Bona Fide (Illusive Duet Book 2)

by Hazel Grace

  Dark hair, curvy frame, ass for days, gray eyes. See some of the resemblances? If I can’t fuck Reagan anymore, I’m going to screw something similar.

  Call me a weak-ass, disgusting, someone who needs help—Emmy has called me all of those things so don’t worry, they’ve been within my airwaves quite recently.

  “No, Em,” I tell her. “She’d have to go to Indie’s house, and she’s in New York now.”

  “Do you mind if I double-check that?”

  I bow my head. “Whatever you want to do.”

  “Then what do you want to do about the pregnancy? Her assistant thinks she’s going to surprise attack you with it again.”

  I love Emmy. I truly do. The woman is a damn mastermind when it comes to obtaining information and holding people at arm’s length to benefit her and me. She became friends with Fiona, my wife’s assistant, and they do all the shit girls do.

  Shopping, the movies, talking about boys, work shit—whatever.

  All while having a foot in the door for when Fiona “spills some tea” on anything Demi is doing or plans on announcing.

  “Find out if she figured out where Indie lives because that’s the only place…” I let my words trail off. She gets it.

  Emmy nods. “On it. Please eat today for me, you’re looking thin.”

  “Okay.” She turns on her heels but stops before turning the doorknob.

  “Almost forgot to tell you something good that happened today. Your buddy, Mayor Montgomery, got convicted for embezzlement, money laundering, and solicitation of a prostitute. Nineteen and a half years.”

  I bow my head and give her a weak grin, not fully able to enjoy it because I’m drowning in my head.

  Emmy leaves but not without telling me she’ll be back within an hour.

  Bad idea.

  Because an hour is all I need to fuck myself over again.

  Like I do almost every day.

  Demi floats in the Oval Office like she’s living in a dream. Like she’s a princess where life is full of rainbows, lollipops, and magical, talking creatures. As though our picture-perfect marriage in the eyes of America is factual.

  The most powerful couple in the world, happily married, madly in love, a sick joke of lies and deceit.

  Each other’s ride or die.

  I want to ride, and she obviously wants to die because these little antics she’s been pulling since she connived her way back into my life—they’re beyond old.

  First, she tried to get pregnant using one of my tissues that I used to jack off on.

  Second, she faked a terminal illness just to be “confused with what the doctors said”.

  Third, she won’t stop holding my fucking hand when we go out in public even though I’ve told her a million times not to touch me.

  And lastly, Demi’s attempts to sneak into my bedroom.

  It’s gotten so nerve-racking and creepy that I’ve actually had to set a Secret Service agent up in front of my door just to keep her ass out.

  I’m in the Oval now, I don’t need to lay on the lies that thickly anymore. I could give two flying fucks if a paper mentions how “distant” we’re becoming. We’ve been isolated from each other. We were separated for fucking years. No magical reunion was going to fix that nor did I pray every night for a miracle.

  How the hell anyone buys into this “ideal” marriage is beyond fucking me. But I know how powerful the press is and how people eat and shit that crap out.

  Attired in a pink, pleated dress and black heels, Demi strides towards my desk with a giant, shit-eating grin on her face. Her dark hair is neatly pinned back, letting her long tresses fall to her back, appearing like the most well put together First Lady that we’ve seen this decade.

  Just like her idol, Jackie-O.

  “Hello,” she greets, stopping and sitting in one of the tan leather chairs in front of my desk. “I thought you were meeting one of the defense generals today.”

  So, she’s looking into my schedule again—noted.

  “How are you doing, Demi?”

  She nods. “Good, you?”

  “Busy.”

  “Good.” A silence falls between us while I suit myself up into character. I’ve tweaked the persona that Demi is used to seeing; broody, pissed off, irritated, wanting her out of my sight, glaring at her with disdain in my fucking eyes.

  The usual.

  Instead, I’m trying the calm approach. The perfectly set and proper President of the United States. The one who deals with leaders all over the world who have some of the most moronic ideas I have ever heard.

