Page 12 of The Illusion of Power (Passion and Politics #1)
SELENE
M y mama always used to say that love makes a house a home.
I never appreciated the adage until we had AJ, until his tiny little wails echoed in the foyer and the first steps of his fat feet slapped against the tile in the hall, until I’d come home and trip over book bags and sneakers at the door or find several lanky, endlessly hungry teenage boys raiding my fridge with AJ leaning on the counter, his floppy, black curls in his eyes as he scrolled through delivery apps to figure out what they were going to scarf down next.
I can be rigid about a lot of things, but raising AJ taught me how to be soft.
I’d never yell or get annoyed with the mess, the missing groceries, or the dent their food orders put in my bank account.
I’d just toss my bags down, kick off my shoes and join in on the fun for however long they’d let me.
My heart was happy.
My house was a home, full of people and love.
These days, the love is absent—although, since the appearance at the children’s hospital a few days ago, I’ve glimpsed it a few times—but the people are still here.
The house is always full of people I’d happily sacrifice if it meant having another movie night with AJ and his friends.
They’re all so noisy, but it’s not the fun kind of noise that’s created by uninhibited teenagers whispering about crushes and playing video games.
It’s the serious kind of noise that makes my house feel more like an office building than a home.
Constant typing, the incessant ringing of phones, orders being barked over comms, and the quiet murmur of my movements being verbally cataloged.
It happens as soon as I emerge from my bedroom just after eight o’clock on Saturday morning. The low rumble of Agent Drake’s voice from his post at the end of the hall.
“Hummingbird is leaving the primary suite.”
We were assigned code names during our first meeting with our detail, and for the most part, I don’t pay attention to when or how it’s said, but when Agent Drake says it, it sends an idiotic rush of warmth through me that the severity of his gaze does nothing to dispel.
Copper eyes sweep over me, making me acutely aware of the fact that Aubrey’s text, stating his immediate need of my presence, left me with no time to get dressed, so I’m moving towards him with a freshly washed face and a careless low ponytail that’s one swift movement away from coming undone.
Worst of all, I’m wearing nothing but a black satin nightgown that stops well above my knee and the matching robe, which isn’t much longer.
I didn’t even bother to tie it. That’s how much of a rush I was in.
How determined I was to meet Aubrey’s request and keep feeding the positive energy that’s been swirling between us since that hug at the hospital.
I don’t regret my commitment to keeping things with my husband trending towards the positive, but I do regret not taking a second to put on some real clothes or at least a bra.
“She’s heading for the kitchen,” Agent Drake is saying now, his prediction based on his knowledge of my Saturday morning routine.
“Aubrey’s office, actually,” I correct him, lips quirking as he scrambles to relay the information.
Even though it only lasts for a moment, seeing him out of sorts helps me feel less self-conscious, and my steps slow a little.
The urgency that catapulted me out of the room leaving me in a quiet sigh that begs for just another second in the agent’s presence.
If he thinks it’s odd that I’ve come to a complete stop in front of him, Agent Drake doesn’t let on. “You should still stop by the kitchen,” he tells me. “Won’t get much done on an empty stomach.”
“I’ll be sure to stop by the bird feeder before I get too distracted,” I quip, watching as my poor excuse for a joke washes over him.
It takes him a full second to give in to the smile, but when it happens, when his serious facade is cracked by radiant light that rains down on me, I’m left with the distinct feeling of standing in a puddle of sunshine.
I’m thinking about how I could stay in that warmth forever when it fades away suddenly, pushed out by the intrusive cold front that is Agent Beckham appearing out of thin air.
He pauses outside the bubble surrounding his partner and I, looking between us with an unreadable expression before deciding to address me first.
“Ma’am.” He dips his chin, and I wonder if it’s his way of trying to make his demeanor seem less hostile.
It doesn’t. If anything, it makes his lingering annoyance with me even more evident.
