Billionaire On Fire: The Complete Series (A Bad Boy Alpha Billionaire Romance)

by Claire Adams

  I felt my smile falter. I cut my teeth out over my lip and brought my eyes low, to the ground, as Jason passed by me. He clapped his hands loudly, allowing them to echo throughout the campaign room. “YEE-HA, TEAM!” he called over their heads. And several yee-hawed back.

  Chapter 3

  I brought my hands to my forehead and shook out my displeasure from the previous moment, from hearing Jason’s voice—so icy—in my ears. I lurched my watch to my eyes and noted I still had a few more hours in the White House. To rip myself from the strangeness of the day, I decided to march back to my desk and do serious work.

  As I sat in my chair, making countless phone calls and arranging meetings with various members of Congress, I peered around me, feeling a sense of relief, finally, at being away from Jason, from the First Lady, Camille, and from Xavier—yes, even Xavier. Here, in my desk, I could pretend that I was a member of the normal, politically-driven society. Only here did I feel like the person I’d been attempting to build, to strive toward for the past decade (since day one of college, of course). It had been an accident that I’d fallen in love at all. The biggest mistake? He was the president. He controlled everything. And his wife controlled him.

  But things seemed to be coming together, although I wasn’t completely sure how or why. I certainly hadn’t slaved to create this fantasy—like I’d slaved to get every other position I currently had. Rather: I’d gone with the flow, allowed myself to fall, fall, fall. Was it actually going to work out? Was it actually going to go smoothly?

  I pushed myself from my desk that evening and swept back to Rachel’s house, knowing that I’d spend an evening of relaxation, of joy with one of the only people I could trust. I didn’t tell her much about the day’s events. Rather, I allowed her to tell me about her day at work. I allowed her to rant about one of her co-workers, and I made her laugh. Bringing a fresh smile to my friend’s eyes. We drank wine heartily. We cooked a meal together, as well—a frittata, for dinner. We cracked eggs into this great glass bowl, and she whizzed at them with a fork before pouring them over zucchinis, broccolis, sausages, onions—everything cut with such precision. The colors sparkled beneath the well-lit kitchen. Outside, the growing darkness was alerting us: it was nearly winter, it was coming. But in the warmth of her kitchen, we couldn’t care. This was all we needed.

  We ate the frittata and drank further into the night. I allowed my mind to glide away from the truth of the White House. I tried not to imagine the First Lady and the President’s conversation that evening.

  “Amanda?”

  I heard the words, as if from a distance.

  “Amanda?”

  Finally, I jostled my head toward my friend beside me. Rachel held her wine up, and it glittered in the light. “I wanted to present a toast. To your career. And to your commitment to this—this political field.”

  We clinked glasses, and then I set my finger up, pointing at the light above. “And to you. For knowing when to get out of a bad situation—“

  “You mean my own political career?” Rachel asked, laughing. Her laugh was always so good-natured, hearty.

  I nodded. “For knowing yourself well enough to work for what you want.”

  We drank, then. And we giggled into the night, allowing ourselves to ease into the morning.

  The next morning, I sat at my desk in the West Wing and swept my eyes over the campaign team. Everyone seemed so rooted in the belief for this president. It was inspiring to see how everyone had firmed their work efforts in the hours since the previous campaign meeting. I nodded toward Jason, across the room. My eyes burned toward him, and he gave me an evil grin. The fear of it made my shiver.

  I knew that I had a great deal to think about—that I hadn’t allowed my mind to consider all my options the previous evening. Better, I’d thought, to cling to the fun moments I had left with my friend. Surely, the seasons would change. Surely, I wouldn’t see her as often, very soon. It seemed that everything was coming to a head. We would resolve our friendship with the occasional dinner and drink; we’d find lackluster things to talk about. But we’d drift apart. Our lives were too different, now.

  I stood from my desk and tapped out of the West Wing, winding my way down the staircase. I nodded toward a secret service agent, one that held eagle eyes toward me. “Where do you think you’re going?” he asked me.