  “I heard the news,” I deadpan before she perks a curious brow. “You’re pregnant.”

  Her blue eyes widen but go right back to normal. She settles deeper into her chair and lifts her chin. “Who told you that?”

  I smile and shake my head. “You know I have eyes and ears everywhere.” Her jaw tightens, but I continue before she can throw one of her famous fits. “Why didn’t you tell me?” My voice is soft, not the agitated one that wants to break free and rip her fucking face off.

  She’s either faking it.

  Or she knows where Indie lives.

  I keep my sexual needs away from the White House and not where Demi’s little spies can report back to her.

  Honestly, I don’t even know if Demi is aware of Indie. She’s never mentioned it, we don’t talk much anyway, and I’m obviously not going to lay my personal shit on the table for her to use as ammo.

  “Because I know how you are,” she retorts with a wrinkled nose.

  “How?”

  “How what?”

  I keep my face blank. “How did you get pregnant, Dem?” She presses her hand to her cheek and averts her gaze from me.

  The baby either isn’t mine or she’s fucking lying again. I’m going with option two.

  Demi would love to rub in my face that she is one step ahead of me. That she found out about the woman I have on the side that I fuck until I can’t think or see anymore. She wants to trick me into staying with her because, even though she hasn’t mentioned it lately, she knows I’m exactly where I’ve always been—not in love with her anymore.

  “Whose is it?” My voice isn’t condemning, so hopefully she’ll break her wall and let me in, even though she has a lot of pride. But I need her to believe that I’m here to help her, and myself, not looking to bitch at her for opening up her legs.

  “I’m not pregnant,” she deadpans.

  Thought so.

  “Then why are you trying to release a story then?” Her gaze snaps back to me.

  She knows.

  I mean, would it be such a surprise that I know everything that’s going on in my own house?

  “Stop having your little assistant spy on me, Wade,” she fumes. “I’m your wife, not North Korea or any terrorist group that you—”

  “Relax,” I soothe, folding my hands over my stomach. “You don’t want to stress yourself out in case you want to try again for another fake baby.”

  Demi jerks from her chair and stands, towering over my desk like she’s about to flip it to pin me underneath.

  It’d be a good training exercise, I wonder how long it would take for one of my agents to run in here.

  “This could be a new start for us,” she quips. “A baby, Wade, a baby.” Her eyes glint with hope and happiness. And I swear I think I see tears about to glisten in them.

  Funny, I remember me having the same reaction almost a decade ago.

  “Demi!” My heart is lodged in my throat, and I’m surprised I’m able to even say her name. My hands can’t stop shaking as I hold the numerous doctor pamphlets of how to deal after an abortion and some other shit about prevention.

  A baby.

  A small, helpless thing—she wouldn’t—

  “Yes!” she counters back from upstairs. “Hold on one second.”

  My eyes begin to blur and burn as I continue to stare down at what I found. They were in a manila envelope with no name. I thought m
aybe they were my notes or something dropped off for me from my dad. He was always leaving shit for me to study or read so that when I ran for governor in about two years, I’d be better set up.

  I hear the clicking of my wife’s heels as she strides across the pristine marble-tiled floors. Then descends down the staircase as each clack ticks at my already wrecked nerves.

  She knows I want a family. How I dream of teaching our kids the basics like how to play sports and go on trips together. How I wanted to be a father that showed them how much I loved them without question. To make them better than me.

  “What is it?” Demi asks off an exasperated sigh like I’m bothering her. As if I’m some fucking pain in the ass now that we’re married.

  Our honeymoon phase is over and done. The real work has begun, and she doesn’t try. With each passing day, I try to understand and be involved with her hobbies and day-to-day, but she could give two flying fucks about me.

  Turning on my heel, I crush the papers in my hands, wrinkling and destroying the evidence of what I think she’s done.

  What I’m praying to God that she hasn’t done.

