The President's Secret Baby: A Second Chance Romance

by Gage Grayson

  This is just a challenge. It was never meant to be easy—that’s why it’s a test of my skills, my professionalism, and my clinical detachment.

  I have the potential to be the best this field has to offer. I need to start acting like it.

  I straighten my spine and adjust my skirt before settling my professional mask of aloof agreeableness on my face.

  I’m the doctor, and Jaxon is my patient. It’s as simple as that.

  I open the door to find Jaxon repositioning in his seat, as if he just slipped back into it. Hmm. I suspect he was listening to my conversation with Dr. Gardner, but I don’t necessarily have proof.

  More than that, though—he could have easily made it into the seat and situated himself so I would’ve been none the wiser—it’s almost like he wants me to know he knows.

  “Good news, Mr. Covington,” I say, forcing myself to use his surname, to at least try to create some distance. “It appears there was a misunderstanding, and I’ll be remaining as your treating physician for the foreseeable future.”

  I smile blandly.

  Jaxon leans back in his chair, hands on his flat stomach, and stretches his legs out until they’re almost touching mine. He smiles like a cat that just got his cream.

  “That’s good. I’m glad to hear it, Ali,” he laughs, the nickname rolling languidly off his tongue.

  I almost shiver. I catch myself, though, and stiffen my spine instead.

  When I told him no one had ever called me Ali before, I meant it. But not because no one had thought to.

  Hardly. No, no one had ever called me Ali before because I’d never allowed anyone to.

  I found the diminutive insipid. In fact, I find most nicknames to be an unnecessary complication.

  But when Jaxon Covington calls me Ali, I feel none of my usual aversions. Instead, it’s like warm honey poured over vanilla ice cream. It makes me want to moan.

  And I find myself mesmerized by his tongue.

  Specifically, the way it catches between his teeth on the “-lee.”

  I imagine it doing all sorts of other things.

  I pick up my notes and begin shuffling through them. I need to give myself a moment to solidify my professional persona and banish the image of Jaxon drizzling warm honey over my breasts before suckling them clean.

  I shift slightly in my seat at my own sudden desire. This might be harder than I thought.

  I clear my throat. “So, Mr. Covington. Please tell me more about your mother.”

  * * *

  The rest of the session flies by in a whirl of loaded glances, half-smiles, and falsehoods. I listen to him elaborate on his traumatic childhood, taking notes as he talks.

  It’s all lies. Every word of it.

  But I let him go, wanting to see where each lie will lead because there’s a truth to be had even in deception. If you know where to look.

  I simply record everything, interrupting periodically to ask him a probing question or if he could clarify a statement. I notice that he pauses occasionally to gauge my reaction, especially if the story was particularly horrific.

  But I give him nothing.

  My mask of professional detachment is firmly in place, despite the rocky start.

  I can tell it frustrates him. I can see a faint tic in his jaw. And I like it.

  If I’m going to be frustrated, then he damn well can be, too.

  We carry on like this for some time, and before I know it, there’s the usual knock on the door. A prison guard is here to collect him.

  I arch an eyebrow as I watch Jaxon simply give the guard a look and the man retreats to wait for him in the hallway. The subtle display of dominance is intoxicating.

  The entire session, Jaxon has been careful not to touch me. So, so careful.

  But he’s hovered just barely out of reach, to the point where I could practically feel his heat. But as the guard leaves, he leans forward across the table and takes my hands. I almost jump at the crackling intensity of the contact.

  “Ali,” he says.

  I maintain eye contact, instead of dropping my glance to his mouth.

  Don’t shiver.

  “Doctor Hughes,” he continues, rubbing small, soft circles on my wrists with his thumbs.

  I know I should remove my hands, but I can’t seem to find the motivation.

  “Thank you for continuing to treat me. I feel a connection here that I’ve never felt before, and I think I’m finally having a breakthrough. I’m learning stuff about myself I never even realized.”

