Bona Fide (Illusive Duet Book 2)

by Hazel Grace

  “Wade, be nice,” she mutters, contorting her hands in my hair.

  “I’m never fucking nice.” Her clit becomes my dinner for the day. I haven’t eaten shit because I’ve been too busy in meetings with the governor of New York and the mayor of Brooklyn and Queens. Hours of going over their plans for how to keep the crime rate down and what support they would like from me to push their bills into legislation.

  I'm down with making the larger cities safer for the people, but I don't like the governor. He's a fat fuck with a wandering eye for his young secretary, who kept interrupting our meeting with stupid shit like getting him more coffee and reminding him of things he had to do today. When, in all actuality, she wanted to show off her short black skirt and bend over whenever she got the chance.

  “Wade.” My name is a needy plea off her lips. Shit, we both need this release because jerking my cock off to memories was getting to be too much like being a teenage boy.

  I eat her pussy like it's my last meal, lapsing her clit with my tongue and lips. Shoving two fingers inside it to mimic my dick pumping into her when I know she needs to get fucked hard and fast.

  “How many times do you go to bed imagining me on my knees?” I quip. “Wanting you to come all over my tongue.”

  "Every night," she breathes. "Every time we get off the phone, and I still have the memory of how your voice sounds."

  “Do you come?”

  “Yes.”

  “Do you play with your clit like I do after you come down?”

  “Yes.”

  “And you want to come again.” It’s not a question. She craves me as I do her because it’s all I have. These small moments where nothing outside can bother me. Where conference calls and board meetings are a fleeting thought.

  “All the time.”

  "I'll let you suck my dick again if you spread your pussy wider for me and—" She twists her foot, pushing it out further to open her legs wider. "That's a good girl."

  “It feels so good,” she moans, her hands in my hair as I pump inside her a little faster with my fingers.

  “You’re all I’ve eaten today.”

  “Shit.” I pull back a little, listening to the sound of her wetness against my fingers.

  Her legs are starting to quake at wanting to liberate herself from the built-up sexual tension we leave each other with every opportunity we get to talk.

  Which, as of late, hasn’t been too often.

  My schedule is packed, I’m needed everywhere, and the idea of free time doesn’t exist in my world.

  “Wade,” she urges. “Stop teasing me, please.” I smile, peering up at her looking down at me with pure hunger in her eyes.

  Leaning in, I lick her clit again while my eyes stay locked on hers. She bites her lower lip, watching me worship her like a congregation at mass.

  Except I’m the devil wanting to bring her down with me into the dark pit of fervor just for us to do it all over again.

  Her jaw starts to drop, her buildup impending as I quit the bullshit and practically make out with her pussy.

  My name is a sharp intake of air as she descends, her hand pulls my head closer, demanding that I lick every ounce of her absolution from lack of us being together.

  I straighten my spine to tower over her, holding on to her waist as I lean down to kiss her and let her taste what I’ve just relished in. Her hand strokes my hard cock as she caresses my tongue with hers before breaking off a moment later.

  “That was amazing,” she quips through heavy eyelids.

  "Now, promise me you'll come home soon."

  She nods. “I will. I’m almost done with everything.”

  “Good.” I press a kiss to her forehead before closing my eyes. “Because I need you, Indie.”

  ♫ Lie to Me — 5 Seconds of Summer feat Julia Michaels ♫

  Jed: When do you come back home?

  Me: Two days.

  Jed: I’m canceling all my shit.

  Me: Calm yourself, I’m not going to be there long. Just to check in on Mama and the house. Then I have to get back to NYC.

  Jed: All I need is fifteen minutes.

  He sends me another text, but I don't respond, barely glance at it because I'm late. I have a bride waiting for me at a bakery that I love to refer clients to, and everyone and their mom is in my fucking way on this sidewalk.

  I hate this city.

  I hate the people, the lights, everyone’s need to know every single fucking thing because all I see—are things I don’t want to.

  The remembrance of who still holds a tiny piece of me is on every TV screen I pass, I swear to God. He must live in front of it. It’s pathetic because I’ve been doing this for over a year. Every time I see his face, I give myself whiplash from jerking my neck away.

  It still doesn't block the sound of his voice, though.

  The dark octave that’s like chocolate dripping off a strawberry and into your mouth—fucking delicious.

  I’ve stopped reading blogs because he’s won every female with his charm, dubbed the hottest president of the decade or ever. (Sorry JFK.) His face is plastered on the side of taxis and buses when he has some dumbass slogan going on about what he’s trying to promote.

  It’s all disgusting.

  I can’t wipe his face away if I always find his blue eyes looking back at me. The ones I glare at because I had to save my family and move away.

  I lost more clients than I could afford after the sex tape that Demi released. People were falling like flies, money wasn't coming in anymore, and my name was a joke. People stared at me in stores, I had a drink flung in my face at a restaurant one night followed by the words "home wrecker” and “whore". And a few times it happened, Mama was conveniently with me.

  I didn’t sell my house, Mama stayed in it while hers was being rebuilt from the fire. Marty had gotten called back to finish out his mission—still have no idea what or where that is—but he calls more frequently than before, asking me when I’m going to stop the party planning shit and come back home.

