Bona Fide (Illusive Duet Book 2)

by Hazel Grace

  He’s not my man, never was, never will be, and it’s time I make that perfectly clear.

  Not only to him but my damn self.

  I think I should start practicing it in the mirror. Maybe begin reciting it every morning so that hopefully one day it’ll stick in my head. That his appearance won’t make me want to run into his arms. That in one weak moment, I’ll cave and tell him that I want to hear his side.

  The edge of the dance floor appears in my line of sight, and I halt, digging the pad of my heels into the tiled floors.

  “Stop,” I seeth through my teeth for only him to hear. “There is no way—”

  “You wouldn’t want to cause a scene, would you?” His voice drips with challenge because I just said—I will not risk my career for this ass clown.

  And he knows that.

  “Go fuck yourself, Governor. I’m not dancing with you. What do you want?”

  “We need to talk.”

  “You need to leave me alone.”

  “Can’t.”

  A simple contraction but it’s complicated. I think I’m forming an ulcer with the way my gut won’t stop writhing and straining in anticipation and anguish.

  I’m not heartbroken.

  I refuse to believe that. I haven’t known him that long.

  Do I have strong feelings for him? Yes.

  Do I want to? No.

  Will I get over this? Abso-fucking-lutely.

  Just not at the speed that I want right now.

  I don’t want to feel this way anymore.

  I need him to stay away from me. To let me work in peace so that it’s not so awkward. I also need him to stop using his powers as my boss to make me listen to him.

  “One dance won’t kill you,” Wade croons, attempting to inch me closer to the dancing couples.

  “I’m not worried about me,” I retort. “It’s me kneeing you in the middle of that crowd that you should be concerned with.”

  Wade hums. “Mhm, funny. I strongly remember you sucking on my cock like you wanted it a few weeks back.” My next comment was at the tip of my tongue, but I swallowed it back to wave at a gentleman who I met earlier. “I miss you, Shelton.”

  I miss you.

  God, he has no idea how much I feel the same. Tears burn the back of my eyes, but I’ll drown myself in the fountain out front before letting them fall.

  “Good for you,” I manage to get out, keeping my focus on the dancing couples in front of us.

  The dance floor is littered in beautiful gowns, sparking against the chandeliers above. The music is something by Dean Martin, making the atmosphere nostalgic and placid. If I wasn't experiencing my inner turmoil, I’d be able to enjoy this.

  His fingers brush down my palm and jerks back my next inhale. My skin warms immediately to Wade’s touch. His silent need for me to do as he asks tugs at strings that have no reason to be touched or reacting right now.

  “Your reputation is on the line tonight,” I reprimand mildly. “Don’t push it.”

  “As is yours. You wouldn’t want to be known as the party planner who assaults the governor, would you?”

  “Alright,” I surmise, straighten my spine. “You can have your little dance if it makes you hard like a horny teenage boy.” I glance over and up at him. “I’m used to it.” I see his jaw set as he practically shoves me into the masses and finds a spot for us to join the song.

  His hand clasps mine without waiting for me, the other pressing into the dip of my spine. Slowly, he starts to sway us side to side, regally standing in front of me with his chin raised like the sovereign that he is.

  I’m the poor girl from Daphne, trying to make her way out to live a comfortable life for Mama and Marty.

  Wade Lockwood won’t mess that up for me.

  He won’t see me falter or fall, recognize the hurt in my eyes along with the betrayal, because I’d never give that power to him. He doesn’t own any piece of me that I can’t yank back from him.

  Except memories—he owns all of those. He possesses all of those lust-filled moments where nothing in the world mattered. My body was his, humming to his prescence and touch like it’s doing right the fuck now.

  And my heart, well, he almost stole that.

  Too bad I’m one to throw punches.

  ♫ Thong Song — Sisqo ♫

  Reagan being in my arms, is torture—pure and utter torment. But it's what I've been craving to do ever since I walked in here. From the moment my eyes landed on her, my body responded.