  I nodded toward him primly. “For a walk in the White House grounds,” I murmured back, blinking my long eyelashes toward him.

  “It’s quite chilly today. Below fifty, I’d say,” the secret service agent answered back.

  I shrugged, showing him the black coat I’d draped over my arm. I brought it around my shoulders like a cape, and I murmured toward him. “I won’t be gone long.”

  At this time of the year, the Rose Garden had been shrouded up, brought to face the dull and driven winters of the Washington D.C. area. However, I felt a sense of solace out there by myself. In the summer, it was swarming with tourists, with guests of the White House. But then, it was only me. My thoughts swirled around me, staying low beneath the shaded, cloudy skies.

  There, in the rose garden, I considered a future in which Xavier and I could stay together. I hadn’t given myself over to such fantasies, not yet. Falling into them felt oddly like falling asleep. So satisfying.)

  In this daydream, Xavier and I stayed together—continually sneaking around, keeping our love and our affair a secret from the greater population and from his executive staff. We would meet in our small, hidden rooms throughout the White House, and we’d allow work to fall from us with our clothes. We’d bring our bodies together, and we’d fuck until the sun came up. Only then, would we scurry back into our natural, political personas. Only then, would we face the music.

  But what would happen? Would we even make it that long—all the way to the end of his term, a whole year from now? And if he won the election? What would happen, then? Would I have to find a new job? I remembered what Xavier had told me: that there was always a position for me at the White House. But if his wife knew about our affair—surely she’d want me out of the White House, for fear that I would somehow give myself away and make her life a living hell?

  If I ultimately had to leave the White House, as a result of my love for Xavier, where would I go? Certainly, I’d want to receive the position on my merits, alone. I wouldn’t want any sort of hand-out from Xavier. Sure, he’d still be the president. He’d have all the power. But I’d never gotten anywhere on simple handouts. Although, sometimes, I was inclined to believe that men gave me these higher up positions simply because of the size of my ass or because of my breasts. I hated that feeling.

  I stood at the edge of the Rose Garden, looking up at the illustrious White House before me. I stomped my foot in the ground lightly, knowing that many things about the horizon had altered with the comprehension that Camille knew about our affair. I knew that I had to reevaluate my entire career—that I had to stay out of her way. She wouldn’t destroy me, unless I made myself apparent. In many ways, I had to disappear.

  This ultimately brought me to the question. Should I simply fade away from this relationship? Was my love for Xavier actually equal to the love and hard work I’d churned into my position in the political sphere? My heart ached with the question, and I sat on a bench, feeling the October wind whip against me.

  Okay, okay. I sighed into my fingers. If Xavier and I did stay together, all throughout both this term, and the next one, what would happen, then? I’d heard of presidents all-but retiring, folding away from the public sector. But that wouldn’t be for me. I’d be at the height of my churning career. Thirty-four years old, at that time, and rearing toward Congress, toward a greater position, perhaps. Would I be satisfied getting married to the president, at that time? Would it look “off” if he immediately divorced his wife after the four years were finished and married me? Would there be questions about my “right” to the White House, to the political world?

  I knew that I needed to
address many of these questions to Xavier. I knew that, beyond anything else, Xavier had a very valid comprehension of the political sphere. He had made all the right moves, climbed the correct ladders, and made friends with the right people. As a result, he was nearing the entrance to his second rally as president.

  I tried to reach the root of my internal problem, and I supposed it was simply that I didn’t want to tell the public a false story of myself. I didn’t want to label myself as a money-seeker, as a woman continually looking for power and using her body to get it. God, I had slaved. I had marched the march, walked the walk. I stabbed my heel into the dead grass in the rose garden lawn, and I knew, in my heart, that the only person I needed to discuss these many fears with lurked, somewhere up there in an Oval Office. I wouldn’t allow him to wrap his arms around me; I wouldn’t allow him to place his lips over mine. Instead, we’d become two grown, confident, and ever-intelligent adults, discussing next steps as one discusses the peace in the Middle East.