“Drake, I need you up front,” he says, turning to head back down the hall and leaving Agent Drake with no choice but to follow.
I watch them go, waiting for the broad span of their shoulders to disappear around the corner before finally resuming my journey to Aubrey’s office on the main floor.
Outside the door, I hear shouts of excitement layered over the sounds of a newscast in the background and feel the soft trickle of disappointment roll down my spine.
Part of me had stupidly believed Aubrey’s desire to see me had to do with…
well, with me, but I should have known better.
Our entire life is about this campaign. I don’t know why I thought this morning would be any different.
I step inside and find Aubrey in the middle of the floor, his hands linked together and resting on top of his head while he bounces on his toes with excitement.
Jordan is perched on the edge of his desk, flipping through the channels on the television at a rapid rate.
Every channel that comes up is a news station—FOX, ABC, CNN, etc.
,—and they all have a different version of the same story running right now.
Jordan is changing the channels too fast, so I can’t hear what any of the broadcasters are saying, but I can read the words scrolling on the breaking news banner at the bottom of the screen.
Breaking: President Lucas Sanders rushed to the hospital after a sudden collapse.
“It’s fucking everywhere,” Aubrey remarks, his voice full of wonder as he pumps his fist in the air. He turns, probably intending to address Jordan, but his gaze snags on me. “Selene, baby! Finally. Have you seen this?” His right hand swings back, gesturing at the TV.
Jordan is no longer flipping through the channels, so the screen is still, an image of the President taking up all seventy inches.
He looks healthy there, or at least as healthy as a white man pushing eighty can look.
His pale blonde hair is thinning, the skin on his face sagging under the weight of age and the stress of spending decades of your life in politics.
His eyes are bright, though. A luminous gray that reads as silver and speaks of wisdom.
I’ve never met the man before, and I don’t agree with a single one of his political views, but in this moment, I feel for him.
For his wife and their three children. For his grandchildren, who probably heard about their grandfather’s collapse from the media instead of their parents or another loved one.
That’s how I found out about the active shooter at AJ’s school, on the news.
A breaking story just like the one playing out on the television in front of me now, except there are several degrees of separation between me and this story, and that day, there were none.
Since then, I haven’t been able to watch a breaking news story without thinking about the horror the subject’s family might be feeling at that exact moment.
Apparently, Aubrey doesn’t have the same issue.
He scoops me up in his arms and spins me around, kissing my neck and cheeks and face while Jordan slips out of the room with her phone to her ear.
“Is she calling to check on President Sanders?” I ask, wincing as my back hits the door.
Aubrey is caught up. He’s touching me everywhere, his hands greedy and rough as he grabs my thighs, forcing me to open for him, to make room for the span of his hips and the erection that makes me gasp in surprise.
Is he getting off on this?
“Aubrey.” I push on his shoulders, forcing him to look at me. There’s a raw, chilling quality to his gaze, the possibility of power spilling out of his eyes. His expression lingering somewhere between rabid desire and the presence of mind necessary to answer my question.
He shakes his head, attempting to clear the fog of lust I’m not sure is even really for me. “What?”
“Is Jordan calling to check on President Sanders?” I repeat, although I already know the answer. It’s there in the lack of empathy in Aubrey’s eyes, in the heaving of his chest, and the subtle rock of his hips between my thighs.
His brows fold in on themselves. “Of course not, she’s talking to her team, having them update the campaign messaging and run the ad we shot that focuses on Sanders’ failing health and…
highlights … my …. virility .” The delivery of the last three words is staggered, each one punctuated by a pump of his hips that nudges his tip into my center.
It’s meant to be enticing, to stir up feelings of desire and excitement, but instead, it just makes me sick to my stomach.
It feels wrong to be on the brink of a celebratory fuck when there’s a life hanging in the balance.
I open my mouth to say as much to Aubrey, but the words get lost between his lips and mine, and the opportunity to speak up, to ask for clarity, gets further and further away from me the longer the kiss goes on.