Mr. President: A Billionaire & Virgin Fake Fiancé Romance

by Alexis Angel

  And tying it all together and holding us in check is none other than Cheryl —Personal Assistant to the fucking stars. My fucking personal assistant.

  “What channels on the television spectrum are we targeting?” someone from Marketing asks Cheryl over the conference line.

  There’s a pause. I know Cheryl is prepared for this question. It’s not like someone tripped her up or anything.

  “We’re targeting prime time spots on all broadcast networks as well as contemporary movie channels that target the 18-44 demographic,” Cheryl says, reading off her list. I nod to myself. That sounds like a pretty good lineup.

  What?

  Oh come on, don’t look so fucking shocked. I’m sure prime time television has no fucking problem running ads for a virtual reality porn player. I mean, have you looked at what they put on television recently? Fuck, this shit is exactly what the audiences are waiting for.

  “We also have cross-promo licensing deals with all major fast food chains across the country as well as—” Cheryl would say more but all of a sudden my head jerks toward the door as it flings open.

  I immediately put the call on mute. Then I put it on hold. Whatever is about to fucking go down does not need to be interrupting this important fucking call that's going to make me billions of dollars.

  Jesus. I don’t know why I’m so fucking jumpy all of a sudden.

  I realize how silly I’m being when Brittney walks in.

  Instead of armed thugs being led by Simon Conners, it's the most beautiful girl in the fucking world walking in wearing a tight dark blue wraparound dress.

  I know what you’re wondering right now, and fuck you for wondering, but yes, my cock does twitch a little bit seeing the fabric of Brittney’s dress cling to her fucking perky and full breasts and the rest of her slender body.

  “Brittney?” I ask her. I mean, despite wanting to fuck her, I’m a bit surprised. She’s never surprised me at work like this before. “What’s going on, babe?” I ask.

  She takes several steps toward me, her face determined.

  “I need to withdraw from the project and end my association with Illicit Entertainment,” she says, as if she’s rehearsed this on the way over. “I need off the team.”

  If she had stood there and told me she was growing a third fucking tit I wouldn't have been more shocked than I am at that moment.

  I stand up, more because this moment is too important to be fucking sitting down.

  “What do you mean?” I manage to ask her, not even sure I heard her right.

  She shakes her head, and it looks like she might burst into tears at any point.

  “You heard me, Ethan,” she says to me. “I need off the IE team. I’m sorry, but I can't be involved any more.”

  I walk around the desk. This isn't a fucking employee problem anymore. This isn't a Human Resources case at this point.

  No.

  This is something wrong with my girlfriend.

  There, I don't care if she has trouble realizing that. Or doesn't want to admit it or whatever.

  I fucking love this woman, and right now there is something that's bothering her.

  “Babe, what the fuck is wrong?” I ask her and she’s about to answer when I realize she’s probably just going to say the same thing she has already. I stop her. “Wait,” I say and take a step toward her.

  She looks up at me and there's the briefest flash of hope in her eyes. As if there's some way that maybe I can sort this out for her.

  “I don't want to hear what the problem is if you can’t tell me, but know this babe,” I tell her and wrap my arms around her, bringing her close. “I will be with you no matter what the problem is. Hell, if you fucking killed someone I’ll be there with you to bury the fucking body.”

  Brittney trembles and I pull back from her so I can look her in the eyes.

  “Fuck the world, babe,” I tell her, my eyes piercing into her. “It’s you and me fucking forever,” I say with finality.

  Brittney stares at me for a long, long time. Her eyes widen as if she’s realizing something for the first time. She uses her hand to wipe away some tears before they can form.

  “Listen, I know you did fucking porn back in Los Angeles, but guess what? We’re a company that sells porn, so it’s fucking okay!” I exclaim and she laughs for a second. Bingo. I’m on the right track.

  “I know there was probably some other shit that you’re not telling me, but listen to me, okay?” I say, and Brittney nods as she looks at me.

  I take a deep breath. Fuck. Sure, I’ve told her I love her. But I’ve never put it in this way before like I’m about to do.

  “I really don't care what the fuck you did, are doing, or will do, as long as you let me be around you,” I tell her and she gasps.

  “I know I sound like a fucking pussy for saying that and don’t worry, you won't fucking walk all over me or something, but Brit, whatever it is, I’m always next to you because I fucking love you,” I finish.

  Another fucking long pregnant pause.

  She takes a step over and gets on her tiptoes. Her mouth comes to mine and she kisses me.

  Long and fucking hard.

  The kind that sends blood to your cock.

  When she pulls back, she’s smiling.

  “I love you too, you big romantic bear, you,” she says with a smirk and twinkling eyes.

  Fuck. She’s back.

  “So no more talk of leaving?” I ask her, trying to hide my smile.

  “Uh-uh,” she says shaking her head.

  “Good,” I tell her, turning away, trying to not look like a fool. “Then scram. I got work to do.”

  Brittney kisses me one last time and turns around to walk away. I go to my desk and unmute the call.

  But the line is silent. I wonder if they’re already done? They can’t be. The call was supposed to be for another half hour at least.

