Bona Fide (Illusive Duet Book 2)

by Hazel Grace

  But it’s here. And there is no fighting that it’ll always be here.

  “This will be the last time you have to lay eyes on me,” he professes. “I have a job to do, and you’re the only thing in this world that is worth saving to me. Then there is the country I promised to uphold, that I swore I’d protect. But I can’t do that when you’re walking around with no idea of what’s happening. Or what’s coming. Don’t watch TV, Sox, it’s going to be a shit show.”

  He takes a step back and holds out the gun again, silently urging me to take it.

  To make him feel better.

  And though I despise having a gun in my possession, I take it, for him, just so it can give him some sort of relief.

  “Take care of yourself,” he croons. “Promise me.” He knows how much that means to me. And that’s why he’s never promised me a damn thing. Everything in his life was somewhat sporadic and not reined in, which meant he couldn’t give me what he knows I deserve.

  But why is it that I’d take whatever as long as he was attached to my life?

  “I promise,” I chant. He gives me a weak smirk as he begins to walk back towards the door. Turning the knob, he begins to open it, but I lunge in his direction.

  “Yank.” He stops, and a shattered exhale escapes his lips.

  “Yeah?”

  “Promise me...that you’ll be okay.” Another feeble smirk reappears on his beautiful face.

  “I can’t, baby. You’re not with me. Nor will you ever be.” He yanks the door open and disappears behind it, softly letting it click behind him.

  I can feel his words and ugly facts cut into my soul.

  He’s right. Because in our heads we’re so much more that no one will ever see, and we’re dangerous when put together.

  Something that will leave casualties.

  ♫ What Lies Beneath — Breaking Benjamin ♫

  “The car is ready when you are, sir,” Mitchell drones, hands clutched together, which shows off his broad shoulders and no-bullshit demeanor. I nod at him through my mirror, adjusting my black bow tie and making sure the chaos running through my head doesn’t spatter all over my white dress shirt.

  I’m a fucking disaster.

  A walking crisis of animosity and concern, a broken cause ever since I left Reagan in Wyoming with her brother, mother, and a dozen of my security guys of all sizes and ages to blend in.

  I can’t say that I’m not frantic and anxious to get this over with. To throw all my cards out there to crucify Demi and fall on my knife right beside her. The irony of our relationship is that we’ll both suffer and succumb together. We’ve both been keeping each other alive; paying her allowance to keep her in Paris, happy, out of my fucking life. While she preserved my secrets to let my career take off. This is deranged warfare, and I believe that no matter how I play my stakes, Demi and I will both be slain.

  “Mr. President, the First Lady is ready,” Francis chimes, entering my room to stand next to Marshall.

  “Thank you.” I give myself one more glance over and turn on my heels to find Demi squeezing through the door between my two men.

  Her blue eyes hit me the moment she’s through, emotionless and monotone when she says, “We need to talk.”

  No, we don’t.

  I’m emotionally spent. I had to give Reagan a gun to protect herself in case this bitch in front of me decides to assassinate her, my brother and sister are in for a rollercoaster ride of political bullshit because of the things she has done, and I’m ten seconds away from dropping a nuke on the next country that decides to open their mouth with a threat.

  Not a good look.

  “Can we talk in the car?” I press. “We’re going to be late.” I swipe my coat hanging off one of my leather chairs, but she doesn’t move to follow me.

  So, we’re going to do this now.

  I let out a silent sigh and bow my head to Mitchell and Francis to give us a private moment. Demi doesn’t give a fuck if it makes us look like a bunch of morons showing up to an event late, as long as she gets her two cents in, she’ll do it.

  “What is it?” I snap, shoving my hands into my sleeves. “We don’t have time for this.”

  “I want a divorce.” I suspend my other arm from going all the way through my sleeve for a moment before resuming.

  “A divorce, huh.” She nods, folding her hands together in front of her emerald-colored dress. The pacified look that she’s displaying does nothing for her. I’m not sure how many times we have to go through this, but she’s playing it for the wrong audience. I know her and her fucked-up games like the back of my hand.

