by Ivy Jordan
“I told you, it always comes out, one way or another,” I said.
“I read it from front to back before bringing it to you,” Michael said.
“It has nothing derogatory about either of you; in fact, it’s quite flattering. The author is a huge supporter, apparently worked closely with you both on the campaign trail in Minnesota,” Michael added.
“Good. Then no damage control is needed,” Adam said, turning to wink at me. “We have dinner plans,” he added.
Michael let us both know the book would be on the shelves in the morning, probably sold out by noon.
“Should I step down?” I asked, feeling that this could still come back to bite one of us, or both of us, in the ass.
“No. You earned your position here,” Adam stated firmly.
“Yes. I agree,” Michael said quickly.
“Are you certain? Even if only temporarily, until this blows over?” I questioned.
Both men argued that I’d be stepping down for no reason. “You’ve proven yourself, both on the campaign trail and here in the White House,” Adam insisted.
“Yes. And this Sal guy really gives you props for how you worked your ass off for Adam,” Michael added.
“Okay,” I agreed.
The next morning, the book was released and Sal was on every talk show known to man. “Crap,” I growled, switching through the channels.
Adam stepped out of the bathroom, his toothbrush still hanging from his mouth, to see what I was growling about.
“I wanted to scream from the mountain tops that I loved you. It’s good the world knows how important you’ve been to my life,” he said quickly, and then disappeared back into the bathroom.
It wasn’t the first night I’d spent in the White House, in Adam’s personal quarters, but the exit this morning was feeling like a walk of shame.
“Hold your head up high,” Adam encouraged me, giving me a quick kiss before we started our day tackling the latest big news: our love.
The White House staff was gracious, no one offering more than a quick smile, or a nod to show approval, but the reporters were relentless.
Adam decided to schedule a conference, one that would allow only a handful of reporters, and where he and I would tell our story.
It felt awkward at first, like we were on trial as the six reporters lined up in chairs adjacent our seats.
Adam started the conversation off with how we first met, a detail I wanted left out because of my age. “Were there romantic feelings then?” one of the reporters asked, to which Adam laughed.
“I was twenty-four, Quinn was twelve. No, of course not,” he stated firmly.
One of the reporters cornered me with the same question, to which I admitted having a school girl crush on the beautiful, blue-eyed man in the Air Force uniform.
The more we talked, the more relaxed I became, actually enjoying hearing some of Adam’s answers.
I’d never heard that he had feelings for me when he left the military, coming home to find the braces gone and the little girl he’d known gone, grown into a beautiful woman. I’d never heard it, because I’d never asked.
“Why didn’t you pursue something then?” one reporter asked.
“She was in college, and had a life ahead of her that I knew may very well not include me,” he replied, smiling in my direction.
The cameras shut down, the reporters thanked us both for our candidness, and that was it. The whole story was out there. No more secrets.
Epilogue
Over three years had passed since Adam’s election, and we were working hard on his new campaign. The American people loved him, loved us, so we knew he had a great chance at a second term.
“Never take anything for granted,” he reminded me as I reassured him he’d be elected again. I poked him in the ribs and smiled. My smile turned to a look of astonishment and wonder as I saw what he did next.
He dropped to one knee, held out a black box, and slowly opened it to reveal a gorgeous diamond engagement ring.
“Quinn, I’ll never take you for granted again for as long as I live. Will you do me the honor of being my wife?” Adam asked.
Tears streamed down my cheeks as I jumped up and down, squealing like a kid at the circus. I’d dreamed of this day ever since we’d told the world about our love, but I figured it would be after re-election, and not a minute before.
“Yes!” I screamed, jumping into his arms.
The people were just as gracious about the proposal when it was announced, as they had been about our relationship. Venues were begging for us to hold our big day there, designers were sending me wedding dresses to try, and the American people were sending notes of encouragement, tips for a long and happy marriage, and even offers to help plan, execute, or clean up on our wedding day. It was overwhelming.
“I love that story,” Rowena sighed, looking at me with a pride that made me feel like our mother was in the room, in her.
My girlfriends from college were all dressed in pink dresses, ready to walk down the aisle of the little church in Minnesota. It was my mother’s church, the one she’d gone to faithfully twice a week until the day she died.
I didn’t want a big fancy wedding, or a big expensive designer gown. A guest list with hundreds of people I didn’t know just didn’t seem right to me, and Adam agreed.
“It’s just about us, our love, and sharing it with those who truly matter,” Adam said sweetly when I told him about my plans.
I couldn’t be happier, and telling the story of our courtship, our engagement, to my dearest friends whom I hadn’t seen since college, or even high school—well, that was my dream.
“So, you didn’t see Adam last night?” Lora asked, my roommate from college.
I blushed, not wanting to admit to Rowena that she hadn’t guarded me as well as she thought. “He snuck over,” I giggled.
Rowena’s eyes widened. “What do you mean he snuck over?” she asked.
The girls all giggled, and I smiled a sly—but shy—smile at my older sister. “I snuck him in the window last night,” I admitted.
She shook her head. “Figures. He can’t stand being away from you,” she sighed lovingly.
