Single TV Dad: Billionaire Romance... Naughty Angel Style

by Alexis Angel

  “What are you talking about?” The lust in his eyes has now been replaced by dread and confusion; as his gaze follows my fingers, he starts to realize that he has fucked up immensely. But now it’s too late. “You fuckin’ bitch!” he growls, going up to his feet. I take one step back as he raises his hand to strike me and, instead of showing him fear, I offer him one big grin.

  “Yeah, hit me,” I dare him. “You’re already knee-deep in a world of shit, Walter. Hit me and we’ll see that shit rise up to your neck. My operatives are watching and recording all of this … and if you try to fuck with me, you can bet your ass that my colleagues will start streaming this through the whole Internet. You’ll be done in a matter of seconds.”

  Still with his fist up in the air, he grits his teeth and hisses desperately. He lowers his trembling hand then, a vein in his forehead throbbing so hard that I wouldn’t be surprised if his head exploded.

  “You fuckin’ played me!” he cries out, pulling his pants up awkwardly and trying to hide his now shriveled cock.

  “I did,” I shrug, picking my dress up from the floor and squeezing myself inside of it.

  “Who put you up to this?” he asks me through his gritted teeth, and I look at him with a satisfied smile. He probably thinks that a rival company hired me, or that this is an internal coup—maybe someone wants to take his position as a CEO. Thing is, the answer is not that complicated.

  “Your wife,” I tell him. “She got tired of your cheating ass and wanted some proof so that she could ditch you.” Turning my back to him, I open the door to the closet and retrieve my small camera. I pick up my purse from a chair in the corner and throw the camera inside.

  “Please, don’t do this,” Walter cries out once more, his voice now quivering. I look at him with one raised eyebrow and sigh; realizing that he has my attention, he goes down to his knees and claps his hands together in a praying position. “I beg you, don’t do this. You’ll ruin my life.”

  “You should’ve thought of that before you decided to cheat on your wife. At least there’s still hope for her; maybe she’ll find a decent man now.” With that, I sling my purse over my shoulder, straighten out the front of my dress and, without bothering to look at Walter, I get out of the hotel room and close the door behind me. From inside the room comes a sound eerily similar to that of a grown man crying.

  Oh, well.

  Don’t think that I take pleasure from ruining men’s lives. This might be what I do for a living—luring men into traps—but I don’t do it on a whim. Before I take a job, I always do my research in order to be sure that the guy deserves it. And Walter Billingham deserves it.

  Greedy businessman and unfaithful husband, he had it coming. Not that I’m surprised. I’ve met my share of businessmen, politicians and what have you … and I can’t say I’m very impressed by the one percent of the America. The way I see it, they’re all highly paid con artists, ready to sell their souls to the highest bidder. I’m the Universe’s reply to all that decadence—in a way I'd like to think of myself as karma made flesh.

  A virgin avenger. That’s me.

  I’m heading toward the main exit when I stop dead in my tracks, realizing that there’s a crowd outside the hotel. Judging from all of the cameras and cable news vans parked there, I’d say something big is happening. I heard that Jia Park, the South Korean ambassador, was staying here, so maybe it’s something to do with her.

  Taking a deep breath, I take one of the side doors that lead to the street, and try to be as discrete as possible as I push my way through the sea of reporters.

  “Yeah, he’s a disappointment,” I hear one of the female reporters say in an upset tone. “I thought President Bain would be different and I don’t--” I stop hearing what she’s saying when I distance myself from the crowd, but it’s not like I need to. Of course our new Commander-in-Chief, President Bain, is a disappointment.

  If you’re dumb enough to believe anybody in this hellhole people like to call DC, you’re bound to be disappointed.

  Washington Beat

  President Player Caught Playing With His Python!

  From the desk of Margie Preston – our quirky and irreverent political reporter.

  It looks like President Austin Bain is using his time in office to come up to speed. Did you see how I took yet another sex scandal and did a double entendre?

  But in all seriousness, critics of the President were quick to charge that he was cheapening the role of the office and no other voice was as loud as the ever-present critic of the administration, Speaker of the House Bob Walker.

  “The President has a job to do that the American people elected him for, and I suggest he spend more time doing it, and less time learning the ins and outs of all the pretty Washington ladies,” the Speaker commented to me when I asked him what he felt about the current situation.

  Allies are resolute however that the President really hasn't done anything wrong. In fact, they sort of have a point. Was there anything really wrong with a man finding comfort, or whatever you want to call it, in the arms of a woman? The President isn’t married. He’s not got a girlfriend as far as we can tell. No one exclusive.

  Additionally, he hasn’t given up any state secrets. He hasn’t done anything criminal. He hasn’t lied about it. In fact, it’s quite the opposite according to those closest to him. An almost TMI like culture has developed around the President when he recounts his past experiences with women he has been known to associate with. Stories that are best “left in the locker room and not bandied about with men who no longer have the drive, stamina, or ability to match them,” according to one source.

  So if anything, this has been just an embarrassment once again for a White House that has become used to having to excuse a single President’s extra-curricular activities. And while there may be nothing criminal about it, in the court of public opinion, the real loser here is Austin Bain.

