American Queen

by Sierra Simone

  After a few minutes of this, Embry’s hand finds the waistband of Ash’s pajama pants and moves down. I can’t hear what he says to Ash, but I hear a small groan and I can guess.

  And with that groan, my brain sputters back to life like a neglected engine, and I wish I could turn it back off because there’s too many thoughts, too many questions, all contradicting each other, all fighting each other.

  I’m aroused.

  I’m angry.

  I’m curious.

  I’m betrayed.

  I don’t ever want this moment to stop.

  And seeing this now, in this way, I realize I already knew. Not consciously maybe, but the knowledge was there like a shipwreck waiting for the sands to shift, waiting for me to finally turn my head and see what part of me has suspected from the beginning.

  Suddenly what Ash said back in the bedroom makes sense. Jealousy is a word with too many meanings. It’s a TARDIS of a word, bigger on the inside, a small, mean thing on the surface, but a complicated dance of emotions and negotiations within. I’m suffering with every single meaning of the word jealous.

  I’m relieved that now I’m not the only one in this engagement that kept an important secret. I’m terrified of what happens next. Because really. What could possibly happen next? This was supposed to be my fairy tale, with me as the princess and Ash as the prince, but there’s a third person here, a person we both want and who wants both of us.

  None of the fairy tales I read as a girl had three people.

  My thoughts are interrupted by another groan from Ash, but he’s stepping back and adjusting himself inside his pants. Both men have bee-stung lips and wide, dark eyes, both men seem a little thunderstruck with each other, awed and incredulous and as yet unsatisfied.

  “Merry Christmas, Embry,” Ash says in a roughened voice.

  Embry’s voice is husky too. “Merry Christmas.”

  Ash turns away, his thumb at his forehead and then touching his lips, and Embry stands stock still under the mistletoe as Ash leaves and walks toward the office. He stands there for several long minutes, his eyes on the hallway where Ash disappeared, and then he finally turns around and goes to his bedroom, his hands scrubbing through his hair.

  And me, I’m left alone the cold hallway. Confused, wanting, hurt.

  Jealous.

  In love.

  22

  The Colchesters arrive Christmas morning, bringing presents (and bags of groceries since Ash’s mother refused to let anyone else prepare Christmas dinner.) She and I spend the day in the kitchen while Kay, Embry, and Ash huddle around the table and work. I’m hopeless with cooking—Grandpa had a full-time chef when I was a girl and my meal prep in college consisted of eggs and instant noodles—but even so, she gives me a big hug after dinner and proclaims me “one of the family.” And when she learns that my mother died when I was seven, she holds me tight, smelling like the piecrust she just rolled out and Elizabeth Taylor perfume, and tells me to call her Mama. I almost cry.

  The day is so busy from start to finish that I never have time to bring up last night to either Embry or Ash, even though I can feel a kind of fracture in me, a fissure across the surface of my soul, and wisping from that fissure are all sorts of questions. Was that their first kiss? Do they kiss often?

  Do they do more than kiss?

  Have they fucked before, and are they fucking now?

  It’s like I woke up and the world was sideways, but I’m the only one who notices. I’m dizzy and fragile and uncertain, while everyone else is as steady and normal as ever. Because the men don’t know that I know. And Embry doesn’t know that Ash knows about us. And probably there’s something else I don’t know, and what if it is that Ash and Embry are cheating on me with each other?

  Is a kiss cheating?

  Is it cheating if they haven’t fucked each other but want to?

  And there go all the different jealousies again, flying like an evil witch’s monkeys to swarm my mind, filling my head with memories of the kiss and also images of them fucking. Fucking naked, fucking in their tuxedos, fucking in their army uniforms…

  And at one point, that train of thought sent me to my bedroom with the excuse of a headache, although really I had to relieve another kind of ache, rucking up my sweater dress and pulling my panties aside the moment the door closed, coming in less than a minute to the image of those two strong bodies grinding together.

  (And of course Ash knows—somehow—that I came without him, and I spend that night biting his belt while he switches my ass with nettles he found growing next to one of the lodges.)