  I sniffed and righted myself from the bench beneath me, winding myself back to the gleaming White House. I felt each of my heels dipping into the mud beneath. I felt my back arch with a spark of confidence. I knew, in so many ways, that I would find my way to the top without the guiding hands of my lover. I knew I had it in me.

  Chapter 4

  I neared the steps from the Rose Garden, up toward the White House. I placed my delicate fingers on the stair railing. Suddenly, a figure darted from behind the dark shadow of a tree. I brought my hand to my heart, clutching at my chest. I nearly shouted. In an instant, I found myself being lurched back, toward the trees. A hand was held over my mouth and nose, blocking any air from entering my lungs. I cried out, wasting that stale oxygen. In that moment, I felt sure that I was going to die.

  “Just shut up for a moment,” the voice said gruffly. I felt a shoe fall from my right foot, allowing a naked toe to be dragged back, toward the trees. I felt a pine needle pierce my skin.

  Finally, the figure pushed me against a tree. I saw him, full figure before me, his right hand still pressed over my mouth so that I couldn’t scream. It was Jason. His eyes looked crazed. I realized that the previous day’s meeting had ultimately pushed him too far, that his frustration was making his brain burn. He was breathing heavily. “Well, well, well. What do we have here?” he whispered in my ear. He placed his foot on my naked foot. I felt my bones creak beneath his weight. Even as he attacked me, held me beneath the tree, he still looked like a schlub. His shirt was un-tucked; his eyebrows needed serious maintenance. So strange, to feel so fearful of the ugliest person you’ve ever seen.

  I tried to bite his hand, then. I tried to pull my legs up to kick him. My brain seemed to scream, internally.

  “Now, now. Just calm down,” Jason cackled maniacally. “I know you’ve been through a great deal. I just want to make sure we’re on the same page, in a few different ways.”

  I allowed my mouth to relax. I tried to calm my body, my aching joints, my feet. But my heart wouldn’t stop beating so wildly in my chest.

  “Okay. So. At the beginning of this—shall we call it—spiel, I told you that I wanted one thing, initially. And that was to be campaign manager. And you told me I would get what I wanted.”

  My eyes gleamed toward him. I remembered telling the president that Jason should be the campaign manager, that it was meant for him. I remembered hating myself for doing it. It had been all I was working for. And then I was giving it away.

  “And the president ramped up my responsibilities, yes. He told me he was considering me for the position,” Jason continued. “But then, he ultimately gave everything to you. Every meeting, you run. Every meeting with a Congressman has you at the helm.” He arched his eyebrow. “And I’m sure you can comprehend why that would make me feel out-of-sorts. Can’t you?”

  I nodded quickly, feeling my throat aching as I attempted to take in my oxygen between his fingers, deep in my nose.

  “And then, of course, there’s this issue of you being—missing. Missing from your apartment, so I can’t keep an eye on things. Missing from meetings—and mysteriously appearing just a few moments after the president arrives. What am I meant to think of all this?”

  I shrugged my shoulders. He opened his fingers, just a tad, allowing me to slurp up some oxygen and dart out some words. “It was a coincidence! I didn’t even know the president was late—“ I lied.

  He clucked his tongue at the back of his throat, shaking his head. “Is that right, my dear? Well. I suppose my next question has to be this. Does the president know anything about the photographs? Have you done what you’ve been told to do—in keeping your mouth shut, I mean?”

  I jerked my lips out once more. “I haven’t said a word to the president,” I lied once more. My voice sounded desperate. The sun had lurked beneath the clouds, and I was shivering beneath the shade of the tree.

  Jason blinked toward me, expecting something more. He wanted me to give myself away, to tell on the president, to give him SOMETHING. But I had nothing. I blinked toward him, feeling as his arm loosened its grip a bit. All at once, I pushed against him, full-force. I shoved him away from the tree, and I darted out of the shade, up the steps, and into the shell of the gleaming White House. I wanted to yell, to scream out the attack! But I knew if I did, the photographs would be revealed. And so I cried into my elbow for a moment as I rushed forward, never looking back.