  And America.

  America needs a decider. What we have instead is President Player.

  That’s right. That’s my new name for Austin Bain apparently given to him by the media. President Player. And it’s this man’s job to somehow keep his finger ready on the nuclear launch codes all while he’s fixing schools and bringing back jobs.

  I don’t know if we’re supposed to be excited. Or scared.

  Because President Player has so much promise and potential. But it seems to get lost every time an attractive woman comes into the room. Will we be on the road to making America Tremendous Again? Or will it all end with the flushing of a condom down a toilet?

  Only one man knows the answer to this question, and his answer will impact 320 million Americans.

  And that man we call President Player.

  It’s going to be a long, long four years. That’s for sure.

  Austin

  "'President Player' is breaking news sir," Tracy, my Chief of Staff says, slapping the front page of today's New York Daily Journal down on my desk.

  "What the fuck? You think I live under a rock? I know; I've read the headlines on my phone about a hundred times today," I reply, shaking my head. The truth is, the headlines make me sick. I look across the oval office, beyond the serious and somber faces of my trusted staff, across the curved walls, and I realize that I'm furious.

  I can feel my heart kick in my chest with tension, and I shove one balled fist into the pocket of my suit pants.

  Why is the press focusing on my personal life, instead of what I'm accomplishing?

  Can't they see what I'm doing? Is everything about scandal and click-bait?

  Where the fuck is the interest in the common everyday American? Who’s struggling? No one cares about that. More about what kind of pussy my cock is going into.

  I look back at Tracy. She's a petite woman, but don't let her size fool you. She has the tenacity of a bulldog.

  "My personal life isn't the issue," I say, shaking my head. "I've been through great fucking pains to keep my personal life totally priva
te during the campaign."

  Tracy nods her head and says, "That's true, but there were still rumors."

  "Sure, there were rumors," I reply. "Rumors, rumors, rumors. It doesn't stop. There are always fucking rumors, but nothing was ever provable during my campaign. Nothing is ever provable—campaign or not. Don't you agree?"

  "Sir, that's exactly the problem," Tracy says, trying to drive her point home.

  "I'm not following," I reply, raising my eyebrows and pressing a finger to my temple. I can feel my pulse throbbing just beneath my fingertip.

  "I just mean that you've guarded your personal life so closely that it has just made people more curious," Tracy continues. "You're young, attractive, rich, and single. You're also the youngest President in the history of the United States and that's left the public curious about you."

  "So you think I should be completely transparent with my personal life?" I ask, tapping my pen on the office's Resolute desk in increasing agitation. "Don't you think I deserve as much fucking privacy as anyone else?"

  "That's not what I'm saying," Tracy replies. "Not exactly to that extreme anyways. I think the public thinks that you're hiding something."

  "Hiding something?" I ask. "Like what?"

  "I can't help you there," Tracy shrugs, her blouse bunching at the shoulders. "It's just a hunch."

  I lean back in my leather chair, and put my feet up on the desk. None of my other advisors have dared to speak.

  Then I hear Tracy clear her throat. "Another thing," she says, and I can't help squinting my eyes shut. This can't be good.

  She continues, "Living up to your promise to 'clean the cave' has also earned you some powerful enemies."

  I immediately put my feet down on the floor and sit up straight in my chair.

  "Like who?" I ask.

  "Well, Bob Walker for starters," she says.

  "That fucking bastard," I mumble to myself. He resembles more of a marshmallow than he does a man. I campaigned against him for the presidency. Walker thought for sure he'd be president, and so did everyone else. But in a surprise twist of events, he lost.

  He's now Speaker of the House, but I know he's looking for any chance he can get to snatch the presidency.

  "I agree," Reese Dawson, my VP, says, speaking up and breaking the silence. "He's been spitting venom ever since you beat him."

  Then Tracy continues, "The press isn't going to let up, especially not with Bob Walker pushing them, but I have an idea."

  "You do?" I ask, raising my eyebrows in disbelief. "Go on."

  "Well, the way I see it," Tracy says, "is that the press is going to dig until they get something. It's like a dog digging up a bone in a yard—they won't stop until they have what they are looking for. So, I think we should give them something."

  "Such as?" I ask, trying not to sound too skeptical.

  "A wife," Tracy replies matter-of-fact. "Well … a fiancée. "

  The entire Oval Office is silent. It's so quiet, I swear you could fucking hear a cotton ball bounce across the carpet. Everyone is staring at Tracy now in disbelief, including me.

  But then it dawns on me that maybe she's right.

  "We could hold a press conference," I suggest, standing up from my chair and pacing behind my desk. I tend to do that when I'm deep in though. Movement helps. "I understand that my negotiations with the South Korean ambassador were above board. I'll let the public know that I'd never do anything to damage the most important relationship in my life."

  "Exactly," Tracy chimes in. "That's perfect. And then you can drop the bomb that you're engaged."

  I hear murmurs of approval from my staff. They are all nodding their heads in agreement. While this plan does seem crazy, I also think it can work.