  “Yes,” she replies. “We don’t love each other anymore, and I’m looking to move on with my life.” I press my lips together and cock my head to the side.

  She knows I’ve wanted this for years but never once budged to give me what I wanted. Fully aware that she’d tried to walk away with half my shit, expose every one of my secrets while she got to walk away looking like the humble victim. But I’m not looking to sink in the pits of hell without her. She wanted to be fully and completely part of my life with the title of wife, she’s going to be with me during the conclusion as well.

  “That’s it?” I inquire, adjusting the lapels of my jacket.

  “Yes, and, of course, the normal things that come along with it.”

  “I believe your definition of normal and what’s specified in the Webster dictionary are two very different things. So what is it that you want from me?” I shove my hands into my pockets and wait for her to grow the balls she needs to express what part of her story she wants to feed me and what the real plan is behind closed doors with her and the Russian.

  Unfortunately for her, she doesn’t know that I know about him. Thinks I’m going to just let her walk away without a scrape to her name where she gets to walk off into the sunset and become some goddess over in Russia.

  It’s cold, she’ll fit right in, but the problem is she doesn’t like being told what to do or follow any sort of direction.

  “I want half of everything.”

  “Alright. Won’t be much off my governor salary but—”

  “We both know that you have more than that. And I’m looking for my share.”

  “Your share of what exactly? You weren’t around for years, and I paid you an allowance that you didn’t deserve. You won’t be getting half of anything else but that.”

  Her jaw ticks at my answer. “We’ll let a judge decide that.”

  The corners of my lips quirk. “Absolutely.” She eyes me suspiciously and, I’m sure, ponders what I have going on in my head.

  Which, honestly, isn’t much right now because thoughts of Reagan, Lucas, and Phoebe bounce around in there. Three people I have to protect from Satan herself because once I drop her to the wolves for committing treason by attempting to find confidential information to feed to the Russians, I’ll only get to play the victim for an hour before she spills all my shit.

  “You’re going to fight me over this?” Demi solicits with furrowed brows. “You really want to make this ugly?”

  “Should I have my lawyers draw up the papers or do you want to do it to where I scratch half the shit out?”

  She strides towards me. “We can do this easy, Wade. You walk off with your secrets, and I move on.”

  “With?”

  “No one important,” she conveys.

  “What of your dreams of being Jackie-O? And our baby?” She scoffs at that, wrinkling her nose as though that was a real idea instead of her desperate attempt to keep me.

  God, I can’t even believe she went through with the pregnancy with Daxton. Even though she’d have a nice little living baby to hold over Henry’s head, I remember her appearance was always her top priority. And, fuck, did I fall for that.

  “You wanting another child with me was a lapse of judgment, a fool’s dream,” she chimes. “You’ll never want to give our marriage another shot.”

  “Why not? My approval rating has been throu
gh the roof ever since you’ve been visiting schools and finger painting with the kids. The high school boys seem to love—”

  “Your bitch of an assistant scheduled those for me,” she carps. “I never approved nor was asked to do those things.”

  “Now, darling,” I coo. “It’s not just me that has to do their civic duty and make it appear as though you give a shit. If you wanna be Jackie-O, you gotta earn it.”

  “I want out.”

  “Too fucking bad. You should’ve fucked off with me a long time ago. When I begged you to let me go. So you rode on my coattails for almost a decade. Buckle up, buttercup, it’s going to be a long and bumpy ride.”

  “Fuck you.” Her hands tighten into fists, and I point at them.

  “If you’re going to punch me, make sure you leave a mark.” She lets out a loud, exasperated growl as she pins me with a glare.

  “You were right,” she says, sounding like it was the most sour thing she’s ever tasted in her life. “I don’t fit in here. I wasn’t made to be First Lady. So just let me go, and we can part ways amicably.”

  I cross my arms. “With half my shit, of course.”

