Black President Read online

  Black President:

  The World Will Never Be the Same

  Brenda Hampton

  www.urbanbooks.net

  All copyrighted material within is Attributor Protected.

  Table of Contents

  Title Page

  Copyright Page

  1 - First Lady Raynetta Jefferson

  2 - President of the United States, Stephen C. Jefferson

  3 - First Lady Raynetta Jefferson

  4 - President of the United States, Stephen C. Jefferson

  5 - First Lady Raynetta Jefferson

  6 - President of the United States, Stephen C. Jefferson

  7 - Newsroom Contributor Chanel Hamilton

  8 - Vice President Tyler McNeil

  9 - First Lady Raynetta Jefferson

  10 - President of the United States, Stephen C. Jefferson

  11 - President of the United States, Stephen C. Jefferson

  12 - First Lady Raynetta Jefferson

  13 - Newsroom Contributor Chanel Hamilton

  14 - President of the United States, Stephen C. Jefferson

  15 - Vice President Tyler McNeil

  16 - President of the United States, Stephen C. Jefferson

  17 - President of the United States, Stephen C. Jefferson

  18 - Vice President Tyler McNeil

  19 - President of the United States, Stephen C. Jefferson

  20 - First Lady Raynetta Jefferson

  21 - President of the United States, Stephen C. Jefferson

  22 - President of the United States, Stephen C Jefferson

  23 - Real Estate Tycoon and Billionaire, Christopher J. McNeil

  24 - First Lady Raynetta Jefferson

  25 - President of the United States, Stephen C. Jefferson

  26 - President of the United States, Stephen C. Jefferson

  27 - First Lady Raynetta Jefferson

  28 - President of the United States, Stephen C. Jefferson

  29 - First Lady Raynetta Jefferson

  30 - President’s Mother, Teresa Jefferson

  Urban Books, LLC

  300 Farmingdale Road, NY-Route 109

  Farmingdale, NY 11735

  Black President: The World Will Never Be the Same

  Copyright © 2017 Brenda Hampton

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any means without prior consent of the Publisher, except brief quotes used in reviews.

  ISBN: 978-1-6228-6484-3

  This is a work of fiction. Any references or similarities to actual events, real people, living or dead, or to real locales are intended to give the novel a sense of reality. Any similarity in other names, characters, places, and incidents is entirely coincidental.

  Distributed by Kensington Publishing Corp.

  Submit Orders to:

  Customer Service

  400 Hahn Road

  Westminster, MD 21157-4627

  Phone: 1-800-733-3000

  Fax: 1-800-659-2436

  1

  First Lady Raynetta Jefferson

  There I was, Raynetta Marie Jefferson, sitting with my guests at the U.S. Capitol, waiting for my husband, the president of the United States, to arrive and deliver the State of the Union Address. To my right were three wounded soldiers and several activists from the Black Lives Matter movement, a movement that had become even more relevant over the years. To my left was a father who had recently lost his two-year-old daughter to gun violence, a gay couple who were still fighting for equal rights, and two former senators who wanted to hear how my husband intended to deal with global warming. All of these issues he would address, and we were only minutes away from his arrival.

  I sat in a peach linen suit with black, high-heeled shoes on. My eyes scanned the historic, impressive, and symbolic place where the U.S. Congress convened almost every day to create and execute our nation’s laws. The American flag hung high behind the wide, wooden podium, and the crowd consisted of numerous elite congressmen and women who probably considered today’s event a party. Smiles were plastered on plenty of faces, back pats and handshakes were freely given. Fakeness infused the air, and as the smiles and waves came my way, I reciprocated. Mean mugs were also on display, and a slight roll of my eyes was given to those who simply annoyed me. Many of the angry Republicans had voiced their disapproval and outrageous opinions about my husband and me to the media. On almost every news network, we were ripped to shreds. More so Stephen, but as the saying goes . . . when you hurt him, you hurt me. And by now, everyone knew an enormous amount of information about us—rightfully so, considering our new status.