  Then Tracy continues, "You can tell the press that you didn't want your engagement to distract from the country's real issues and that you and whatever woman we pick were on and off but you realized after the South Korean ambassador that you needed her in your life or something like that."

  Jesus fucking Christ.

  It might just work.

  Tracy is right. Now I'm totally fucking convinced that this plan is just crazy enough to work … as long as I don't really have to get married. Because there's no way I can agree to that.

  Tracy seems to know exactly what I'm silently thinking and she places one hand on my shoulder, "Don't worry, Austin, you aren't really getting married. We're just giving the press, and the public, what they want—a bone to dig up in the yard. Something to grab onto."

  "Okay, now that we've got that figured out, who are we going to get to play the role of the fake fiancée? It's not everyday that a woman agrees to be put into that kind of spotlight."

  "True," Tracy smiles, "but leave it to me. I'll handle it. I've got just the woman we need."

  “Make sure you get me some sort of fucking ring too, I don’t care what. Something that looks expensive but doesn’t cost too much,” I tell Tracy. She rolls her eyes at me.

  “What?” I ask. “I don’t want to use my grandmother’s heirloom. Not for a fake fiancée.”

  As she smiles and walks out of the room, I begin to wonder … what have I just gotten myself into?

  Ashley

  I look at my computer screen and drum my fingertips on my desk. I’ve been staring at my schedule for the past five minutes, trying to figure out why the President’s Chief of Staff has decided to set up a meeting with me. My sources say that it’s connected with the recent scandal, the one with the South Korean ambassador, but I don’t see why the President would need me right now. At first I thought of turning her down straight away, but it’s not like you can shoot down a Tracy Comerford without at least waiting to see what she wants.

  God, Tracy Comerford. I used to go to school with her. We haven’t kept in touch, and I’m more than a bit curious why now of all times she’s coming to me.

  Just like everyone else on Earth, I’ve been following President Austin’s scandal. His Chief of Staff setting up a meeting at a time like this has managed to capture my curiosity, but again, I don’t see where I might fit in such a situation. Perhaps the President wants to use me as bait so that he can gather some blackmail material? That’s my bread and butter, I know, but when we’re talking about the higher echelons of politics … well, let’s just say that I don’t like to meddle with Presidents. It wouldn’t be the first time someone holding compromising material just vanishes into thin air, if you know what I mean.

  I only turn my gaze away from the screen when I hear someone knocking at the door to my office.

  “Yeah?” I say, raising my voice.

  “Ashley, your ten o’clock appointment is here,” Mike tells me, stepping inside the office and running his fingers down the length of his tie. He’s been my assistant ever since I opened up shop and, more than his good looks, he knows exactly what I need and when I need it.

  “Yeah, send her in,” I say, rubbing my temples and taking a deep breath. With a quick nod, Mike turns on his heels and waltzes out of the office. I look at him go, wishfully looking at how good his ass looks in his dress pants. 25 years old and with a body sculpted inside the gym, Mike is half-assistant, half-eye-candy. Don’t judge me; men have been employing eye-candy since forever, and who am I to buck that trend?

  One minute later, Mike steps inside my office with a woman trailing after him, her button up shirt and pencil skirt telling me straight away that she’s a consummate professional.

  “Thank you for taking the time,” Tracy greets me as Mike leaves and closes the door behind him. She takes a moment to glance around my office, and then she gives me an approving nod. “Nice taste,” she compliments as I stand up and offer her my hand.

  “Thank you,” I tell her as she shakes my hand. “It’s not a high-rise corner office, but I like it as it is.”

  I actually considered a corner office in some high-rise building when I started hunting for a place where I could set up shop, but in the end, I decided for something more d
iscreet. It makes sense if you take into account that one of the pillars of what I do is discretion. Besides, although my office is not a cavernous room, it’s enough to let anyone coming in know that I’m the one in charge inside these four walls. The décor –sleek, modern, and elegant, does the rest.

  “So, to what do I owe the honor?” I ask Tracy as I sit back down, more than ready to get down to business. I’ve never liked to pussyfoot around anything. I wave at the seat in front of my desk and she sits down, crossing her legs and folding her hands over one knee.

  Now let me be clear on one thing.

  I know Tracy professionally and personally from the same mutual friends back when we were in school. But we never really interacted. This is all new for me.

  “I have a proposal for you. But I guess you already figured out that much, haven’t you?”

  “Yes, that much is clear,” I reply, locking eyes with her. Careful now, I think to myself, trying to read Tracy’s expression. You see, we’ve never crossed paths against each other before, I know enough about this woman to know not to fuck around with her. She’s professional, efficient, and shrewd when she has to be. You don’t get to be the President’s Chief of Staff just because you know the right people; no, it takes guts.

  “Let me just make something clear, Tracy,” I continue before she can say anything, “if the President is looking to get some blackmail material on his opponents, I’m out.”

  “Oh? I see,” she whispers while, at the same time, a hint of a smile dawns on her lips. “You’re in luck, though. What I came here to propose has nothing to do with blackmail. We want you to become President Bain's fiancée. A fake fiancée, sure, but it has to be believable.”