Page 223 of Bona Fide

? 99 Problems — Hugo ?

Demi is buried.

Half of the country is mourning while the other half is all over the internet calling it karma for cheating on me with the enemy. Then you have the small ballsy amount that is already asking if I’m looking for someone, to call them when I’m ready for someone faithful, or they’d suck my dick for free—the generation Z kids.

Emmy has been keeping me on track with my day-to-day shit. I’ve been in more meetings and phone calls than I can count waiting for the Russian president to try and call my ass out for killing his plan. Technically, I didn’t do it, but everything that happens in this country is my responsibility, and I’ll wear that scarlet letter on my chest proudly. Demi should’ve just left when I told her to, but she thought she had her Big Girl panties pulled all the way up and could tackle espionage apparently.

I’ve been stuck talking to Marty over the course of two weeks while he keeps me up to date on these two men that beat his ass and are still roaming around somewhere. I don’t ask about Reagan—I can’t. I know he has his sister handled, and I’m not going to keep stepping into her life.

I’ve done enough.

She needs to heal, let it soak in, and be able to move on. I have to do the same. There’s nothing to hold on to but my memories and how I keep them with me at night. It’s safer that way. I love her too much to throw her into all of this, somewhere she never wanted to be in the first place.

“You’re officially free,” Emmy beams as she approaches me in the hallway. “All meetings are done, completed, and out of here.”

I nod. “Good. I’m going to go read.” Em perks a brow. The only thing I read is the newspaper, stocks, and the sports section.

“Okay. I have dinner ready for you.” She gives me a once-over. “You’re getting too skinny.”

“Calling the kettle black, Em.”

She shrugs, hugging her black leather binder to her chest. “Buy me Chinese and I’ll eat.”

“Dinner date tomorrow then?”

“Deal.” She pivots on her heels. “See you tomorrow, Mr. President.” I wave her off, not that she can see me, and make my way to my private corridors. Not only are they completely mine but the moment Demi was announced dead, Emmy had all her things removed. I swear to God that woman—I should just hand her over my job and wish her good luck.

Inside, everything is pristinely clean, my seating room is the first thing I walk into. Brown walls with gold etching and abstract pictures from some interior designer that comes in here from time to time to change shit up. Honestly, I don’t care what she does as long as she stays out of my way.

Taking off my coat, I toss it on one of the leather recliners, pop off a tumbler of whiskey, and pour myself a drink. My bed, that’s exactly where I’m going to spend the rest of the evening. Not the TV where my name is plastered everywhere a week after Demi’s death or the newspaper because I’m a topic somewhere—just my sheets and me.

I inhale my liquor as I stride to the back where my bedroom is, going through the private eloquent dining room perfectly set, but something stands out immediately.

“Hey, Yank.” Attired in a pin-striped button-up shirt of red and white with the God-forsaken Boston Red Sox logo on it, Reagan leans against the antique table, showing off her legs in denim shorts and a matching red Boston hat.

“Hey.” She doesn’t move, taking me in like I’m something she’s thinking about purchasing or eating. I’d do both to her, but I won’t. “How did you get in here?”

She nods behind her. “Through the window.” She smiles when my eyes narrow then retorts, “Emmy let me in.”

“Why?” It flies from my mouth before I can clamp the question down. It doesn’t deter her from propping her ass on the table, spreading the back of her knees along the edge and dangling her feet back and forth.

“She said you needed to get out of your funk.”

Fucking Emmy.

“And I’m assuming—” I perk a brow. “—that my funk is you?”

“I could be, Mr. President. But I came here for something.”

I hear her, I do, but my brain is locked in on the spot between her thighs and how easy it would be to just throw all my reasoning to keep her away right out that alleged window she said she climbed through.

She’s the key to my happiness, but I’m the pit of hell to hers. There is no this happening right now.

“Reagan, I told you no more of this secret shit.”

She shrugs. “Emmy knows.”

“Doesn’t matter. I don’t want other people to know.”

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