  The day after Christmas, the world explodes. There’s a pipeline leak in central Wyoming, and the day after that, a terrorist attack in Germany. Colombia falls apart, the VA reform bill needs to be reworked, and Ash is set to give an important speech on sex trafficking in front of the United Nations. And suddenly I go from having Ash and Embry all to myself to not seeing them at all. Both are hopping all over the country, both are working non-stop, and the one night I get to spend with Ash, he wraps his arms around me and falls asleep immediately, even before I’ve turned off the light.

  Two weeks mostly without him, and I’m a fidgeting, daydreaming wreck, twirling my ring on my finger, sighing at the snow, sleeping in a shirt of his I borrowed and never returned. So when Ash invites me to join him and a few others—Merlin and Embry and the Secretary of State—at a public meeting between the United States and Carpathia in Geneva, I jump at the chance. Maybe I’ll finally find a way to extract the answers to all my questions.

  At the very least, I can steal another shirt.

  “Thank you for letting me bring Abilene.”

  Ash looks up from his desk, a surprised smile lighting up his face. “You’re awake.”

  Air Force One thrums around us, and I’m constitutionally unable to resist white noise and soothing vibrations. Once the plane took off, Ash insisted on tucking me in for a nap in the Executive Suite, a nap that lasted almost as long as the flight itself. I’m currently standing in the doorway holding my briefcase with one hand while the other tries to untangle my messy blond waves.

  “I am, and I’m going to get some work done, but I thought I would tell you thank you first.”

  “Of course.” He leans back in his chair. “I’ll probably be busy most of the trip. It seemed like it would be more fun for you to have your friend nearby. Speaking of…any chance you’ll reconsider the sleeping arrangements?”

  I grin at him. “God, I wish. But Merlin said absolutely under no circumstance could we room together.”

  Ash drops his head back against the chair. “You would think being engaged would be enough for propriety’s sake.”

  “Apparently not.”

  His eyes slide to my briefcase. “What work do you need to do?”

  Sigh. What work don’t I need to do? “I’m finalizing the syllabi for my three classes this semester, and pulling together their initial assignments. Plus I told myself I’d work a little more on the book before the semester kicks in. Oh, and your social secretary won’t stop emailing me.”

  “About the wedding?” His eyes are soft when he says the word, and it makes the annoyance drain right out of me.

  “Yes. She wants it to be as big as the royal wedding. Bigger, if she can manage it.”

  “And what do you think?”

  “That I don’t care as long as my dress is pretty and I have time to teach.”

  Ash looks thoughtful when I say the word teach, but he doesn’t say anything. I didn’t ask for his input about me continuing to teach because it felt too much like asking for permission, and I would have done it no matter what he said anyway. I know Ash supports my decision, but I don’t know about everybody else…especially the American public. As far as I know, I’ll be the first First Lady to have a job that isn’t giving speeches or writing the occasional column.

  Merlin certainly doesn’t like the perception it sends out, but while I’m willing to wait to move into
the White House and willing to sleep in different hotel rooms, my career is not up for discussion. And as far as perception goes, who would have more respect for the White House than Leo Galloway’s granddaughter?

  “What do you think about the wedding?” I ask.

  “Come here and I’ll tell you.”

  “I’m not falling for that old trick,” I say, and yet I’m crossing the office to his desk anyway. He spins in his chair so that he’s sideways to his desk, and he pats his knee. I climb up there, all my stress about the work and the wedding dissolving away in the strength of his arms.

  “When it comes to the wedding, I want two things,” he tells me, his tone unusually serious. “If you’re not attached to having it in a particular place, I want it to be at the church I grew up going to in Kansas City. And I don’t want to see you the day of the wedding. I know it’s parochial and a little superstitious, but I want that moment where I see you for the first time at the foot of the aisle.”

  “Okay,” I breathe, entranced by his solemn mouth. “Whatever you want.”