  He gives me a slight smile, then he pulls back and takes his hands away. “Keep up the good work.”

  He winks as he stands and heads out of the room without waiting for my response.

  I hear the door open and close, and then he’s gone.

  I sit there, stunned, unsure of what just happened. And for the first time today, for the first time since I met him, I’m not sure whether or not he’s lying.

  * * *

  Back in my office, I have Jaxon’s police file, as well as my records from every meeting spread in front of me trying to determine a pattern. I go over all of my notes from the day, then I shift my attention back to the police file.

  I’ve read it already, of course, but I keep going back to it, trying to find something that I missed. A piece that will help me solve this puzzle.

  Then I see it. A small note in the margin.

  Someone jotted down that Jaxon was completely cooperative until the detective called him Jack.

  Then, it was as if someone flipped a switch.

  I sit back and think. I personally had seen Jaxon become completely unhinged when someone called him Jack. But it seems that this is more than just an aversion.

  It’s a compulsion, a deep-seated trigger.

  When I brought it up today, he deflected first then gave me another false story.

  I lean back in my chair and rub my temples.

  Then I pick up my memo recorder and press record.

  “Patient Jaxon Covington presents as a possible case of either sociopathy or psychopathy. However, it is yet to be determined where on this spectrum he falls, or if these personality disorders are paired in any degree with a psychosis.”

  I hit pause, thinking this over.

  I’m not sure what I want to do. If I really wanted to be done with him, I could just declare him competent and wash my hands off the whole affair. No one would be the wiser.

  But I don’t think I can do that, and not just because it would be unethical.

  Because once I reach a diagnosis, I’m done. And I don’t think I’m ready for that.

  I want—no, I need more time with him. To properly diagnose him. That’s it.

  I continue. “Patient remains guarded and stand-offish. A change of venue may be necessary to put him at ease.”

  I don’t know why I said that. I have no doubt Jaxon Covington would be at ease wherever he was. Nevertheless, almost as if I can’t control myself, I put into the official record.

  “Permitting he maintains good behavior, I suggest moving all future sessions to my office, with a guard posted outside the door, if necessary. I believe the more comfortable atmosphere will relax him, allowing a lowering of his guard and a more accurate diagnosis. So far, the patient’s fixation on fairytales and nursery rhymes, particularly those revolving around the name ‘Jack,’ which itself appears to be a trigger word for violent, manic episodes, seems to strongly allude to a childhood trauma.

  “However, all attempts to determine the nature of this trauma have been either deflected or lied about, though it’s unclear if the falsehoods are intentional or a compulsory defense mechanism. Further assessment is needed. As of now, I cannot rule out bipolar disorder or undifferentiated schizophrenia.”

  I press stop, then play everything back.

  Yes, that’ll do. I upload the digital recording into the transcription software and then email a copy to Dr. Gardner.

  My heart races, pounding in my chest like I’ve ju
st run a marathon, and I’m not sure why.

  All I know is this: I’m playing a dangerous game, one where I don’t know the rules and I’m not sure of the goal.

  But I don’t care if I win or lose—as long as I play it with Jaxon.

  Jaxon

  Things have progressed considerably, and I’m now waiting cheerfully in Alison’s office. Not only is a dangerous criminal allowed out and about in the building, but I’ve also coerced just the right people to allow me time in her office unsupervised.

  I don’t have to pull bullshit tricks like going through her stuff. She’ll show me herself.

  Creeps that have to go through their girlfriend’s stuff are worse psychos than I am. They lack imagination. Truly, I think they lack true love for their subject.

  They want to expose her, know something she doesn’t know. Be a sneaky fuck that snoops around and throws her secrets in her face.

  They lack the subtle delicacy and charm of true seduction. The full flush of obsession.

  Any cunt can go through someone’s stuff. It takes a true genius to entice the object of his affection to such a degree that she shows him all of herself.

  That’s true love. True appreciation.

  I think she’s running late. I’m just slightly pissed that she wasn’t here, waiting when I arrived. What could she be doing?