  The same song and dance, the same gut-wrenching feeling in my stomach because I do want to go home. I’m just letting things blow over, I guess, if that ever happens.

  Leaving home was my only option for a fresh start. Not that I wanted to go, but Demi made sure my whole career was ruined.

  She won, I lost. Still trying to swallow down that massive pill.

  Sadie stayed home with her mom, not wanting to venture out to NYC and so Mila came along with me. She's grown into so much more than I expected, and together we run the new business.

  My phone buzzes in my coat pocket, and I mindlessly pull it out to answer it, dodging some dickhead on a bike who almost plows into me.

  “Hello?”

  “Hi, Miss Shelton?”

  “Yes.”

  “Hi, it’s Zara. I’m so sorry to bother you but—”

  “Hey, Zara, I am so sorry I’m late. Traffic is just—” I dodge and dip in front of a large group of people to get further ahead. “—I’m on my way.”

  "Okay," she replies slowly. "I have lunch reservations in an hour, so if you could try and hurry, I'd really appreciate it. I know it's not your fault."

  “I promise this will be quick and painless,” I voice before jaywalking across the street. “I’ll be there in less than five minutes.”

  "Perfect, see you then." She hangs up, and I hit the other end of the street only to be bumped into for the millionth time today. My phone buzzes again in my hand, and I look down to find Jed calling me.

  I need to stop it with him.

  We only screw when I'm in town, which has been on and off to check in when I can with Mama. And every time I tell myself this is the last time, it ends up being another and another.

  “What’s up, Jed?” I answer, picking up my pace to the bakery.

  “I wanted to know if you’d be my date for a Senate dinner in New York.”

  My brows furrow. “Uhhh…”

  “I know you hat
e those things but, I don’t know, we’ll be able to hang out, maybe you can show me around.”

  “You know I’m seeing Enzo,” I allude. “And that’s a conversation that I don’t want to have right now.”

  "Is he your boyfriend?" His question is more like an incredulous snap of disdain. He hates how I'm hooking up with someone else besides him, but he doesn't talk much about it, neither do I, but still…

  "No," I deadpan. "But, it's called respect."

  "Not following, you screw us both, and he gets respect?"

  “You want to go on a date,” I retort.

  “So, he doesn’t take you out?” I heave my purse further up on my shoulder. I’m already done with this conversation.

  “Not as his date, Jed.”

  “And we’ve been friends forever,” he counters. “So, if he gets jealous about something like that, Rea, I’m not sure he’s right for you.”

  It’s at the tip of my tongue, burning a hole through my lips to get it out and just be done with him.

  After the...thing with him and his brother, it didn’t exactly end there. The first time I came home, we banged.

  Then the next time, and the next. Yeah, you get the picture.

  But the more time that goes by, the more impatient Jed gets with dreams and fantasies of us getting back together. Every time he mentions it, it's like batting away a fly. I try not to hurt his feelings, but he still gets upset in the process. And he's getting worse with getting in his feelings.

  I sprint-walk around a corner. “Look, I’m about to run into an appointment, I gotta go.”

  “See you in two days,” he singsongs then hangs up, leaving me frustrated.

  Jed may have been a person I loved once upon a time, but then it was sucked out of me by the President of the United States.

  ♫ What It Takes — Aerosmith ♫

  “Ladies and gentlemen,” I conclude. “Thank you so much for your time today. We’ll follow up next week.” The table of my advisors from all several departments disperse from their chairs and handshakes immediately take place.

  I’m patted on the back, asked to go play golf sometime along with many words of encouragement. But I don’t miss Em shifting her feet at the corner of the room, patiently waiting for the meeting to end.

  A few people send a curious glance her way, but she ignores them as she waits for me to finish up. Petite hands clasped together in front of her, she sends a few grins to the men and women leaving the room and, when the last one is out, she marches towards me like the little soldier she is.

  “Em, why are you still here?”

  She blinks at me and stops walking. “Huh?”

  “It’s your day off,” I reply, gathering up papers off the long conference table. “It’s on our calendar.”

  “It is?” I fix her with an exasperated look, and she casually shrugs. “I forgot.”

  “Em, you’ve been busting your ass for months. We’re in, I’m pledged in. You promised you’d take a day off, you did—months ago—and now you’re following me around the White House like my shadow.”

  “I am your shadow,” she mutters. “It keeps the sun off my face.” I roll my eyes. “Can I take off tomorrow instead? I’m already here.”

  “Em…” I warn.

  “Tomorrow,” she states.

  I give her a weak smile. “Awesome.”

  She frowns. “It’s going to happen tomorrow.” I nod. “Do you know what I’m talking about?” Her face stares at me intently, and now I know we’re not talking about her sitting around her house, lost, tomorrow.

  “Em, I only know the English language, and I’m not good with riddles so…” I round her and make my way to the door, and my shadow continues to follow me.

  Once I hit the hallway, it’s crowded with people bustling around with briefcases and leather binders in their hands. I get friendly nods in greeting, and I return them—I have to—and continue to my study where I feel more comfortable.