  “What is this?” I seethe through my tightened jaw. I stretch it to keep it from shattering into pieces on the floor. But I don’t know how to keep my heart from doing the same if she confirms what I think I’ve already confirmed.

  “What is what?” she snarks in my direction, head cocked to the side as she fidgets putting on one of her earrings. Her hair falls to the side, exposing her neck and the many times I’ve licked and tasted her flesh there.

  Now...now I want to wrap my hands around it and dig the tips of my fingers into her windpipe.

  “Did your dad drop off more—” She stops as she notices the glossy brochures burning a hole through my palm.

  “What did you do, Dem?” I quake, tremoring in anxiety as she blankly stares back at me. “Please don’t tell me you…” I can’t finish the words. There would be no way she’d ever do this to me. I’ve always wanted kids, ever since I was one. I wanted to make a generation of my own, with pattering little feet and curls that I had zero clue how to manage. I crave to love something more than myself. Little beings that I can help nurture and pass my wisdom down to.

  Demi married me knowing this. I’ve never kept a thing from her. She knows all my dreams and ambitions. Everything I’ve ever desired in life.

  “I couldn’t do it,” she surmises as she begins to fiddle with her wedding ring. “I couldn’t—”

  “What couldn’t you do?” I counter. “What cou—Dem, I’m here for you. I’m not—did you…” She hits my anguish with a stone-cold scowl then raises her chin. Which is never good if you knew my wife.

  Demi tailored herself in a suit of steel when she had something she wanted or needed to say. And none out of ten times, that said person wasn’t going to like the answer.

  “I had an abortion, Wade. I didn’t want a baby.”

  My brows furrow. “What? What do you mean? We’ve talked about—five kids. Five, Demi, we both agreed on it. You want two boys and three girls. And I don’t care what we have, I just know that—”

  “It’s too much,” she objects, throwing a hand in the air. “It’s too much work, and you’re not the one that has to gain a million pounds in the process.”

  “A million...Demi, if it’s your weight you’re worried about then—”

  “I just don’t want them,” she snaps, her blue eyes boring into me. “You’re too busy. I like the way I look. We have time…” Her face softens. “We can do it later...maybe.”

  “Maybe? I’d fucking carry the babies if I could.” I extend the pamphlets in her direction and throttle them in the air. “But this, Demi, what the fuck?!”

  “Calm...down,” she soothes. “It’s not a big—”

  “You just killed our child! The fuck?! I can’t—why didn’t you tell me? I would’ve—”

  “Talked me into it,” she rebuffs. “I spoke with Phoebe and she—”

  “My sister isn’t your husband. This is OUR decision. This is our life. You married me knowing that I wanted a family. I just said we talked about this a million fucking times.”

  “And it sounded great until I had to become the science project with a kid inside me.”

  My eyes turn into slits. “Women get pregnant every day. What in the fuck does that even mean?!” I chuck the reality of my situation out of my hands, raining white sheets of information and parchments all over the floor.

  “It’s done.” She waves a dismissive hand in the air. “I went and did it and it’s done.”

  My gut wrenches, and I feel like I’m going to get sick all over the floor.

  She just got rid of a small little baby—our baby. I don’t know how big or how far along but...it doesn’t matter.

  I could’ve had a son or a daughter. Someone that would’ve loved me with their entire being, and I would’ve wanted nothing more than to give that in return.

  It’s done.

  Yeah...it is.

  Demi and I—we’re done too.

  “Everyone deserves a second chance,” Demi crows softly. “We earned this.”

  My eyes pull back to her face, and I see nothing but a huge regret in my life and enough time of dealing with it.

  “You blew yours,” I vouch. “You’re on like chance number four million.”

  “Wade,” she chides with a heavy sigh. “We’ve been together this long, think about it. We are a power couple, the most powerful in the world. We’re young and vibrant, imagine what we’d look like with children. How it would be for your second term. Think about the future...it could hold so much more than we ever dreamed.”

