FIRST EXTRACT: Hunter Biden's Baby Mama’s Bombshell Memoir on the President's Son — 'He Might Be Smoking Crack Cocaine... But he is Not a Crackhead'

First Hit of Hunter

Every woman has that man she wants to save; for me it was Hunter Biden.

My friends joke that I’m sort of dead inside. I wouldn’t totally agree. I have feelings, and when I love, I love hard. But I’m awkward in the way I show it. Avoiding feelings is my go-to. But one feeling that’s impossible for me to ignore is empathy. Remember when the Grinch’s heart grew three sizes? That’s me when I see suffering. I transform from awkwardly dead inside, into someone who can’t keep the concern stuffed inside. On cold days in the city, I’ve purchased more blankets at CVS to give to people on the streets than I keep in my own home. I’ve always believed that if you do enough good, good will come back to you.

So tonight I’m handing out a couple of hot dogs and socializing with friends while I drink my Gatorade—trying to rid myself of the lingering vodka tonic breath. My Uber is four minutes away. My phone buzzes. It’s my friend Kelsey. She’s been invited to a small after-party, and hopes I’ll be her wingman. I am anything but tired, and she knows which 7-Eleven to come to. I cancel my Uber.

D.C. is insane. Connections, parties, powerful people, lots of drinking, drugs, did I mention partying? It’s nothing like my upbringing, and one could get lost in the sauce. I am marinating in the sauce.

As I slide into Kelsey’s dark gray Chevy Malibu, I quiz her with the usual questions. “Where are we going? Who are these people? Is this a good idea?” The answer to the last question is always a no, but we laugh, because no matter how bad our ideas are, we manage to somehow survive them. All I get is that we’re going to some embassy penthouse on the waterfront, and some guy with the last name Biden who’s apparently kind of important will be there.

A few minutes later we park our car off K Street and walk to a simple, cubical building of glass, lit up elegantly at night, and sitting on a deep green lawn that separates it from the waterfront. Large sculpted letters peek out at me from behind enormous plate glass windows, spelling out the words HOUSE OF SWEDEN.

Kelsey pulls me to a dim parking lot on the side of the building where we get a key fob out of the glove box of an unlocked black Chevrolet truck with the entire side dented in. Things are getting pretty sketchy.

“Hold the door,” she whispers as I stand in the light of the security camera on the back side of the building, and she zips the fob back to the truck and closes the door. And we’re in. We have just officially invaded Sweden.

We walk up the long staircase to the penthouse, because apparently we’re supposed to avoid the elevator, and I’m thankful that the vodka tonics are still keeping my anxiety from skyrocketing as I wonder what we’ve gotten ourselves into. Finally, we hit the landing on the fifth floor. I catch my breath, straighten my dress, and we make our entrance.

It’s definitely more of a grown-up after-party, not the loud, college parties I’ve been to so recently. It’s more mellow, with quiet music in the background. Familiar music. Could it be my home state native, Johnny Cash? I like this place, and someone here has great taste.

A large glass room with a long conference table is wrapped by a balcony and the most beautiful views of the city I’ve seen thus far. A yellow velour couch under the bar separates the conference room from the kitchen, with a sign above reading “Rosemont Seneca.” Noted. Thank God for iPhones. I google the name and find we are at some high-end management firm. Consider us marked safe.

I wander down the hall looking for the bathroom. Maybe five people are inside the apartment, counting me. They’re low key, sitting on the couch, having a drink, doing a few casual drugs. No big deal. It’s D.C. I pass an office that somebody nearby says belongs to John Kerry’s son. In the bathroom at the end of the hallway, the heated towel rack has my full attention until something else catches my eye. Across the hall is a half-open doorway leading to a smaller back office that is less inviting, lit solely by a desk lamp.

“F---,” I hear from the other side of the doorway.

I creep in, pushing the door open a little further to see a man sitting in an office chair leaning over a small desk, meticulously organizing a series of small glass tubes and copper strands. He looks determined. He isn’t wearing after-party clothes like everyone else; instead he’s sitting there in brightly colored boxer briefs with parrots all over them. I’m intrigued. He turns in his chair and catches me in his stare, his gaze intense with furrowed brows and the most beautiful blue-gray eyes I have ever seen. Then a quick and genuine, “Hey.”

I introduce myself, and his eyes never leave me. He sets down a smoky glass tube, slowly stands from his chair and greets me with a hug. I’m shocked. I wasn’t aware city men even knew how to hug. I thought that was a southern thing.

When I get a closer look, I’m even more shocked by the paraphernalia on the desk. I try to act like I’m not fazed, but my eyes keep bouncing back down to stare at it without my control. His name is still ringing in my ears, “Hunter Biden.” So this is the guy of some importance everyone seems to know. He acts so . . . humble.

I sink into an expensive leather chair with bronze nail head details, and he wants to know where I’m from, why I am in D.C., why did I want a degree in CSI, what my family is like, what my plans are. When he finds out I am an Arkansas native, he goes to a bookshelf in the front room and comes back with a signed picture of Johnny Cash, addressed to him. So he’s the one with the good taste in music. I never would have thought it. If he isn’t asking me questions, he’s making witty comments about my answers, mocking my southern accent which has a way of making us both laugh out loud, or just nodding as if he knows something about what I’m talking about but would rather listen to me than have to talk about himself. He definitely does not want the spotlight on him, and this draws me in even more.

In the first five minutes he has learned my entire life story, and the only thing I know about him is that he is suffering. I can tell he’s brilliant, and he has a demon on his back. Other people pop into the bathroom for a quick fix, but Hunter’s demons keep him in this dark back room so they can have him any time. I feel his pain.

I look down at the fancy chair I’m sitting in and see a small plaque label on the arm reading “Senator Barack Obama 2005–2008.” This is typical D.C., even the furniture brags about its connections.

“Umm is this President Obama’s seat,” I say with slow realization.

“Uh, yeah, that’s his chair from the time he served in the U.S. Senate,” he says, as if it’s no big deal.

The wheels are turning in my head. “Wait, so you have Obama’s senate chair, and your last name is Biden.” Boom. “Are you kin to Joe Biden... like Vice President Joe Biden?” I’m looking now to see what his face can tell me. It’s a slow grin, a proud acknowledgment that I could tell he had made more than a few times before. “Yes, he’s my dad.”

I’m sitting in our former president’s senate seat and looking into the eyes of our former vice president’s son while he organizes and uses things I would never expect him to partake in.

With everything Hunter is using that night, it would be easy to think of him as your usual junkie. But he’s not. He might be smoking crack cocaine and drinking vodka straight from a gallon Tito’s bottle right in front of me, but he is not a crackhead. He is well-composed and intelligent; he listens when I speak. In my first twenty minutes with Hunter Biden, I know he is the most charming human I’ve ever met, even in his parrot boxer briefs. He is one of the only genuine people I’ve met since moving to the big city. He is someone I want to get to know better.