Page 101 of Bona Fide

? Dancing With A Stranger —Sam Smith feat. Normani ?

"What's up with you?"I watch Grant lean on Jed's desk in his small study, cryptically quiet. Usually, he's running his mouth, making stupid-ass comments, and pissing me off.

But today, he let me in, told me to come into Jed’s office, and poured me a drink without asking.

“Just busy,” he replies, filling his tumbler halfway. Pivoting on his heels, he sits on the coffee table ahead of me in black dress slacks and the cuffs of his blue shirt unbuttoned. “What’s up with you?”

A mirthless laugh escapes my lips. “You know what’s been going on with me. Everyone knows.”

Grant brings his glass to his lips. “It’s bullshit.” He takes a sip and smacks his lips together from the burn of the liquor. “Who leaked it?”

I blink at him. “Who are you?”

“What?”

I rid the explanation out of my head. Grant was a finger pointer, always loved to believe gossip or shit he imagined in his head about me.

He once thought I gave a waiter a blow job because I was in the bathroom for too long. I mean...I had to take a shit so, not sure what I could've done differently in that circumstance.

"Not sure who leaked it," I lie, taking a sip of my own drink.

Grant waves his free hand in the air. “Let it blow over.”

“Since when do you hand out good advice?”

He peers down at the brown liquid in his glass. “Since I had to follow it to become a role model.”

“A role model?”

His brown eyes hit me with a sullen look. “Yeah. You know, one of those things you never had.”

“Touché.” I raise my glass and take another drink.

"Damn, sorry." He rakes his hand through his hair and blows out a heavy breath. "I'm dropping out of the Republican delegates, and I still have to tell my father."

My brows furrow. “Why?”

“I don’t want to do it.” He follows with a shrug. “Simple as that.”

I want to lift the back of his shirt and see if he’s a clone or some battery-operated robot because Grant Hardison has always wanted to be in politics.

It was simple—he loved power, being spoken about, and being loved. Probably needed the latter because I gave him none.

“You always did follow what your father told you to do,” I reply. “No offense.”

“None taken.”

I study him, looking for a lie or truth to spill from his face. “You going to be okay with that?” I ask him.

He nods. “Yeah, I’m good with just being a senator. I don’t want the White House. Took much bullshit, responsibility, I’ll get gray hair by the time I’m forty-five and—yeah, no thanks.”

“What are you going to do then?”

“Just take care of me, take some chances.”

I nod. “Sounds like living your life, Hardison.”

“Might not make it out alive after I tell my father,” he surmises over the rim of his glass. “But, at least I tried.”

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