  The black dress that she's wearing is tempting, and fucking alluring as all hell to every one of my senses. It wraps around her neck then plunges down between her breasts all the way to just above her belly button.

  All I would need to do is grip the two pieces of fabric and yank to expose her breasts.

  She’s a ticking time bomb to my chronic lust for her.

  Every bit of the term beautiful. Every hankering that I've had in the last few weeks on alert for her. And it doesn't go unnoticed by me that so is every other straight man in this room.

  But now she's in my hold, and all I want to do is apologize, even knowing it'll do nothing.

  I've dug myself into a hole with no means of getting out. And she's the proof I need to keep myself sane. She's the fucking sun, and I need her rays on my face because it makes me feel human again.

  I want to find an empty closet, and have a rerun of my birthday party. I want to clarify everything, tell her that I need her to understand, to know my past. It’s not your normal marriage. I hate even saying it. Demi was a con for position and power.

  And now that I have both, she’s back.

  “I’ll save the compliments and just get to it.”

  Reagan keeps her eyes deflected. “Don’t bother. I’m deaf to comments from an assclown.”

  “Good thing I’m just an asshole then.” Her nostrils flare, but I swear I see her lips quirk. “I’m not giving up on this shit, Shelton. Us.”

  “You might as well.”

  “You know how I am by now.”

  “Not sure that I do, Governor.” My hand squeezes hers as a warning.

  “If you’d let me talk, you’ll understand everything that—” Her head snaps in my direction.

  “I don’t want to know about your wife, Lockwood. Go fuck the receptionist if you like the chase.”

  “I only enjoy the hunt when you’re the prize,” I affirm. “Besides, no one wears dresses like you, Shelton.” Her pupils flare at me, an alluring deep plum color that reminds me of being balls deep inside her.

  “I’ll give them a few of mine. Your wife already stole one.”

  My brows knit. “What?”

  I think back to what Demi was wearing, but can’t remember. Just goes to show you how much I give a fuck. I told her to stay the hell home with her little boyfriend from Paris.

  Instead, she shows up here.

  It didn’t matter how much I threatened her or told her that there would be consequences to pay if she left that damn apartment of hers. I’m not a complete fucking moron to know that she’s trying to publicize that she’s back. That we could be back together.

  Now one of my bodyguards is on their way to her apartment to go break one of her boyfriend’s hands.

  She wants to fuck around with what's mine.

  I'll make sure I break all her toys.

  "Didn't notice it," I deadpan, stealing a glance down her body.

  "It's my dress." Her eyes narrow underneath long eyelashes.

  "Reagan—” I shrug. “—what do you want me to do about it? I make laws, not the dress code."

  "The backing. The satin fabric.” I blink before she rolls her eyes. “I could tell a mile away that it's mine."

  “You’re going to need to be a little more specific, baby. Don’t women run into other women who are wearing the same—”

  “I made that dress,” she grounds out. “She broke into my house.” My brows deepen before searching around the room for Demi.

 
You’d think I’d notice the famous dress that I saw Reagan in at Montgomery’s anniversary party but it wasn’t her in it so I paid no attention.

  I steer my attention back to the woman I’m more interested in when I can’t find Satan trying to burn this whole place down. “You’re serious?”

  "I don’t know,” she drones. “Is your wife known to steal, Governor?"

  "Call her my wife one more time,” I warn, noticing a commotion of hands waving me down. I return the gesture to the older couple, sending smiles my way while I compel a lift of my own lips.

  I met them earlier within the throngs of people I’ve spoken to briefly, exchanged pleasantries, and got bombarded with stories and ideas of how to make the state of Connecticut a more thriving place.

  And while I’m grateful that people actually want to speak with me, I only had one mission tonight.

  Dark wavy hair, striking eyes, and a body with a face that I’ve apprehended as being in love with.

