Power #2 (The Power Romance Series - Book #2) Read online

  POWER #2

  By Claire Adams

  This book is a work of fiction. The names, characters, places and incidents are products of the writer's imagination or have been used fictitiously and are not to be construed as real. Any resemblance to persons, living or dead, actual events, locales or organizations is entirely coincidental.

  Copyright © 2015 Claire Adams

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  Power #1 - March 19th

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  Power #3 - April 2nd

  Power #4 - April 9th

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  Chapter 1

  Jason, in a supreme, suave motion, swept the photos back into a folder, looking pleased with himself. I felt a single tear rushing down my cheeks as I gaped at him. The silence emanated between us.

  He raised his eyebrow. “I can assure you that I’ve kept these photos to myself.” His ruffled shirt was tucked into his pants half-heartedly, like he’d been too excited about proving to me that he was above me, that he had my number—too excited to ever tuck in his shirt appropriately.

  “Why did you keep them? You could ruin me. You could ruin him,” I whispered.

  Jason scoffed. “Of course. And you think I want that? To completely ruin you?” He cackled, tossing his head back. There was something so slimy about his laugh—something that didn’t make me so fearful. Rather, it made me want to cover my nose, like he was something foul-smelling that had been stuffed down my throat.

  I wasn’t sure how to argue with him—how to reason with him. I cleared my throat. “Then what’s your angle, here?” I asked him, gesturing toward the folder. “Why would you come to me with these photos?” The images were still burned in my head: the images of me on that table, of his body over mine. I shivered. The worst thing that could ever happen had happened: I’d had an affair with the president and I’d been caught on camera.

  “You mean—why did I place cameras in your apartment to catch this sure, brimming affair between you and the president?” he asked me. He cackled once more, leaning over his desk. I could smell his breath.

  “I could turn you in—“ I began, so angry. “I could turn you in for—for breaking and entering—“

  He laughed again, sniffing. “You really are hilarious,” he cackled. “Brains, humor, and beauty. No wonder the president wanted to fuck your brains out.”

  I felt like punching him, then. I righted myself, no longer feeling like a victim. I wanted to kick this guy’s ass. “If you wanted to verbally abuse me with these photos, then have at me and let me get the fuck out of here,” I said, my mind rushing. I knew that he had done this only because I hadn’t agreed to go on a date with him; I knew that he’d done this only because I had power over him. He wasn’t comfortable with it. He was rogue.

  But he shook his head, ruffling his hand over his chin. “No, no. I want so much more than that. Sure, a jab here and there. But I think that I can use you, Amanda. And here, all this time, you thought that you could use me.”

  “What the hell are you talking about?” I asked him, my breath coming hot. I’d thought that Jason was a good worker; I’d actually been considering him for a promotion. I wanted to take him up with me. Xavier had stated that I would eternally have a job at the White House. And thus, I wanted to take all my people with me, to the top.

  He leaned still closer to me. “I’m going to use you, Amanda. I’m going to use you better than this cunt president we have used you. I’m going to force you to take me to the top—to even push me ahead of you. You have the president under your thumb, so to speak. And I’m the only one who knows about it.”

  My anger grew in me at an alarming rate. I felt myself push my hands forward and grab the folder from his hands. I brought those terrible photos into the light and I started to rip at them voraciously, feeling their vitality splinter away in my hands. I wanted to scream out, and I felt my throat so hot, so raspy. “Goddamn you,” I called to him.

  This wouldn’t be the way he got anywhere. I could destroy these photos. I wouldn’t let him kick me to the bottom—not after all that I’d been through. I’d worked my way to the top for a purpose. I hadn’t worked so far just for fine dinners with the president, for raucous flings on my kitchen table with the most powerful man in the world. I couldn’t help what I felt for that man, but this had nothing to do with my need and desire for power.

  I ripped and tore at the photos, flinging them to the trash can. I brought my hand into my purse and brought out a small matchbook. With my eyes on Jason, I snapped the match over the match box and watched the light spring up into the air. I dropped it into the fire, over the gleaming photos. Together, for only a moment, we watched the fire begin.

  But Jason had begun to laugh once more. I looked up toward him and watched how the fire flickered in his eyes. His teeth were so white, so bright. I could see his tongue lolling around in his mouth.

