Prime Minister (Frisky Beavers #1)

by Ainsley Booth

  Gavin smirking down at his sex partner holding the camera, that smirk that’s mine, and mouthing the words, “you like that, bad girl?”

  I know those words. Not exactly the same, not in that order, but the sentiment. I know the shape of his mouth, how it changes when he’s turned on.

  Of course, my brain is now stuttering on that loop—smirk, bad girl, smirk, bad girl—even as I turn away from staring at the oversized screen.

  Does anyone nearby recognize me? Oh, God, I need to hide. I yank on my sunglasses and duck my head, spinning in a circle again. Where the hell can I hide?

  I need to get on an airplane in an hour.

  How much room do I have on my credit card? I do some mental calculations and speed walk down the main departures hall. Soon I see another list of gates, and mine is up ahead. I’m moving on pure freak-out adrenaline right now, and I’m not sure what I’m about to say makes any sense, but I march right up to the airline staff person at the desk and thump my purse on the counter.

  “Is there any room in business class?” I say, my voice only shaking a little bit. “First class?”

  Embarrassed girlfriend class? Is that a thing? I’ll hand over all the pennies in my bank account if that’s a thing.

  “I’m sorry, this flight is—” She pauses when I push up my sunglasses. Then she glances at the passport I’m shoving under her nose. “Ms. Montague. I’ll see what I can do.”

  God. The sympathy in her voice makes me want to vomit. Was I the last person in the country to see my boyfriend’s X-rated film debut?

  “Thank you,” I bite out, because I’m still thinking about appearances.

  Fuck appearances.

  I stand there, refusing to turn around and make eye contact with anyone in the lounge, and she clicks away on her keyboard.

  Click.

  Click click. “Hmm.” Click. “You don’t have any checked luggage?”

  “No.”

  Click.

  The whole time I’m dying inside. The white clammy feeling has morphed to red hot rage. It’s good that I’m about to get on a plane and into a bottle of whatever alcohol they have aboard, because if I were alone right now, I’d be on the phone to Gavin, saying things I know I’ll regret once the shock wears off.

  It turns out I don’t wear jealousy well.

  I’m not particularly proud of this discovery.

  My phone vibrates in my purse. Maybe it was doing that before and I didn’t notice. But now it’s not stopping. I don’t know if it’s a call or text messages, but there’s not a chance in hell I’m checking it right now.

  The only thing keeping me from being a sobbing mess on the floor is cold dissociation. Any mention of Gavin or the tape or whatever the hell is going on and that’s going to crumble hard.

  “Yes, we have a new seat for you, Ms. Montague. I’ll take your old boarding pass…” She slides it out from where I’d stuck it in my passport. “And here is your new boarding information. You can wait in the first class lounge over there.” She pauses. “There’s a private room in there if you need to make any phone calls.”

  Fan. Fucking. Tastic.

  I do my best ice queen impression as I glide across to the lounge, and I swear that chick messaged her friend, because a woman steps out and holds the door for me, and inside it’s quiet and I am, for all intents and purposes, alone.

  The tears are already falling.

  It’s old, I tell myself. He was much younger in it. I don’t know how much, but…that’s not my Gavin.

  He must be beside himself angry right now. Where is he? Is he surrounded by press? I need to call him.

  I tell myself to pull the phone out of my purse, but it stays where it is because I’m frozen like a statue.

  Press.

  I can’t get on a plane to Ottawa, because I can’t get off a plane in Ottawa. Not today.

  I turn around and move as fast as humanly possible down the concourse again. I push through the security doors and out into the front of the airport. Keep moving, I tell myself. Go, go, go.

  I hail a taxi.

  “Where are you going today, ma’am?” the cabbie asks as I shove my suitcase ahead of me into the backseat.

  That’s a really good question. “There’s a mall nearby, right?”

  “Yes, ma’am. Yorkdale.”

  “Yeah. Take me there.”

