Page 55 of The Illusion of Power (Passion and Politics #1)

SELENE

I didn’t know how much I needed time with my people until they forced themselves on me, giving me no option but to take their love, to laugh at Mo’s jokes and lay my head in Mama’s lap and let her give me the scalp massages I only tolerated as a kid but enjoy now.

Monique is curled up on the couch with us, her feet hanging off the arm of the chair while her head rests on my hip.

The TV is on, playing one of the Lifetime movies Mama enjoys so much.

She and Monique are discussing the wisdom of the choices the main character has made thus far.

I have my eyes closed, just listening, wondering if this is what my life will be like if Aubrey loses the election.

He’s holding steady in the polls, thanks to an increase in the white, conservative vote, but it’s still anyone’s game.

Over the last three days, I’ve been fighting an internal battle between the part of me that wants to honor AJ and the part of me that just wants to have peace.

To have more moments like this with my family.

To have more time with my men.

Of course, I know I can walk away, that Aubrey and Jordan could oust me in a second, but I can’t reconcile the idea of leaving when there’s still a chance he could win. When the contract we signed still guarantees support and funding for my First Lady initiative. When I could still do some good.

“Your hair is so healthy,” Mama muses, holding up a section to her face to inspect my ends. “Who is this lady that does it for you?”

“Her name is Diane. You’d love her. She’s one of those old school stylists like you.”

Dropping one section, she picks up another, doing the same thing. “I can tell. Those new girls don’t know nothing about growing hair.”

She tsks her disapproval, and Monique hums her agreement. “Talk about it, MJ! They don’t care nothing about your scalp, your ends, or your edges. All they want is a deposit and your understanding when they send that damn ‘hey, boo’ text.”

I peek at her through one half-open eye. “What on Earth is a ‘hey, boo’ text? And why are they referring to clients in such a personal manner? Seems unprofessional.”

“Girl, it’s all unprofessional,” she says, rolling her eyes. “And a ‘hey, boo’ text is exactly what it sounds like. They text you the morning of your appointment, or sometimes minutes before, and say ‘hey, boo, I won’t be able to do your hair today because I’m going to Miami’.”

“Don’t they have scheduling systems? Why wouldn’t they block off that time?”

“Because they’re not professionals, Sel.”

Mama laughs at Monique’s exasperation. “Jessica got a text from a braider once canceling her appointment but asking if she could go ahead and send payment for service because she wanted to go out for her friend’s birthday.”

Jessica is my baby sister. I love her to death but she’s incredibly ditzy, so I have to ask: “Did she pay it?”

“Of course she did, even sent the girl a tip. She still ain’t got the style she paid for. Every time she goes to book, the girl says her schedule is full.”

“Poor, Jess,” Monique laments, shaking her head. “That girl should be ashamed of herself, taking advantage of people like that.”

“She should,” I agree. “But Jess should also have more sense than to send someone money for services they hadn’t rendered. It’s illogical.”

“Yeah, well, logic doesn’t always apply to matters of the heart,” Mama says through a yawn.

She’s been hanging tough with Monique and I, staying up late every night, braving the paparazzi and crowds to go on brief outings supervised by Cal and Beck.

We kept it pretty low-key today, since they’re leaving tomorrow, but I can tell it’s all catching up with her.

She pats my head, signaling the end of my scalp rub, and I sit up.

Since she’s tired, I don’t bother addressing the slight dig she took at me with the logic and heart thing.

She and Monique are both frustrated that they’re leaving me with no further understanding of what’s happening in my marriage, so they’ve resorted to little comments like that to see if I will break.

I never do.

“Why don’t you go to bed?” I ask softly.

She tries to wave me off, her lips parted to argue, but another yawn comes, stealing whatever it is she was going to say.

“I guess I will,” she says, pushing to her feet and grabbing her room key off the coffee table.

Mo and I both stand to escort her the short distance to the door, accepting kisses on the cheeks.

“Goodnight, babies,” she says.

“Goodnight,” we call, waving as she crosses the hall and disappears behind the door.

Glancing at my watch and then at the agent posted at the end of the hall waiting to escort me back up to my room, I sigh. “I should probably head up too.”

Monique frowns. “What? No!”

