.

"Sports?"

"Yeah, I tried football, but I was never any good. Too slow to be a receiver, too much of a lightweight to play the line. But I played baseball -- four years of varsity ball."

"What'd you play?"

"Shortstop mostly, when I wasn't pitching."

"Pitcher eh? Any good?"

"Not too bad. My coach said I had a lot of movement on my fastball."

"Wait ... you said you were too slow to play football. Don't you have to be fast to play shortstop?"

I shook my head. "Quick."

"Huh?"

"You need to be quick to be a shortstop. Not so much fast. Quick reactions. Quick move toward the ball. Quick to get a throw off to first off or a toss to second. Smart enough to know which one."

She nodded her head. "I never really played." She really didn't need to say that. Girls didn't play baseball in 1986. At least not in New York. She looked at me intensely.

"So you're not one of those Red Sox fans are you? A lot of them around here."

I laughed. "No ma'am. Yankees fan for life. My dad wouldn't have had it any other way."

She smiled. "Good answer."

"Roman said you've done some writing?"

"Yeah, for the little weekly in Watervliet. Sometimes I'd write something for other papers. Like the one in Latham. I even had one story published in the Schenectady Gazette."

"Wow..."

"Don't make fun of me."

"Steven, no, I'm not," she touched my hand, just for a moment. It was electric. "I wouldn't. I'm impressed. I've never had anything published, anywhere. Roman was right. You should be on this story."

"Okay, I'm sorry..."

"Don't be sorry," she said. "Now what about your mom and dad?"

"What about them?"

"Well, like, what do they do?"

"Oh, my mom's a librarian."

"And your dad?"

I was afraid this conversation would come to this. I looked at my coffee, trying to formulate an answer that wouldn't leave me in tears in front of this beauty I'd just met.

"Um... my...my dad died a few weeks ago." That last bit caught in my throat just a little. I learned in that moment that Sydney was the most naturally empathetic person I would ever meet.