Page 31 of The Illusion of Power (Passion and Politics #1)

SELENE

“ A nd you’re staying offline?” Monique asks, her brows furrowed with concern as she searches my face through the screen of my phone.

“Yes. I’ve deleted everything but my email.”

“Don’t check that either! Nichelle is screening everything and forwarding the important stuff to me.”

I grimace. “Monique, I can’t just fall off the face of the Earth days after our biggest launch. I can stay off of social media, but I need to be present at Culture Code. I need my work. I mean it’s not like people are sending death threats to my e?—”

My voice trails off when Mo presses her lips together, and I run frustrated fingers through the freshly curled strands of my hair and sigh.

There seems to be no end to the fallout from my gun control comment.

Since arriving in Atlanta, I’ve had to contend with Aubrey’s anger, Jordan’s disapproval, death threats online, and now, apparently, in my inbox, and I’m just tired.

Of course, I’m not a stranger to online vitriol, but this feels different.

More hostile. More vicious. More like millions of strangers are actively thinking of ways to kill me as opposed to hoping I’ll just drop dead so they can have their blond hair, blue-eyed First couple.

As strange as it sounds, I was fine with the passive act of wishing me dead, but the intentionality behind these threats has me more scared than I care to admit.

I feel like there’s a target on my back and a shooter around every corner.

Fear coils around my ribs, causing my stomach to churn anxiously.

“You’ll have to make sure to tell Nichelle to send the threats to Jordan, so she can forward them to the Secret Service,” I say, running my fingers through my hair again and then wincing because I won’t have time to fix it before I need to leave for the rally.

“She’s already on it, Sel.”

I nod, rising from my spot at the foot of the bed to cross over to the vanity and assess the damage I’ve done to my hair.

Thankfully, it’s not too bad. If anything, my fretting has added some volume, making the style look lived-in instead of stuffy and too perfect.

Propping my phone up against the mirror, I rake my nails through the curls on the other side to achieve the same effect. Monique nods her approval.

“You look beautiful.”

“Thank you.”

She stares at me, and I see my own fear reflected in her gaze. It lingers for a second before she pushes it away, projecting confidence. “You’re going to be okay.”

“I’m going to be okay,” I repeat, coaxing a thin smile to the surface to put Monique and me at ease. “I’ll text you later. Love you.”

“Love you too, bye.”

The screen goes dark, and I allow my features to crumple into a mask of distress for just a second before tucking it away and grabbing everything I need to head out the door.

The suite Aubrey and I are sharing is empty and still as I move from my bedroom to the living area.

Everyone of importance has accompanied him to a meeting with Senator Barnes that I didn’t know about until they were all marching out the door.

A flurry of voices and magnified importance that left me to dwell in my anxiety and prepare for the rally all alone.

I didn’t expect anyone in Aubrey’s camp—especially not him or Jordan—to be of much use to me on either front, but I still found myself annoyed as I watched them leave, ignoring my comments about us arriving at the first major event of this travel season together.

Apparently, our contractual obligations shrink to become mere suggestions where Aubrey is concerned.

The unfairness of it burns in my chest, threatening to singe the soft, sheer fabric of my cream blouse and the lapels of the lavender blazer of my pantsuit.

Pushing out a slow, even breath, I wrap my fingers around the handle of the door and pull it open, bringing myself face to face with Agent Harris. His hand is raised, prepared to knock, and even though I’ve surprised him, he doesn’t let it show on his face as he lowers his hand to his side.

“It’s time to go, ma’am.”

He steps back, leaving me space to move into the hallway.

There’s no one else on this floor, so Agent Harris gives me a wide berth as we make our way to the elevator, and he doesn’t say a word for the duration of the ride down.

The chill of his reserved presence is immediately dispersed by the warmth of the two gazes that land on me when we step out under the awning where three large, black SUVs are waiting in front of the hotel.

There are other people looking at me besides them.

The local cops standing on either side of their slanted black and whites to prevent cars from the adjacent street from turning into the hotel’s circular drive glance over their shoulders to catch a glimpse of me.

