by Hazel Grace
“Oh, wow.” I’m not buying it. “So you’re dealing again.” His brows cut down as he gapes at me from my accusation.
“You must be out of your damn mind, Tsarina,” he leers at the glass. “I barely have time to wipe my ass let alone sling coke around.”
“You don’t think I remember you coming home every other day with a bruise or a slash somewhere on your body from fighting?” I lean against my island. “You didn’t think I forgot about all of that, did you?”
“I’m not dealing, geezus Christ, I just told you why I’m here.”
“It looks like you got your ass kicked, Marty.”
“By tripping and fucking up the shit I already had. Damn, you need to work on your trust issues.” My nostrils flare as I stare at him.
He could be telling me all the facts, I could be totally off. Completely out of my mind, which wouldn’t surprise me with everything going on.
However...I know my brother. And I’m privy to the no-eye-contact shit that he does when he’s not wanting to spill the truth.
“I have a surprise for you, brat.”
“What is it?”
“Pack a bag, we’re leaving tomorrow.”
“I can’t leave tomorrow, I work.”
“I already have it handled,” he vouches, giving me a gentle tug to my hair when I’m close enough. “I have Sadie coming into town for a few days to help Mila.”
“Seriously?” Marty smiles.
“No, seriously.”
His smile grows. “Seriously serious. You need a vacation, and...you need some drills of your own apparently.”
“I’m a civilian.”
“You need some discipline and your head screwed on tighter.”
I tsk. “Well, was Sadie okay with it? She hates big cities.”
“Yeah,” he quips, stealing another glance down at the street. “She agreed with the vacation, and as long as she didn’t need to live in New York, she was good with staying here.”
“Where are we going? How are you getting—”
He flicks his eyes back to me. “There you go with the million questions again.” I huff, pushing away my paranoia even though it’s sticking pretty heavily in my chest right now.
“Do I get a hint?”
Marty chuckles. “It’s warm.”
“Nice.”
“Where are the Band-Aids?” We walk back together to the kitchen island, and he frowns. “You don’t have any cool ones?”
“Sorry, fresh out of Pokemon Band-Aids.”
“We’re going to get some and some damn groceries when we get back.”
“How long are you staying?”
“A while.”
♫ 11 Minutes — Picturesque ♫
“Did you have a good meeting?” Indie asks me while my face is in the crook of her neck, tasting her skin and ridding my ass of shit I don’t want to think about.
Of who I don’t want to ponder and seethe over.
She claims no more Jed Hardison, I’m not fully sold on it. But then again, I’m not going to plant men around her to make sure he’s not fucking her either. The temptation would be too real, I’d get obsessively attached again—I can’t.
She’s broken me once, I’m not going to have it happen again.
No matter how much I want to keep texting her and remember how her lips felt around me in Mexico. I can’t keep going down the same rabbit hole that’ll always have the same outcome and the duplicate reality I’m currently living in.
Just say the word.
“They were fine,” I deadpan, pressing my lips to the column of her neck again, wishing she’d just shut the hell up.
Em has been keeping her distance from me, aware that I’m shell-shocked as hell that she’s not just Emmy. She’s a little secret guerilla made up of a five-foot-four frame and small little hands that I don’t even think can hold a gun let alone off someone.
“Thank you for flying me out here,” Indie says off a breathy exhale. “I’ve only been to California once when I was a kid...but you didn’t have to get me my own room. I could’ve just stayed with you.”
I don’t want you touching me when I’m head-locked on too much shit.
“Didn’t want to wake you up when I had to leave early in the morning.”
“Bullshit,” she laughs in my ear. “I have nothing to do tomorrow but grab a flight in the afternoon.”
When my silence is her only answer, she pulls her body away to look at me. I have to stifle back a sigh when her gray eyes lock with mine.
“Are we flying back together? I wanted to try and spend as much time with you as possible.”
“Your flight is going to New York City,” I state, letting my hand roam down her back to her ass. “And I’m going back to the White House.”
Her pretty face falls. “Oh.”
“But I figured since we had a few hours—” I drag her back to me. “—that we could get a few rounds in.” She gives me a forced smile, clearly not liking my answer, but it’s all I got.
It’s all I need because when I go back home, it’ll be me facing Em. A whole lot of attempting to look at her the same way I always have and not seeing someone who was planted in my life to protect and serve me in other ways that didn’t include politics and personal agendas.
I’m pissed that I never sensed it.
That she was better than me at cloaking herself from not only me but everyone else too. Maybe that’s why she and I got along so well from the jump. Why I always felt bonded to her because we didn’t like exposing ourselves.
However, I wonder how much of Em is real. If pasta really is her favorite dish, and if she loves alternative nineties music.
In a sense, she feels like a stranger that still looks, talks, and acts the same. Why she felt as though I should even be president is beyond me. Why she signed up to help broody, asshole me is far-fetched and questionable. It makes me feel more alone because I don’t know who she is. And at the end of the day, I think she became my best friend too.
“Any time spent with you is fine with me,” Indie finally voices, wrapping her hands around the lapels of my navy suit. “I’ll take what I can get, for however long I can.”