  I stood there, stupidly, with the fire still burning between us. It had eaten the paper, and it had begun to char the interior tin. I held my hands over my stomach and blinked at him for several moments.

  Finally, he spoke. He leaned against his hands, over the desk, and coughed. “Darling, darling. If you thought I didn’t have these digitally backed up, you’re a lot stupider than I initially assumed.”

  My heart burned.

  I realized how rash, how dumb I’d been. I was usually so certain of each of my actions, but I’d lost my head in the previous few weeks. I swallowed as he continued.

  “No matter how many of these photos you rip up and burn in my trash can, these photos can still get out to the public. You’ll ruin our president’s life if you don’t cooperate with me. What’s more: you’ll be deemed the slut of the White House. No one wants to hear that the president’s been sleeping with his campaign manager. What a scandal.” He ticked his tongue against the top of his mouth, his eyes still glittering from the fire.

  I spun around, then, feeling the tears running hot and steady down my face. I pushed through the door and began running through the familiar hallways, back toward my desk. A small girl—one of the campaign workers—rushed toward me with a phone pressed to her chest. Her eyes were wide. “Amanda! I have a very important question for you—“

  But I held up my hand, shaking my head. “I have a terrible migraine, Denise,” I whispered, placing my hand on my head. “Please. Give me—give me just a moment.”

  Denise looked at me with a gaped expression on her face. She wasn’t sure what to do, I knew: but I wasn’t cut out for this anymore. Not now. I had done too much—I’d nearly ruined the entire operation.

  I caught my cardigan around my bony shoulders and I grabbed my bag. In the dark hallway, back toward the oval office, I saw Xavier suddenly. He peeked out of his office, like he was watching me from afar. His shadow was so dark. I felt my body shiver with longing for him. But I knew—I knew everything had to stop. It had to stop dead. He didn’t know what was at stake.

  I ran toward the steps, turning away from the president. I could still feel his eyes on me as I fled. The tears continued as I rushed into a taxi and told him to take me the fuck home.

  Chapter 2

  In the
back of the taxi, I allowed the tears to fall fast down my cheeks. My long fingers clung to my cheeks. I could hear the taxi driver in the front seat, whistling away with such utter contentment.

  “Miss? Are you all right?” he finally asked me, peering at the rearview mirror.

  I nodded, choking a bit.

  Truly, the anger was pulsing through me, throwing me off. I didn’t feel like my true self. Just the day before, I’d been so enraptured with the president. I’d been of the—albeit, strained—belief that he and I could be together, that nothing could stop us.

  And yet this man, Jason, who’d I’d viewed as a friend before, turned on me. He’d given me to the dogs. And now I was to be his slave.

  No one had ever gotten the better of me. All the way through college, I’d won every campaign I’d come up against. I’d been wide-eyed and assertive; no one had ever dared to cross me. Even the men in my life hadn’t dared to keep up with me. They’d allowed me to pass, like a great ship through the night, beside them and then beyond them. Everyone knew that I was headed toward greater things. And I’d always known that, as well.

  The taxi turned right, down my street. I pushed open the door of the taxi and handed the man several bills. I didn’t make eye contact with him, didn’t thank him. I didn’t want contact. I certainly didn’t want anyone to really, really see me cry—to see the desolation lurking behind my eyes.

  I charged up my steps, toward my apartment, my former sanctuary. I dropped my things and began looking around the place with fury. I had to find the cameras—the cameras that were currently ruining my life. I had to get them out. I tried to imagine Jason in my apartment, placing the cameras in various places. I wondered if he had any others: of me sleeping on my couch, for example. Of me drinking wine. Of me simply getting undressed and preparing for the day. I shuddered. The invasion of privacy was something I couldn’t get over. What do people do when they don’t know they’re being watched?

  Everything.

  I wanted to report him so badly, but I felt like I was pushed against a wall with his hand against my mouth. I could cry out as much as I wanted, but he would press harder and harder until I couldn’t breathe any more. He would stifle me, stifle me until both my career and Xavier’s career were dead forever.

  I started at the top of the refrigerator, where I felt like the camera had been positioned that captured us atop the table. I ruffled my hand over the top haphazardly. I knocked a forgotten magazine onto the ground, allowing dust to scatter everywhere. I started to cough, grasping my throat.