  Her eyes narrow. “Do you think this is a joke? I don’t love you.”

  “Same.”

  “We’re miserable together.”

  I bow my head. “Absolutely.”

  She throws her hands up in the air. “Then what are we doing? You obviously aren’t staying faithful to me. I’ve never been faithful to you, and we’re getting too old for these games.”

  The corners of my lips quirk. Not only was I correct that she knew about Indie, but she’s desperate to get out—almost as much as I am. But she’s going to sit front and center, in front of America, and get stoned alive while I get to watch. Jackie-O over here isn’t going to get to run off to Russia or wherever the fuck she thinks she’s going unscathed.

  “Car is ready,” I impart. “If you’re not in it within two minutes, you can find your own fucking ride, and I’ll let everyone know you didn’t want to come.” I round her and make my way for the door, but her hand reaches out to catch my forearm. Thankfully, I’m too quick to that trick and dodge it.

  “You might want to think about all this, Wade,” Demi seethes. “It won’t turn out good for you. Trust me.”

  “It’ll be fantastic for me,” I counter with a grin, pivoting on my heels to face her one more time. “I’ve been trying to get rid of you for most of my life, but I don’t owe you shit. You might have skeletons of mine, but I have all the demons from your closet.”

  Demi shifts next to me for the hundredth time since we sat at our table at this fundraiser for underprivileged children and gun violence in schools. It was one of the very few events that I’ve been to this month that serves a purpose I can get behind. During this term, I want to do as much as I can for lower and middle-class families, to make their way of life simpler because I’m not running for a second.

  Emmy doesn’t know it yet, surprisingly she hasn’t brought it up but only two or three times since I was sworn in, but I don’t think I’m mentally stable for more of this career.

  In fact, I’d like to leave politics altogether, but I still want to make a mark so I might take my governor seat back from the old asshole that’s sitting in it right now. There’s not as many eyes looking at me, not as many people in and out of my office, and is somewhat calmer.

  Readjusting her legs and hitting the bottom of the table on purpose, I lean closer to my sit-in wife.

  “Do you have ants in your fucking pants, Demi, or did you become a tweaker?” She keeps her gaze locked on the speaker, discussing how all the funds for tonight’s auction will be used.

  “Don’t speak to me,” she mutters, reaching for her wine glass. “The only thing I want to hear is that you’re giving me my divorce.”

  “And the only thing I want to hear is that you fell in a hole somewhere, but we all don’t get what we want, do we?” Her head snaps to me, but I don’t acknowledge her forming temper tantrum. No, if Demi wants to make a scene, I’m all ready to start my opening act a little sooner than planned.

  “You’re making a grave mistake,” she replies. “You don’t know—”

  “You’re the one planning and devising a huge error on your part, Demi. I’m not about to lay my cards on the table, but let’s just say, I’ve seen your cards.” I peer over my shoulder at her. “I always knew you were a bitch, just not a stupid one.”

  “Ladies and gentlemen, without further ado,” the organizer of the event says into the microphone. “Please welcome to the stage, our commander in chief, President Wade Lockwood.” The crowd erupts in applause as I rise from my chair and acknowledge the room, waving with one hand and then the other to the opposite side of the room.

  Making my way to the stage, Mitchell and Francis are waiting for me by the stairs as I shake a few hands that are offered to me. The moment I hit the stage, they follow, as I shake the woman’s hand who announced me.

  “We’re so honored that you’re here, Mr. President,” she greets with a beaming smile. “Thank you so much.”

  “I appreciate it, thank you.” Another final wave to the crowd and I wait for it to stop so I can speak.

  People begin to stand and whistles begin to sound off before my right shoulder starts to incinerate like I’ve been poked with a red-hot poker. The next thing I know, my back and skull hit the wooden stage with well over two hundred pounds of dead weight on me.

  Screams pierce from what feels like everywhere around me as the pain radiates through my chest and down to the pit of my stomach from Francis being on top of me.

