by Hazel Grace
Francis and Mitchell don’t speak much, I prefer it that way, but we’ve developed some sort of silent bond. They watched and protected, I ordered them around, and they weren’t affected.
Francis liked bubblegum, always spitting it out in my presence when I’ve told him a million times that he didn’t need to. Mitchell had some sort of hard crush on one of the press secretaries that practically strutted into my office whenever he was around. I’ve caught him staring at her ass more times than I care to keep track of, and when he’s not there, she could give a shit what she does. Once I mentioned for him to ask her out and he ignored me.
We were like the Three Musketeers and shit.
“How is he?” I ask, giving him permission with my words to walk in.
Mitchell nods before clasping his hands together. “Alive, Mr. President.”
“And? How bad?”
“He’s in emergency surgery, sir. His family has been contacted and on their way here.”
“How severe?”
“The first bullet grazed his head. The second hit his chest then pierced a lung.” My held breath releases in a shudder. “It must’ve been when he was charging in front of you, sir.”
I pull my attention from him and focus on the dry erase board behind Betty.
I can’t control an operating table or a doctor doing his or her job right. No amount of money can buy his life or safety through what he’s undergoing right now, and it leaves me with a familiar feeling of hopelessness and vulnerability.
I bow my head, and Mitchell stands to the side, aligning his back with the wall to keep guard of the room.
“Can you give us the room?” I ask Betty. Her brown eyes flick to me, and she presses her thin lips in a fine line.
“Just don’t move much,” she advises, her brows cutting down in a subtle warning. “You’ll mess up my work.”
I coerce a grin. “You got it.” She promptly exits, leaving me with just Em and Mitchell. My man closes the door behind her, and Emmy steps closer to my bed.
“Do you need pain meds?”
“I’m already on them,” I reply. “Who shot me?”
“His name is Randy Houston, a man you call when you want someone taken out.”
“By?”
Emmy’s expression turns deadly. “Your wife.” My body immediately tenses, a chill runs down my arms and spine as Emmy’s mocha eyes bore into me.
I know for a fact that Demi will go above and beyond to get what she wants. Shit, I’ve lived through it.
But, kill me? Fuck, I should’ve seen that coming when she practically burned Reagan’s mother’s house down to the ground.
“Mitchell,” I voice, my whole body on edge. “Call the men that we left with Miss Shelton, give them a heads-up.” He doesn’t respond, stepping out of the room to do what I asked.
“There’s more,” Em states, shifting her weight in front of me.
“More?” My brows knit. “Who else got shot?”
“Your wife’s future.” She takes a seat next to me on the hospital bed and releases a sigh before continuing. “Not only is the media outside to see if you are still alive but they have been informed that Demi has a love child with your father.”
I shoot up and round on her, immediately regretting my sudden outburst. “I fucking told you not to release that.” A numbing pain digs into my chest, but I ignore it.
We had a plan—all five of us in the living room of my old penthouse.
No one made a move until I gave the word. We’d hit Demi by releasing letters Camila kept in her diary about Demi peer pressuring her to do coke, ecstasy, to have sex with random guys—the list goes on. Then Phoebe is going to confirm the stories and tell her side with Lucas and I flanked around her. Next would be the bullshit Lucas went through because of my vindictive wife.
The President of the United States, their brother, is going to stand behind them as the biggest and greatest wall for them to lean on. Then Demi is allowed to throw out whatever bullshit she wants to. If she decides to bring my father’s son, Daxton, into this, she’s only fucking herself over. I just know that I’m not going to bring that kid into a media fun-filled day of psycho Demi.
“I didn’t release it,” Em replies softly. “And neither did your father.”
“Then who did?” She remains silent for a moment before a weak lift of her shoulder alludes to her answer. “What do you mean you don’t know?”
“I’m working on a lot of things right now.” Her eyes slit into me. “The story of the shooter, making sure that Francis’s family can get through all the press outside. You’ll have to stay here for a few days unless you’d like to be snuck back to the White House.”
“I’m not leaving until I know Francis is alright.”
She bows her head. “Sure, whatever you want to do.”
“Where is the shooter?” I begin to gradually pace the tiled floor. “Is he in police custody? I want him hung.”
“He’s dead.”
My left hand comes up to the bridge of my nose. “Did he run? Point the gun at the cops?”
“He pointed the gun at me,” she deadpans. My hand falls and so does my jaw. I’m cold—everywhere. The idea of a gun being raised to Emmy in the black gown that I bought her for Valentine’s Day sends me into a silent panic attack.
Yes, I sent my assistant a Valentine’s Day gift because she is the best love I’ve ever had in my life. She’s never hurt me, never lies to me—fuck, she never told me what her real job was. But I never asked. I get why she didn’t. I get a lot of shit about keeping things a secret so you don’t hurt the other person in question.
“Em.” Her name is a feeble exhale before I take a step towards her. “Are you—why didn’t you fucking tell me? I...fuck.” I snap my eyes shut and clench my good hand into a fist. “Are you okay?”
“I’m fine,” she mutters. I open my eyes to find her still sitting on the hospital bed, looking as worried about me as I am her.