The music started playing in the church, an old organ that my mother had played for the Christmas play while the original organist played the role of Mary. It was beautifully out of tune, too loud, and exactly what I wanted to hear on this special day.
The girls all lined up, stepping out of the small room one by one to meet their groomsmen to walk down the aisle.
“Are you okay?” Rowena asked quietly.
I squeezed her hand tightly. “Yes. This is a dream come true,” I said.
“I’m sorry Mom isn’t here,” she said.
“She is,” I told her, feeling in my heart that she was around… somewhere.
Adam wore a black tux and stood at the altar like my Prince Charming, of course—but with the added effect of the Secret Service standing at each door of the church.
Rowena walked me down the aisle, gave me away, and I took my first steps toward my soon-to-be husband.
I couldn’t tell you the words, not the exact ones that the preacher used, but I can relive the feeling of love I felt in that moment every time I see Adam smile.
“Do you have any regrets?” I asked softly as the preacher announced us husband and wife.
“Only that I didn’t marry you sooner,” Adam replied, and then he pulled me in for a long, passionate kiss.
“Who cares who’s watching,” he’d told me during our rehearsal. “I’m gonna kiss you like I always do.”
We were whisked away to a secret honeymoon spot, not one I can mention. I plan to use it again, and again, having all of our yearly anniversaries there, so that secret-that one, we’re keeping.
I was officially the first lady, and with that came great responsibility, so Michael took over my position in the White House, or at least some of it. I was still the person who had the last say on anyt
hing involving Adam’s personal appearances, his wardrobe, and his social scheduling.
The people proved to like a working first lady. When election time came around, Adam won by a landslide, of course.
Going to the White House, working in politics, no, it wasn’t my dream. Or, at least I didn’t think it was, or ever could be.
Adam, yes, he was always my dream, and so by accepting my place on his campaign, it was obvious I was hoping—okay, dreaming—for romance.
I found it, and I found that dreams aren’t always what you think they are. They are what you make them.
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MR SHERIFF
By Ivy Jordan
This book is a work of fiction. The names, characters, places and incidents are products of the writer's imagination or have been used fictitiously and are not to be construed as real. Any resemblance to persons, living or dead, actual events, locales or organizations is entirely coincidental.
Copyright © 2017 Ivy Jordan
Chapter One
What started off as a beautiful Sunday ended as a nightmare.
“I made you!” A slurry of saliva spewed from Greg’s mouth and into my face.
He was mad, madder than I’d ever seen. “You need to leave,” I said calmly to deaf ears.
“You would be nothing without me, Naomi, nothing!” Greg screamed in my face.
His face was contorting as he shouted, and his once-beautiful blue eyes turned dark. I’d never been afraid of him before, not once in the first year we dated. The last few months things had escalated quickly, and after I’d told him we were done, the new Greg emerged. The Greg I didn’t know, the one that scared the hell outta me.
“Greg, you need to leave, now!” My voice raised to match his.
“You can’t tell me what to do,” he chuckled, leaning against the desk in my front room. “This place, yeah, I got you this place. All those clients you’re cooking for, training, I got those for you, too. You don’t think I can’t take everything away from you whenever I want?” he snarled, his mouth twisted in a half-smile.
Some of that may have been true, a year ago. I worked hard to get where I was, and I did owe some of my success to Greg, but certainly not all. “You only got me this place so your friends could keep an eye on me,” I sassed, wishing I hadn’t as soon as my words filled the room.
My body jolted backward as Greg’s strong arms pushed into my chest. The doorjamb ground into my back, sinking into my flesh like a knife. I let out a scream of agony as Greg’s dark, angry eyes pierced into mine with a smile sliding upward on his face. This was not the Greg I once knew.
His hands gripped around my waist, slinging me across the room. My back hit the arm of the couch, sending me from my feet and onto the cushions.
“You need to remember who’s in charge,” Greg whispered as he leaned over me.
I pushed myself up, angry and ready to take back control of my life.
Greg was walking out my front door, his stride filled with pride. My anger grew quickly, causing me to lunge after him, pushing him out onto my front stoop. “Don’t ever come back here!” I screamed.
“I have no reason to,” he said calmly, suddenly acting civilized instead of like the monster he’d been inside.
He reached his hand to his neck, where my nails must’ve dug into his flesh as I pushed. A smile smeared across his face as he pulled back a drop of blood with his fingers. “You’re a fuckin’ pyscho,” he growled.
His eyes grew dark once again, and he came at me, pushing me onto my ass. He hovered over me, screaming obscenities, calling me a whore and accusing me of attacking him.
My blood boiled as his slobber slung onto my cheeks. “You’re actin’ like you have ‘roid rage,” I hissed, standing from my pushed position, only to have Greg grip me to shove me back down.
My hand reached for something to catch my fall, only for it to be Greg’s face, and then shoulder. Another set of claw marks were now in place to prove his rantings.
His muscles flexed, his nostrils flared, and I watched carefully as his fists clenched. I knew he was ready to hit me. I knew he would’ve if two cop cars hadn’t pulled up right that second.
