by Hazel Grace
Marty’s room.
I’d rather miss my brother than feel the loss of Wade.
Because I feel the fucker as much as I don’t want to.
I’m not too prideful and selfish to say that I use Jed and Enzo to fill some sort of void for me. To ease some of the pain so that I can function without thinking how Mama could only be two towns over if I were home—if I had my old life back.
Now I’m hours away, needing to plan weekends to come over here. I can’t just jump in my car and spend a few days with an easy drive back.
Maybe this is why I refused to fall for Grant, other than his over-the-top cocky attitude and the fact that he shoved me around like a trophy doll for his friends to eye fuck. And by the time his political life entered the picture, I was done, closed off and out of business.
Dropping my purse on the island, I stride into Marty’s room and close the door, falling straight onto the bed.
I can’t keep doing this.
I did what I did, and I have to man up and accept it for what it is.
Wade was a lying fuck, I went against my own judgment, and it almost killed Mama.
End. Of. Story.
The End.
Pulling out my joint from earlier, I find my lighter and blaze it up. I don’t care about the smell, Mama won’t be here to bitch at me about it. I’m fucking saging my house of flashbacks and feelings to feel some sort of relief in my own space.
It’s time to move on.
It’s time to let my balls drop.
It’s time to become who I was always supposed to be.
♫ Vermilion, Pt 2 — Slipknot ♫
Unknown number: She’s home.
Staring at the text, I compel myself to pry my eyes from it so that I can listen to what Heidi is speaking about. She’s been on a mission to build more job opportunities in the slums of America. More jobs mean more money, which in turn means putting that money back into the community. It was one of my proposals for my campaign, and Heidi has been more than eager to get started.
“Would you like to come visit a few cities with me, Mr. President?” Heidi asks at my right-hand side. “I know that your schedule is hectic but—”
“I’ll always make time for you, Mrs. Lauder,” I retort. “Just name where you wanna go and we’ll go.” She flashes an exasperated look at me (she hates being called Mrs. Lauder, just Heidi) before she returns her attention back to the board members that are going to help.
My phone buzzes in my hand again.
Unknown number: You have an email waiting to be opened.
Who in the fuck is this?
I deter from responding to it. Too many questions about how someone got my personal cell phone number and what the hell is in this email for me to open.
Motherfucker.
The thought of having to wait until this board meeting is over has me about to fidget in my chair like an antsy toddler. I love my VP, she’s kind, thoughtful, and her mind always tries to be in the best place.
But she’s meticulous as fuck.
“Do you mind if I step out for a moment, Heidi?” I cut in while she’s talking about something regarding solar panels and the auto industry.
“Sure,” she answers, a little thrown off that I’m asking permission, before I stand and begin to stride from the room.
Down the long-as-hell hallways, around a corner, through a throng of busy employees, I find my study and throw the door open then closed. I immediately crack my personal laptop open from my governor days and open my locked email.
Subject line: Special Delivery
Dear Mr. President,
Attached you will find evidence to help you move on with your life since you haven’t been able to as of yet.
I stop reading the email because all I want to know is what’s attached and what sort of security clearance I need for this fucking thing.
As in, will it try to hack into my laptop?
Not that there is much on it. It’d be stupid to keep things on it for this reason only. Everything that is anything is on USBs locked up in my safe.
So if this is a virus...it won’t find shit except for my subscriptions to magazines and newspapers and a bunch of spam mail.
The first thing I open is a picture of Reagan in front of her mother’s house, and my heartbeat skids to an abrupt halt.
Skinny jeans and a dark blue flannel rolled up her forearms, Reagan carries a box in her arms with her raven hair pulled up in a messy bun.
I haven’t seen a picture of her in months.
Didn’t want any.
The only things I got information on was if she was still in New York, how her mother’s house was moving along, and if she needed anything that I could provide without making it obvious it was me.
Reagan’s mother “won” a free year of lawn service for her new house through her “homeowner’s insurance” (AKA me and my fake-ass letterhead) and a security system in case Demi wanted to be a fucking crazy bitch again.
The next attachment was her car parked in another driveway that wasn’t her home or her mother’s.
Then attachment number three took a moment to load up, but when it did, I could honestly just throw myself out the window and not put my hands out in front of myself to stop the blow from the cement or fresh-cut grass below.
It’s like a perfectly produced porn with the moon flawlessly above, the impeccable landscaping and deck for entertaining. And my fucking woman in a hot tub getting rammed into by some toned-looking motherfucker.
When he speaks, I’d remember that fucking voice anywhere—Jed Hardison. The one she protected and hung out with. The man she brought into my office when she dropped off Chinese carryout. The same dickhead that couldn’t hide the fact that he was still in love with her because he gazed at her like she was a cookie that he couldn’t reach on the top shelf.
Soft moans fill my speakers, and I’ve had enough, slamming the top of my laptop down and ripping my phone from the pocket of my jacket.
I was going to leave that brother alone—for her—because I know how much she cared for him. However, I hate Grant too violently to be able to let that go.