  “If you’re wondering what happened to the call, I told everyone we’d reconvene when we never heard you answer any of our questions,” Cheryl says from the door to my office.

  I turn around. She’s standing there holding her tablet and looking at me.

  “When you didn’t answer even me, I decided you had probably jumped off without telling me,” she says as she walks in, her eyes looking around. “Which is a very odd thing to do, even for you, considering the importance of what we’re planning here Ethan,” she finishes with.

  She’s looking at me closely and I know what's fucking coming.

  “I got caught up, Cheryl…” I start to say but she fucking cuts me off.

  “Yes, I saw her heading to the elevator when I started coming this way. She looked happy,” Cheryl says and raises her eyebrows at me. “Quite different from the way she looked from my office when she came up.”

  “She wanted off the project,” I tell Cheryl, not knowing why I’m fucking explaining myself to her. “But I talked her into staying.”

  “I see,” Cheryl says with a deep breath as if smelling the room. “I’m glad you didn’t sleep with her to make the point.”

  “Are you smelling for fucking sex smells, Cheryl?” I ask, not sure where this conversation is headed. “Is that in your bag of tricks nowadays too?”

  “I’m sighing, Ethan,” Cheryl says rolling her eyes and walking to the window. “Because I don’t think you realize what you’re falling into here.”

  “What?” I ask, walking to the window too. “You still think she’s the one who's going to steal the prototype for Simon?”

  “No, Ethan,” Cheryl says turning to me. “It doesn't matter if she’s the one who's stealing the prototype, but at least you need to be honest with her.”

  I pause. That stops me short.

  “You need to tell her the truth about what you’re doing,” Cheryl says to me. “Because you’re in love with that girl, and regardless of what she’s up to, she’s in love with you.”

  I still have nothing to fucking say. It’s not like I have the high ground
anymore.

  “And if you really love her, the least you can do is be honest about yourself and what you’re doing. At least to her,” Cheryl finishes.

  I’m silent as she looks at me for another second.

  “I’ll be with Marketing if you need me,” she says by way of goodbye.

  I stand there for a long minute as Cheryl leaves.

  I mean, just answer me one fucking question, if you will, and don’t skip to the end, okay?

  Since when did porn get to become so fucking complicated?

  155

  Brittney

  Two weeks left to go until the go-live for Ethan’s prototype that will revolutionize pornography for the human race.

  Yeah, sounds a bit over the top, doesn’t it, hun?

  In fact, this entire situation seems like something you only find in a movie or the mind of a very mischievous romance novelist.

  I mean, look at me? A porn star?

  Sure, I used to be famous, if famous is the word. I mean, I used to be on DVD covers and on the Internet. My face used to be plastered on porn sites. Click on me and you’d see me sucking cock. Licking another girl’s pussy. Having a cock pounded into me.

  Yeah, I like sex. I liked the role playing I used to do. Pretending to be the stepmom and getting paid for it. Dressing up as the stepdaughter and moaning ‘Daddy’ and calling that work. Driving my Mercedes. Having fancy clothes. Jewelry.

  I liked sex. I still like sex.

  And now, I have 24 hours. 24 hours to steal the one device that could make me a star again. 24 hours to take from the man I love his greatest accomplishment and give it to his sworn enemy.

  Or else, the dark shadow from my past comes back to haunt me.

  Right, I keep hinting at Robert, the ex-boyfriend, but you actually have no idea completely what I’m talking about yet, do you?

  I know I kept telling you that I’d fill you in but I never have.

  I’m sorry about that, hun. I really want to, because you deserve to know, since you’re the reader and all.

  It’s just that it’s been so difficult to bring him up. I mean, I want to completely put that part of my life in a box and forget about it.

  But, I guess if I can’t tell you, who can I tell?

  Well, yeah I know, don’t roll your eyes. I could probably tell Ethan too.

  I probably will need to, come to think about it. Because one way or another, I think I’m fucked.

  So, let’s see …

  What Simon is threatening to do to me is basically tell Robert McIntyre, my ex-boyfriend, who lives in Los Angeles, California where I’m currently at.

  Robert McIntyre was the man I dated when I did porn back in the day. He was the ‘modeling agent’ who found me when I was working in an elementary school. He gave me his card and wined and dined me. He fucked me first and then slowly got me used to the idea of porn. First he had me do modeling shots that were sexier and racier. It started with bikinis and underwear. You know, the kind of stuff on Macy’s ads that you see in the newspaper.

  Then it became a bit edgier. Topless shoots. Showing my tits.

  Then he began getting money for those selling them to magazines. Soon, it was with a guy. And then we were both naked in the pictures. And then soon, we were fucking.

  I saw the fancy cars, the clothes, the expensive watches, and the glamor and I fell for it.

  I always did modeling on the side even while holding my day job, but eventually you know, you can’t do porn and teach elementary school kids at the same time.

  So I quit my job when he convinced me to.

  I mean, he wasn’t the cutest guy. But he was all I knew. I hadn’t dated very much till then and I had no idea what to expect from a man in a lot of ways. I wasn’t that experienced in sex like I am now.