  Even mid-tears, I steadied myself. Jason was finally coming to the end of his rope. He couldn’t take the pressure anymore. He was impatient, and he was probably about to make his move—to reveal the photographs to the world. I breathed heavily, trying to bring this comprehension to my mind. He was a ticking time bomb, and Xavier and I needed to act fast.

  So much was on the line. I had to alert Xavier. I had so much to talk to him about—so much about our personal relationship, yes, and then so much regarding Jason’s terrorizing over us both. I sat on the steps that led up to the West Wing and cried into my hands for a moment, feeling like the soft, weak girl I’d never been. I’d always pitied those girls—those girls who couldn’t comprehend what to do with their problems. I’d certainly never been one, no. But here I was. Nearly falling from the edge of the cliff.

  Finally, I righted myself. I wondered where Jason had gone. The staircase, the only one that brought you up from the rose garden, echoed only with my staggered breathing. I placed my hand on the wall and steadied my shaking body, inhaling and exhaling and appreciating every second of oxygen.

  I hadn’t believed that Jason was capable of such terror, of such violence. My mind was suddenly rooted in ideas only of survival. I marched up the steps, knowing that I had to leave the White House, immediately. I had to give Jason time to cool off. I had to give myself time to think. I found myself in front of my desk, breathing heavily over my papers. I felt Jason’s presence in the room, several feet away. He was discussing something with one of the campaign team members. Both of them looked toward me as I staggered into my desk. I was a goddamned mess, and I knew it. Sweat dribbled down the line in the center of my lips.

  “Miss Martin. Are you all right?” The young girl asked me, taking small steps toward me.

  Jason leaned toward her and whispered something in her ear. I was sure I heard the word “drug” amongst them. I grew hot, angry. The girl’s eyes molded toward me once more, confused. I wanted to shake her, to tell her it all wasn’t true.

  I grabbed my things and swept through the room, now hearing the scattered gossip throughout. “Well. She has been sick an awful lot lately. What do you think it means? She’s a drug addict, obviously. Can’t get so far into the nation’s capitol without a little—you know. Extra oomph.”

  My face burned. I dropped a few slips of paper as I scurried from the room, past the remaining offices. I found myself in front of the Oval Office, knowing that the president was in there. I wanted to stroke his chest, to ask him to tell me that everything was going to be all right. I knew that if anyo
ne could assure me that the world was round, that it would continue to spin, it would be him.

  In the shadow of the Secret Service agent beside me, I stroked the door longingly, wanting him. Wanting to touch him. I wanted to tell him everything that I’d been thinking—about our potential future, about how perhaps it would get in the way of the all-important nature of MY future. The one I had worked so hard for. I wanted to ram my fists against his chest, like a woman in an old black and white film, and demand answers from him. He was my president. And I needed his guidance.

  But the agent leaned toward me and shook his head. “He’s not in, Miss Martin. He’s in a meeting with his wife.”

  The skin on my face turned a sour white. I nodded toward the agent and thanked him, feeling my legs turn to jelly. I wound from the Oval Office, down the steps and into the gleaming foyer below. A chandelier glinted above me.

  I would find a way home, then. I would root myself in my bed and calculate the perfect, most essential plan to counter what Jason was effortlessly planning, somewhere in a strange, dark lair across the city.

  Chapter 5

  When I swept into Rachel’s home, however, I found her leaning against the counter, a glass of wine already in her hand and a smile on her face. She winked toward me. “I have some serious news,” she smiled.

  I brought my hands to my face, allowing the worry from the previous day to fall around me. “What is it?” I gasped.

  She eyed me, bringing her eyebrows up high on her forehead. “I have a date!”

  I clapped my hands together, allowing my papers and folders to fall to the ground before me. They scattered, monstrously, on her fine, hardwood floor. I brought my hands around her thin shoulders and hugged her supremely, feeling such a happiness course through me. “I can’t believe this is true! Is it that—“