Page 128 of Bona Fide

? Vermilion, Pt 2 — Slipknot ?

Unknown number: She’s home.

Staring at the text,I compel myself to pry my eyes from it so that I can listen to what Heidi is speaking about. She’s been on a mission to build more job opportunities in the slums of America. More jobs mean more money, which in turn means putting that money back into the community. It was one of my proposals for my campaign, and Heidi has been more than eager to get started.

“Would you like to come visit a few cities with me, Mr. President?” Heidi asks at my right-hand side. “I know that your schedule is hectic but—”

“I’ll always make time for you, Mrs. Lauder,” I retort. “Just name where you wanna go and we’ll go.” She flashes an exasperated look at me (she hates being called Mrs. Lauder, just Heidi) before she returns her attention back to the board members that are going to help.

My phone buzzes in my hand again.

Unknown number: You have an email waiting to be opened.

Who in the fuck is this?

I deter from responding to it. Too many questions about how someone got my personal cell phone number and what the hell is in this email for me to open.

Motherfucker.

The thought of having to wait until this board meeting is over has me about to fidget in my chair like an antsy toddler. I love my VP, she’s kind, thoughtful, and her mind always tries to be in the best place.

But she’s meticulous as fuck.

“Do you mind if I step out for a moment, Heidi?” I cut in while she’s talking about something regarding solar panels and the auto industry.

“Sure,” she answers, a little thrown off that I’m asking permission, before I stand and begin to stride from the room.

Down the long-as-hell hallways, around a corner, through a throng of busy employees, I find my study and throw the door open then closed. I immediately crack my personal laptop open from my governor days and open my locked email.

Subject line: Special Delivery

Dear Mr. President,

Attached you will find evidence to help you move on with your life since you haven’t been able to as of yet.

I stop reading the email because all I want to know is what’s attached and what sort of security clearance I need for this fucking thing.

As in, will it try to hack into my laptop?

Not that there is much on it. It’d be stupid to keep things on it for this reason only. Everything that is anything is on USBs locked up in my safe.

So if this is a virus...it won’t find shit except for my subscriptions to magazines and newspapers and a bunch of spam mail.

The first thing I open is a picture of Reagan in front of her mother’s house, and my heartbeat skids to an abrupt halt.

Skinny jeans and a dark blue flannel rolled up her forearms, Reagan carries a box in her arms with her raven hair pulled up in a messy bun.

I haven’t seen a picture of her in months.

Didn’t want any.

The only things I got information on was if she was still in New York, how her mother’s house was moving along, and if she needed anything that I could provide without making it obvious it was me.

Reagan’s mother “won” a free year of lawn service for her new house through her “homeowner’s insurance” (AKA me and my fake-ass letterhead) and a security system in case Demi wanted to be a fucking crazy bitch again.

The next attachment was her car parked in another driveway that wasn’t her home or her mother’s.

Then attachment number three took a moment to load up, but when it did, I could honestly just throw myself out the window and not put my hands out in front of myself to stop the blow from the cement or fresh-cut grass below.

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