She’s like a sister to me. Part of my family and such a huge factor of why I’m the president in the first place. I don’t know what I would do if I lost her. I’d resign because it just wouldn’t make sense to have anyone else around me because I’m paranoid as fuck with people I don’t know well so I’d rather be alone. More than I already am now. But she keeps me going, the gasoline to the fire that keeps me burning.
“I shot him.” My eyes bulge for the same reason they always do. I’m still adjusting to this. She keeps mentioning it, but I can’t get past that she doesn’t look like a killer. Em appears as if she's the head of a Girl Scout Daisies troop that takes them on nature walks and sells cookies at the local Home Depot.
Someone who would hold a purring kitten in her dainty hands, not a gun or a knife.
“You…” No, I can’t finish that sentence. That just confirms that I never really knew what she was capable of. That I might love her, that she may support and love me like a brother, but I couldn’t accept that she wore a cover and was purposely placed in my life. I always thought I was a lucky bastard that just found her, not the other way around and for another purpose.
Emmy slides off the bed, gripping the side of her dress so she lands on her feet without tripping. “I’m the same person I was before.”
Sluggishly, I shake my head. “I don’t know...I—you just said you killed someone.”
“And I would do it again.” Her face is serious—dead serious—as she erases some space between us. “If it was to take out the guy who almost killed you, I would have filleted him if it wasn’t for all the people around.”
A ripple of goosebumps lines my flesh. “I don’t want any kind of...you shouldn’t be chasing after dangerous men with guns. What the fuck, Em. Goddammit, I dont—I don’t want any blood on you. I…” My jaw trembles, and it might be the traumatic experience I just went through or that I’m just plain panicked.
I’m terrified for Francis and Reagan, that I’m here with my faithful assistant and imagining her not making i
t out of that venue because of a bullet in her. That I might lose people around me that matter, and I’m taking on more than I can chew. How it might be too late to realize that I may be dealing with something more sinister that not even I can take down.
Tears swell in my eyes. I can’t remember the last time I cried. I never let myself get there with Reagan because I drank myself into a comatose state. I did the same thing with Demi when she cheated on me with Dad and half a GQ magazine, killed our baby, then went our separate ways.
The only person I relied on moving forward was Em—always her. Emmy held me up, kept me busy, made me eat, and never left my side when I wouldn’t go into the office. She got me back up, reminded me of the hustle and my dream.
She was my backbone.
“Stop,” Em snaps, biting the inside of her lower lip. Averting her gaze, she finds something else to focus on, but I reach for her, yanking her small frame into the crook of my uninjured arm.
I bury my face into her blonde hair, breathing in her minty scent and letting a single tear fall. “Don’t you ever do that for me again. I will never survive this world without you, Em.”
“It’s my job,” she mumbles into my chest.
“You said your job was to keep me alive. You wanna do that, you need to stay breathing.”
“I’m careful.”
“It only takes one time. One wrong second and you’re gone. Please, Em. For me.” Her arms gingerly wrap around my waist.
“When this is all over, we’ll come to an agreement. Deal?”
I scoff, shaking my head at her trying to brush off the comment. “I always win, so deal.”
He’s out of surgery, but it’s still not looking good. Doctor I-Need-To-Retire couldn’t hide the fact that Francis pulling through was out of his hands and put into some superpower that was going to decide if he lives or dies.
I wouldn’t let him see Francis’s family. Not when his little sister, who was just as small and pretty as Emmy, shook the whole time in the waiting room. I swear I thought she would collapse or stroke out at any second. No matter how much her father held her, she wouldn’t and couldn’t stop.
I tried to small-talk with her, something I’m horrible at, but I did it anyway. Anything to keep her mind off her brother and focused on me. If it wasn’t for my need to get some air from the tension of the room, I never would’ve run into the doctor who was already on his way to us. I demanded he send someone in there with some damn hope in their voice and didn’t look like he didn’t want to be here.
So, while they are getting the news of Francis’s condition with some damn promise, I need some space of my own, and the closest I was going to get was the stairwell.
The media literally had tents outside waiting to hear more news of my condition, to get some word on Demi and how I was doing with the news that she fucked my father and got pregnant. They want to know if I knew, am I shocked, has it worsened my condition and mental state.
Little did they know that my mental state has worsened as the years have gone by, and instead of the hard shell of a man I used to be, I’m soft, weak, and broken. The years haven’t been good to me, and I kept it my job to keep those facts and feelings to myself.
Now everything is starting to seep through the cracks of my broken life for everyone to discover and pick apart. And I’ll do it all ten times over if it saves my siblings and Reagan.
The hallways to the hospital are pretty quiet compared to how they were two days ago when I was shot at the charity auction. I need a shower, preferably at home, but I’m not going outside to face the shitshow, and I’d rather be here to send Francis any sort of positive vibes that I might have left residing inside me.
Honestly, not sure if I’m doing more bad than good by being here. The only constructive thought going through my brain is that Demi is locked up in the White House like a caged rat for the media to swallow her whole like the snakes half of them are.