  But he wasn't the…nicest of men either, hun. He was mean at times.

  By mean, I mean he had a temper.

  There were plenty of times I applied makeup to cover up something that he did.

  Plenty of times that I made excuses for a blemish or a bruise.

  He always apologized afterwards, but I couldn't get out. Because any mention of me leaving that relationship would just drive him to get even more upset.

  A part of me was scared, for sure. While he never hit me that hard or punched me or threw me down the stairs or anything, the anger and violence was there in his eyes. Plenty of times he punched a hole in the wall or broke something. He once ripped a pair of my panties in anger when I didn’t want to have sex. I don’t want to talk about how I maced him in the eyes immediately afterwards.

  Macing him was actually at that stage where I was fighting back. But for over two years I took it.

  But who knows, I probably would have stayed in that relationship fighting back longer if I had to, if I hadn't found out he was basically living a double life.

  I only found out one day because I found two cell phones in his pocket. I had no idea he had two phones and when I asked him he was evasive.

  Something about the whole situation put my mind on edge and two days later, I followed him when he left the house on what he told me was a business trip.

  I tailed him all the way from the Hollywood Hills where I was living with him to Malibu. He stopped at a house. He had the keys to the place and spent the entire day and night there. I know, because I watched him from my car.

  As I sat there, I researched the address on my phone. And I found out so much about Robert McIntyre that I had never known before.

  Turns out he was married. Wife and one kid.

  He apparently also had another job at KPMG as an accountant. He was representing me and sending me to do porn to fund what I don't know, but whatever it was, my fees were paying for a double life for him.

  I hadn’t put up with a man that had a 5-inch cock for this. I didn't put up with a man with violent tendencies that occasionally slapped me when he got angry for this. Fuck, I didn't put up with a man that pimped me out at porn sets for this.

  I could have been a real model. I could have done so much.

  I rang the doorbell that night and she answered. I can’t even remember her name but I remember her eyes widened when she saw me.

  “You have to leave!” she whispered to me.

  “Are you his wife?” I asked. She nodded to me and closed the door.

  “You don’t want to confront him, babe,” she told me. “You need to go now!”

  But I couldn't just go. I couldn’t just leave her there if she was afraid.

  But she shook her head.

  “I’ve been married to him since high school,” she told me. “And I know who you are. I know all of his women. He doesn't care to hide them anymore from me. He thinks he has me beaten down.”

  If you want to think that I’m sort of slut or sub-human then you’re welcome to hun, but this woman was living with a true sub-human. His wife told me he had half a dozen girls working in porn at any given time. He’d use them until their shelf life expired. Then he’d move on.

  “You need to leave and pretend you never came here!” his wife told me.

  She went on to tell me that I wasn’t the first person to have discovered her house. There had been one other, a year ago. She had come knocking and had stormed the house during the day.

  Robert had slapped her around a couple times, and then dragged her to his car.

  When he came back, he hadn’t talked about her and pretended the whole thing had never happened.

  “She never acted in porn after that. Just dropped off the face of the earth,” his wife told me. “I think he may have killed her, but I can’t go tell anyone because I have no proof.”

  I still wanted to confront him. I could handle my own.

  “Then he’ll kill me, so his secret never comes out,” she said.

  And I saw desperation in her voice.

  “I can take care of myself and my boy if you just leave,” she pleaded to me. “If you pretend that you never saw me. That you know nothing
of this house.”

  The look in her eyes I think is what convinced me to listen to her, you know?

  I remember getting in the car and driving off.

  But I didn’t go back home. I just kept driving. Left Los Angeles. Ended up in Vegas that night where I emptied our bank accounts the next morning, and moved all the money into a separate, new account.

  I found a guy who changed my last name from White to Roman and made me an entirely new social security number and even gave me a 720 credit score.

  Then I drove off.

  I kept driving until I reached New York.

  It was as far away from Robert as I could go.

  And I started Man Chasers LLC. I don't know why I went out hunting for cheaters. Why the sole purpose of my job was to bring misery to men.

  But it felt good. It felt damn good.

  And now, either I go on the run again, or I sacrifice everything and everyone I’ve come to love to stay standing.

  But I can’t just think about me.

  I need to think about my baby. His baby.

  No, it doesn’t sound right, does it?

  I need to think about our baby.

  And as soon as that comes into the picture, I know exactly what I need to do.

  I know exactly why I can’t keep running anymore.

  No.

  It’s time to fight back. It’s time to show just how strong I can be.

  The whole Brittney that runs away and is too weak—I left her in Los Angeles. The Brittney in New York City? She’s a bad fucking bitch.

  But before I do anything, I need to tell Ethan.

  The truth.

  For real this time.

  156

  Ethan

  “Ethan?” There’s a knock on the door, and then Brittney steps inside my office. She wasn’t supposed to be around this soon, and the expression on her face tells me that something’s up. And I have a feeling that I won’t fucking like that something.

  “Hey, you okay?” I ask her, getting up from my chair and going around the desk. I place my hands on her hips and pull her into me, brushing my lips against hers. She kisses me back, but her whole body is tense. “What’s going on, babe?”