by Hazel Grace
She hits me dead-on with her stare. “Say the word.”
“What word?”
“The word, Wade. The one you were told to use when you needed something taken care of. Where no questions would be asked. That your decisions and judgment would always be top priority.”
I frown. Em is losing her shit.
“Sit down,” I order, striding towards the phone on my desk.
I need to order her something to eat. Her blood pressure must be down or she’s suffering from being sleep deprived.
I need to really start cracking down on her to take care of herself and maybe start shoving Bahama pamphlets in her hands.
She needs a break.
I need her to be healthy. I can’t run this shit without her when my world is just smoking debris of shit I’ve lost.
“Blue,” Em mutters. “It was the only word I knew you’d remember.”
I shake hands with Heidi, standing in front of the Capitol Building with tens of thousands of people cheering because I’ve just been sworn into office for president.
It’s deafening, but the sun is out on a day that I pictured differently in my head.
It went from Demi standing at my side, still madly in love with her with a child or two standing in front of us.
Then it became Reagan, dressed in blue—my favorite fucking color—and patiently waiting for me to do my pleasantries before I pulled her into the nearest dark corner to have every way with her.
Instead, my first dream is the reality. Demi does stand at my side, but I’m madly appalled by her. I don’t want children with the bitch, and I want to watch her plummet from where I’ve gotten us with a bowl of popcorn and a tumbler of whiskey.
“Congratulations, Mr. President,” Heidi beams with a smile. “You’re going to do great.”
I smile, half of it genuine. “Thank you. If I don’t, half of it is your fault.” I wink at her, and she chuckles before I move on to the next person to shake their hand.
It feels like a lifetime before a woman approaches me with red hair, hazel eyes, and a slim figure. She must be a senator or something, but I’ve never seen her before.
“All the congratulations in the world to you, Mr. Lockwood,” she offers, taking my hand then clasping her other over the top of it. “You’re in good hands here.”
I nod. “Thank you.”
“When you’re in trouble or need something taken care of for you, remember ‘blue’.” She nods to my side, and Em shows up alongside me. “Emmy Lou will know what to do.”
Okayyy…
“Sounds great,” I reply, giving her one last shake so she lets go of me. She gives Em a nod then takes off.
I never saw her again.
“That was a joke,” I reply, turning back to face her. “Some crazy woman told me—”
“It’s not,” Em quips.
I close the distance between us. “What aren’t you telling me?”
I have no clue what that means. What blue represents. Is fucking Superman going to show up if I call, or if I shine the Batlight, am I going to come in contact with the Caped Cruisader?
“Em,” I urge. “It’s you and me. It’s always been you and me. We’ve always been in this together.”
“The word is blue,” she remarks, jaw tightening as her tiny frame straightens. “It’s the word when someone needs to be terminated with no questions asked. It’s what I do.”
“It’s what you do...I don’t get it, Em.”
“I’m not who you think I am.”
I lift a brow. “I mean...your words, not mine.”
“Wade,” she seizes through flared nostrils. “This is serious.” I take a steady inhale, ready for her to continue. I have a feeling I’m not going to like this. Her seriousness is starting to wreck my nerves a tad, and she’s all I’ve got.
I can’t take anymore bullshit right now.
“I was brought in to be your assistant from a group of trained assassins and special forces called B723. We’re a secret government program that is only known by the president, the White House chief of staff, and a few elite others. I was sent in to protect you, keep you grounded, and make sure you became President of the United States.”
I gape at her then blink. Em is five-foot-nothing and weighs about a buck ten with the amount of weight she’s lost. She couldn’t kill a damn kid if she wanted to. A large gust of wind would blow her ass over then turn her into a tumbleweed.
So, her standing in front of me, telling me that she’s part of this elite force that I was vaguely “briefed” about when I swore myself into this title of president, it’s not computing.
“I’m here to protect and serve the President of the United States and keep all threats to his security and persona protected. You are my first and only priority, always have been.”
“Uh...Emmy, you’re a girl who grew up in the state of Kansas with a rottweiler and a single dad.”
“I am.”
“But you…” A mirthless chuckle breaks from my lips, which draws Em’s brows together. “You’re messing with me right now, aren’t you? You haven’t seen me laugh or something in a few days so you had to pull me in here to do your thing.”
“It’s not a thing, I promise.” She places a hand on my forearm. “I’m absolutely dead-serious. I’ve kept Demi out of your life about eight times now before she came in this last time.”
I glare at her. “What are you talking about?”
“Sit down.” I don’t, I remain standing while towering over her like she’s an ant. We don’t keep things from each other.
Actually, I do.
She never knew the full extent of Reagan until I became immobile on my couch.
Em holds her impassive expression to mine, and I concede, taking a step back to sit down.
“We almost had her killed three times,” Em starts while she begins to pace the floor in front of me. “But I didn’t want you to be a suspect. I didn’t want it to be something that loomed over your head and put the thought in the minds of Americans that you are a possible wife killer. It would’ve wiped out your ratings and fucked everything else up. So we stopped, but she wouldn’t quit trying to come back into your life. So we threatened her.”
“Who is ‘we’?”
