by Hazel Grace
Oh, yeah, soooo...I thought I was talking to your fiancé, and I sent him a picture of me in my bra once. We talked about meeting up once, made some inappropriate comments to each other—but don’t worry! It was ACTUALLY the President of the United States posing as him. False alarm!
“Dinner is at eight,” Layla advises, tucking her arm under his with a shit-eating grin. “The resort set us up with a really nice spot where we won’t be disturbed.” She looks over at Wade. “We’re letting our families do their own thing tonight. Tomorrow, we’ll make sure everything is taken care of.”
Taken care of? What would he need that was so special for tomorrow besides...oh.
Layla mentioned how she didn’t want any cameras except for the photographers she hired. All cell phones would be collected before the ceremony.
So that the media doesn’t know he’s here.
Unless…
My gaze pulls back to him as he takes a slow drink of his whiskey. His blue eyes challenging me to leak that he’s here.
Well, well, well...another little secret.
A small hand lands on my arm. “See you at eight?”
My first reaction is hell no. I am not going to sit at the same table as the man whose wife almost killed my mother. Who lied to me for months. Who fed me bullshit lines to make me feel like he wanted me.
And maybe he did.
But I feel as though he liked the idea of me. That I was an escape from the problems he didn’t want to face or solve. Something he could hide behind so that he didn’t tarnish his perfect little career.
“My assistant and I were actually thinking about going to—”
“She’ll be there,” Wade chimes in for me, lifting his glass to his lips again. “She loves going the extra mile.”
Layla looks between the two of us while I keep my glower to myself. “Alright...well, since Wade recommended you, I’m assuming—”
“Let’s go grab one of those frozen margaritas,” Chase blurts. “And let these two catch up.” Layla tells us that she’ll see us later as she and Chase saunter off towards the resort, leaving me in the most inconvenient spot I’ve ever been in.
I’m about to run.
Straight to my room, pack up the small amount of things I’ve unloaded, and go stay somewhere else.
“I see you’ve kept—” My head snaps back to him.
“Don’t fucking speak to me when you know I don’t want to even be near you,” I seethe. “Why did you get me here, Wade?”
He shrugs, letting his attention glaze over to the ocean behind me. “Chase asked me for a wedding planner…” He flicks his eyes back to me. More like burns them into me with the way my face blazes like I just got a sunburn. “And I knew one.”
I feel a muscle twitch in my jaw because again he does what he always wants to do. “And you thought it’d be a great idea to have a reunion?”
He scoffs and swings his feet over the side of the lounge chair to stand, holding up his glass so he doesn’t spill it.
I wish he hadn’t.
I prefer to have the upper hand on him right now if only it was the height. Because when he towers over me, in all his devout glory, it begs me to just forget. To leave behind how I was beginning to fall deep for this man. I was consumed by everything that was him and was just beginning to forget that he was a politician but a man I was learning to open up to.
I’ve been trying to deny it for over a year, but I know, deep down, that he has a hold on me, and I’ve struggled to cut myself free. That, even now, I’m fighting off conflicting feelings of want and anger.
I want him to not be who he is—a liar, someone who didn’t think about how much this could hurt me.
And I’m pissed because I’m still madly attracted and vulnerable in his presence.
“No reunion,” he mutters to me, making me crane my neck to look at him. “You’ve had enough of those over the course of a year with your two buddies. Brothers—” He shakes his head. “—cruel behavior, Shelton. Especially when they both have strong feelings for you.” He begins to pivot on his heels, but my hand latches on to his forearm, and I think I feel him flinch.
Quickly, I remove it and straighten my spine. “What have you done, Lockwood?”
He blinks at me, innocent and all-knowing. “Done with what?”
Then he does it.
The famous quirk of his lips that oozes cocky and confident. The panty-melting way his lips lift because he knows that he’s going to win and there is nothing anyone can do about it.
He takes a step in my direction, and my body instantly reacts to counter it, but I stay grounded.
If he wants to go to battle, I’m suited up and ready. My armor might be a tad bit weak and I might be the underdog, but that’s who the people root for. And I’m betting that it still strikes a fucking nerve with what I’ve done to him.
“Did you honestly think I was going to let the Hardisons get away with touching what was mine? A-fucking-gain, Miss Shelton?” Another step and he’s inches away from my chest as his shadow casts over me and blocks out the warm sun.
It’s cold and dark in his shade, threatening to hurl a full-body shiver up your spine and down to your toes.
Now I know how his enemies feel.
“The best time to attack, Shelton, is when your opponent has his guard down. When he thinks he got away with something. It’s been over a year...I don’t forget shit.”
“Be careful, Mr. President,” I glower. “You’re letting your liabilities show.”
His mouth twists. “I obviously don’t have any anymore.” Then he swivels on his feet and takes off towards the resort.
Hitting me with another, and familiar, twinge of regret.
♫ #icanteven —The Neighborhood feat. French Montana ♫
Reagan must think she’s higher than God if she believes that my eyes can’t reach her with Mila in between us.
The only thing it does do is keep me from seeing her squirm for most the night.