  Maybe I’m not as important to her as I think I am. We’ll have to change that.

  One of the guards lumbers by. He’s in a slightly different uniform from the fellows I work with—he’s an office security guard.

  I’d love to get one of these guys on my ‘payroll.’ It would make it that much easier for the guys in the prison to bring me and my boys all the goodies we desire.

  I jump up and move to the door.

  “Hey, buddy? Hey?”

  “Oh, hey the—hey! Shouldn’t you be cuffed or something?”

  I give my nicest smile and wave my hands helplessly, doing my best to look small and skinny. It’s not difficult, next to him. He’s built like a bear.

  “I’m cool dude, I’m sweet. Got special permission from Dr. Hughes. It’s all part of my treatment.”

  “Well…okay. I’m just doing my job. I don’t think you should just be wandering around.”

  “I’m not, I swear. I’m just here waiting for my head shrink, you know. Rehabilitation and all of that.”

  “Sure.”

  He looks like he’s trying to puzzle it out.

  “Hey, you got a smoke, bud?”

  “We can’t smoke in here. Different rules.”

  “That so? Why not come in the doctor’s office? She lets me smoke.”

  “Yeah, I don’t know.”

  “Come on, buddy, it’s all cool. Where are you headed? You look like you could use a break. We got coffee and everything in here. You wouldn’t have to walk down all those stairs and shit.”

  His eyes brighten. He looks left and right. “Well, alright, but we’ll shut the door. I don’t want my boss to see me.”

  “Sure thing! No troubles, bud. Thanks for keeping me company while I wait for the doc. I always get kind of anxious, you know? And, obviously, I can’t carry smokes on me.”

  “You get smokes? Downstairs?”

  “I sure do, buddy.”

  I pour him a coffee as he pulls out a couple of smokes and sits down, handing one to me as I pass over the coffee.

  “So, who’s your boss?”

  This is what I really want to know.

  “Ah, the Warden. His name’s Mr. Anders.”

  “Hmm. Sounds familiar, the name.”

  “Oh, you wouldn’t know him, bottom level crim like you.”

  He insults me without losing a beat. God love the stupid and the dull.

  “His family is rich. Like mega-rich. He does this because he’s ex-military. It was the closet thing he could get to soldiering.”

  “Anders, Anders,” I stir my coffee with one finger. “I’m sure that’s ringing a bell.”

  “Oh, the whole family does the high society bit. His wife is super hot, tall brunette. She never comes here. He has twin daughters, too, only nineteen, both blonde.”

  Finally, it clicks.

  “I know them,” I say, grinning as I sip my coffee, then take a nice hard drag of my cigarette. “I banged Michelle Anders—that’s the wife, if you didn’t guess—at a charity benefit last year. And I banged both the daughters at the same time at the policeman’s ball.”

  “Get the fuck out!”

  “No, sir. The wife, Michelle, she has long brown hair and brown eyes. The daughter’s names are Lily and Selina, one has long blonde hair, the other short.”

  “Shit, you really do know them! How?”

  “I’m loaded pal. Loaded like your fucking gun. Seriously. You look after me, I’ll look after you. How does that sound?”

  He eyes his cigarette and coffee. “That’s great an all…mister…?”

  “Covington. Jaxon Covington. Google me if you like.”

  “Okay, yeah, that’s all cool. But I need this job. I ain’t got insurance, and they’re gonna boot me into retirement soon. I’ll have to sort something out. I been injured on this job, you know? Once they turf me, I’ll have nothin, any retirement pay will go into doctor’s bill, and I’d sure like to take my lady Mary on a cruise some day.”

  He looks out the window forlornly.

  “I tell you what, buddy.”

  There’s no point learning his name. I’ll be nicknaming him Bear and no other word will stick now.

  “Anything you need, you got it. That sort of stuff is pocket change to me. Don’t even notice it missing. Just my gift to you as an appreciation of friendship.”