  The answer is no, hell no, and will always be no.

  “Okay,” I say instead so that she’ll go daydream about future plans and not focus so much on what I’m doing. How I’m devising a way to catch her doing something so unforgivable that she’ll be stoned alive by the American people.

  My answer seems to appease Demi because she gives me a faint smile before turning on her heels and leaving the room.

  “Dem.” She pivots on her feet to face me, with that same smile she walked in with. The one that I can’t wait to have smacked off her face. “Will you promise not to mention anything until we’ve discussed more of—”

  “Yes, absolutely.” Her lips fall. “Can I ask you a question?”

  “Sure.”

  “Are you still in love with Reagan Shelton?”

  “No.”

  ♫ This Town — Niall Horan ♫

  I don’t want to fucking be here. I actually tried to get out of it, but here I am, in Daphne, Connecticut—the place where Reagan grew up.

  I’m here to show my face to the public and discuss the ongoing project to bring more jobs and money into the city. To help people budget and for businesses to grow, to spruce and clean up the city so that it doesn’t look like a garbage dump. All of this so people actually might want to live here.

  Today, we cleaned up the streets like a court-ordered citation with garbage bags and sticks with sharp edges. Loads of volunteers signed up, Em believes it's because I was the governor here and it's my home, relatable.

  I can’t relate to this shit at all because I’m the rich prick with a class-A education from private schools and Yale. The only hardship I’ve dealt with are mistakes my heart made.

  But here, I have no heart strings attached, so I can’t fuck the place up too much.

  However, I do want to help the city. I trust that with a lot of hard work, Daphne can be a town that would be a good starting place for families.

  We’ve already painted over a dozen homes, fixed mailboxes and fences. Em is keeping a list of supplies we need, things the people can’t afford to buy to see if we can have some items donated. Reagan would’ve been proud of the things we’ve accomplished today.

  She should be here—but she’s not.

  She’s in New York working and trying to rebuild her life. Something I’ve been struggli
ng with ever since winning the Democratic nomination and then the presidency.

  I’ve restrained myself like you wouldn’t believe the multiple times I’ve almost texted her. The many times I’ve wanted to swoop in and show myself. But then I let that video creep into my head and end up so overcome with rage that it makes the decision so much easier for me.

  I drop it.

  “I can’t reach,” the little girl next to me whines as she jumps up to try and paint a spot on the white siding of the house we’re working on.

  Her little brown bun is tied with a pink bow, and her green eyes peer up at me expectantly.

  “Wanna lift?” I ask her, leaning my paint roller along the side of the house.

  She nods like a bobblehead. “Yes, please.” I hoist her under her armpits and place her butt on my shoulder so she can paint whatever the hell it is she wants.

  “I need more paint,” she orders after another minute.

  I glance up to the blue paint—because it has to be a blue house we’re doing—then see the drips of said color go down her hand.

  “Flip your brush so the paint drips down to the bristles.” She does and continues to slap paint along the house, splashing a tiny bit on my face.

  “Mr. President—” I turn myself and the little girl in my arms to see two of my Secret Service agents barricade someone from stepping further onto the wooden porch that goes around the house.

  “It’s fine,” I order before they promptly part to let a heavy-set woman with red hair and glasses proceed towards me.

  With a camera in hand, her face begins to turn the color of her hair. “I’m sorry to interrupt but...do you mind if I get a picture?”

  Em would love this shit.

  I force a smile. “It’s fine, go right ahead.”

  She quickly pulls the lense to her face and snaps a few shots then beams at me. “Thank you, Mr. President. I’m trying to start up a blog, and this will do wonders for it.”

  “Do you live in Daphne?” I ask, adjusting the little girl better on my shoulder, who must have bricks in her shorts because she’s getting heavy.

  “I do. I’ve been reading your speech about getting more involved in the community and encouraging people to take an active role. I’m hoping to start a neighborhood watch as well as a newspaper, if you will, but online, of course. Something that the bigger cities have.”