Page 1 of The President's Passion

1.

Wentworth

“Mr. President over here!” a hysterical voice yells and flashes go off in my face. “Over here,” another voice shrieks, just as hysterical and I grind my jaw. I’m a rather serious person and as the head of the U.S.A I got better things to do than fraternizing on a red carpet but I’m a professional through and through. A man doesn’t come this far by following his emotions, his feelings...he comes this far by acting as a machine pretending to be a human.

But I’m not complaining. Feelings are messy. They complicate things and I prefer my world to be ordered. Neat, tidy and methodical enough to fit in a box.

Flashing a smile, I wrap my arms around the two actresses coming up on either side of me. They glance at me in admiration, purring something about me looking handsome tonight but I can barely hear them, can barely feel them next to me. This is all for the show, to gain the public’s trust while coming across as a likeable and approachable person. Once the red carpet posing finally is over, I make my way into the theater.

It’s one of the old, classical ones, coated in gold and red velvet drapes hang in front of the stage. They’re supposed to draw you in, make you eager for what’s coming next but I hide a yawn. “What are we watching?” I ask my vice president Kramer who seems just as bored.

“Shakespeare something,” he replies and I raise my brows. Shakespeare. Fuck, I haven’t read any of his since high school. He appeals to the romantics, to the ones who lose themselves in love as if they’re in an opium den, getting high on passion and desire. I’m not one of those. I’ve never been passionate about a female in my life. They’re all the same to me.

I grew up on a small farm in Iowa in a family that didn’t prioritize romance or relationships, but hard work. My parents were tight-lipped, keep your chin down and don’t think you’re better than anyone else type of people. As much as I adored my mother, she was also a woman who looked down on other women, especially the glamorous ones.

She told me that once I find a girl to marry, she better be obedient, strong and ready to prepare a meal no matter at what time I want one. Little did my mother know I’d become the president one day. And I definitely don’t need a girl who’s strong as an oxen and chained to the stove.

There are better uses for a female, anyway.

Stretching my legs, I grab my binoculars to better see the stage. We have the best seats, high up in a private booth but as the hour passes I’m wondering how long this nonsense will take. Right when I’m about to lose my tolerance the play takes a turn for the dramatic; the male screams out his love for the woman, who in turn mercilessly rejects him...and he grabs a knife and digs it into his stomach. Fake blood splays, causing the public to gasp.

From the corner of my eye, I catch something moving. It’s dressed in a white gown just like an apparition and moving fast. I don’t even have time to register what it is but my body has, shooting straight as an arrow and my pulse begins pounding. Whatever it is, I want it and I turn my head when the figure raises a pistol.

“For the Dead Roses!” she yells in a panicky voice and she fires. “For justice!”

The bullet hits a pillar and next time I blink I’m on the floor, my agents on top of me, yelling and screaming at each other while blood pounds in my temples. Who the hell was it that just tried assassinating me? A chit? I didn’t even get a good look.

I worm under the agents, grinding my jaw as they press harder down on me and my temper flares. “Get the fuck off me,” I growl and they murmur something about needing to make sure the coast is clear until I add, “Now!”

They don’t go against my orders this time, slowly rising while looking at me as if I need a brain transplant. Brushing my clothes off, I throw a look at Kramer. He’s gone pale, sitting in the chair with a dead look on his face and hands clasped in front of him as if thanking the universe for his life remaining intact.

“Where’s your smelling salts, Mrs. Vice President?” I drawl.

Rolling my eyes, I search for the girl who just tried to kill me but she’s nowhere to be found. The crowds are being evacuated and I step outside of the booth, looking for the girl when I find her trying to fight off four Secret Service agents.

“You animals!” she shouts, kicking out with her powder pink pumps. “Unhand me, cocksuckers!”

Cocksuckers?

I feel a stirring in my body, an image flashing in my mind of her gutsy mouth around my...I jerk, rage filling me and I march up to the agents. “Release her,” I demand in a cold tone and the agents glance at me with flaring eyes.

“Mr. President...”

“Said release her, or I’ll hang your rotting corpses as art in the Green Room!”

Inwardly, I tense. Wondering where that overprotectiveness came from. Why do I even care so much about the girl...about my own assassin? The agents look at each other in alarm, before finally letting go of her and she sags against the wall. I take a deep breath, knowing that it won’t take long until athank youfollows.

She tried to kill me but I just saved her life and she’s probably very grateful for that.

Gasping, she rolls her head around, her eyes flaring and it’s obvious she’s in shock. It doesn’t take anything away from her splendor though. She has the body of a gazelle, toffee hair and toffee eyes. Her skin is the color of a pleasant vacation in the Hamptons and when I come closer, I inhale the fresh scent of youth. The girl can’t be older than eighteen.

And she’sglamorous. The very opposite of what my mother would’ve approved of and it turns me on.

A sense of need fills me, overwhelming and brutal enough to cause a tremble in my body. The girl catches it, noticing the twitch in my hand before her eyes go to mine. They’re as deep as wells, filled with secrets...even hate and yet all I want is to yank her to me and whisper that I’m thankful that something like her exists in my country.

“What is your name?” I rasp and she angrily bites her lip.

“None of your damn business!” She yanks a black rose, decorating her white gown and throws it in my face. Black smoke rises, making my eyes tear up. “For the Dead Roses,” she yells with her fist raised, “for justice to the unfairly treated, for...”

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