  I pull out my phone as he slides away from the curb. Missed calls from Sasha, my mother—God, no—, Gavin, Stew, the Parliament switchboard number—I assume that’s Beth—, and Lachlan.

  I try to text Sasha, but I keep deleting what I write out.

  She’s sent me three in the last hour, all short.

  S: Call me when you land in Toronto

  S: You okay?

  S: Let me know what you need

  I stare at them and try yet another attempt at a response. When I stop, bubbles start up on her side of the screen.

  S: I can see you typing

  S: Where are you?

  The cab stops in front of the mall and I pull out a twenty. “Keep the change,” I say as I leap out of the cab, my carryon suitcase landing heavily as I wrench it along.

  I head in through the main doors and turn into the first high-end clothing store I see.

  “I need a black blazer,” I tell the clerk, and she grabs two and shows me to a dressing room. I wait for her to walk away before I sink to the floor and hit the call button on the screen.

  Sasha picks up on the first ring. “What do you need me to do?”

  48

  Gavin

  “What do you mean, she didn’t get on the plane?”

  Lachlan stands firm in front of me. Dangerous decision, the way I’m feeling right now. “She upgraded her ticket at the gate, and then disappeared from the first class lounge.”

  “So she’s somewhere in Toronto.”

  “Yes.”

  “Find her.”

  “On what grounds exactly are you suggesting that we devote police resources to finding your girlfriend?”

  “You don’t need fucking grounds.” I glance toward the closed door behind him and lower my voice. “As a friend, Lachlan. Do this for me. Fuck, do it for Ellie. Go find her roommate. Sasha has resources. If Ellie has gone dark, it’s with her help.”

  “Maybe you should let her have some space.”

  My skin crawls and my stomach turns over at the thought of Ellie needing space from me, even though I know it’s a reasonable suggestion. I am not a reasonable man when it comes to her. “Find her. Find out if she’s okay.” My throat thickens. “Then we’ll worry about what to do next.”

  He nods. “I’ve immediately increased your security team. Stew has a detailed report on limits for your activity for the next few days—”

  “I don’t need a reminder that I’m not to go anywhere.”

  “You sure you don’t?”

  I know the rules. I’m seriously considering breaking them. “Find her and make sure she’s safe. Do that and I won’t go anywhere for now.”

  “This is just an embarrassing news story. It will blow over.”

  “For me, it will blow over. For Ellie…” Fuck, I want to throw up. We’re alone in my office, but as we’ve learned, Beth hears a lot through that door. I lower my voice again. “The video was taken when I was in university. It was a period in my life when I was discovering a lot about BDSM and trying different things out.”

  “Ah. The crop? That’s what you’re worried about?”

  I shake my head. “Not just that, but yeah—I’ve never used any impact toys with Ellie. But that’s not me anymore. Doesn’t mean I’m not a dirty bastard, but…people are going to think I hit her.”

  “You do.”

  I clench my fists. “Not like that.”

  “That’s not judgement, is it?”

  “Fuck you.”

  “Sorry.”

  “No, it’s not judgement. And if Ellie wanted that kind of release, I’d give it to her. I’d enjoy it, probably.
But now people will forever wonder if I’ve used a crop on her, and it’s not even true.”

  He nods slowly. “I’ll find her. We’re going to move you to the residence soon. We’ll try to do it in a way that protects your privacy, but people are going to know you’re there. But it’s more secure than here.”

  “Fine.” I spit it out. It’s not fine. None of this is fine and as soon as Caroline and Stew come in, we’re going to start planning a systematic takedown of whoever did this to me.

  This isn’t going to end well for them.

  I’m going to be fine.

  And Ellie?

  Fuck.

  That’s the million dollar question. Because there’s no strong-arm tactic, no charming appeal, no persuasive debate technique effective enough to overcome a broken heart.

  If this has hurt her, I will do anything and everything in my power to fix that. I just don’t know if it’ll be enough.

  And what if she can’t deal with this?

  What if it’s too much for her?

  Caroline and Stew have been working on a statement for more than an hour while I sign letters to Canadians turning one hundred this year, because I’m not fucking stopping work because of this stupid leak.

