Billionaire In Hiding: The Complete Series (Alpha Billionaire Romance Western Love Story) (120 page)

The
Secret Service agent who stood outside the door held his eyes wide as I
approached. He nodded curtly toward me. “I see you’re feeling a bit better. We
were worried about you.”

I
frowned toward him, as if it were inappropriate for him to even mention that I
might have been ill, that I might have been under the weather. “Is he in?” I
asked, nudging my head toward the door.

The
secret serviceman pulled himself taller. He shook his head. “He is, but I don’t
think he’s expecting visitors.”

“You
don’t think he’d like to talk to his campaign manager?” I asked him, giving him
an evil stare. “I’ve been out of the office for nearly a week. Surely he’ll
need to update me on the proceedings of the previous several days. Don’t you
think? You don’t want to mess with the intricacies of the campaign.” I raised
my left eyebrow at him, giving him a saucy look. The look told him not to take
a single step out of line—that I owned this moment and I was not to be messed
with. He raised his hands up and allowed me to enter in that moment.

I spun
toward the door and clunked into the Oval Office, bringing the president to
swing around in his chair. Beside him, standing at the desk, was his wife.
Camille. I raised my eyebrow at them both, unafraid but still feeling that
emotion-filled pit in my stomach. “Hello, Mr. President. Hello, Mrs. Callaway,”
I said to them both, nodding primly. “I’d love a chance to speak with you about
the campaign. So sorry, Mrs. Callaway. I’ve been out of the office for several
days, nursing this horrific cold.” I clutched at my throat and coughed lightly.

Camille
tapped her heels a bit on the floor, giving me an evil eye. I had clearly
interrupted an argument between them. The air in the room hung heavy, like
clouds. It looked like Xavier wanted to crawl beneath his desk and hide from
the two women before him. He looked desperately toward me, his mouth snapping
shut as I stood there.

“Ah,
yes. Miss Martin. It’s a sincere pleasure to see you,” Camille stated. She
didn’t budge. “You have a good deal to talk to my husband about, is that
right?”

I took
a step forward, trying to maintain my lack of fear. Unfortunately, I knew that
my anxiety was growing. I had plunged head-first into the deep end. “Yes, Mrs.
Callaway. The following next few months are essential to the plot of the
campaign. You must understand that, don’t you?” I gave her an evil smile—one so
similar to the smile I’d given to the agent outside.

Camille
flounced toward the couch, then, in an effortless move that caught me off
guard. I stepped back, allowing her to bounce on the gleaming fabric. She
brought her hands around to the back of her head and gazed at the ceiling,
batting her eyelashes lightly. “Go ahead, Amanda,” she sighed evenly. “Speak
with him. He won’t find reason with me. I don’t see why you’d have any better
luck than I. Of course, you’re not his wife. So what you have to say is far,
far more interesting.” She winked at me, then. The moment seemed disastrous,
like it was about to fall from a precipice, down to a rocky grave.

I
tapped toward the president’s desk. With the confusion in this moment, I had
actually completely forgotten what I was meant to speak with him about. I
cleared my throat and looked toward him, searching for the words. “I’ve been
out of the office for several days, and I do apologize for that,” I began. I
hoped that his wife wasn’t getting any sort of context clues from what I’d just
said; I hoped that she wasn’t assuming something that was—of course—very, very
true. “Will you please update me on the events of the previous week?”

Up
until this moment, I realized, Xavier hadn’t spoken. He gaped at me and then
brought his hands toward his mouth, gliding across his cheeks. He shook his
head, exasperated. His voice was harsh when he spoke. “Miss Martin. I expect
you to do your job.”

His
words stung, even though I understood that they were well-acted, beyond
anything else. But I still felt his anger deep in my heart. I remembered once
more how he had pushed me from bed, how he had pushed me into this cruel world.
I shivered at the thought.

“I’m
doing my job to the best of my ability, sir,” I responded. Behind me, I heard
his wife, Camille, pop a bubble from bubble gum rather loudly, allowing it to
echo off the walls. I swallowed, knowing that this sort of observation would
get him and me nowhere.