  The solemn mouth breaks into a smile. “Those words are so delicious on your lips, angel. Can I have whatever I want all the time?”

  “Of course,” I say, fluttering my eyelashes at him.

  “You flirt. What about right now?”

  “Yes, Sir.”

  His breath hitches as I smooth his tie down his chest. “Go close the door, little princess. I have an idea about what I want at the moment.”

  Abilene is polished as always in knee-high boots and a cut-out blue dress that only a willowy redhead can pull off, her pretty features arranged into an expression of cool boredom. But I see her blasé facade thin as we’re ushered around by the Secret Service, when we’re surrounded by the most powerful people in the world arguing over who gets the last clementine on Air Force One. She’s eager and girlish, even though she’s trying to rein it in, and nowhere is it more apparent than when she is around Ash.

  I’m almost grateful we are taking a different car than him to the hotel; watching her around him is difficult. She clearly lied earlier when she said her crush on him was over, and I’ve clearly been lying to myself that I’m not still insecure around Abilene. She’s so beautiful and so vivacious compared to me, and especially with the mistletoe kiss in the back of my mind, it’s hard not to worry about what Ash really wants, ring or no ring.

  We pull up to our hotel, an agent opening the door for us and helping us out of the car, and Abilene looks up at the marquee with a puzzled frown. “I thought we were staying at the Four Seasons?”

  I shrug, tipping the doorman as we walk through the front doors. “Merlin asked the Secret Service to float a few different hotel names and go through the process of vetting each one, so that it was impossible to tell which would be picked. He was worried about the Carpathians trying to infiltrate the hotel staff. And besides, the Hotel d’Angleterre is the best hotel in Geneva.”

  “So you don’t know where you’re staying in a city until you get there?”

  “I think this is rare. But Merlin and Ash both worry about the Carpathian president, and they thought this was safer.”

  Abilene makes a noise of understanding, and it’s the last time she brings it up.

  That night, strung out from jet lag, we get ready for the diplomatic dinner with the Carpathians. The next few days will be filled with negotiations and bickering, and barely veiled acrimony, but tonight we’re all supposed to play nice, give the world lots of pretty pictures, maybe a nicely framed shot of Ash shaking Melwas Kocur’s hand. I know how important peace is to Ash, and how tormented he is by the years he spent fighting in Carpathia, so if the one way I can help make this treaty happen is to attend this dinner by his side, then I’m more than happy to do it. But I have no illusions about how congenial or enjoyable the evening will be; I’ve been to enough “bipartisan” events with Grandpa Leo to know that people very rarely lay their swords down for the sake of Italian wine and brandy flambé.

  “Is that what you’re wearing?” Abilene asks, stepping out of the bathroom as she fastens her earrings. She’s wearing a skin-tight gold dress with a plunging neckline, her scarlet hair cascading down in sultry waves, and for a moment, the old fear hits me hard. That she’ll always be the sexy one, the lovely one, while I’m stuck as her shadow.

  I look down at my dress, a one-shouldered flowing thing, gauzy and with thick bands of intricate detailing around the neckline and hem. It’s a color between white and silver, and I liked the way it set off my naturally golden skin and hair when I tried it on.

  But now I’m having doubts. “What’s wrong with it?”

  “Nothing,” Abilene says in that voice that means there’s definitely something wrong with it.

  I squeeze past her to go into the bathroom to look in the full-length mirror. I mean, compared to Abilene’s long red curls, my up-do does look a little modest. And yes, my dress isn’t form-fitting like hers, but I like the way it flows as it moves, the heavy hem and soft chiffon layers giving the occasional hint of my waist and breasts underneath, not to mention the sheerness of the fabric, which can only be seen in the right light or when the dress moves just so. There’s a very short shift underneath all the layers of chiffon to keep things from getting too scandalous, but overall it’s very sensual, in a muted, diplomatic dinner kind of way.

  “It just seems a little flat,” Abilene says. “Did you bring another gown?”

  “No,” I say, suddenly having doubts.