But it doesn’t keep me from wanting to throttle her.
I still don’t know who sent me the email of her fucking Jed, but it honestly doesn’t matter at this point. The extent of the matter is that she’s still doing it. That it wasn’t a one-time thing where she wanted to rip my heart out purposely and let me bleed for the rest of my life but the beginning or continuation of them.
She’s still allowing him to touch her body. To know what it feels like to sink his child-size dick inside her. To learn what she likes, doesn’t like, how she sounds—the goddamn list goes on.
Reagan thought that moving from her home would make it, what, harder for me to find her? Like New York is so big and crowded that I can’t find the one little ant that has been a pain in my ass since she made her own porn video.
You know that saying, keep your friends close but your enemies closer? What are you supposed to do with your ex-lover that still holds a piece of you? Drinking only temporarily fixes the problem. Smoking isn’t very becoming of a president when walking around smelling like weed and cigarettes all day. Fucking—well—doesn’t help when your new fling looks almost identical.
So, I went with plan B.
Mila is someone I know I can trust because of the Mayor Montgomery bullshit. And since Demi likes to keep tabs on all my shit, Mila was perfect to report back to me on any moves Reagan might be planning.
Her schedule was clear to do Chase’s wedding that his previous planner was fired from—cough—and I decided to fight my demons head-on.
Starting with her.
So I told Chase to use her. Like actually demanded that he did. I needed her in my space again, well aware that it wouldn’t be a pleasant meeting nor would it stop my heart from skipping and attempting to flee my chest.
But I’m not without retribution, and I want her to sit front row so that she doesn’t miss the show I’m about to play out in front of her.
She wanted to know me for who I was, now she’s going to see me for who I am.
&
nbsp; Layla and Chase only invited the maid of honor and another groomsman to dinner, keeping it somewhat light. That might have worked if it wasn’t for the emerging past that hangs over Reagan’s and my head.
The dinner is actually fantastic, grilled shrimp with roasted serrano chili sauce, bacon, and smoked mashed banana. The rigatoni with sea scallops and crabmeat was to die for. And the chocolate tart with pineapple and coconut—I might just buy this resort and live out the rest of my life in it.
With Reagan on her knees at my fucking mercy.
That paints a prettier picture in my head than the ones that have been hovering there over this past year.
“I hear business is good,” I convey over to Mila. “How are you liking New York?” Reagan’s fork clinks against her plate as I fight the urge to smile.
“I love New York,” Mila lifts. “There’s always something going on, never a dull moment to get bored. And business is always hectic but—” She looks over her shoulder at Reagan. “—I got a great boss so it’s not too much like work at all. I mean, look where I am, Mexico.”
“I’m glad you’re enjoying it,” I reply. “Maybe Reagan will make you partner one day.”
Mila shrugs. “Oh, I don’t know. It’s a lot of responsibility, and I’m not sure I’m cut out for that sort of thing.”
I perk a brow. “Seems like you’re good at a lot of things.”
Like working for both of us.
She swallows with a nod and goes back to eating her dessert while I wave down the waiter. I reorder drinks for the table before Reagan leans over to whisper something in Mila’s ear and excuses herself.
She’s not coming back to whatever bullshit line she just told Mila. I’ve been mindlessly talking about dumb shit this whole dinner and purposely pissing her off with anything I could think of. She’s had more than enough servings of me tonight.
“How are things really going in New York?” I ask again, finishing off my whiskey.
“She’s still the same,” she conveys. “Nothing has changed much.”
“Has she made any friends?” Mila adjusts herself in her chair, which already answers my question.
Son of a fucking bitch, I don’t know how much more of this I can deal with.
Any normal, sane man would just talk shit about their ex-whatever and fuck anything with a pulse. They’d move on to something they think they could either manipulate to make them feel better or find the next one they could spend the rest of their lives with.
Indie is just a temporary replacement. Something I threw into my life to numb the pain and have someone waiting for me. There would never be love there, nothing that I could see in the near future anyways. I’m too fucked up to be burned three times in a row, and I don’t have a piece of my heart that I own anymore.
It was all Reagan’s.
And she blew it up.
“Does her mother come to visit at all?”
She shakes her head. “No. Her brother got deployed shortly after Christmas and sometimes I hear her speaking to him, but that was maybe twice...three times.”
“So she still keeps you at arm’s length.”
“Always.”
“Who is she seeing in New York?”
Mila jerks her head to me. “What?”
“You’re girls, she must spill some shit.”
Mila’s brows descend. “I’ve never seen a—” She stops, realizing something that I might not know.
“She got flowers once, a huge bouquet of red roses.” My hand tightens over my tumbler. “Then she gave them to me.”
I immediately relax.
Geezus Christ.
“I want to know who he is.” She bows her head into her chest and inhales a deep breath.
“Governor—I mean, Mr. President...this spying thing that you’re having me do is...weird.”
“Was it weird when I offered to pay for your schooling in the fall as well as your siblings?”
“Well...kinda, but now that I’m doing it, I feel as though I’m betraying her on a daily basis.”
