Billionaire On Fire: The Complete Series (A Bad Boy Alpha Billionaire Romance) (72 page)

Finally, he spun around, his eyes looking
so hollow in his head. He reached toward the bottle of wine and he tipped it
down his throat, looking so comical, even in his desperation.

I clutched my heart, suddenly worried
about him. “Xavier? What’s going on?”

He placed the bottle of wine back down
with a clunk. He wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. “You know. Last
night, as we spoke with the French president and his fiancé, I realized
something: that my wife is the most boring person in the world.” He allowed his
chair to tip left, then right beneath him.

I wasn’t sure what to say. I felt my
throat grow dry.

He continued. “I feel no joy when she says
anything. The last time we made love, I was so far away. So far away.” He
snapped his finger next to his face. Something in his eyes told me he was
already drunk—perhaps a few glasses of Scotch into the night.

“Do you—do you want my advice?” I asked
him in a timid whisper, unsure of how to handle the situation. I felt the words
hang between us like a cloud.

He shook his head. “I just—I don’t fucking
know what to do.” He picked up the wine bottle once more and pummeled it to his
mouth, guzzling it.

I felt nervous, a bit frustrated. I felt
like the president was acting like some sort of inane child. He couldn’t
fucking fix his own problems. What was I meant to do?

I stood up tall and I grabbed the wine
bottle from his hand, tugging it back. I shook my head vehemently. “What the
fuck are you doing? Get your shit together,” I hissed at him. “Do you even want
to have a good relationship with your wife?” I asked the question, surprising
him. It was clearly not one he had asked himself, yet. He wasn’t trying to
create a good relationship with her; and yet here he was, complaining about her
once more to me. I couldn’t take it. It wasn’t fair to her or to me

He stood up, then. He was a bit woozy on
his feet, but his eyes were sure and passionate. His dark eyebrows were
furrowed. He reached his hand over the desk and allowed it to grip my cheek, my
ear. His face came toward me. My heart was beating so fast in my chest. I
placed the wine bottle back on the desk between us. It landed too hard.

His whisper came with such warmth, such
passion. “No. I don’t want to have a good relationship with her. I don’t.” He
shook his head until suddenly, his lips met mine in a moment of frustration, of
anger.

In this moment, as our lips met over the
great presidential desk, I let go of everything in my mind. Everything that had
been holding me back from this beautiful, passionate feeling was let loose,
finally—allowing me to feel so free in this moment. I brought my arms around
his body, and I pushed closer to him, folding my lips into his more firmly,
feeling the vibrancy, the lust for him deep in my soul.

God, that moment. It was the very answer
to my searching heart.

Chapter
9

I pulled away from the President of the
United States, my head spinning. I bit my lip and spun back, toward the door. I
didn’t hear as much as a murmur from him—no sign of regret, no sign that he
wanted me to stay. I needed to get out of there, to return to some sense of
normalcy. I pushed into the hallway and began stomping back to the office to
gather my things, hearing my heels clatter against the floor. What the hell was
I going to do?

Suddenly, as I rounded the corner with my
head down, I found myself pushing into Jason, my second in command. His wide
eyes blinked at me with surprise. “Amanda! I thought you’d left for the day.”
His eyes perused my red cheeks, my slim waist. I could feel the way he looked
at me, and already it made me uncomfortable. But I couldn’t deal with a drunk
second in command not tonight.

“Good night, Jason,” I said, trying to
push past him.

But he tapped me on the shoulder,
following me. “Actually, Amanda. I had a question about the proceedings from
the day.”

I felt a tear falling down my face in
these moments. I spun around on my heel, glaring at him. I shook my head
vehemently. He didn’t seem to notice my confusion, my internal anger. “What is
it, Jason?” I finally sighed.

“I just—I saw that you had us scheduled
for a meeting in Texas in a few weeks. I wanted to clarify.”

I swept my hand out and then smashed it
into my lap, feeling the pangs of pain throughout my thigh. “If it’s in the
calendar, it’s in the calendar,” I growled, shrugging. “Now if you’ll excuse
me—“

“Wait—Amanda!”