  The first thing we were attacked for was my inability to conceive a child. The “people” wanted to know why. I’d heard it all from A to Z, and according to those who claimed to know me well, the reason I couldn’t have children was because I was a promiscuous black woman who had had four abortions that damaged me for life. Others claimed I had given up a child for adoption, and one congressman called me a belligerent, mentally ill cunt who had murdered my firstborn child. That was just the tip of the iceberg, and needless to say, politics had gotten real ugly. I wasn’t prepared for any of this, but I followed my husband’s lead. He wanted this, not me. He believed that he could somehow make a real difference in people’s lives, but the truth was, he had major problems of his own. Big problems that had us on the brink of divorce, plenty of times.

  Simply put, I was not a happy camper. I had valid issues with Stephen—issues that stemmed from adultery to his sharp, nasty tone toward me. My mother-in-law was another problem, and between the two of them, I wanted to pull my hair out. She was the only one who had a grip on her controlling son, and no doubt about it, he was a powerful force to be reckoned with. I wasn’t sure where things were headed between us now that he was leader of the free world. I suspected that things would take a turn for the worse, but I stayed because there were benefits and perks for being the FLOTUS. From the house, to the maids, the money, the attention . . . I had a lot to be thankful for. I still didn’t know if all of this would be worth it, but for now, I put on my game face and went with the flow.

  My eyes were fixed on my mother-in-law, Teresa, who sat several rows in front of me. I hated to be in the same room with her, and after our conversation earlier, she should’ve felt privileged to sit this close to me. We’d gotten into a heated argument about what she wanted me to wear tonight. In her opinion, peach wasn’t a suitable color for the first lady to wear. I needed to wear something dark. I couldn’t help but to sit there and revisit our prior conversation where, yet again, she tried to tell me what to do.

  “Peach doesn’t mesh well with light-skinned women,” she hissed. “And the last time you wore that suit it was too tight. Your hips are too curvy, and when you button your jacket, it squeezes your big breasts. You need to wear something that’ll hide your assets.”

  “I’m very proud of my assets, and I haven’t worn my peach suit in almost three years. To me, it looks fine, so I’m not quite sure where you’re going with this.”

  Teresa didn’t bite her tongue—neither did I. She took an opportunity to simplify things for me.

  “Pay attention and I’ll tell you where I’m going. You are now first lady of the United States, and you’re not going to embarrass my son. He has worked too darn hard for this, and the last thing he needs is for the media to weigh in on a tacky-ass suit that doesn’t fit his wife. I know you have something else better to wear. It would please, not only me, but him too, if you would wear something more suitable for this occasion.”

  “Really, Teresa? At this point, do you think I give a hoot about what the media thinks of me? No matter what I wear, they’re going to talk trash about me. And, quite frankly, if you don’t like my
suit, then you know what you can do.”

  “Watch how you speak to me or else . . . I’m warning you, and don’t you dare wear that suit. Put your hair in a neat bun or something, and don’t let those long strands dangle in your face. That style looks too ghetto, as does those thick lashes you wear sometimes. Wear the ones from MAC, if you must wear them at all. They look much better.”

  “I’m sure they will look better, and I’ll consider doing all that you say, if you will consider wearing a clown suit tonight. Trust me when I say it would be very fitting.”

  I heard a gasp, but decided to end our call on that note. Teresa was treated the exact way she treated me. I blamed her for many of the problems Stephen and I had. He didn’t know how to put her in her place, and even when he tried to, he always wound up feeling guilty about it. We all were at war with each other, and, now, he added everyone else’s problems to the mix. I wasn’t sure how he intended to pull this off, but plenty of his supporters trusted that he could. That was because they were on the outside looking in. They had no idea who Stephen really was, granted that he was a confident, intelligent, and well-prepared man. He presented himself that way, but many people didn’t know that he had become broken and very bitter behind the brutal election process. Never in his wildest dream could he have imagined the blatant disrespect by people who were determined to bring him down. He was hurt and confused by the hatred. Being referred to as a “nigger,” “monkey,” “dumb-ass politician” . . . Comments like that truly disturbed him and set him off. He did his best to conceal his anger and stay cool, calm, and collected. But a person could only take so much. I kept telling him to walk away and forget about this, but the naysayers and haters fueled him. He became more ambitious, more motivated, and was determined to win. The pressure was unbearable, but after being bloodied, bruised, disrespected, and counted out by the media, he won. I definitely had to give him credit for that, and what woman in her right mind wouldn’t want to be by the side of a winner?