Sure
enough, he shook his head toward me, biting his lip. His expression said so
much. It stated that we couldn’t speak plainly, that he regretted everything.
In that moment, so much of the strength I had built for myself fell away. I
wanted to fall into his arms, to weep about my struggles. I wanted him to take
care of everything with Jason. For the first time in my life, I wanted a man to
take care of things for me—to hold my hand and fight for me. I had always
fought for myself. But this seemed bigger; this seemed like too much.

“If
you want to do your job, you had better get back to work,” he finally said
harshly. His eyes were apologetic, keeping us in this strange, round-and-round
conversation. I listened only to the expression that churned from his eyes.

I
found my voice, finally. I took his cue. “I’ll get back to my desk and have a
report to you in two hours.” I nodded curtly and turned back around, toward the
door. Camille still laid on the couch, popping bubbles lightly—almost expertly.
I imagined her doing them, over and over in the east wing, waiting for her
husband to come home.

“Good
day, Miss Martin!” Camille spewed toward me, her voice lined with malice. As I
pulled the door closed, I could hear her as she approached the president’s desk
once more. “What a dirty cunt,” she flung her words toward him, loud enough for
me to hear. I slammed the door and blinked up toward the Secret Service agent,
lost in a sea of memories.

He
back toward me, shrugging his shoulders. “I told you not to go in there,” he
murmured.

But I
turned on my heels and swept back toward my desk. I didn’t understand how this
man—the President of the United States—could alter my emotions like this. It
seemed all too easy, really. I could remember the first day I had ever truly
met him, there in the Oval Office. He’d been interviewing me to become leader
of the campaign. Me! A twenty-nine-year-old—a girl who was meant to grow and
flourish in this political world. And then, I’d resisted him. I truly had. We’d
become such fast friends, of course. I’d felt safe with him. Had he forced
himself on me? Had I forced myself on him? I couldn’t be certain about anything
anymore. All I knew was that I was truly, very much in love with him. Beyond
that? I knew nothing.

I
couldn’t understand, as I sat at my desk and surveyed the room, how this had
all landed upon my shoulders. I had wanted so much from my life. I had wanted
to be someone special. And yet, the president had used me, had abused me. He
had turned me on my head and disallowed me to care about anything else, in many
ways.

I bit
my lip and laid my head on my desk. I heard a younger girl, toward the door,
whisper to her friend about me. “She’s looking worse for wear, isn’t she? And
so skinny. I think she’s losing weight.”

“I’ve
heard she’s an alcoholic,” the friend whispered back.

But I
couldn’t care anymore. I was “one of them” for these girls. And the president
was “one of them” for me. We were ever at war with those who controlled us, I
knew. I should have known better, from the beginning to trust him—this politician
at heart. I should have known better than to ever trust Jason, my supposed
second in command. I was a puppet to these puppeteers. And I would have to
float on like this, continually at war with myself, as well, and my continued
adoration for Xavier.

Suddenly,
I stood up. I walked toward the girls who sat, whispering about me in their
chairs. I hovered over their desks, and they peered up at me with such scared,
big-eyed expressions. They’d been talking about me, and they’d been caught. I
remembered that feeling as a schoolgirl. I brought my hands toward the desk,
and I grabbed their papers, their folders, their everything. I swept them from
their desks, whisking away the water bottles, the cups of coffee, everything.
The cups clattered to the floor and crashed, sending wet specks of dried clay
through the great room. The girls blinked up at me with alarm. I felt my anger
and emotion pulsing through me. I wanted to scream at them. I wanted to tell
them to fucking run, to get out of the White House, to get out of the political
center. But I also wanted to tell them that I was on their side—that I wasn’t
maniacal, like the rest of them. But I had shoved their lives off their desks,
I had clattered their mugs to the ground. They blinked at me with fear, and I
struggled with my next move.