  The news director at CAN News is refusing to say where they got the video. I know who the woman is, of course, a girlfriend from when I was in law school. But I don’t think she was the one who shared it, and I don’t feel right having the RCMP descend on her today. Last I heard she was married and had a couple kids.

  I don’t need to take her down with me.

  Not that I’m going down.

  Assholes. This is prurient and pathetic. That entire news station should have their license revoked.

  Caroline assures me that immediate response on Twitter is one of distaste for the airing of it, but Twitter skews toward the margins. We won’t know what the average Canadian is thinking until we get some polling done.

  I’ve always known that I could tumble off the pedestal. I never wanted to be on it in the first place, although I know I used that to my advantage in the election.

  Maybe this is karma. Payback for pretending to be someone I’m not.

  “We have a draft statement for you,” Stew says, dragging my attention to the nervous group slowly pacing into my library.

  I hold out my hand.

  He doesn’t pass it over. “We have another option…”

  I snap my fingers. We don’t have time for this shit.

  The statement is short. But it’s unacceptable. “This reads like an apology.”

  “Well…”

  “I’m not fucking apologizing!” I crumple the paper into a tight ball and drop it on the floor. “Show me the other one.”

  It’s even worse.

  “This isn’t working. I’ll write my own.”

  “Time is of the essence,” Caroline says.

  Stew adds, “You need to take control of the story before it gets out of control.”

  I slam my hand on my desk. “But you want me to goddamn comment on my own behaviour instead of the fact a so-called news organization has stooped to fucking tabloid tricks?”

  “That’s one approach to take. Do you want to go with that angle?”

  I have no fucking clue. “I’m not saying anything until I know where Ellie is, is that fucking clear?”

  “I’m right here.”

  49

  Ellie

  Sasha’s driver brought me to 24 Sussex in the end. She wanted to hide me away at her cottage, but I couldn’t go another minute without seeing Gavin.

  There was a mob of press outside the gates and I resisted every urge in my body to slink lower in my seat.

  I’m embarrassed and jealous and even a little angry, but nobody needs to know that. And despite all of those feelings, I know intellectually that he’s done nothing wrong, and certainly doesn’t deserve to have his private life put under a magnifying glass.

  Nobody is running a story tomorrow that I cowered and covered my face as I arrived. I won’t give them my embarrassment and let them misread it as judgement.

  I wait for the driver to open the door, then I get out and casually walk around to the trunk of the sedan with him, talking and laughing.

  The whole time, the press is hollering my name from the gate. They can’t really see me, but I can hear them clear as day.

  “Ms. Montague! A few questions!”

  “Did you know about the tape?”

  “Do you know the woman involved?”

  Has the Prime Minister ever called you bad girl? I can feel the flush crawling up my chest even though nobody’s actually voiced that question. They’re just yelling around it.

  I don’t turn in that direction. Instead, I shake the driver’s hand and take my own suitcase in the front door of the official residence of the Prime Minster of Canada like I belong here.

  I’m not sure I do.

  Gavin’s small library is full of PMO staffers. I watch him from the shadows before stepping fully into the room and speaking. “I’m here.”

  At the first muscle tick in Gavin’s cheek, they all get up as one and silently flee. One of them closes the door behind me, and we’re alone.

  He looks haunted. He’s just in a shirt and tie, his sleeves rolled up and his tie pulled loose at the neck, the top button undone behind it.

  “Ellie…” His voice cracks and I lose it.

  I throw myself across the room and into his arms. Quiet tears slide down my face as he wraps me in a steely embrace, so hard it would hurt if I didn’t need to feel that right now.

  “I’m sorry. I’m sorry…” he whispers into my hair, over and over again until the words run together.

  I shake my head. I don’t want to talk about the video right now. I just want to hold him.

  “Are you okay?” He pulls back and touches my face, cupping my cheek with one hand as he moves my hair off my face with the other. His fingers are gentle but his stare burns into my skin. “Did the press find you?”

