Page 69 of Longing for Liberty
“That’s enough,” Amos said, just as the cork popped and the girls squealed. Amos topped off his glass and walked me out. The other three women twirled and danced behind us.
As we neared the eagle statue, a new song began to play. “Wake Me Up Before You Go-Go” by Wham! I would have never imagined that, in a land where secular music was banned, the president was playing 1980s music like my mom used to play in the kitchen when I was a kid. Hearing it made me emotional. I missed music. Creativity. Self-expression.
We walked up on the group, and I now saw what they were doing surrounding the eagle statue. Vice President Walinger was tipping up his black cowboy hat to snort a line of coke off the eagle’s outstretched wing.
Wow.
I had no words.
He handed the rolled-up American bill to a woman beside him with winged back hair on the sides.
“Heyyy,” Walinger said to Amos, clacking his way over in heavy boots and sticking out his hand for Amos to shake. “Don’t suppose you want a hit? I kept a Benjamin for old time’s sake.” The Vice President’s eyes were wild and dark, his pupils dilated.
“No, thank you.”
Walinger chuckled and slapped Amos’s bicep before eyeing my body, then my hair, then back at Amos.
“Sam said you got yourself a piece of ass. ‘Bout time.” Walinger didn’t look me in the eye or address me in any way. A filthy sensation spread over me.
“You always have a way with words,” Amos said.
Walinger slapped his arm again. “Wanna make the people feel seen? Use their lingo.” He shot Amos with a finger gun, and I’d never seen the Secretary look more annoyed. Walinger let out a scratchy bark of a laugh, slugging him again before trotting back over to the laughing women.
“Phoebe.” Amos called his sister over. When she stood before him, he said in a low voice, “Go home to your husband.”
“But…” Her eyebrows came together as she looked over at the others. “Sammy invited me. If Sam says it’s okay, John can’t punish me.”
“Go.Now. And don’t say goodbye.” He reached out and took her drink.
Her lips pursed in a pout, and I thought she was about to throw a fit, but she turned on her shiny little heels and stomped away. Amos set her drink on a table.
My brain felt like that meme of the man with insane math equations on a loop behind him. Firstborn. Of the first wife.
Roan snorted a long line and threw his head back, yelling, “Woo!” The girls and young men around him cheered. I studied the guys for a moment—five of them, probably ranging from seventeen or eighteen to twenty. I sipped my wine and leaned against Amos as Roan and Walinger taught the boys how to take a bump. It felt so wrong. The urge to puke rose up again.
“Have you ever done it?” Amos asked me under his breath. We were far enough away that the group couldn’t hear.
“No,” I admitted.
“Neither have I. Do you want to try?”
“No,” I said quickly.
He squeezed my hand. “Good.”
Whitney Houston began playing overhead like a fever dream.
When everyone was sufficiently high, Roan opened his arms and said, “Let’s all sit! I have an important topic to discuss.”
Amos muttered something, but we headed toward the massive couches, sitting in a U formation.
Roan and Walinger sat on the same couch with girls interspersed around them. Amos was on the end of ours, and the other girls sat beside me. The five young men crowded onto a single couch, which I thought was funny. Amos let go of my hand to put an arm around my shoulder. I melded into his side, my legs crossed, one hand on his thigh, the other holding my wine.
The president scooted to the end of the couch to address the room, his eyes glazed with a sort of maniacal glee, and the women at his side watched him with adoration. He turned to Walinger and Amos.
“I asked the primary academy to send me its top five men to work under us as our protégés.” He gestured to the boys, some of whom shifted awkwardly. “Meet the men who will likely take our places one day, boys. They’re all of our bloodlines.” Roan introduced each of them, and though I should have been taking in their names, I was so overwhelmed that the information didn’t stick. Maybe it was the barrage of music in my ears. Or the strong glass of wine that I just finished, probably too quickly. But I couldn’t believe this was happening.
I listened to the boys introduce themselves, one of them making jerking movements, I assumed from the coke. One of them rubbing his sweaty palms down the thighs of his pants. One of them letting out bursts of laughter and then looking surprised like he hadn’t meant to. These were just kids meeting their heroes, being introduced to drugs, and having the weight of the world put on them. I wanted to smack Roan and pull each of these boys out, returning them to their moms at once. Although their moms were OM, too.