Drivers from the halted vehicles on the road toss exasperated glares in my general direction.

One of the valets leans against the wall, trying to appear casual even though he’s got his phone in his hand and is clearly recording me.

All those eyes. All that attention, and yet, the only thing I feel is the shock of onyx and the familiar, smoldering heat of copper and brass.

Since the first day I met them, I’ve been obsessed with decoding the pair in front of me, determined to understand the symmetry of their existence.

In all that time, I never thought I’d get to experience what it would be like to stand in the middle of it.

I’ve craved it, of course, hypothesized that existing between two people, so sure of who they are together, would make me feel like I belonged.

I never thought I’d have it, though, but for one small, blissful moment, I do.

I have the perfectly balanced weight of their shared attention pressing in on me from all sides, heavy and tight like a twenty-five-pound blanket with compression capabilities.

I have Agent Beckham’s soft, but curt, greeting and a cursory sweep of his dark eyes over my face as I pass between him and the door to climb into the backseat of the car.

I have the rough caress of Cal’s voice as he explains how long it will take for us to get to the venue and the low rumble of his quiet exchange with Agent Beckham once he’s settled in the passenger seat.

And when we pull out of the hotel driveway, following closely behind the lead vehicle, I have the first taste of calm I’ve experienced since I arrived in Atlanta last night.

We don’t talk enough about how exhausting anxiety is.

How it steals your ability to reason, leaving your brain free to run a mental marathon your body didn’t agree to or train for.

How, once that marathon is over, fatigue sets in, sending you plummeting into paralysis, a numb kind of relaxation that costs too much to bring so little relief.

That’s the state I’m in for the duration of the ride.

My body is fused to the backseat. My bones are liquid underneath my skin.

My eyelids are heavy. I’m in the middle of trying to coax them back open when the long and loud blare of a horn pierces the air.

The sudden, jarring sound is more than enough to put my body right back on high alert all on its own, but when it’s accompanied by the sound of screeching tires and the acrid smell of burning rubber, my heart lodges itself into my throat, thrumming wildly against my esophagus as the disembodied voices of the agents in the cars behind us shout through the comms that our formation has been broken.

Agent Beckham, who’s spent the whole ride monitoring our surroundings, spins in his seat at the same time I do.

Both of us were stunned and quiet as we observed the beat-up blue sedan with windows dark enough to rival the tint on ours accelerate, drawing close enough to make my muscles seize from the threat of impact.

“The fuck is this guy doing?” Cal growls as the engine revs and the SUV lurches forward, creating space between us and the unknown car that’s quickly deleted when he slams on the brakes.

Confused, Agent Beckham and I both turn our attention back to the front of the car just in time to witness the second break in our procession.

The tail lights of the compact, red car flash rapidly, indicating that the driver is pressing and releasing the brake in quick pulses meant to keep them from colliding with us and the lead SUV.

“Get over, Drake,” Agent Beckham issues the order between calm breaths, even as his head swings wildly from the front to the back.

The other agents on the comms are telling Cal to do the same thing, and when I am no longer frozen in fear, I’m able to turn my head and see that the other SUVs are now in the far left lane with a large gap between them where we’re supposed to be.

Cal doesn’t bother with his signal. He just checks his blind spot and begins to shift the wheel to take us to safety, only to be cut off by the roar of several motorcycles who choose that exact moment to take up residence at our left side.

The riders are decked out in traditional biker garb.

Bulky helmets that hide their faces, leather pants and jackets free of emblems, which strikes me as odd because they move like a group, and that usually means distinct markings or signage, right?

“Only if they want to be easily identified.”

The answer to what I thought was a silent question comes from Agent Beckham, who now has all of his attention on me.

Onyx eyes rove over my features, taking in what I’m sure are obvious signs of helplessness and fear.

His jaw tenses and his nostrils flare, signs of annoyance I’ve grown used to seeing on his face.

I can’t tell if they’re for me or just a byproduct of this unusual situation, and I guess it doesn’t really matter because focusing on him gives me the ability to turn my silent anxiety spiral into voiced concerns.