On the way home from Daphne, I planned a million ways in my head to get his ass handed down from the Senate and into some sort of media frenzy.
Since I’m in a position now—the one I’ve planned for my whole life—to royally fuck him up the ass and watch him die with shame. I’ve wanted to get back at that son of a bitch for well over a year now, but I’ve left it alone.
I’ve tried to be the bigger person.
I wanted her to find some peace where she could grow and love.
But, for some fucking reason, I can never find a thing to give me any sort of serenity or plain forgetfulness.
Why he showed up in Daphne the other day is beyond me, but he loves strutting around with his title a little too much. And it’s bad enough that I see his name on shit he wants me to pass or read cross my desk from time to time.
It’s only been twice but two times is too many times.
I take a deep breath, rubbing one of my temples as a headache starts to form.
I wanted to stay away and out of her life. I’ll peer in from time to time, recall what happened in her day-to-day, but this Hardison bullshit needs to stop coming back to haunt me.
I never asked her to fuck them, much less both of them at the same time.
I sure as hell didn’t ask her to videotape it and send it to me to be a fucking asshole either. I dealt with it in my own special way, but I can’t pry myself from her sexual pursuits if it keeps finding its way to me.
Playing nice is over.
It’s time to remind her who I was before she captured me in her palm and squeezed so hard that it was difficult to live.
She’s known me as the asshole with no feelings—she’s about to be reintroduced.
♫ Hot Girl Bummer — Blackbear ♫
Mexico. The first somewhat vacation that I’ve had in—actually my whole life
. I’ve never been on a cruise, went to the mountains or some tourist attraction that people talk about seeing once in their lives. I’ve never been camping or went on a small road trip. So when I accepted this wedding offer from one of the easiest clients I’ve ever had in my life, I snatched it.
My bride, Layla, sent me a check immediately for over ten grand to start planning with hopes that I’d be able to bring some of my artistic ideas with me. She wanted simple and white, the wedding to be in Mexico with limited friends and family, and a small brunch after the ceremony for the guests.
There are only three bridesmaids and groomsmen, her friend is going to officiate the wedding, and everything else she gave me liberties to go wild with.
Layla and I met once in New York while she was in town on business. She lives in New Jersey, runs an online fashion line, and is pretty, petite, and sweet. I made up a board of ideas for her to approve by email when something inspired me out of the blue—she loved it all. I honestly felt like I was ripping her off with how easy this was.
Three days and two nights in Mexico—it couldn’t have come at a better time.
So, I brought Mila to help since she’s been busting her ass as much as I have and our goals are: tanning, eating, drinking, organizing, and flirting with cute guys on the beach. On the off chance that we may have small breaks here and there.
The resort that Layla picked is beyond the word stunning. The water is a crystal clear aqua color. Quaint cabanas with white cushions and pillows scattered around a large pool. Different colored lounge chairs line up in a row where parents could watch their children play in the sand on the beach. A few small tiki bars are available for drinks and small snacks.
The place is heaven on Earth.
Mila and I don’t get a chance to observe too much when we arrive because we’re escorted to our rooms by a small woman with dark hair and a pink flower nestled in it. She drops off Mila first, placing a purple flower in her mane as a welcome, then promptly takes me down the hall to mine. I’m given a blue flower and a giant smile before given my space.
Holy fuck.
I need to go on vacation more often. My ocean view is what takes my breath away first. On the patio is a lounge chair and small table. The ceilings are a light wood paneling with a palm tree leaf fan and dark wooden beams. The king-size bed has a million white pillows matching the white bedspread with two aqua blue lines going across them. The decor is rope tapestry braided and knotted then hung on the wall.
It’s perfect.
Screw the TV in the room. I could just stare at the view forever.
Bucket list.
We came right to the resort from the airport so I text Layla that we’re here and jump in the shower. Quickly blow drying my hair and letting my natural waves be, I throw on a green romper that comes a little high on the thigh, but I’m in Mexico sooo….
Accessorizing myself with a gold necklace and cuff, Layla has already texted me back to let me know she’s downstairs by the wet bar outside. Not wanting to keep her waiting anymore for me, I tell Mila that I’ll be downstairs to meet our client and to come down whenever she’s ready.
When I get back to the lobby, one of the front desk girls tells me where the bar is located, and I make my way for it. The sun is warm on my skin as I stride outside, a few people already taking advantage of its rays as they sunbathe. No one is in the pool, which displays its pristine maintenance as I make my way down a small set of stairs and into the sand.
The small grains seep through my sandals, welcoming me to paradise. A small window of time where I don’t have to worry about New York traffic or what vendor I have to check in on. My body immediately relaxed the moment Mila and I stepped foot in this resort. I hadn’t noticed how my body was always wound up and tense until it felt like a million pounds was lifted off my shoulders.
A short blonde, shorter than me, stands at the bar top attired in a white maxi dress that goes all the way to the ground. Her back is to me, speaking to the bartender as he laughs along with her at something. I patiently wait for him to hand her the drink she ordered and go on to another customer before I speak.