  With disappointment trapped in her eyes, Teresa searched me from head to toe. She cracked a tiny smile, and when I turned my head, pivoting in another direction, I heard her whisper my nickname, “Ne-ne.” Referring to me by that name was inappropriate, so I ignored her.

  “Ne-ne,” she whispered again. I knew she was trying to annoy me, especially when she kept at it. “Ne-ne, Ne-ne, do me a favor. Give that young man behind you my business card.”

  The lady in front of me was nice enough to take the card from Teresa’s hand and pass it to me. I pretended as if I didn’t know what it was.

  “Your mother-in-law wants you to give her card to the person behind you,” she said.

  “Oh, okay. Thank you.”

  I took the card but continued to ignore Teresa. I didn’t bother to give the card to the gentleman behind me, and maybe next time Teresa would think before calling me Ne-ne in public.

  “By the way,” said the woman in front of me, “you look amazing tonight. Your makeup is always so flawless, and I would die for bouncy hair like yours. Every time I see you, you look so perfect. I told my husband that I don’t know how you do it, but you do it very well.”

  “I’ll just say that I have a lot of help. But thanks. You look nice too.”

  We laughed. I totally appreciated her compliments. It took a lot of hard work for me to look a certain way that was satisfying to me, even though I considered myself a very beautiful woman. I didn’t know what Teresa’s problem was, but instead of worrying about me, she should’ve been concerned about that wig she wore, slipping off her head. It had gray streaks in it and was cropped on the sides and back. A sway of bangs covered her forehead, and the silver accessories, along with the square-framed glasses she wore, made her appear to have a little class. The dark green suit, however, didn’t work. I couldn’t help but to laugh as I thought about her trying to tell me how to dress.

  For the next several minutes, I conversed with the numerous people in my row. They had issues that needed to be seriously addressed. Many were angry, and we all kept taking peeks at the individuals in attendance who constantly caused gridlock and refused to get anything major done. They had set the tone, and it had gotten to a point where this country was too divided. Things had gotten worse since our last black president, and I wasn’t sure if Stephen would be able to fix any of this mess. I certainly didn’t want to make his job more hectic, so, for now, I smiled for the cameras, supported his endeavors, and made the best of a more-than-sticky situation.

  The two-minute warning came, and it wasn’t long before everyone stood at the call of “Mr. Speaker, the President of the United States!”

  From a short distance, my husband, Stephen C. Jefferson, entered with the majority leaders of the House and Senate, and members of his new cabinet following closely behind. Loud applauses exploded, whistles blew, and nearly everyone was on their feet, with the exception of a few who pretended to be engrossed with cell phones. Overall, though, it appeared to be a joyous occasion as Stephen made his way down the aisle, shaking hands with new friends and foes. Many rushed to take pictures with him, especially women who had followed him on the campaign trail to here. I had a front-row seat to the thirstiness, but a part of me couldn’t blame women for being excited or maybe even obsessed with my husband. He was the full package; charming as ever when he wanted to be. Had already been named as one of the sexiest men alive, and that title alone caused his ego to skyrocket. His six-one frame was stacked with muscles that bulged through his tailored navy suit. Hazel eyes were like a magnet that instantly drew everyone in. His rich milk chocolate and smooth skin glowed, and his pearly whites were in full effect. Minimal facial hair suited his chin, and his high-fade haircut, with a polished finish on the sides, was trimmed to perfection. Looking at him work the crowd truly took my breath away. I only wished that things between us were as good as we pretended them to be. I regretted that our lives were in shambles, but I lived for today, not tomorrow. Today, I was proud. I held my head up high as the cameras panned the room, constantly stopping at me to monitor my reaction.

