Page 80 of Bona Fide

? Straight From the Heart — Bryan Adams ?

I can't be awayfrom her for another day, another night. I'm not strong enough to listen to her. Reagan thinks she's protecting me, but she's really just killing me. Each message or call that doesn't go answered chips away at me.

Everything around us is falling apart, and she's strong, more so than me, apparently, because I’m not doing well with leaving her to deal with all this bullshit alone.

And, the cherry on top, was that she wasted no fucking time stepping out on her front porch and announcing to the world that she no longer works for me.

Just like she said she was going to do.

I didn’t even get a full twenty-four hours to figure something out. It took her approximately six hours and twenty-three minutes before she pulled the plug on the contract.

So, what do I do?

Well, currently, like the creepy, out-of-his-fucking-mind man that I’m becoming, I wait for Reagan outside a restaurant that my security stated she was at.

We needed to talk.

I’m committed to seeing her.

And, low and behold, Grant and Jed Hardison walk out on either side of her to my utter and raging disappointment.

I'm not seeing red, it's black.

I'm clutching my hands into fists so hard that I can feel my veins straining underneath my skin for me to relax.

I can’t.

I'm not sure how many times I have to repeat myself, but I clearly told her to stay the fuck away from them. Not to go running off to my campaign rival who currently isn't in the headlines right now. My name is plastered everywhere on what I plan on doing, why I'm not responding back to calls (Em is super pissed about that), and if I’ve spoken to the infamous Reagan Shelton about her actions.

Granted, I’m used to the press, just not in this sort of light.

Instead of the obvious blacked out SUV that people sit in to spy on others—because let's be real, that's what I'm doing—I have one of my security details driving me around in a blue truck with tinted windows.

Reagan is talking with both assclowns, dressed in tattered jeans, a tee with some graphic on it, and a red hat.

Boston Red Sox.

I tense when Grant blocks my view, waiting for him to do something—anything—to cause me to do something dumb and irrational. I have so much built-up aggression and rage from Demi that I'm begging for something to beat on.

Question is, how did she get out of her house when reporters and news cameras are literally camped out in her front lawn. Reagan hugs Jed then Grant, and when the asshole himself leans in for one, she facepalms him.

I smile—that’s my fucking girl.

The brothers take off together while Reagan walks in the opposite direction, down the sidewalk where another parking lot nestles up to the Mexican restaurant, but she passes it.

She continues walking with her cell phone lit up in her hand.

What the fuck.

“Follow her,” I order my driver. He immediately puts the truck in drive, moving out of our spot and into the road.

“Do you want me to swing up next to her, sir?” he asks me.

"Yes." He does as I ask, leisurely slowing down, so my window is lined up with her deep into her phone. "Call out to her."

There are people outside, walking around, and I don't want to take the chance of someone recognizing my voice or face if I roll down the window.

"Excuse me, Miss." Reagan's head snaps to the truck, and her brows immediately furrow. "We'll offer you a ride."

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