“B723, like I said.” I grip the fabric of my pants, ready to kick this fucking coffee table over.
If this is a joke, I’m going to put her on a plane right the fuck now because Em has more issues than I thought she did.
Everything she is stating is fucking ludacris. But this Demi coming back eight times thing, I’m here for that.
“Threatened her with what?” I press. “She cares about nothing but herself.”
“Exactly. I have the DNA results of her son, Daxton, to confirm he is your father’s along with the birth certificate. We obviously know you’re not the father.”
“But she’s here...right now,” I assert. “Why?”
“Because if you won the Democratic delegate, which you would because we’d make it happen, then—” I shoot up from the couch.
“Wait, what?!” Em stops pacing and aligns herself straight towards me. Lacing her fingers together, she drops them in front of her.
“You were the best candidate. Your competitors were as corrupt as the day is long. Johnson McGregg was into child pornography. Lee Robinton helps fund a meth lab in Arizona because he watched Breaking Bad and thought it’d be a good idea, I guess. Janice Walters...well, she was just a cunt.”
“Em…”
“Then there was my favorite, Tom Vincent. He beat his wife and liked to hold a gun to her head when he was upset about something. Once, he pointed it at his three-year-old daughter because she had an accident and he didn’t want to deal with the mess.”
“He’s dead,” I convey through knitted brows. She blinks. “Em.”
She shrugs nonchalantly. “I didn’t do it.”
“What the fuck is going on right now?”
“A plan,” she replies softly. �
�One that would rid you of Demi and the hold she has on you. All the secrets and manipulation, you were the best candidate to run the country.”
“I’m the biggest asshole that ran for—”
“So we shouldn’t be afraid of North Korea trying to bomb us then.” I shake my head and take a step back.
I need some air.
I think...was I poisoned? Am I imagining this whole shit up?
“No,” Em states. “You’re not.” My eyes flick back to her, realizing that I spoke out loud.
“Why—” I bring my fingers to the bridge of my nose. “—why would you do this?”
“Because...you were the best fit. Demi is baggage. There was a vote to bring her back in to keep it as normal as possible. Then when she was killed, you’d be liberated.”
“So, this whole time...you knew she was going to come back?”
You didn’t tell me, and I lost Reagan over it.
“Yes.” She lifts her chin, however, I still see the regret in her eyes. “But not without a cost. I was going to kill her after your first year of the presidency.”
“Do you know what you’re saying right now?”
“Absolutely. I volunteered for it.”
“Have you ever...have you ever killed someone before?”
“Yes.” I snap out of my zombie-like state and into her space, my hand gripping her biceps.
“Stop it, Em,” I chide, giving her a small shake. “You won’t kill a spider in your office, let alone a person.”
“People are evil, spiders are creatures.”
“Em…”
Her brown eyes soften before she gives me a weak smile. “I did this because I believe in you. And I’m not sorry that you’re just finding out about this now because you didn’t need to before. I’m your protector, you had your own job to do.”
My forehead creases. “And what else have you done or thrown into my life?”
“Not Reagan. She was truly supposed to be hired as the new party planner. I really couldn’t stand Viola.”
My eyes constrict as I look at the woman in front of me. The one who was like a little sister to me. Who always had my ass. Who forever was up my ass to be a better man. I might be a lost cause on the latter, but she believed in me.
She has constantly believed in me.
“Emmy,” I mutter. “I don’t want you doing this kind of shit. Please...if what you’re saying is...true, I don’t want you...”
“Do you still trust me?” Off of the tip of my tongue, it’s yes—always. But a cold feeling creeps down my spine because this woman just transformed before my eyes, yet she still remains the same. “The answer is, yes, Wade.”
“I…” I drop my grip on her to take a step back. “What happens now?”
“Two things,” she mutters. “We either wait for her to fuck up and commit treason or you say it. You confidently say the word ‘blue’, and Demi is gone.”
♫ Every Time You Leave — I Prevail feat Delaney Jane ♫
“Marty!” I lunge for him, my full weight crashing into his body, and squeeze him to make sure he’s real. His warmth seeps through my T-shirt as my heart swells in my chest. The back of my eyes smolder with tears and a wrecked sob slips when his arms wrap around me tighter.
“Tsarina,” he mutters into my hair, smelling like New York exhaust and greasy food. “Why didn’t you look through the peephole before answering the door?”
I choke-chuckle in his shoulder and shake my head. “I did, idiot. What are you doing here?” I slowly break from him, gripping his massive forearms for support before I notice the gash over his right eyebrow. “What happened?!”
He gives me a feeble grin, and half-ass rolls his eyes. “Aren’t you going to invite me in?” He doesn’t wait for me to answer, brushing by me to head towards the kitchen.
I don’t miss the small limp to his stride as his frame fills out my tiny kitchen. His fingertips brushing the cheap countertop to make sure he has something to support him in case he misses a step.
“Do I get to guess?” I press, closing the door before following him. Marty’s palms land on my kitchen island, steadying his weight as he stands across from me.
“Working.”
My brows slowly rise. “On what? Getting your ass kicked?” His biceps bulge from his Boston Red Sox shirt as he leans over, appearing twice as big as the last time I saw him, months ago. “Are you on roids?”
