Page 70 of Bona Fide

? Alone in a Room — Asking Alexandria ?

I tookthe night off per Emmy’s nagging, sitting in my front room as I stare mindlessly at the TV. I don’t know what’s on, just hear the mumbling of people talking in the background of the chaos brewing in my head.

I should’ve never gone to Reagan’s house—fully aware that I’m stepping deeper into bullshit. That she’ll never be safe with me. But we—I—can’t fight the attraction that comes between us.

My brain has thrown a few scenarios around ones that seem more tempting as the weeks go by.

I can give everything up and live the life of a free man. One not bound by news headlines and shady politicians. I may have worked my whole life to get here but misery is still the black cloud that follows me everywhere.

My phone buzzes next to me for the third time tonight. It’s her, looking for Chase, wanting to ask him how his day was and how he is. I want to make him a distant fucking memory because I’m jealous of a persona that is me behind the face of my human best friend.

Our conversations together as Chase have become shorter and shorter as I try to wean him away from her.

I want to be the only thing she thinks about.

The person she texts to check in on and wants to know about. And the fact that she still texts my alter ego bugs the everliving hell out of me.

I’m not sharing her with anyone and, in return, I don’t expect her to share me with Demi either, or anyone else. My real-life Chase is drawing up divorce papers so that I have them. I haven’t watched the polls, honestly, don’t really care anymore like I should because I’ve spent years trying to make this happen. But when I think of my future, it involves normal nights at home with Reagan on the couch watching Netflix and my fucking her on said furniture.

Nothing about being president calls out to me anymore. Not as much as it should. No amount of pep that Em alludes on a daily basis sparks any new excitement in me. That part of me is dying while the piece of my being that I’ve tucked deep within myself wants to thrive off Reagan.

A soft knock immediately yanks me out of my thoughts as I glance over at the dark oak door of my penthouse.

Striding through my space, I don’t bother looking through the peephole. I’m anxious, hell-bent on releasing some frustration, so I’m already ready to snap at the next person in my line of sight.

I just never expected it to be my younger brother, Lucas.

Standing there with his head bowed into his chest, he looks like shit. His dark brown hair is longer, the stubble on his face displays that he forgot what hygiene is, and now he’s placed outside my home with a pitiful stance and my full attention.

“What the hell are you doing here?” I seethe, hand still resting on my door because I’m about three seconds away from slamming it in his face.

“I needed to talk to you,” he mumbles, not pulling his face up to mine.

He’s never been here before—none of them have. I’ve kept my family so far away from my life that I don’t even know how the hell Lucas found me.

“We haven’t had shit to say to each other for years,” I retort with furrowed brows. “Did you fuck another thirteen-year-old and need help with—” His head jerks up to me.

“I’m not here for that,” he counters, blue eyes filled with remorse and embarrassment. “I’m here because I’ve been getting phone calls.”

“Awesome, you have a phone that works.”

“It’s about Demi. About your relationship, why we’re never around you. Someone —”

“It’s no concern of yours to worry about my shit,” I upbraid. “Just hit the red button and don’t answer the calls.”

“They’re at the house. They follow me everywhere I go, and I can’t—I can’t handle the flashing of the cameras and them rushing my car every time I leave. They keep asking me if I’ve ever…”

I perk a brow. “If you’ve ever, what?” He drags his eyes from me, the same shade as mine, the identical glimmer of sadness that I’ve once felt.

“If I’ve ever...if I ever molested Camila and Phoebe.” My hand grips the door harder, while it takes everything in me not to seize his black puffer jacket and yank him inside to beat the living shit out of him.

“Did you?” I berate.

He flicks his attention back to me with broad eyes. “They’re my sisters.”

“Never stopped you before from fucking someone else’s sister.” Lucas takes a sudden step in my direction. He’s not taller than me but close, and we’re almost a fucking duplicate of each other except his nose is a tad crooked from getting his ass kicked a few times from brothers of the said sisters he was screwing.

“Here’s a little fun fact for you,” Lucas grits out between his teeth. “I never fucked anyone under the age of eighteen. That was your wife that got me accused of that.”

---