  “Or what?” I withdraw my eyes from the dance floor and back down to where my vision soaks up Reagan in all her headstrong glory.

  I lean in, smelling her perfume of soft petals and bore my eyes into her thick skull. “Closet, your ravishing ass, and my desire to own it.” I steel my spine. “And, to answer your question, Demi is known to do a lot of shit.”

  Reagan attempts to rip her hand from mine, but I hold on tight.

  Why doesn't it shock the hell out of me that Demi is acting like a psycho bitch again? This means I have to put a security system in Reagan's house, new locks, maybe give her that dog I'm supposed to buy for this dumbass publicity stunt that John wants me to do.

  I'm buying a big-ass pit bull, fuck this.

  "Can we be done with this dance?" Reagan drawls. "Being around you is nauseating."

  "Listening to your lies about not giving a shit about me is nauseating," I counter back.

  "I would've had to have liked you enough for you to hurt me. And even then—” She lets her gaze trail down my chest and back up. “—you're not that great."

  A mirthless chuckle rumbles in my chest as I pull her to enjoin her chest to mine. “I beg to differ. I instinctively recall you begging for another round on my cock.”

  She smiles, fake as hell, but still lovely as ever. "You don't know me very well then, Governor. I'll do whatever it takes to rid something out of my memory."

  "And what will you do to get me out of yours? If I repulse you so much, you'd refinance your house to buy yourself out of our contract. You could've burnt my office building down.”

  “You’re not worth the jail time.”

  “I’m sure you can get creative enough,” I return. “But somehow, I think there is a tiny piece of you that misses me, not that you'd ever admit that to yourself or me. Your pride is going to cost you greatly one day, Shelton, I know because I've done it. There will never be a waking moment when you'd wish you would've let me tell you everything. When the what-ifs become too much to bear at times because maybe I had a reason for everything I've done. And for the others...they were done out of plain fear. It's as simple as that."

  "Again—" She keeps my stare. "—you'd have to mean something for all of that to transpire. I'm a woman, Governor, sometimes power is all we need to get off."

  "Keep telling yourself that. In the meantime, I’ll keep my stubborn ass here trying. Unless you want me to get on my knees this time.”

  She opens her mouth, and I hear her voice but a ruckus of male voices snatch my attention away.

  Fuck my life.

  Beyond the dance floor is another pain in my fucking ass.

  Another hidden tale that Reagan will never get the opportunity to see.

  Because if she does, my hope of her every coming back to me will burn into ashes at my feet.

  My intense gaze is on my best friend, Chase, as he orders a drink at the open bar, conversing with a few men who have gathered to say hello.

  He wasn't supposed to be here tonight, told me he had to work, or I would've given Reagan the wish I know she wanted—not to fucking come here. She could have sent one of her assistants to manage and overlook everything.

  My heart repeatedly slams in my chest as I watch him, yards away, throw his head back in laughter.

  She can't see him.

  He can't see her.

  I can’t take anymore kicks to the nuts right now.

  My body buzzes in warning as my karma saunters by to remind me that I should’ve never fallen in love with Reagan. She was never mine to have and keep. I was never supposed to be here, to feel this way, to know this human being.

  But I’ll be fucking damned if I let her go so easily.

  "If you want to leave the party, Miss Shelton," I vouch, not knowing a thing of what she just said to me. "You're more than welcome to do so."

  She scoffs. "Been here for hours, why would I leave now?" My nostrils flare because she’d pick this moment to not want to go.

  I inhale a deep breath and snap, "Because I want you to. The look on your face is fucking with my image, and I don't want you messing with my reputation."

  I watch her eyes widen for a split second, then I release her because she's only going to rip herself out of my grasp anyways.

  She’s used to my mouth, and I’ll fix this jack-off comment later, but right now she needs to go.

  Taking a step away from me, I already KO'ed myself with my last remark. I don’t need her to react for me to feel anymore of an asshole right now.

  But she cannot run into Chase.

