Page 117 of Bona Fide

I don’t fuck with my wife. I still wish that she’d fall into some dark pit and never be found again. And since I massacred my only chance for happiness, I found something that would occupy my time.

I couldn’t hold on or deal with my history, so Indie was my new getaway. One that used to volunteer for me when I was campaigning for president and I was drowning myself in whiskey bottles. I fucked her in the next room while listening to Demi beam to my supporters about how good of a husband I was and how proud she was of me.

What’s more fucked up, is that Indie matches Reagan almost to a tee.

Dark hair, curvy frame, ass for days, gray eyes. See some of the resemblances? If I can’t fuck Reagan anymore, I’m going to screw something similar.

Call me a weak-ass, disgusting, someone who needs help—Emmy has called me all of those things so don’t worry, they’ve been within my airwaves quite recently.

“No, Em,” I tell her. “She’d have to go to Indie’s house, and she’s in New York now.”

“Do you mind if I double-check that?”

I bow my head. “Whatever you want to do.”

“Then what do you want to do about the pregnancy? Her assistant thinks she’s going to surprise attack you with it again.”

I love Emmy. I truly do. The woman is a damn mastermind when it comes to obtaining information and holding people at arm’s length to benefit her and me. She became friends with Fiona, my wife’s assistant, and they do all the shit girls do.

Shopping, the movies, talking about boys, work shit—whatever.

All while having a foot in the door for when Fiona “spills some tea” on anything Demi is doing or plans on announcing.

“Find out if she figured out where Indie lives because that’s the only place…” I let my words trail off. She gets it.

Emmy nods. “On it. Please eat today for me, you’re looking thin.”

“Okay.” She turns on her heels but stops before turning the doorknob.

“Almost forgot to tell you something good that happened today. Your buddy, Mayor Montgomery, got convicted for embezzlement, money laundering, and solicitation of a prostitute. Nineteen and a half years.”

I bow my head and give her a weak grin, not fully able to enjoy it because I’m drowning in my head.

Emmy leaves but not without telling me she’ll be back within an hour.

Bad idea.

Because an hour is all I need to fuck myself over again.

Like I do almost every day.

* * *

Demi floatsin the Oval Office like she’s living in a dream. Like she’s a princess where life is full of rainbows, lollipops, and magical, talking creatures. As though our picture-perfect marriage in the eyes of America is factual.

The most powerful couple in the world, happily married, madly in love, a sick joke of lies and deceit.

Each other’s ride or die.

I want to ride, and she obviously wants to die because these little antics she’s been pulling since she connived her way back into my life—they’re beyond old.

First, she tried to get pregnant using one of my tissues that I used to jack off on.

Second, she faked a terminal illness just to be “confused with what the doctors said”.

Third, she won’t stop holding my fucking hand when we go out in public even though I’ve told her a million times not to touch me.

And lastly, Demi’s attempts to sneak into my bedroom.

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