  I clapped my hands even when I looked at Teresa who seemed to be putting on quite a show. She rushed over to the edge to give Stephen a kiss on his cheek. The cameras flashed; she loved every bit of it. He kept it moving. Hadn’t looked my way once, but maybe I missed it. I had fixed my eyes on the congressman who had called me a belligerent, murdering cunt. Stephen told me not to trip, but I was so mad that day, I could have set that fool on fire. Some people didn’t understand how much negative words hurt. It was my responsibility to pretend as if they didn’t, but deep down, some of this crap cut like a sharpened knife. Stephen had no idea how bitter I was about being forced into this. If anything, I hoped that this was a turning point.

  Exhibiting much self-confidence, and what some may prefer to as swag, Stephen strutted toward the podium, flashing an abundance of smiles. He shook hands with the VP, Tyler McNeil, and then extended his hand to the Speaker Roy J. Robinson, who was an angry white man with deep wrinkles and numerous age spots on his face. It pained him to shake Stephen’s hand, and from all of the negative interviews Roy had done, Stephen knew he had to watch his back. Nonetheless, this was one of the highlights of his life. A little boy from the rough streets of St. Louis wasn’t supposed to be here. A fatherless child wasn’t supposed to excel like my husband had, and many people counted him out when he found himself hanging with the wrong crowd in college and got arrested. That incident was his wake-up call. He wanted more out of life and started doing things to improve himself, as well as his community. It wasn’t long before he ran for office in his district and won. And after five years in Congress, representing his loyal—and disloyal—constituents, he decided to make a move that shocked many. We had plenty of doubts about this day becoming a reality, and to say I was shocked by his many supporters would be an understatement.

  “Thank you!” Stephen shouted as he spoke into the mic. “A big thanks to you all for being here!”

  Appla
uses continued to erupt for at least two or three more minutes. Some had already taken their seats and many more had begun to. I was sure the cameras were on me, so I remained standing and looking in the direction of my husband. Finally, his eyes connected with mine, and he delivered a slow nod. Many eyes traveled to me, and then to Teresa who started waving her hands in the air.

  “Yes!” she shouted. “Thank you, Jesus, thank you!”

  I slightly pursed my lips, hoping that she would go somewhere and sit her ass down. She wanted the attention to be focused on her, but I was glad that things had shifted back to Stephen who had started to speak.

  “To all of America tuned in, Speaker Robinson, Vice President McNeil, and members of Congress, I want to thank each and every one of you for being here today as I provide specifics about the state of our union. I am encouraged by the American people, and I’m hopeful that our best days are before us. But first, we have some work to do. Work that will require us to eliminate our personal differences, put aside political posturing, and begin to work in a bipartisan fashion to handle serious business for the American people.

  “The last thing I wish to do is step on any toes around here, but the first thing I must do is ask for complete respect from all of you whom I intend to work vigorously with to get things done. There were many missed opportunities with past presidents, but now, we’re on, what I’d like to think of as, a new playing field. We must roll up our sleeves and do exactly what the American people have elected us to come here and do. And any member not completely on board with putting the concerns of the American people first, I ask now that you seek another profession or you will be forced out of the way by people who are seeking to take your places and come here to work.”

  Cheers erupted from the Democratic side, where many congressmen and women stood and applauded. On the other side sat Republicans with smug looks on their faces. Evil eyes were narrowed at Stephen, while others texted away on cell phones. It pained me to witness the blatant disrespect; Lord knows we had been here and seen this playbook before. But Stephen C. Jefferson was a different breed. He didn’t tolerate bullshit, didn’t often think before he spoke, and had gotten to a point where he didn’t care about being politically correct.