  My alter ego of pretending to be him is the only thing I have left to remain in good standings with Reagan, and I can't lose that right now. Not with Demi back in my fucking life and the next debate coming up—I can't.

  She doesn't respond to my dismissal, looking stunned by the way I just casted her out as quickly as I wanted her to stay.

  I want to apologize.

  However, it'll just cause a fight, more talking, more of my wanting to pull her back into my arms, and us standing in the middle of this dance floor has to stop.

  "You can go out the back exit, so I don't have to make excuses for why my party planner abandoned the function."

  That's when her eyes constrict. I can tell that her mind is fighting off the idea of wanting to lay me out in front of everyone, but she won't. Not with what I threatened her with.

  She doesn't wait for me to speak again, rounding my frame and heading in the opposite direction of Chase—thank fuck.

  I'm paralyzed from the waist down, my stomach bunched so tightly that it's hard to breathe. It's challenging to think when I have to move and not cause any unwanted attention to myself.

  My heart wants to chase after her and proclaim that not everything about my life is so black and white. That I’m disappointed in her for thinking that everything she and I have done was just to have a little bit of fun.

  But she’s right. I never asked her to date me.

  I never told her I was falling for her—I didn’t have time.

  "Ladies and gentlemen, thank you so much for attending the governor’s ball this evening," announces the DJ from over the speakers. "Tonight, we'd like to start off with a special request from the governor himself, Mr. Wade Lockwood."

  An eruption of applause surrounds me, followed by beaming faces and everyone's eyes on me.

  I usually don't feel anxious or out of place in public, but my nerves are shot. The woman that I would give everything for, I just shunned away like the kind of woman she claims I perceive her as.

  "Enjoy the next dance," the DJ concludes. The song begins to play, and I remain frozen on the dance floor with everyone looking at me expectantly for my chosen music selection.

  I should’ve moved when I had the chance.

  "This thing right here...is lettin' all the ladies know...what guys talk about. You know, the finer things in life…"

  I might not be up to date on music, but I know this song.

  The fucking Thong Song.

&nbs
p; I changed my mind. I’m going to kill this woman.

  Striding from the crowd of people, the Thong Song still plays as people gape at me like I've lost my damn mind.

  I have, if you didn’t notice yet.

  Some of the younger folks, teens that their parents dragged to this party, actually start to dance.

  Chase, on the other hand, he's trying his best to contain his laughter as he stands at the edge of the bar and watches me make my way to him.

  "Hey, man," he greets with a smile before holding up his tumbler of dark liquid. "Nice party and song choice."

  I don't hide my glare as I wave down one of the bartenders.

  "What's up? You look miserable."

  Brother, if you only fucking knew the shit I've done.

  Guilt starts to choke me out as I stare at the only man who's ever had my back and never turned away when shit got tough.

  He was there when I married Demi, when things began to go south.

  When I wanted to leave her.

  Through the darkness of the fucked-up mistakes, I made it. I did some crooked shit to get where I am now, and the shame drapes over and suffocates me.

  Chase was the only guy I trusted, Em aside, and I'm using his pictures and name to keep talking to a woman I'll never be able to tell because I can't take two kicks to the balls over the things she already knows.

  "I'm at a party with people I can't stand," I say instead. "Just counting down the hours until this shit is over." I order a whiskey while Chase leans over the bartop, sipping on his own drink.

  "Got about two to three hours," he conveys. "Just keep drinking, it'll help to drone people out."

  "And keep me in the morning headlines as the lush who can't hold his liquor."

  Chase gives me a gentle smack to the back of the shoulder. "You're too hard on yourself, man. Relax a little."

  "I can't when my wife is fucking here." My best friend drops his drink, landing perfectly on the counter.

  "You said what now?"

  "Demi. Here. Acting like a cunt bitch, the usual." He leans closer, as though he’s having a hearing problem.

  He’s not.

  "She's here?"