But I could hardly hear him. My mind was
racing with thoughts, trying to comprehend the feel of the president’s lips
over mine. This was not what I wanted, I thought over and over again. For a
moment, sure: it had felt so right. But the moment had passed easily as I
pulled back from him and realized what I was actually doing. I was actively
ruining both my life and his. I couldn’t work my way to the top by sleeping
with the president. I was smarter than that.

I huffed, beginning to gather my things
into my bag. I would spend the remainder of the night curled on my couch,
drinking wine deep into the night. I wouldn’t come into work tomorrow; it was a
Saturday and no pressing issues were at the helm. Thusly, I could take my first
real day off from the office.

But as I pressed each item into my bag, I
felt him coming toward me: Jason. I spun my head up, peering at him with
confusion. “What’s up?” I asked him. We hadn’t spoken much throughout the
course of our working relationship. We’d shared a few laughs over a drink, of
course, but nothing more.

He brought his hands over his chest, then.
I was so keenly aware that we were the only ones in the great, empty room. “I
was wondering what you were up to tonight?”

I rolled my eyes, still not understanding
what he meant. “God, Jason. I’m so tired. I just want to collapse in my bed,
you know?” I laughed, trying to make a joke to him.

But his persistence held fast. He stood in
front of me while I tried to pass him, and he placed his hand on my shoulder,
staring at me, face to face. For a moment, I thought surely he was going to try
to kiss me, just like the president had.

But then he spoke stuttering, incomplete
words. “Why don’t you come out to eat with me?”

I tried to hear the words, to comprehend
them. Jason wanted to date me? I raised my eyebrow toward him, unsure of what
to say. I heard the guttural stop in my throat. Speak, I told myself over and
over. Speak!

“Um. Jason. I really have to go, okay? I’m
so tired. Have a good night.” And I swept around him, springing myself from his
tight grip. I rushed down the hallway, past the Oval Office, and down the
steps. I felt so alone in those moments, like everything I wanted couldn’t be
mine.

I grabbed a taxi and asked him to stop at
the store so I could buy another bottle of wine; I’d left mine in the oval
office. “Wait for me, okay?” I asked the taxi driver, paying him a bit extra
for the first fare. He nodded, chewing gum. He didn’t give me any words.

I tapped into the grocery, bringing my
finger over my eyebrow. I grabbed the first wine bottle from the shelf and
tapped it on the counter, shaking a bit as I did it. The man at the counter
asked, “Are you all right, ma’am?” And I hadn’t realized that I was a goddamned
mess, nearly crying all over the place. I couldn’t comprehend it. God, I needed
a drink.

I told him I was fine. And I paid for the
wine swiftly before rushing outside and back into the taxi. The man took me
home, back to my tidy, safe haven. Once I closed the door and breathed an easy
sigh of relief, I collapsed on the couch. All my thoughts were oriented to what
had just happened back there with those two men. Was nowhere safe?

I poured myself an easy glass of wine,
reminding myself that I couldn’t become involved with the president. I listened
to the glug-glug of the wine as it pulsed into the cup, and I felt so sure that
as his lips had descended over mine, I’d been happier than I’d ever been in my
entire life. I hadn’t had many boyfriends, of course—just the one through
college. But I’d never felt such deep passion with him (like the entire earth
had stopped spinning, just for us).

I tried to imagine a future in which
Xavier and I were together—a future in which the president abandons his wife
and takes his re-election campaign manager up with him, to First Lady status. I
shuddered at the thought. The mere idea of it would put the campaign off the
rails, for one. No one liked a presidential cheater, as the Clinton proved so
well. And where would my career go as a result? People would say that I slept
my way to the top, but really I would be sleeping my way to the bottom. Sure, Xavier
had promised that I would have a position at the White House for my career, but
he could only promise this as long as he was there. I had to stay committed to
both myself and my career—and no one else.