Right.
I lower my mouth to hers, smelling the fresh scent of soap from her shower that she took before I arrived back at the hotel. Her dark hair is still damp, she’s barely dressed, still in her bra and panties when I walked in, and I immediately took advantage of it.
So, if she’ll stop fucking talking, I can lose myself in the woman that looks almost like the one I’m trying to forget.
Makes sense, right?
Indie’s lips lock onto mine as she promptly slides her tongue into my mouth. I follow, quickly unclasping the hooks of her bra and letting it fall to the ground. My jacket follows before she starts to work at the buttons of my shirt.
“Rip it,” I order, not because I want a fucked-up shirt but because that’s what she used to do.
My Sox.
The woman who demanded and took when she wanted, at the exact moment she desired.
Indie gets two buttons to pop off my shirt, struggling while trying to kiss me and keep the moment alive. I don’t stop or help, needing her to do it. Hoping that I can just lose myself in her and just—not. That’s all I want.
Instead, Indie tries my pants, easily getting those undone and down my legs for me to step out of. Lifting her in the air, I navigate us to the bed, dropping her there then removing the rest of my shirt.
Indie patiently waits for me, her eyes peering up at me with lust and fervor in her darkened eyes. A look that should have me rock hard as it has before.
But the more times I see Reagan, the more Indie’s effect starts to dwindle.
My knees on the bed, I crawl over her, yanking her panties down while my boxers are still on.
Red panties.
I could lose my shit right now at how fate loves to fuck with me.
“I haven’t been playing with myself since you’ve or
dered me not to,” Indie conveys, biting on her lower lip. “I’m so fucking horny right now.”
Too bad I can’t say the same thing.
“So this is going to be easy, is that what you’re saying?”
“Very.” She arches her back to brush her body along mine. “But I’m expecting more than a few orgasms since we haven’t been together for so long.”
Relax, it’s been like three weeks.
“Commanding tonight,” I vouch, stroking my semi-hard dick. “Isn’t that something.”
Indie draws me closer to her by my shoulders. “Figured I’d keep you on your toes, Mr. President. We want to make sure you don’t get too big of a head.” Her mouth lands on my jaw as she works her way down my throat.
“I’m here to serve.” I offer before her hands push my boxers down.
“Take them off.” She already has her fingertips along the waistline of my boxers, doing it for me. “Will you take me deep and hard?”
“I’ll do whatever you want.” I feel her smile against my skin as I wrap myself up to start the “losing myself in something else” process.
Positioning my body between her legs, hard, deep, and silent is more of the playout that I want to have happen. I just want to fuck and imagine what I need to so I can get off, no matter how pathetic it is that I know my imagination will dream of scenerios of Reagan.
The moment I’m inside her, my pace is automatically erratic and unplanned. Each thrust is a flashback to what and who I had before. I can see her smile, hear the shaky breaths she tried to hold in because she didn’t want to stroke my ego. Just the pleasure of Reagan allowing me to fuck her gave me a fucking big head.
A curvy body underneath me grunts softly and gasps when I’m balls deep. Fingertips roam down my back in a silent command to keep going and give her what she needs.
To love her.
I can’t fall in love with Indie when my heart isn’t together in one piece. I left it in Connecticut, on life support, the fucker could be dead by now for all I know.
“Yes,” Indie mutters, off a sharp gasp. “That feels so good.”
“I miss this,” I whisper into the crook of her neck. “Us.” She doesn’t respond because I thrust harder into her, knocking out her next intake of air. Her dark hair wisps over my stubbled cheek while my lips clasp on to her soft neck.
“Right there.” Her hips rise from the bed, seeking more. “I’m going to come.”
“Yes, baby, all over my cock. Give me everything.” She instantly breaks apart as I continue to propel inside her, the buildup in my balls already there.
“I missed this cock so much. Make me yours.”
“You’re already mine, Reagan.” Then I spill every ounce of frustration into my condom, giving her one last thrust before slowly pulling out of her.
And that’s when it hits me.
Gray eyes.
Slightly turned up nose.
Not Reagan.
Indie stares at me like I’m a stranger, shock that’s displayed with a frown.
Fuck.
“You promised…” she whispers, eyes glossing over in tears. “You said you’d never call me her again. Not after I told you I couldn’t do that anymore.”
“I’m sorry,” I blurt, reaching out to caress her face, but it won’t do shit for what I did and what I don’t feel sorry for at all.
She knew I was fucked up over a woman named Reagan after I said it more than I care to count. Indie let it go until we started to fuck some more. She refused to continue if I didn’t stop calling her by another name, and since then, I’ve been okay.
Until things started to unravel again and my brain began to go haywire once more.
“I’m not trying to hurt you,” I concede, backing off the bed so I can clean off. But I do feel bad for just fucking her and going back to my old ways. I’m just not sorry that I still see Reagan in my head. She’s safe there, no one can take her away from me.
“I know,” Indie utters. “It’s just—” She pushes her body up by her elbows. “—that was her, wasn’t it?”