“I’m paying you to do a job, Mila.” I stand from my chair, which immediately gets Chase’s attention. “Keep to your end of the bargain and I promise, it won’t be for that much longer.”
I round her chair and wave Chase off, silently letting him know that I’m fine.
As fine as I can be anyway.
I’d bet my entire salary as president that Reagan stomped her ass right back to her room.
My two Secret Service guys stand ready for my approach along the entrance of the small patio that we’re sitting on. I don’t have to ask, they already know when I give them a blank stare that I want Reagan’s room number and the door key readily available for me.
I begin to stride away when Marshall halts me with his voice.
“She’s at the bar in the lobby, sir.”
I give him a curt nod, and march up the stairs. If Reagan thinks she’s going to be able to run from her problems, I’m here to remind her that life is hard and to wear a helmet. I get to relive my bullshit on a homemade video, she can withstand my presence for as long as I want her to.
My brain contemplates how bad of an idea this is. How my balls could be rammed right into my stomach because I know how badly she wants to hit me. Her eyes speak volumes, always have. I enjoyed the shock factor when she discovered me on the beach today. How I was able to rip her words from her throat like she shredded the only piece of sanity from my world.
Karma, it’s a bitch.
Ladies and gentlemen, meet karma—me.
A white skirt with stupid palm trees scattered on it hides Reagan’s legs from every man in this bar, but I’m aware of their tone and how hard they squeeze when she’s about to come. A matching shirt hugs her upper half, giving a small glimpse of her back and beneath her belly button. The perfect position to place your hands and slowly peel off her clothing no matter which direction you want to start with.
Stalking from behind her, I park my ass in the stool beside her, stirring a martini with her black straw. The moment she notices me, she lets out a scoff.
“Seriously?”
I wave down one of the female bartenders to let her know I’m ready when she is. “Seriously, you thought you were going to run away like a chicken shit and I wouldn’t find you, Miss Shelton? It’s only been a year, did you smoke half your brain cells out of your head?”
I feel her glare along the side of my face as she practically stabs the bottom of her glass with the end of her straw.
“I didn’t run,” she retorts. “Speaking of...” She pulls something from her purse and drops it on the bartop.
A box of Marlboro lights.
I roll my eyes.
“I still have a few that remember you,” she vouches, pulling one from the cardboard container. “I better fix that.”
“You couldn’t drink, smoke, or fuck me away.” I peer over to look at her face for the first time since sitting down. “Because here I am. And my name was the first thing that left your lips on the beach. The shit it did to my ego, Miss Shelton—” I make a clicking sound with my tongue. “—fucking epic.”
A muscle in her jaw tightens before she places her fag in between her plush lips and lights it.
“Can you even smoke in here?” I press, yanking my focus from her. “Or do you not give a shit about affecting people’s health for your own selfish needs?”
“You’re missing the point,” she states, halting for a brief second to take a long drag. “I’m hoping to get kicked out of the hotel for this shit.”
“A little dramatic but you’re a hella good actress. Might get someone’s attention that wasn’t asking for it.”
“Your subtle hints at what I did are lame,” Reagan vouches. “And I’m bored.”
The bartender comes over to take my whiskey order and promptly takes off before I’m able to shoot back something to the little vixen next to me.
What’s the point? This woman has a comment for every fucking thing. We
have bad blood now, and we both share a common agreement—we can’t stand each other right now.
However, here I sit, next to the woman I’ve professed my love to, and she pretends that my being here doesn’t bother her.
It does.
The cigarette between her fingers is slightly shaking. Her breathing is unsteady, and she’s finding anything else to look at rather than me.
I think I still have a strong effect on her.
“This wasn’t a social call,” I allude, breaking the silence between us again. “It was a courtesy.”
She tsks, flicking her ashes onto her black napkin. “For what?”
“For, if you ever send me another video of you fucking someone else, I’m going to make good on this threat, right here, and fuck your whole life up.”
Her neck snaps to me, showing off furrowed brows. “What are you talking about?”
“Don’t start acting ignorant now, Miss Shelton,” I return, giving her my attention again. “It doesn’t suit you.”
“I didn’t send you—”
“And lying about it does nothing to take it back either. You didn’t think you’d ever see me again so you grew a pair of balls and decided to bother me. Don’t do it again.”
Reagan turns in her stool to face me, rests her right elbow on the end of the bar, and leans a little into my space. “Trust me when I say, Governor, that I didn’t send you anything. And your idle—what did you call it—threat. Yeah...trust me when I say you don’t want to rattle my cage. You have more to lose than me.”
A mirthless chuckle escapes my chest as the young bartender places my drink in front of me and gives me a sweet smile. I shoot her one back and Reagan flicks her cinders on my jeans.
The reason I know is because some of the fuckers are still hot.
Instead of reacting, by clutching her throat and spreading her legs wide for me to step in between, I take a large swig of my liquor to tamper down any irrational behavior or old habits.
“Are you done tossing around your power?” Reagan snaps, still perched in my direction before she takes another hit.
I toss back the rest of my whiskey and place a twenty on the bar then pluck the cigarette out of her mouth.