He immediately chuckles, his dimples illuminating off his face as he hangs his head. Then my blood rushes to my brain as I notice the small amounts of blood droplets on his chest that blend in with the material.
“How are you here?” Hesitantly, he trails his gaze up to mine, green eyes flashing a warning to stop asking questions, but it quickly fades into nothing.
“Drills,” he deadpans with an emotionless expression.
“Drills?”
“It used to look worse, Tsarina.”
Uh, huh.
I cross my arms along my chest. “It looks like it just happened. And that wouldn’t be right because you’ve been over the pond since leaving after Christmas.”
He shrugs. “Reopened it in the taxi when the asshole slammed on the brakes.”
“Did you trip and fall to get that gash on your head or…?”
“Damn,” he sighs. “I would’ve gone to visit Mama, if I knew you were going to ask me twenty questions and starve me.”
“Questions first.”
“How about first aid first,” he retorts.
“First aid first,” I repeat. “And questions after.”
His brows furrow. “Don’t you have food? I’ll just make a quick sandwich.” I give him an exaggerated smile as I go down the hall to my bathroom.
“Not unless you like expired milk and moldy cheese.”
“You said you were taking care of yourself,” he bellows from the kitchen. I whip out the peroxide, Q-tips, and Band-Aids from my medicine cabinet over the toilet.
“I’m eating.”
Sort of.
I find him plopped down at one of the stools in front of the kitchen island, hunched over like a child that’s not getting his way and strumming his fingers impatiently along the surface.
I steal another glance at his gash. “Taxi, huh?” He sends me a glare then averts his eyes.
“I told you New York was a dangerous place to live.”
I open the peroxide and tip it up to soak up the cotton on the q-tip. “Why didn’t you call me and tell me to pick you up at the airport?”
“It’s called a surprise, Tsarina. One I’m regretting because you’re—shit.” He rubs his ribs, exposing another glower in my direction after I pinch his side. “You’re still a fucking brat.”
“Aw—” I smile. “—I love you, too. Turn around.” I dap his cut gently, as he turns to study my space.
“This place sucks.”
My brows furrow. “Thanks, asshole.”
“No—” he shakes his head. “—I mean New York. You should’ve never moved here.”
I soak another cotton ball with peroxide. “Had to. And we’ve talked about this.”
“No, you didn’t.” He scoffs, one of many that I’ve heard him do every time he wants to breach the subject. “Who’s watching Mama?”
“She’s doing fine. And I lost too many clients.”
AKA, let’s stop talking about this.
“You didn’t like it anyways.” He begins tapping his foot along the metal legs of the stool. “We never did get along with people over poverty level.”
I smirk half-heartedly. “No, I guess not.” I steal another glance at my brother. “I’m surprised your commanding officer let you come home.”
“He said I looked homesick.”
My lips quirk. “You’re just now homesick?” I begin dabbing his cut, recognizing a purple bruise forming along his cheekbone. A swollen part of his lip meshed with a cut. “Taxi, huh?”
Another heavy sigh, his eyes look elsewhere. “We still on this?” I co
ntinue cleaning his wound in silence, giving him a pregnant minute to think about it. “I got drunk and had a nice conversation with the floor.”
“And got this gash?”
“Did I mention before I hit the floor, I smacked into the corner of the bartop?”
“Marty…it’s two in the afternoon...on a Sunday.”
“So?”
“So, you’re lying.” Marty jerks his head away from me before I can apply more antiseptic.
“You’re not a detective, Tsarina, so don’t act like one.”
“Then you promise?” I assert innocently. His green eyes pull from me again, stating he isn’t going to. That he’s hiding something that he doesn’t want to tell me. “You want to try again?”
“No. Drop it.” I tap peroxide to his cut one more time before letting it dry.
“We never used to keep things from each other.”
He scoffs. “You sure about that?” I want to wrap my fingers around his throat and rattle him, but I don’t want to spend our first couple of minutes together fighting.
That, and I wouldn’t win a wrestling contest with him either.
His phone rings, breaking the monotony of the room when I don’t respond. Sliding off the stool, Marty gives me his vast back and pulls it out of his back pocket.
“What’s up?” he answers, striding through my living space and to the window that overlooks the busy street. “I’m fine, with my sister.”
I toss the bloody cotton ball and grab another, doing the same thing and straining to listen to any hints of who he’s talking to.
He doesn’t feel the same, the tautness of his body vibes the room and something doesn’t feel right. As much as I love having him home, I’ve always known when he was coming back to the States.
So him showing up at my door, unexpected, something’s wrong. I can feel it prickling at my skin, and my defense is already starting to rise.
“I’m about to tell her in a second,” he mutters. “And just update me when you hear something back—by text.” Another second goes by and he says, “You’re a dick.” Then he hangs up and pivots to face me again.
“Everything okay?”
He sighs. “Yeah, buddy in the Marines and half the reason why I’m here on top of the ‘homesick’—” He air quotes with his fingers. “—thing. His wife is pregnant, had some false labor, and our commanding officer sent me to babysit.”