My jaw locks. “Who?”
“The woman at my opening.”
My head snaps to her. “What are you talking about?”
“Reagan Shelton, your old party planner. I Googled her afterward, everything just matched. All the broken puzzle pieces suddenly fit.”
I clear my throat, needing a moment for myself. “I’m going to go clean up real quick and grab you...something.” I escape to the bathroom, closing the door a bit so I can rest my back against the wall.
Then bang my head against the drywall.
Indie isn’t Reagan. She will never fully be what I dream about. The fantasies that I can’t drown or burn because I’d have to kill myself to make them stop. I’ve always prided myself on keeping a strong front and even stronger structure of steel. Something no one could break because I wouldn’t let anyone under my skin.
I’m losing that battle, never really got above the surface to just wipe it away and start clean. Reagan is still there, burrowed for fucking life, and I can’t dig her out.
Yanking one of the small white towels off the shelf, I run the water and wipe myself down.
When I come back into the bedroom, Indie is gone.
I don’t really consider myself fucking up anymore.
It’s more like “this is me, take it or leave it”.
My life and career, as of late, have been nothing but one screwup and bad decision after another.
So since I’m on a roll, I order another whiskey from the downstairs hotel bar and don’t text Indie to see if she’s alright.
She’s pissed, I can only say sorry so many times, and I can’t rub Reagan out of my mind or dick, so what’s the point?
Indie should and can do better than me. I’m a lost cause with no heart to give her but a cock that will and loves to fuck her. That’s the beginning and end of our relationship.
The female bartender drops off my drink onto my black napkin and leans over the bartop.
I inwardly sigh, the platonic movement hinting that she’s going to try and hit on me. How the top two buttons of her white blouse just happened to unbutton themselves while she was pouring my drink, which takes almost zero movement.
“What else can I get you?”
“Did your voice just drop?” I uproot my eyes from my folded hands. “Because I wouldn’t even try to embarrass yourself with a desperate attempt to show me your tits to increase your fifty-something-year-old self-esteem. I wouldn’t give them a second glance now or before you became labelled middle-aged.” She drags herself back, her elbows abrading against the laminate wood countertop.
Brushing strands of sandy blonde hair out of her face, she doesn’t look affected by what I just said. In fact, she looks impassive, probably from getting it every day here at the bar. “Someone’s in a bad mood.”
“Someone isn’t grasping my point.” I lift a brow, thinking she’s going to put her tail between her legs and peace, but she remains cemented to her spot. “You here alone?”
“Nope.” I pick up the glass tumbler and take a sip of the bitter liquid.
She picks at my napkin with her long fingernails. “Girlfriend?”
“Nope.” She looks around the bar that’s packed with guests and nails her focus back on to uninterested ‘ole me.
“I can show you where we keep all the good whiskey in the basement if you’d like to sample some of that.”
“Sure, I’ll do that when—”
“He won’t be needing to,” another female voice asserts with steel laced in her words. “But we’ll make sure to leave in our review that the bartender named ‘Alisha’ was extra helpful in the hoe department.”
Alisha pushes her tongue into her cheek before she scoffs loudly. My head slowly turns to the sound of the voice—that voice—and I’m met with the most beautiful pair of violet eyes I’ve ever and never have seen before her.
The same ones I’ve thought about on the bod
y I crave more than anything in this world.
“The hell are you doing here?” I snap, forcing out all my aggression on how fucked up this night has already become.
All because of her.
Reagan bats her long eyelashes at me and takes it upon herself to sit in the stool next to me.
“This seat is taken,” I growl, noticing her black jeans that are ripped horizontally from her thigh downward. The light blue shirt that comes above her midriff, exposing her stomach.
“Is it?” She props her elbow on the countertop of the bar. “Where is my lovely lookalike?”
Son of a fucking bitch.
I avert my gaze from her because she won’t get the satisfaction of how my eyes want to roam down her frame some more and take her to the nearest wherever to really show her what I think of her doppelganger.
Yeah, just shoot me now.
“Probably getting ready,” I mutter before downing some more of my whiskey to keep my composure.
“Ohhhh,” Reagan coos like a middle school girl who just caught someone kissing. “To get ready ready.”
“Why and how are you here, Sox?” I repeat, circling the rim of my glass with the pad of my index finger. “Did one of the Hardison’s bring you here because you begged him to take you out of New York?”
“No.”
“Then maybe the other loser.” Reagan chuckles, and I can see her head shake out of my peripheral vision.
Yeah, I’m done with this fucking game.
Downing the rest of my drink, I begin to slide off my stool until Reagan’s provoking comes out to play. “Leaving so soon, Mr. President?”
My eyes hike up to her again then turn into slits. “Do you mind not blowing my cover?”
“Oh, that’s right.” She finger guns me. “The mistress is staying with you.”
“That’s right, but no threesomes for me tonight.”
I swear I see her cower. My little hard-ass, the woman with the big mouth and temper to match—flinches at the word “threesome”.
“What’s the matter?” I taunt, keeping the stool in between us because I’m afraid of what I might do without it there. “Bad fuck?”