“Layla?” Promptly, she turns on her heels and smiles.
“Reagan,” she beams, extending her arms for me to give her a hug. I kindly return it as she hands me her drink. “Here, take mine, I’ll order another.”
“Thank you.” She waves the middle-aged bartender over again, and he nods that he saw her.
“How was the flight?” she asks me, leaning against the bamboo countertop.
“It was great, especially walking off the plane and into weather like this.” I lift my red slushed margarita in the air, still amazed that I’m actually here.
She groans. “I knowww. That’s why I wanted to do it down here. Plus it’s just away from everyone, you know?”
“I definitely know.”
“I just didn’t want to invite a bunch of people I don’t talk to. I wanted it to be intimate and special. I’m not big into flashy and thank God I found you.”
“I’m glad you did.”
The bartender comes back with an identical drink, and she immediately takes a sip from her black straw.
“Even the drinks are amazing,” she quips. “But thank you, again, for taking this on. I know you didn’t have a lot of time and—” I hold my hand up.
“Honestly, don’t be. It was the easiest thing I’ve done all year. You didn’t want anything odd shipped in from another country or a celebrity to show up to sing. I wish there were more like you.”
She smiles, showing off the faint dimples on her cheeks. “Great. Did you want to meet my groom and the bridal party?”
“Absolutely—” I gesture with my hand. “—lead the way.” I follow her down the beach towards the waterfront. The breeze picks up our hair as seagulls squawk overhead accompanying the waves crashing on the shore.
We start to approach the lounge chairs, and I glance around for more people but only one sits in the cushioned chairs of bamboo material and cream fabric.
“Where did everyone go?” Layla asks out loud, glancing behind us. “I leave them alone for one minute and—oh, wait, there are some of them.” She begins to walk faster towards the person in the chair and stands alongside him, extending her hand. “Reagan, this is my fiancé’s best man, I’m going to go grab everyone else.” She places her dainty hand on my forearm. “I’ll be right back, I’m sorry.”
I shrug. “No biggie.”
Stepping forward, light khaki pants that are rolled up at the ankles are cross-legged over the chair. A baby blue shirt covers the man’s top half, and when I take a sip of my drink to meet him eye to eye—it goes down the wrong pipe.
It’s the stubble on his face that hits my eyes first, the chiseled jawline and regal nose. Then his ocean blues stare back at me—not surprised at all.
Like at all.
“Hello, Miss Shelton.”
I can’t hide my surprise, my eyes are like an owl’s, my brain shuts down as he blinks at me with a drink in his hand—whiskey.
He always drank whiskey.
My eyes flick down his chest to where two of his buttons are undone, showing off his skin and the hair underneath. The rest is covered, but I can still make out the outline of his flat abdomen and his toned waist.
He looks bigger. Maybe it’s because now he’s the fucking president, for Christ sakes. Maybe that’s what makes it feel like I’m unworthy to be in his vicinity.
I’m standing in front of the most powerful man in the country—looking as casual as an everyday sort of guy.
Appearing god-like, actually.
I was never power-struck until now. My jaw won’t form words, my tongue is dry in my mouth, and my heart—I’m not sure where that damn thing went, but it’s not pumping blood anywhere.
“My eyes are up here,” he quips before I shamelessly drag my sights back up the length of him and to his face. “You’re a sight for sore eyes.”
I don’t know what that mea
ns.
Is that him being sarcastic or is he complimenting me? Wait, he’s married still, right? Doesn’t matter, I did some fucked-up shit.
And he lied.
Why does it feel like forever that I’ve seen you? Like another lifetime ago? Why does it still hurt like hell?
“Wade,” I finally choke out. “What are you—”
“Wade?” he repeats before letting out a deep chuckle. “Damn, I haven’t been called that in forever. Mostly people call me Mr. President or Commander-in-Chief.”
Right.
I tighten my hold on my drink because I will not take a sip to show how nervous I am.
I never thought I would see him again, other than on my TV screen or in a blog I was reading or a newspaper stand I was passing by.
“What’s the matter?” he voices through the chaos brewing in my head. “You look like you’ve seen a ghost.”
I have, motherfucker.
“Must be from being inside all the time,” I counter lamely then casually take a sip (more like a very fast gulp) through my straw.
He perks a dark brow. “Really? I swear I heard somewhere that you liked being outside in hot tubs.”
“Wha—”
“We’re back!” Layla exclaims, skipping down the beach with another man in tow. The moment she stops moving around is when my vocal cords break off and hit my gut.
Chase.
Like the real one. The one I ran into at the coffee shop thinking that I was talking to him when I wasn’t. Blonde hair, blue eyes, the all-American male with a smile that makes you instantly blush because he isn’t even trying. The same man I thought I was talking to for—
“Reagan, this is my soon-to-be husband, Chase O’Neill.”
He smiles and extends his hand. “Really nice to meet you...finally.”
Layla doesn’t catch on to the meaning of his words. I mean, why would she? Thank fuck she doesn’t ask or think too deeply into it because that conversation would be awkward as all hell.