I sniffed, allowing the thoughts to pass
through me, allowing the wine to course through my veins. I fell asleep like
this, stretched out on the couch with the wine glass situated in my hand, my
eyes fluttering every few hours with the romantic idea of that man in the oval
office before me, his lips reaching out for only me. Only me.

I awoke the next morning with a crick in
my neck, one that I couldn’t work out with a few nice stretches. It was still
early in the morning, and I realized I had the entire day at my feet—a day
during which I could create whatever world I wanted. I didn’t have to go into
the office; I didn’t even have to watch the news. Although, of course, I would.
Just to see how the polls were doing).

I grabbed some of my running supplies and
I sped downstairs, stretching my neck in a sort of semi-circle. The sun shone
brightly on me, even in the seven a.m. morning. Most D.C. people weren’t awake
yet, choosing to spend their Saturday mornings sleeping next to their lovers,
in their cozy beds. But I was so different, I reminded myself. I had so many
different ideals, so many things I wanted for my life.

As I sped toward the nearby park, I felt
the blood pumping heavy in my veins. I would make it out of this strange,
half-hearted love affair with Xavier. I wouldn’t go to lunch with him anymore,
unless others were there and it involved the campaign, of course. I wouldn’t
put my life or his marriage or our careers in jeopardy just because of this
deep passion pulsing in my gut. It wasn’t worth it to me.

I rushed along, feeling the wind in my face,
through my long brown hair. I’d continually felt a desire to run the past few
weeks, but I’d spent every waking minute at the office, pouring over ratings,
writing speeches, and arguing with one employee or another. I was a tough boss,
and I was earning their respect very slowly, very surely. I was just a
twenty-nine year old woman—someone their daughter’s age, perhaps.

But god, was I so much more.

I rounded the corner and found myself face
to face with a young couple, both of whom were holding hands and walking
through the park. They looked like they’d been up all night. Their faces were
brimming with such lust for each other. They gazed into each other’s eyes,
speaking only in whispers. I wondered what that love was like, in a small way.
I wondered if I was missing something. As I sped by them, I suddenly lurched to
a stop and peered back, watching their slow and subtle movements through their
morning. It was like, for them, time had stopped; they were unworried about
their careers, about their futures. They were continually wrapped in that
non-spinning world—the one that I had joined for only a second, there in the
oval office.

I shuddered and spun back around, back
into the world. I revved forward and allowed myself, only for a moment, to
consider a world in which we were meant to be together—in which we were normal,
beautiful people who were allowed to make our own choices and live our own
lives.

But what kind of life was that, anyway?

Finally, I reached my home once more,
feeling the sweat pulse down my body. I removed my clothes swiftly, tossing
them on my shining wooden floor. I rubbed at my back, at my side. The pangs of
stress lingered on, making me feel older than my years.

The water that gleamed on my body was so
fresh, so vibrant. I rubbed at my scalp, feeling my hair as it oozed down my
back and my muscles. I captured it with shampoo and felt it liven beneath my
fingertips. I thought, gruffly, about what Xavier was doing right then. Was he,
himself, in the shower? Difficult to imagine a president in the shower,
thinking about the strain of the world he controlled—all the lives that were
lost across the great country, every day. Weird to think that the president was
able to take a moment for himself, to allow himself such feeling.

Of course, as I washed my face, I
remembered that he had sought that feeling in me, through that kiss. I was his
escape, I knew, from the reality of his marriage, from the reality of the
terrible power he’d claimed above everyone. I wondered if power was really all
that it should be; I wondered if everything he’d sacrificed was worth it to
him.

The rest of the day, I lived in a sort of
dreamland of emotion, of feeling. I gave myself this day to think about him, I
decided. And then: every other subsequent day would be null, would be rooted in
career prospects and campaigning. I wouldn’t even allow him to think I ever
considered him a prospect. I practiced looking at myself in the mirror with
dead eyes, and I promised myself that I would only look at Xavier this way—with
no inner turmoil, with no feeling.