Page 36 of Bastian

My father, Ronan Kenton, had the love of a good woman and the resources to get through his war traumas but many aren’t that lucky.

That is why this organization was so important to my father and now it is my responsibility to continue his life’s work.

I couldn’t save them that night, but I sure as fuck can keep his memory and legacy alive. That cunt Parisi didn’t win. “Now, remember all of this when you place your bids. Artists from all over the country donated exquisite items from their personal collections for this fundraiser. So open not only your hearts to our soldiers but your wallets, as well.” The crowd laughs, eating this shit up. Fucking Baron suggested I throw that corny line in there, but hell, it works. That’s what’s important. “There is live entertainment and plenty of food and drinks, so please enjoy.” With that, the guests are ushered toward their seats while I remain standing for the dullest part of these events. The ass-kissing and interviews to gather more eyes to my charities.

Fuck, but being a nice guy is tiresome.

And fuck you too, darling, for making me open the door to feelings and shit.

Watching the small group of journalists move forward, I wait for the first question. It usually is something that has nothing to do with the event and more to do with my personal life.

“Mr. President, good evening. Jean from DC Journal.” A woman speaks up first while raising her hand and stepping forward.

“Welcome, Jean.” I smile at the pretty older woman, causing her to blush like a schoolgirl.

“It’s good to see you again, Mr. President.” She clears her throat, visibly nervous.

I remember Jean. She takes her job very seriously and asks hard questions but she is never rude or condescending. She is one of the good ones, so I always do my best to make her feel comfortable. “This auction is very generous. The past administration made a lot of promises to the people, and sadly half of their promises went undelivered.” That’s true. The last fucker who was in my shoes did shit for the country. That’s why all eyes are on me more than usual. They’re waiting for me to back out of my campaign promises. “I believe we have a severe problem in this country of abandoning our soldiers when they need us most. There should be more funding and more resources available for them, so it is wonderful that you have started this organization. Might I ask what made you decide this?”

“Most would believe I started the Purple Hearts foundation for tax payouts or to keep the people satisfied, but that is just not the truth. You see, my father, the late Ronan Kenton, was a soldier who fought overseas to protect this country. A brave man who was honored with a purple heart. He was selfless and honorable, and he believed every man and woman who risks their lives for us deserved better.” For a second there, I stop to gather myself when my chest feels tight, remembering my father. Fuck. Taking a long breath, I continue. “He had many plans and goals he planned to make reality before the day of his death, but sadly he never got the chance to see them through. That is why I started the Purple Hearts foundation. Not only for our brave soldiers but for my brave father.” Looking at the crowd of journalists, I see Jean wipe a tear. Christ. To lighten up the mood, I throw in. “But I am not that selfless, no. Acts of kindness get me brownie points with my daughter, who at the moment thinks of me as a supervillain with a big heart.” I chuckle as the crowd does too, and some even make sounds of awe.

“Thank you for answering, Mr. President. Keep up the good job,” Jean says with a bright smile on her face. Nodding at her, I motion for the man raising his hands two steps behind Jean. “Mr. President. Evening. Robert from The American column.”

“Good evening.” Oh, I remember this one. The clown who insisted my supposedly criminal allies rigged the election. As if I needed fucking Sandoval to win over the people of this country. My adversaries knew I already had this election in the bag when rumors of me running for presidency started circulating. I am not being a cocky son of a bitch. Facts are facts. “There are rumors that you will be opening a rehabilitation center for criminals. Is that true, and if so, what makes them worthy of such grace and mercy? One they didn’t offer their victims.” The asshole adjusts his glasses and steps forward with his recorder high in the air.

In the past, I would agree with the fucker, but this case is different. I don’t intend to help the scum of the earth who committed horrible acts against innocent people. Fuck no and the asshole Robert knows this, yet he decided to ask the question anyway and get me to say something that will make me look bad on a night that would’ve made my parents proud. On a night that does nothing for me but for the ones in need. Looking straight at the male journalist, I don’t offer him the same grace and kindness I did Jean. If he wants to act like an asshole, then I’ll very graciously make him eat his words. “You have a lot of thoughts about something that you stated is a rumor, Ronald.” I purposely call him the wrong name. “I don’t speak on rumors but on the truth, and the truth is that all my charities were created to help innocents who were in some way wronged. Men, women, children of all walks of life, ages, sexual orientations, and every single one. You might not understand this, but there are hundreds if not thousands of innocent men and women, who were abandoned and wronged by our judicial system, and most of them were wrongly convicted. But that’s another point altogether. If I ever decide to start another charity to help these men and women get back on their feet, I will do so gladly and very proudly, Mr. Hansen.” The look on the man’s face is priceless. Fucker knows not to go against a once-corrupt senator who gets really fucking hard by winning arguments and putting people in their place.

But somewhere along the way, I started to believe all the shit that once was only empty ideas and promises. Fuck, now I not only speak for the ones who can’t defend themselves, but I fight for them.

Love.

Love, I’m telling you, is witchcraft.

It has me changing my views and acting…less like a heartless motherfucker.

I still enjoy playing the rich assholes of this world who love to prey on innocents, but I no longer feel thrilled when screwing good people in the process.

I carry on answering questions until Nyx taps my shoulder and whispers in my ear that the time for questions is up.

Thanking all the journalists, I say my goodbyes and tell them to enjoy the gala.

Turning, I move to follow my men off the stage when a voice stops me.

A voice I still hear at night or when I am alone.

A voice that stops me dead in my tracks and has me freezing, trying to find my next breath.

A sultry voice with a hint of anger and resentment but a little bit of hurt, too, catches my attention. “Good evening, Mr. President. I do hope there’s time for one more question?”

Thud.

Thud.

Fucking thud.

Even my heart knows its owner is a few feet away, recognizing her with just the sound of her voice.

Turning swiftly, I step back into the light and search for her in the crowd. As if an angel is parting the gates of heaven, she moves amongst the crowd.

---