The doctors are putting Francis in a room so that he and his family can be more comfortable together, and I don’t want to overstep. They need alone time. I’m just the asshole he saved and now he’s hanging by a thread.
No wonder his sister couldn’t look at or even speak to me. I don’t think I’d be able to come to terms with a loved one taking a bullet for someone else. I’m just an entitled douche who gets special treatment.
Bowing my head into my chest, I rake my hand through my hair, frustrated and overwhelmed. I have to deal with this Demi shit, I have a job to do, a country to run, but the man that resides in me—he wants to run. I want to drop all this shit on the porch of that famous white building and just disappear somewhere that doesn’t remind me of the bullshit that has transpired. A place with no TV or newspaper. A spot where I can just lay my head and heal for once in my damn life. A space where Reagan can’t find me because every time she’s in my scope, I want to run right back to our chaos.
I bump into a soft body, snapping my head up before a heavy exhale protrudes through my lips.
I’m losing my fucking shit, I have to be.
I left her in a gift shop in Wyoming with overpriced souvenirs and her family. I gave strict orders that every eye that I left would watch over her or I’d be back to skin them alive. (I was in a “western theme” moment).
Taking a step back, I’d know that body, scent, those eyes anywhere. It doesn’t matter how many people crowd me every day, I’d never forget her.
“I had to sneak in with a family to get on this floor,” she admits softly, studying my frame. “But I had to see you.” Her eyes flick to my shoulder. “You’re bleeding.”
She closes the distance I put between us and reaches for my injury but pulls her hand back.
“Reagan,” I emit through a restrained exhale. “You can’t be here.” She’s already ignoring me, looking around the clad hallway for some assistance. When her arm raises to alert a woman in blue scrubs, I drive it down.
I don’t want help right now. I just want to stare at her like a selfish dickhead even though her being here is a major red flag. There is a huge possibility that she will be seen, and the flashing lights alert me that she cannot be seen with me. Let alone in the same building.
“You need help.” Keeping my grip on her, I guide us down the hall and to the first waiting room I find.
Thankfully, it’s empty besides the TV and the news rattling off my name on cue of us stepping in. All expeditious information of where I am, how I might be doing.
Probably not the safest thing for them to give out if Demi’s men want to finish me off but who the hell am I? Walking towards the small flat screen, I turn it off to then pivot back to Reagan.
Her dark hair is a fucking mess, windblown with small strands wisping around her face and eyes. She’s wearing leggings and a white tee under a leather coat, and she’s just too—Reagan for me to fucking bear right now.
“Are you okay?” she frets, walking toward me again. “There’s so much that—”
“I’m okay,” I deadpan, nonchalantly and as discreetly as I can back away from her.
You can’t be here, baby.
Her being here devastates all the things I should be saying but can’t. It engulfs me into a ball of emotions and shit I don’t want to fuck with right now. The facts are simple and should be easy to speak out.
There is no way in hell she should be in this hospital. The simplistic truth that she snuck her ass in here only means security sucks, and I need my own protection for whatever Demi has next because I know that bitch has options.
“It was everywhere,” Reagan frets, wringing her fingers. “Being in a National Park couldn’t keep the news away that you were...shot. Do you—”
“Where are the men I left you with?” Her lips part before she suddenly looks for something else to focus on. “Reagan.”
“I lost them at the airport.” My jaw locks as she looks at me innocently, calmly, beautifully.
“They’re fired.” My fingers curl, not able to hit anything because
I’d like to walk out of here with only one injury.
Reagan violently shakes her head before arriving inches from me. “Please, don’t. I’m a pain in the ass. I used to lose people all the time when I was running...drugs.”
“They’re trained Secret Service, Reagan. And they lost the only person I wanted them to protect while I couldn’t be present.”
“It wasn’t easy,” she professes. “Please, don’t.” My nostrils flare as I avert my gaze because I can’t stand the way her eyes are pleading for me to listen.
I want to, it’s just that she could be where Francis is right now or worse—dead. And that would be because of a mistake that, again, I wouldn’t be able to fix.
I can’t fix a lot of things.
Emmy was thrown into danger with a gun to her face.
Francis was trying to recover from being shot for saving my life.
And with Demi’s connections, she could’ve had Reagan’s plane shot down for all I know.
“Wade.” Another request to be attentive to what she wants to say. Her hand touches my chest, and it causes me to suck in a breath.
My attention snaps to her, finding a new expression on her pretty features—worry, relief, and possibly other things, but that’s all I can sift through right now.
“I’m so happy you’re okay,” she mutters. “I was so scared.”
“I’m okay.” She doesn’t buy it, her bottom lip ends up between her teeth and her violet eyes gloss over in unshed tears.
“I understand why you’d put a front up with me. I hurt you, you hurt me, we said goodbye.” Her hand balls my shirt with her first. “But I don’t want you hurt. I couldn’t live if—I didn’t know if the news was right or if it was a front. I had to find out for myself.”
“Where were you?” I ask.
“Mount Rushmore.”
I scoff, can’t help it. “Fitting.” Her brows furrow, and my hand comes up to brush her cheek, beyond grateful that she’s here, but that’s totally beside the point. “You need to go somewhere safe.”