“Mo, it’s getting late. You’ve got a flight in the morning, I have press all day, and a rally tomorrow night. We need to get some rest.”

“Just stay with me. You’re already in your pajamas, and it’s not like we’ve never shared a bed,” she points out, her eyes turning bright at the idea. Before I can protest, she’s beckoning Agent Harris forward. “Hey, come here, please?”

“Yes, ma’am?” he asks, stopping in front of us.

“Could you please let the powers that be know Mrs. Taylor will be spending the night in my room tonight?”

Harris glances at me, and then back at her. “I don’t think that’s a good idea.”

“Good thing I wasn’t asking your opinion,” Monique retorts, doubling down now just because Harris has hinted at denying her request. “She wants to sleep here. The room has been secured. We won’t be ordering in room service or sneaking out, so you can let everyone know you tucked us in real tight before you got lost.”

“Ma’am.” He’s looking at me now, but I’m of no help to him because I have no interest in going back to my suite. Cordelia has practically moved in with us now. I see her more than Jordan. If I cared, I’d wonder if she and Aubrey are fucking.

“You’re dismissed, Agent Harris. Please let Hicks know we’ve requested to be left alone for the rest of the night.”

“There will be another agent arriving?—”

Monique waves her hand in his face, and he stops speaking. “Did you hear what she just said? Left alone for the rest of the night. Tell that other agent to stay where he’s at, or I’m digging in his ass and yours before I get on my plane in the morning.”

Over the last twenty-plus years, she’s exhibited how good she is at putting the fear of God into even the most formidable men multiple times, and at this moment, Agent Harris is no exception.

The tips of his ears are red as he nods and turns on his heel to march away without so much as a goodbye.

We have the decency to wait until he’s on the elevator and the doors have closed to burst out laughing.

“I can’t believe that actually worked,” she muses, closing and locking the door behind us.

“I can. You can be really scary sometimes.”

“Probably doesn’t hurt that he saw me curse Aubrey up one side and down the other yesterday.”

She’s butted heads with Aubrey a lot over the years, but the way she laid into him yesterday was something new entirely.

We ended up on the elevator with him, and because it was her first time seeing him since she arrived, she took him to task for the old and new while everyone—me, Mama, Cal, Beck and Agents Hicks and Ortega—watched on silently.

“I’m sure that was a huge motivator,” I say, sinking back into the couch while Monique rummages through her purse. “What are you looking for?”

“This!”

She holds the treasure up with a triumphant grin while I frown, trying to make it out. “Is that a brownie?”

“Even better.” Her shoulders bounce as she dances over to me and plops down onto the couch, sitting close enough that she might as well be on my lap. “It’s an edible,” she whispers conspiratorially. “I’ve been saving it for when we get a moment alone.”

“Because you didn’t want your precious MJ to know you’re trying to corrupt me with drugs?”

Unwrapping the packaging of the admittedly delicious-looking baked good, she snorts. “No, because I didn’t think you’d want to get high with your mama.”

“I don’t want to get high with you.”

Despite my expressed disinterest, she breaks the brownie into what’s supposed to be halves and forces the biggest piece into my hand. “Just eat the damn brownie, Sel. You’ll be all relaxed and mellow and sleep like a log.”

“Or, I’ll be paranoid and anxious like the last time.”

“No,” she says in the middle of a bite. “It’s a different strain.”

“I don’t care.” I try to hand it back to her, but she won’t take it. “You can eat my piece.”

“Girl, these things are strong as fuck. Eating the whole thing would have me on my ass.”

“Well, just save it for later.”

Her brows knitted together. “I can’t take it on the plane, Sel, and there’s no way I’m eating it in the morning before a flight.”

“Moniqueeee,” I groan, wanting to say no again but already feeling myself caving.

“Seleneeeeee.”

Where my drawn-out version of her name was more of a whine of desperation, her exaggerated pronunciation is the beginning of a celebration. She nudges me with her shoulder repeatedly, smiling when I lift the edible to my mouth and then pumping her fist in the air once I’ve chewed and swallowed.

We rest our heads on the back of the couch and close our eyes, listening to the opening sounds of a movie about a rich white woman nearly losing her family to her crazed nanny. It’s over a third of the way done when the edible kicks in, and I say the first thing that comes to mind.

“How many times are they going to make this same movie?”