  “Greer Galloway! You always have a back-up gown! Always, always!” There’s a knock at the door, and Abilene sighs. “I’ll get it.”

  I’m still turning and frowning into the mirror when I hear the door open and Ash’s gravelly voice say, “Hello. May I come in?”

  I step out of the bathroom to see Abilene standing in front of Ash, staring at him. She’s breathing hard, frozen in place, and for a moment, I have the strangest feeling that she’s going to take a step forward and touch him. That she’s going to try to kiss him.

  But she doesn’t. After a few seconds, she steps back and lets him walk inside. When he sees me, he stops, his mouth parted as if he was about to speak and then forgot the words.

  “What’s wrong?” I ask, paranoid that his expression means he has all the same doubts about the dress that I now do.

  “What’s wrong is that you’re fucking perfect, and I want to have you all to myself tonight,” he growls, stepping forward and caging me against the wall with his arms. I’m acutely aware of Abilene standing right behind him, watching, and I’m also acutely aware that I almost don’t care. “That color makes your eyes look silver. And your skin looks so fucking edible…” He leans down and bites my exposed collarbone, and agonized pleasure spreads through me like a toxin, hijacking my nerve endings and my capacity for higher thought.

  But I still manage to put my hands on his chest and give a meaningful glance in Abilene’s direction. She’s turned away, pretending to go through her clutch, but I know she’s as painfully aware of us as my body is of Ash.

  Ash looks very much like he doesn’t give a fuck about Abilene being there, but he still drops his arms and takes a step back. “I suppose we should get going,” he says reluctantly.

  “We should,” I say, ducking past him to grab my heels and clutch, and as I do, he turns to Abilene.

  “You know Embry doesn’t have anyone to walk in with,” he says kindly. “Would you like to walk in with him?”

  “Like his date?” Abilene asks. I think I’m the only one who can hear that note of flat panic in her voice, that tug-of-war between pleasing Ash and having to spend the evening with a different man.

  “Embry is an excellent date, I promise. Greer can attest to that.”

  I send him a sharp look, and he returns it with a mild look of his own.

  “Which definition of jealousy did that come from?” I mutter as he opens the hotel door for me.

  “All of them.”

  When we arri
ve at the ballroom where the dinner’s being held, we meet Embry at the door looking cold and resigned in his white tuxedo. But when he sees me, he straightens up and presses his lips together, as if to keep from licking them.

  Ash surprises me by spinning me into a little twirl in front of Embry, as if to show me off. “Doesn’t she look divine, Mr. Moore?”

  I can tell by the way Embry’s eyes follow me that he’s able to see my body through the dress. “Good enough to eat, Mr. Colchester.”

  And my answering shiver has nothing to do with the cold.

  “And Abilene is doing a year’s worth of charity and consenting to be your date,” Ash adds. “So you see, we’ll each have a granddaughter of Leo Galloway on our arm tonight.”

  Embry smiles, but it doesn’t reach his eyes. “Wonderful.” He extends an arm to Abilene, who takes it gracefully, although she looks equally miserable. “Shall we begin?”

  Ash and I walk behind them, and Ash leans in to whisper, “You’re cruel to wear this in front of Embry, you know.”

  “Abilene thought I should change.”

  “You look like a goddess. It’s pure torment to be around you in that thing.”

  I stroke my fingers up his bicep. “And what would you do if we didn’t have to be here?”

  He flashes a wicked smile. “I’ve always wanted to fuck a goddess in the ass.”

  I blush so hard that he laughs. “Stop,” I mumble, embarrassed and hot between the legs. “Someone might hear you.”

  “You’re the one who started it. And do you really think I’d be the first world leader to fuck someone’s ass? There’s at least two or three English kings who’ve beat me to it.”

  I slap his arm, trying to get him to lower his voice. “Well, they didn’t do it to their wives. And they definitely didn’t talk about it in public.”

  Ash’s eyes sparkle but there’s a husky catch in his voice when he says, “We really need to raise your comfort level with sodomy. And I can think of a few ways we could start.”