  “Francis,” I gripe tightly, struggling to shove him off when the sharp shooting pain courses through me again. “Buddy—” I give him another shake. “Francis.”

  “I got it, sir.” Mitchell appears, kneeling at my side. His familiar voice is the only one I can focus on over the shouting and bustling through the hall.

  I lie back, just for my eyes to catch the wetness of his black hair and the fresh, dark stain along my sleeve. Spots of pink and purple blur my vision accompanied by heavy ache in the back of my head and the burn in my shoulder.

  “It’ll be just a minute, sir,” Mitchell edges, pulling at his collar to speak into his Bluetooth. My gaze stays locked on the mammoth of a man lying on top of me. I can’t breathe, but it’s not what I’m so disoriented about.

  Is that blood on him and me?

  “Call 911,” I falter through an abated exhale.

  Mitchell wraps his hands around Francis' shoulders. “I just need to move him slowly.” He does just that, gently pulling Francis off me and resting his chest on the floor. “We need to go, sir.” I hear his deep voice, the urgency in his words, but I don’t interpret their meaning.

  There is so much blood.

  Francis isn’t moving.

  I can’t either.

  Blobs of black and colors rush and move across the back of the stage, but it’s Francis that I can’t pry my eyes from.

  “We need to move him,” a male voices before his gray mustache comes within my sight, leaning over to help me.

  A black coat is shoved in front of his face. “Put this on his shoulder to stop the bleeding.”

  “Where is Emmy?” I hedge. My upper body is lifted, sending another piercing pain through my body, causing a loud gasp that I can't stop.

  “Truck’s waiting outside,” someone else says. “We need to move fast.”

  “Hospital is on standby,” quips another.

  “Emmy,” I repeat. “Where is she?”

  “I don’t know, Mr. President,” is my answer.

  “Find her, now.”

  “When you are secure, we will—” I seize the first coat my left hand finds and tug weakly on it.

  “I said now.”

  “Right away, sir.” But no one around me moves away as I’m lifted in the air and rushed out the back of the venue.

  “Stoic’s car is ready.” I roll my eyes, l
ooking skyward at the code name my Secret Service gave me. It’s fucking hilarious.

  “All roads are being cleared.”

  “Emmy!” I bellow. “Where the fuck is she?”

  “Marshall is looking for her now, sir.”

  Carefully, I’m put into the back of the blacked out SUV and sped down the street like we’re in a police pursuit.

  “What happened?” I ask the suit next to me. “Where is Francis?” Neatly combed blonde hair and a lumpy nose, the man next to me stares straight ahead.

  “You were shot, Mr. President. And so was Francis. He’s behind us.”

  Shot? You see, they don’t train you or fully prepare you to hear those words. Instead, when you take office, your Secret Service only tells you that they’ll protect you at all costs. That whatever dangers become imminent, they’ll be sure to eliminate them.

  I knew I had enemies, I just never took any of them seriously.

  “I want him looked at first,” I order through another knife-like pain. “He has two young daughters and a wife.”

  A chilling silence fills between us when he responds with, “You’ll need to go first, Mr. President. You’re first priority, everyone else goes behind you, no matter the damage.”

  ♫ Sometimes Love Just Ain’t Enough — Patty Smyth feat Don Henley ♫

  “I’m not going,” Emmy declares, folding her arms along her chest. “You can’t make me.” I perk a brow while the nurse in front of me finishes dressing my shoulder. “Shouldn’t he be lying down or something?”

  The middle-aged nurse peeps over her shoulder at my defiant assistant. “He’s refusing any more treatment.”

  Now Emmy’s brows lift to the white ceiling. “Really? I would hate for there to be a lawsuit if something—”

  “I signed a waiver, Em,” I advise smoothly. “Stop freaking out my nurse so she can finish her job.”

  Betty, my nurse, continues wrapping my shoulder when a dark figure shows up in the doorway. My gaze latches on to Mitchell standing there. His face—it does nothing to ease my nerves of how my second shadow is doing, my second man who is always following me around.