Chapter 2
Dad yelled up the stairs for me to get up and I rolled out of bed to struggle and wake up. Even nine hours of uninterrupted sleep hadn’t been enough, I was still logy, confused and grumpy. Padding into the bathroom, I turned on the lights and winced as it speared my eyes to the back of my brain. Squinting in the glare, I stared into the mirror seeing myself in disgust. My hair stuck up in blonde and brown spikes like the cat had clawed through it. Lines pebbled my skin where the sheets had wrinkled the flesh, one brown eye drooped and the blue one was bloodshot, full of crusted gunk. My mouth tasted like I’d died after a raw fish eating contest and my dark brown eyebrows were scrunched close to my eyes. I looked like I’d been dragged behind a street sweeper and smelled worse than my gym bag after a week of being forgotten in my locker.
Twenty minutes later, I could claim to look like a new man outside, even if the inside was still half asleep. At least my hair was combed, gelled down and tamed, my teeth brushed and my contacts in. It was a brown day, both blurry brown eyes looked back at me from my mirror.
I decided on black jeans, long sleeved tee and a Big Dog navy blue zip up hoodie, socks and soft leather laced up climbing boots. I was fanatical about my shoes, I never wore sneakers or hiking boots, steel toed or Kmart brand. My shoes were all custom-made, top-of-the-line and mail-order. It drove my Dad crazy, but I paid for them out of my earnings and he never questioned where the money came from. Of course, he never saw the bills, either. So he didn’t know to ask about the thousand dollar price tag or the designer names. Besides, they were my feet, I liked to be comfortable and there was nothing worse than sore feet.
“Danny, are you up?” Dad yelled up the stairs and I could see him standing at the bottom shading his eyes as the sun blasted through the skylight from the second story Cathedral ceiling.
“Coming, Dad,” I called back and slowly stamped down the steps as he retreated to the breakfast nook. On weekends, my Dad cooked for me, eschewing the services of the live-in housekeeper to preserve, he said, both independence and a semblance of family normalcy.
I slipped into the nook, hoisted myself onto the kitchen stool, sliding under the counter table to poke at the plate covered with pancakes and bacon. Blueberry pancakes, maple bacon and real Vermont Maple syrup. “Wow,” I murmured. “What are we celebrating?” More calories here than he’d eaten all week.
“Your last stock tip netted me a forty K profit,” he grinned.
I took a big bite, and swallowed in surprise. These were good. “Dad, Yum.” I looked at him. 6’6”, 240 pounds and all in the right places. My Dad needed a diet like I needed a pierced eyebrow. Hey, that sounded cool. I stroked my right eyebrow, the one above my blue-eye.
“No,” he waved the spatula at me. “No eyebrow piercings.”
Disgruntled, I stared. “No, I’m not reading your mind. You just do that whenever you think about piercings or look at piercings.”
Good. For a minute there, I thought he was reading my mind.
“Finish your breakfast, and we’ll get going,” he ordered and I inhaled my food in minutes, while he watched in amazement. “You eat like a Marine on a three-day bender at a hot dog eating contest,” he sighed. “All right, let me do the dishes and we’ll leave.”
It was the first three-day weekend we’d had together since my Mom died and he’d promised me a trip to the National Space Museum before its grand opening. Being Senator Michael Patrick De Rosier and a former astronaut space hero, he got to be the one doing the ribbon-cutting and getting the pre-opening tour. With me.
His car was waiting out front. His car, not the official black SUV the size of a house or chauffeur driven limousine. No sign of any bodyguards either, just the gray four-door Kia SUV with extra headroom for Dad’s height. He might be a rich guy, but he didn’t flaunt it. Our house was a 3000 square ft. two-story in Chevy Chase, I went to public school and rode the bus. Dad drove a Kia to work, and most days, he was in his Senate office or on the floor. Not hiding in some fancy restaurant or hobnobbing with Washington lobbyists and millionaires.
I got in and buckled up. “How did you get away from Eastwood and Damon?” I was referring to his Secret Service guys.
“They’re meeting us on the highway. I tried to get them to meet us at the museum, but no go. What with the Olympics and all, security is extra tight.” He checked to make sure my belt was tightened before he drove off.
At the bottom of the small hill and past four other houses, he turned left, his eyes never still watching everything. We both did. Both of us were paranoid, some idiot drunk driver in a minivan had T-boned my Mom and killed her. I was still dealing with it even after nearly a year.
“You invite Felice to the opening?” He asked casually, as we meandered through the neighborhood for fifteen minutes before we hit the highway and I spent the next forty-five trying to spot the Secret Service dudes. Dad asked me again sometime later about Felice.
“Uh, yeah,” I answered, searching the parking lot for her escort. She came in a limo with her agents’ right on her heels. Looked really nice in a skintight pair of cream-colored jeans, shocking lime green blouse and a hand knit Aran sweater. Kick ass boots with heels that made her almost tall enough to reach my chin. She bounced over to the car and pulled the door opened before I could get my seat-belt unhooked.
Felice Rickover leaned in and her long, dark air tickled my face as she smiled at me with those big, incredibly green eyes. “Hey, Downtown. Miss me?” She kissed me on the lips and Dad made hooting sounds from the front seat.
“That’s one way to get my vote, Lisi,” Dad grinned.
“Hah,” she retorted, pulling me out. “As if I’d vote for a Democrat.”
Dad slithered out, “you’re not old enough to vote. Besides, I plan on bribing you away from your Dad.”
The two agents met up with Dad and escorted us into the brand-new state-of-the-art National Space and Air Museum. Built of concrete and glass, it was designed by I. M. Pei and as cool outside, as in. Had everything from the Wright Brothers original plane to the last shuttle that retired. There weren’t any reporters around waiting for the grand opening, which was tomorrow and with the ribbon-cutting ceremony. Today, the Director named Mark Hansen was going to give me, Dad and Felice a guided tour. He greeted Dad with a handshake and Felice and I with a smile and nod.
“Mister De Rosier, Ms. Rickover, shall we enter?”
Oh yeah. Did I forget to mention my girlfriend was the President’s daughter?