I didn't wake up to the sound of freedom.
I woke up to the sound of my Secret Service detail politely knocking on the bedroom door, reminding me that I was, in fact...
The President of the United States and not some hungover frat boy who accidentally wandered into the White House.
Except I kind of am.
The woman sprawled across my bed—hair like spilled gold, wearing nothing but my tie—definitely wasn't my wife. She was, however, a senator's wife. Technically.
I could tell by the congressional ID still sticking out of her purse, wedged somewhere between a packet of breath mints and a bottle of "emergency" Plan B.
Yeah. Another day in the Oval Office.
I push myself upright, the presidential seal on the headboard mocking me with its self-importance.
My name's Colton Rockwell—35 years old, youngest President in American history, and the reason C-SPAN has to blur more asses than MTV Spring Break circa 2005.
People keep asking me how I got here.
Here's the truth: I didn't "serve the people." I served myself, with a heaping side of ambition and a fat middle finger to the political establishment.
You think I got elected because I was the "people's choice"? Nah. I got elected because I was the loudest, the smartest, and the only one willing to say exactly what everyone else was too scared to. Also, because I looked damn good doing it.
America didn't want a politician.
America wanted a winner.
And who better than me?