“Step away from her,” ordered a strong voice. The voice belonged to an officer with short dark hair and deep, dreamy eyes.
Greg lifted his hands in the air, smirked, and took a couple steps away from where he stood over me. “I’m so glad you’re here, officers,” he said calmly, turning around.
Marlene, my neighbor, stood in her front yard with her hand on her hip. It was obvious she was the one who called the police there in the first place, and just couldn’t wait to jump in the middle of it.
She’d been rude ever since I broke it off with Greg, not that she had been much friendlier before. She was living with Hank, one of Greg’s best buddies at the gym where he worked—and where I used to work.
Another officer, one a little larger in the belly than the first one, got out of his car and walked over to Marlene.
I sat there on my front stoop, the place where I’d been pushed, and just waited for my turn to speak. Greg was six-foot-two and at least two hundred twenty pounds made up of mostly muscle; there was no way he had them believing I attacked him… was there?
Finally, the handsome officer walked toward me. “On your feet,” he ordered.
I obliged, standing quickly as the officer reached behind his back. He pulled out a pair of handcuffs.
“Turn around and place your hands behind your back,” he ordered.
Tears welled in my eyes. This wasn’t happening. There’s no way this could be happening.
“Officer, why am I being arrested?” I asked.
“You ae under arrest for domestic violence,” he stated in a calm voice, as I felt the hard, metal cuffs being slapped onto my wrists.
The sound of them clicking, locking me into this man’s custody, made me cringe. “This is absurd. He attacked me,” I pleaded.
“We have his statement, and the neighbor’s. You are welcome to make a statement at the station,” he said, walking me toward his patrol car.
His hand pushed onto the top of my head as he instructed me to turn and slowly bend to sit in the cold backseat. “I’m sorry, ma’am. He had visible marks and a witness. I’m only doing my job,” he said softly before closing the door, locking me in the car that smelled of sweat and something bitter, possibly blood.
Greg’s face was filled with pride and sarcasm as he glared at me once the officer finished with his statement. I wished I could flip him off, scream at him, or better yet, hit him in his smug mouth, but I was cuffed and locked down. How could he do this?
The officer returned to his car, sliding into the driver’s seat without saying a word. He scribbled in his notepad, called the station on his radio to let them know he was bringing one in, and then put it in gear. “Am I going to jail?” I asked.
“You can call someone to bail you out once you’ve been booked,” he said, like it was no big deal. It was a huge fuckin’ deal. Booked? I was being booked?
Tears streamed down my cheeks, burning my flesh with each streak. “This isn’t fair,” I sobbed.
“You can’t put your hands on someone,” the officer stated sternly.
“He came into my house and attacked me. He threw me into the doorjamb, across the room, and slammed me down onto my ass on the front porch. He was ready to hit me when you pulled up,” I explained in a calm, even voice.
“He had a witness that saw you attack him,” he said, turning the patrol car down the main highway.
“Yeah, his best friend’s girlfriend. Besides, she didn’t see anything in the house. And I only scratched him trying to catch myself from falling,” I said, my tears drying up and anger starting to grow.
I pushed back into the seat, arching my back to relieve the pressure the cuffs were creating on my shoulders, and heaved a sigh. This was obviously useless.
I stared at the
cars flying by, wondering if anyone I knew saw me in the backseat of this cruiser. This was going to ruin my reputation, my career, and probably my life.
The officer’s eyes drifted into the rearview mirror several times. I couldn’t tell if he was checking to make sure I wasn’t trying to make my escape from his speeding car on the busy highway, or if he was showing some type of empathy towards me. All I knew was that his dark eyes were beautiful.
He was back on his radio, stating numbers that meant nothing to me, and then the gates opened in the back of the police station. He pulled his patrol car through, stopping at a large black door marked ‘Prisoner.’ What the fuck? Was that for me?
Tears flooded my eyes as the backdoor opened. The officer leaned in, gripping my arm gently to lift me to my feet. Once I had my balance, and my eyes cleared from the tears, I noticed his name tag: C. Reynolds.
“You have to believe me. I didn’t do anything wrong. He attacked me,” I pleaded once more, hoping to find a glimmer of interest in his eyes.
He moved forward, walking me to the door without speaking. A loud buzzer sounded and the doors opened. Officer Reynolds led me through them and into a cold, unfriendly room with white floors that smelled of bleach.
“Have a seat,” he ordered, moving towards a wood desk.
The handcuffs were chafing against my wrists, and all I wanted was to wake up from this nightmare.
Officer Reynolds sat down at the desk and proceeded to turn on his computer. His fingers pecked away at the keys like a pro while I sat there, awaiting my fate.
“Okay. Before I actually book you, do you have any marks that can support your claims?” he asked, his eyes offering very little kindness.
It was obvious he still didn’t believe me. “I don’t know. My back hit pretty hard into the doorjamb. I’ll probably have a bruise on my ass in a couple days, but that doesn’t do me much good now,” I noted.
He sighed, scooting out from his desk. I watched as he stood, towering over me as he moved to the back of my chair. “Lean up for me, please,” he said softly.