  The Oval Office only reminds me of Scandal, the show Reagan and I used to watch, and it weaves my stomach into knots. It pings the familiar pain in my gut, and I avoid it as much as humanly possible.

  It’ll get better.

  I keep telling myself that. With time, I’ll be able to breathe better, see things that are actually in front of me and not daze off into memories that are just that—distant and so long ago.

  Over a year ago.

  Thing is, if I can learn not to torture myself with the video that she sent me, I’ll be better off. It still lies in my phone, played over a dozen times. And each time hurts more than the last.

  Emmy thinks she blocked me from watching it anymore, thinks she deleted the video—it’s called a cloud, where everything is backed up to remind myself how I took a good thing and shit all over it.

  How she took my love and ruptured it.

  “He’ll take his lunch in his study,” Emmy tells someone as I open the door to my office and let her stride in behind me. There’s a personal study off the Oval, but I hate it being so damn close to the scenes in that TV show, so I kicked some press secretary out and made it my own.

  Taking an immediate place behind my desk, Emmy stands in front of it with her brown binder pressed up into her stomach, waiting for me to acknowledge what she wants to tell me again.

  “What’s the matter, Em?” I say off a sigh.

  “It’s...Demi,” she drones. “She thinks she’s pregnant again.” My eyes bore into her, and I don’t mean at her, but she’s the only living thing in front of me so she gets the brunt of it.

  “I’d have to fuck her to get her pregnant.” The familiar beginning of a rage-filled fit courses through my body. I’ve told myself that I wouldn’t give Demi the power to make me feel a certain type of way, but it’s hard.

  It’s so beyond exhausting and difficult to be linked to her, to have people acknowledge her as my wife like I want her to be.

  “You would’ve had to do that the first time too,” she quips.

  Ah, yes, the first time. Let’s go back and talk about that for one quick second, shall we? Back in May of last year, my still wife decided to publicly announce that we were expecting a child. Our first child.

  No one knows that she aborted our first child years ago when I was still “happily” married to her. That she never even had the intention of telling me.

  So to keep me within her grasps, she made the executive decision to leak it out to the press and—ta-da—my polls went up, the media was everywhere, and Demi became the Virgin Mary carrying my child.

  Until she “miscarried” two months later.

  How she got so many people to back her fucking lie up is beyond me. How she found a doctor to agree to it and risk their license wasn’t beyond the leaps and bounds that she would go to make sure her story was pieced together perfectly.

  Then I had to give a public announcement about how “deeply saddened” we were about losing our unborn kid and pretend to be distraught, all while Demi clung to me like a fucking leech.

  I wanted to push her off the stage I was standing on.

  I longed to just tell everyone that I hated this woman, and if she ever said she was pregnant again, it sure as fuck wasn’t my kid. She should have her tubes tied because the woman was Satan and we didn’t need anymore evil lying around.

  It only shoved the knife deeper into my chest over the things I’ve had a play in with Reagan’s life. Every single thing that has happened to her was because of me.

  Her mother landing in the hospital.

  Her entire home being burnt down.

  Demi releasing the sex tapes.

  Chase being someone that was real but not so real to her. I try to stay out of her life but sometimes I can’t help it.

  The nights don’t help and the resources I have only make it easier to get things done with no questions asked. I know that her mother’s home is almost rebuilt. I’m aware that Reagan’s business took a big hit and she shut it down in Connecticut. I was informed that h
er brother, Marty, is back in the military.

  I know more than I should know about a woman who decided to cut the last fragile piece of string between us.

  And she never looked back—but I always do.

  Do I forgive Reagan?—No.

  Do I hate her?—Abso-fucking-lutely.

  “Demi is going to leak it to—”

  “Who?” I snap.

  “The Washington Tribune.”

  “Which reporter?”

  Em glances down at a pink post-it note. “A Melody Shu...Shurat—”

  “I want her here today.”

  “But—”

  “Em,” I assert. “You’ll be asking those men behind you to hide a dead body while I have to fake mourn my wife’s death if you don’t grab that bitch and bring her here to me today.”

  She lets out an unsteady breath, which disturbs me. Not as much as Demi trying to pull a fast one on me but because Em isn’t doing too well.

  She looks like she hasn’t slept since we were in Connecticut. She bitches at me to eat, but now that I think about it, I don’t think she eats at all. Her clothes are baggy in places where they never used to be. No amount of coffee perks her up, and she looks miserable.

  “Have you been—” Em clears her throat. “—leaving things around?” She means condoms.

  So let’s paint a pretty picture of myself since everyone has already seen the selfish shit that I’ve done over the course of a year.

  I don’t fuck with my wife. I still wish that she’d fall into some dark pit and never be found again. And since I massacred my only chance for happiness, I found something that would occupy my time.

  I couldn’t hold on or deal with my history, so Indie was my new getaway. One that used to volunteer for me when I was campaigning for president and I was drowning myself in whiskey bottles. I fucked her in the next room while listening to Demi beam to my supporters about how good of a husband I was and how proud she was of me.

  What’s more fucked up, is that Indie matches Reagan almost to a tee.