Page 196 of Bona Fide

“More?” My brows knit. “Who else got shot?”

“Your wife’s future.” She takes a seat next to me on the hospital bed and releases a sigh before continuing. “Not only is the media outside to see if you are still alive but they have been informed that Demi has a love child with your father.”

I shoot up and round on her, immediately regretting my sudden outburst. “I fucking told you not to release that.” A numbing pain digs into my chest, but I ignore it.

We had a plan—all five of us in the living room of my old penthouse.

No one made a move until I gave the word. We’d hit Demi by releasing letters Camila kept in her diary about Demi peer pressuring her to do coke, ecstasy, to have sex with random guys—the list goes on. Then Phoebe is going to confirm the stories and tell her side with Lucas and I flanked around her. Next would be the bullshit Lucas went through because of my vindictive wife.

The President of the United States, their brother, is going to stand behind them as the biggest and greatest wall for them to lean on. Then Demi is allowed to throw out whatever bullshit she wants to. If she decides to bring my father’s son, Daxton, into this, she’s only fucking herself over. I just know that I’m not going to bring that kid into a media fun-filled day of psycho Demi.

“I didn’t release it,” Em replies softly. “And neither did your father.”

“Then who did?” She remains silent for a moment before a weak lift of her shoulder alludes to her answer. “What do you mean you don’t know?”

“I’m working on a lot of things right now.” Her eyes slit into me. “The story of the shooter, making sure that Francis’s family can get through all the press outside. You’ll have to stay here for a few days unless you’d like to be snuck back to the White House.”

“I’m not leaving until I know Francis is alright.”

She bows her head. “Sure, whatever you want to do.”

“Where is the shooter?” I begin to gradually pace the tiled floor. “Is he in police custody? I want him hung.”

“He’s dead.”

My left hand comes up to the bridge of my nose. “Did he run? Point the gun at the cops?”

“He pointed the gun at me,” she deadpans. My hand falls and so does my jaw. I’m cold—everywhere. The idea of a gun being raised to Emmy in the black gown that I bought her for Valentine’s Day sends me into a silent panic attack.

Yes, I sent my assistant a Valentine’s Day gift because she is the best love I’ve ever had in my life. She’s never hurt me, never lies to me—fuck, she never told me what her real job was. But I never asked. I get why she didn’t. I get a lot of shit about keeping things a secret so you don’t hurt the other person in question.

“Em.” Her name is a feeble exhale before I take a step towards her. “Are you—why didn’t you fucking tell me? I...fuck.” I snap my eyes shut and clench my good hand into a fist. “Are you okay?”

“I’m fine,” she mutters. I open my eyes to find her still sitting on the hospital bed, looking as worried about me as I am her.

She’s like a sister to me. Part of my family and such a huge factor of why I’m the president in the first place. I don’t know what I would do if I lost her. I’d resign because it just wouldn’t make sense to have anyone else around me because I’m paranoid as fuck with people I don’t know well so I’d rather be alone. More than I already am now. But she keeps me going, the gasoline to the fire that keeps me burning.

“I shot him.” My eyes bulge for the same reason they always do. I’m still adjusting to this. She keeps mentioning it, but I can’t get past that she doesn’t look like a killer. Em appears as if she's the head of a Girl Scout Daisies troop that takes them on nature walks and sells cookies at the local Home Depot.

Someone who would hold a purring kitten in her dainty hands, not a gun or a knife.

“You…” No, I can’t finish that sentence. That just confirms that I never really knew what she was capable of. That I might love her, that she may support and love me like a brother, but I couldn’t accept that she wore a cover and was purposely placed in my life. I always thought I was a lucky bastard that just found her, not the other way around and for another purpose.

Emmy slides off the bed, gripping the side of her dress so she lands on her feet without tripping. “I’m the same person I was before.”

Sluggishly, I shake my head. “I don’t know...I—you just said you killed someone.”

“And I would do it again.” Her face is serious—dead serious—as she erases some space between us. “If it was to take out the guy who almost killed you, I would have filleted him if it wasn’t for all the people around.”

A ripple of goosebumps lines my flesh. “I don’t want any kind of...you shouldn’t be chasing after dangerous men with guns. What the fuck, Em. Goddammit, I dont—I don’t want any blood on you. I…” My jaw trembles, and it might be the traumatic experience I just went through or that I’m just plain panicked.

I’m terrified for Francis and Reagan, that I’m here with my faithful assistant and imagining her not making it out of that venue because of a bullet in her. That I might lose people around me that matter, and I’m taking on more than I can chew. How it might be too late to realize that I may be dealing with something more sinister that not even I can take down.

Tears swell in my eyes. I can’t remember the last time I cried. I never let myself get there with Reagan because I drank myself into a comatose state. I did the same thing with Demi when she cheated on me with Dad and half a GQ magazine, killed our baby, then went our separate ways.

The only person I relied on moving forward was Em—always her. Emmy held me up, kept me busy, made me eat, and never left my side when I wouldn’t go into the office. She got me back up, reminded me of the hustle and my dream.

She was my backbone.

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