The
only move I had was this:

I
brought my hands over my chest and tapped my foot, anger dripping from my face.
“You girls want to talk that trash someplace else? Be my guest. The people in
this fucking room are working for the betterment of human society. They’re
working to align the best President of the United States to be in the position
to lead this country once again. Please, ladies.” I glared at them, even as
their eyes fell to the table before them—even as one of the girl’s tears fell
toward her lips, salting her tongue. “Go work at a fucking fashion magazine if
you’re going to spread that gossip through my office.” I slotted my finger
toward my chest and spewed the anger toward them.

The
girls flung themselves away from their desks. They gathered their things. One
of them had begun weeping. They fell down the hallway, toward the steps. They
held no words for me, and I knew that I would never see them again. I stood in
the remains of their papers, their mugs, their water. It dripped around me.
Everyone in the office stared at me like I was a ticking bomb. I knew I had
their attention. I spun around and addressed them, a new sense of zeal braced
on my lips. “Everyone. Get back to work,” I called harshly.

Everyone—even
Jason at his corner desk—did what I said.

Perhaps
my moral compass was about as skewed as the politicians I slept with, I thought
to myself as I sat down at my desk once more, thoughts only of pulling through
this battle, of coming out on top in my mind.

I
wouldn’t let Xavier destroy me. I wouldn’t allow my emotions to overwhelm me. I
was stronger than that.

Chapter 5

That
afternoon, Jason and Xavier had arranged a meeting to discuss the campaign. I
was invited, since I had arrived back to work. I marched ahead of Jason, toward
the back conference room. I could hear him huffing behind me as I walked. “You
were a prime bitch to those girls. The stress is getting to you, isn’t it? The
stress of the photographs, of fucking the President of the United States? It’s
all getting to be a bit much, isn’t it?” Jason whispered toward the back of my
neck, making me shiver.

I
cleared my throat, wanting to rear back toward him and slice his neck with my
long fingernails. But we arrived at the conference room. I sat at the side of
the table, knowing that the head seat would belong to the president. I sat
across from Jason, glaring at him with heavy eyes. He averted his, not liking
the eye contact. “Haven’t seen you around your apartment lately,” Jason
murmured toward the floor.

I
raised my eyebrow toward him. I knew he could sense my lack of passion toward
this subject at this time. “What makes you think I care if you can see me at my
apartment? It’s all yours. All of it.” I snapped my fingers up by my ear, and I
could see him tremble at my strange mood.

But
suddenly, Xavier marched into the room. I knew I needed to ignore him. He was
the only person who could control me; he was the only person who made me feel
anything, any amount of love in this world. I had to ignore him. I had to break
away, to be myself.

“Good
afternoon, team,” he stated. He cleared his throat and spun his eyes from Jason
to me. “I heard we had two members of the campaign team quit today.”

Jason
turned his eyes toward me. I remembered my temper, and my face turned red. I
knew it was my turn to speak up. “Yes, sir. We were having trouble with them
from the get-go,” I stated, speaking to somewhere behind the wall. “It was time
for them to move on.”

Xavier
nodded, turning his attention toward the books. I knew that he didn’t like it
when I called him sir. He hated the way my cold voice stuck into him, making
him feel like an alien. I knew this. Jason probably knew this, as well. Jason
cleared his throat, then, and Xavier turned toward him, anger boiling in his
eyes. I swallowed, afraid suddenly. I realized that Xavier knew all about
Jason—that I couldn’t pretend that Jason wasn’t a part of this overarching
design any more. Would Xavier bring it up?

But
no. He wouldn’t.

He
sighed into his book, instead, and asked us the typical questions of our Friday
afternoon meeting. He asked us about the progression of the campaign. He asked
us what to expect in the following few months, when he was meant to be on the
road. He asked us about our influence over the education bill; he asked us what
we were telling the greater reporters, the people all over the country. He
nodded primly over his pages, and he seemed so distant from me. I wanted to
shake him. But I also understood I needed to keep my mouth closed. I needed to
find a beautiful existence, even in this harsh reality.