  I take a deep sip of the shithouse coffee he’s enjoying as if it’s high society roast, grinning appreciatively at my new friend Bear.

  “So…what do you need?”

  He’s finally starting to look a little suspicious.

  “Nothing too heavy man, don’t worry. I got a lot of friends in here, that’s all. I’d very much like it if you could give them a hand every now and then. All you need to do is, when you see packages coming in for me or my friends, make sure they come through.”

  “I dunno, mister. I could lose my job.”

  “Didn’t you just finish telling me what a shit job it was? You don’t need it. You work for me now, simple as that. This position is merely a camouflage for your job with me.”

  He looks confused. Fuck, I’ve gone and done it now. Too many big words.

  He’s looking at me all wide-eyed as the ash drops off his cigarette. “I suppose I can do that.”

  “Wonderful!” I finish my coffee. “All I ask is that you help my friends and me whenever we need it. What do you need for this lovely girl Mary? Some nice shoes? A dress? Flowers? I can help you out there. I don’t even have to pay. So many people just give me stuff for my endorsement.” I lean over and whisper as if it’s a secret. “All sorts of things, you know?”

  I give him a wink. It’s always more fun to let people imagine the sorts of things I get and let them tell me what they think it is. That way, I know what they want and where their mind goes when I say ‘free stuff’.

  The door rattles, and Alison walks in.

  “Doctor Hughes!”

  I can’t contain my excitement. I’m on a high.

  I love meeting new people. And controlling them.

  It’s always new and exciting, but in some ways, it can be boring.

  People are easy. The same switches, the same triggers.

  That’s why I love my dear doctor Hughes. A real challenge. Something different.

  Bear stumbles and gets up, putting his coffee cup on the desk.

  “Real sorry there, doctor, I was just checking in with your patient here.”

  “That’s perfectly fine, sir. I’m glad someone was here, for security reasons.”

  She’s not even looking at him. She’s looking at me.

  Her eyes are raking over me like she�
�s starving, and her eyes are eating me alive.

  She’s missed me. I can tell. She’s burning for me.

  “Hello, Jaxon,” she says it softly, lips lingering over my name.

  The world has ceased to exist. There’s me and her, and that’s the entire universe.

  I take a few light steps towards her.

  Maybe today I’ll touch more than her hand. Maybe today I’ll hold her and feel that body against mine.

  “I…ah…I had better go.” Bear starts to move for the door.

  Alison moves from the doorway so he can exit. As he moves past, he turns and gives me a wave.

  “It was nice to meet you, Jack.”

  I feel cold. Hard.

  The world, which had just narrowed to me and Alison, now switches channels.

  All I can see is Bear and his stupid goddamn simple face.

  A wide, cold smile, completely devoid of any hint of happiness, creeps across my face.

  Suddenly, I’m moving before I realize it.

  It’s often like that. I throw myself at his back and slam into him, getting an arm around his neck. He shrieks, folding forward, slapping at me. I tighten my grip around his neck, and he spins, slamming me against the wall in the hall.

  He slams again and again, massive body pounding the air out of me, but I don’t let go.

  All I can hear as my arm tightens around his throat is Bear’s labored, terrified breathing and my own high-pitched laughter.

  Alison

  “It was nice to meet you, Jack.”

  As soon as the words leave the guard’s mouth, I feel the world tilt. Everything around me seems to go slightly off-kilter, like some carnival funhouse, and I can’t seem to figure out why.

  And then I realize what’s happening. I see the look on Jaxon’s face and realize my sudden chills are all a reaction to his expression.

  Jaxon has launched himself at the guard, even though the man is easily twice his size and built like a has-been prize fighter. It doesn’t matter. After a brief tussle, Jaxon’s arms are around the larger man’s throat, and soon, the guard is emitting the wheezing, panicked breaths of asphyxiation.

  And I just stand there.

  It’s like some kind of out-of-body experience. I’m both deeply rooted in the moment and entirely detached. My brain seems incapable of processing what’s going on.