  “Only at the gates.”

  “God.” He pulls me back into his chest. “Ellie.”

  We stand there like that for a long time that isn’t nearly long enough. “You haven’t made a statement yet.”

  “We keep going around in circles on what it should be. I don’t want to say anything at all.”

  “Then don’t.” I kiss his neck, his jaw, little butterfly kisses as I pull him down to my level and press my forehead against his. “It is what it is, and it’ll go away in time.”

  “It was a long time ago. You have to know that.”

  I know. I nod. “You don’t need to—”

  “I do.” There’s a knock at the door and he swears under his breath. “Two more minutes!”

  “Do you want me to go?”

  His grip on me tightens. “Never. Listen. I swear to you, I’d forgotten all about that video. There were a few of them, none of them dirtier than that…it was a thing with my girlfriend at the time. She usually deleted them afterwards.”

  Unease curls inside me, twisting against my guts and my heart. “I don’t want to know.”

  Another knock, and this time his muttered fucking hell is louder and followed by a sigh. “Come in.”

  It’s a smaller group of PMO staff that comes in, led by Stew and Caroline. To their credit, both of them look me in the eye and give me a smile.

  “Another option is to disrupt the news cycle,” Stew says, leading off. “Find a bigger scandal about the other guys.”

  “I’m not stooping to that level.”

  “Don’t trip on your principles,” Stew mutters as Caroline steps in between them.

  “We can’t just blithely move on as if nothing has changed,” she says.

  What exactly has changed? I hold my tongue because I’m not here as a staffer. I’m the girlfriend, the emotionally invested significant other. I’m the woman who needs to stand beside him as he does a press conference and show that someone still loves him.


  Of course I still love him. And I love him because of his principles, not despite them.

  “Right,” Stew says.

  “Does he, though?” I ask. Apparently I can’t hold my tongue. I’m surprised I sound more confident than I feel, but my voice is sure and solid, so I keep going. “Maybe Gavin shouldn’t address it. It’s not something to apologize for. It’s an appalling violation of two people’s privacy, it has zero bearing on his ability to lead the government, and it’s not news.”

  “That sounds great in theory,” Stew said, his characteristic bluntness hammering down on my very delicate grasp on a super-thin hope that that plan would work. “But it is news, so…he needs to address it.”

  “And what should he say? Yes, I have sex? I’m a grown man? Everyone else in this room has sex, too, and it’s not news.”

  Stew shrugs. “Nobody else in this room makes the decisions he makes.”

  Gavin lets go of me and shoves his desk backwards. A sharp crack fills the silence, and I realize he’s crushed his chair between the desk and wall. His now broken chair. He’s furious, which isn’t new. “That’s it. We’re done with this conversation for now.”

  “That’s not it.” I turn and stand in front of him, and the rest of the room fades away. It’s just the two of us and it sucks we’re doing this in front of his staff, but this is what it is to love the PM. Zero privacy and fights vetted by three levels of communication specialists. “Nothing wrong with saying that you’re human, Gavin. But hiding isn’t the answer.”

  “I’m not hiding. I was waiting for you.”

  “And now I’m here.”

  “We need to talk.”

  “We will. But let’s get this out of the way so they can start softening the media for our response.”

  “Our response?” The surprise and relief all over his face hits me in the chest.

  I hold out my hand, squeezing my fingers around his when he takes it. “Yep.”

  “I’m sorry about this.”

  “You need to tell your country that.”

  “It’s none of their business.”

  “Tell them that you’re sorry your girlfriend had to see a fifteen-year-old video. Tell them you’re embarrassed. Tell them it’s not something you’ve thought about since you were in law school, and even if you did remember it, you’d still have run for office. Because having one embarrassing skeleton in your closet is nothing. We’re all human. We all make mistakes. But if you don’t say, ‘yeah, this has repercussions’, then you’re being deliberately obtuse. You can be honest that this has made you more cynical about privacy. More concerned about the digital sharing of personal content.”