  I spun around, my hands on my hips. I sauntered toward the couch and plucked up the bottle of wine on the coffee table. I flung it back, toward my mouth, and allowed the full flavor to graze down my tongue. I felt the wine immediately alter my brain, making me feel a bit woozy. The dizziness cut through my disdain.

  I flung back toward the kitchen and began to rifle through the cabinets, tossing things to the ground. Cereal fell to the floor: bowls, plates, everything. I heard a wine glass crash to the ground and fling itself into a million little glass pieces. I tugged at my hair, wondering where the cameras would be.

  Finally, I swept back toward the fine armoire that sat on the other side of my dining room table. On the inside of the armoire sat all the fine china that had been passed down on my mother’s side, from my grandmother’s grandmother. It glinted in the afternoon light.

  On the inside of the armoire, I found it: the camera. It was blinking at me in the darkness of the cabinet, as if it was saying hello. I sniffed at it, turning it this way, then that. I whispered into it, suddenly, muttering the words: “I’ve got you, here. Yes I do.”

  I suddenly flung the camera into the sink. I turned on the sink and allowed it to die there at the bottom, still blinking at me for several moments before finally giving itself over to death.

  Breathing heavily, I was finally able to pulse through the rest of the apartment and find the remaining cameras. I found three in total, and I allowed each of them to die a very wet death at the bottom of my sink. I poured myself a very full glass of wine and drank it alone at my kitchen table, still watching the light from the lamp as it glimmered over the broken glass on the floor. I knew that this was representative of the terror of my situation; I knew that I was currently mid-repair. How long would this fucking situation put me back from my goals?

  I would have to be careful in the future. I would have to watch my back. I couldn’t get bleary-eyed with adoration for that man—the President of the United States.

  I was smarter than that.

  Chapter 3

  The rest of the afternoon, I drank heartily from the wine glass before drinking from the wine bottle. I wasn’t sure how to get out of the situation, but I knew I couldn’t miss another day at work. I called in at around four in the afternoon and spoke in a strained voice to Jason’s second-in-command, the man beneath both me and Jason—a man named Scott. “Scott?” I said, my voice a bit gruff, a bit strained.

  “Amanda. We’ve been worried about you. Are you coming back in this afternoon?”

  I shook my head into the phone, feeling frustrated. “No. I’m under the weather, I’m afraid,” I muttered. “Please tell the team I’ll be back with them tomorrow. Please apologize for me.”

  Scott affirmed that he would. I imagined him telling these words to Jason; I imagined Jason’s ominous laughter once more—the sheer understanding that he’d put me in my place—that I couldn’t even comprehend going to work, to face that atmosphere.

  Ultimately, I fell asleep that night in the kitchen chair with my head on my hand, with my wine glass still half-full. I felt the anger and anxiety of the day fall away from me, and I finally allowed myself just a few hours of sleep.

  Until suddenly, at six in the morning, I stood up suddenly out of my slumber, blinking my eyes wildly at the surrounding arena. The kitchen light was still on, and it seemed so ominous above me. I shuddered, looking down at my now-ruffled work clothes. I knew I had to be at work a bit earlier that day because I’d missed the previous day. No rest for the campaign manager, I thought.

  I rushed into the bathroom, allowing my clothes to fall to the ground as I walked. The water pounded upon me like a baptism. I closed my eyes beneath it, allowing the steam to calm me. This had been the worst experience of my life. But I was going to come out of it with flying colors.

  I didn’t have another fucking choice.

  I grabbed a towel and wrapped it around my head as I exited the heat, allowing the water to evaporate from y skin. I shivered slightly as I brushed my teeth, allowing my elbow to rotate slowly at my side.

  I chose a fine, prim, black suit—something that didn’t create any sort of sexuality, I was certain. It was even a bit bigger on me than my other suits, thus forcing my body to look a bit overweight. I nodded at myself in the mirror, sure that I could go to work, do my job, and then simply come home. Someday—maybe ten years from now—I would allow myself to feel passion once more. But god. Not now.

  I took a taxi back into work, preparing my mind for the day ahead. I didn’t want to see Nikolay anymore; I felt he knew too much about my situation. When I saw him at the entrance to the White House, I skirted my eyes away from him, saying a prim: “Good morning.” I was a ghost to these people, now. I had to be.

  I tapped up the steps, toward the brimming West Wing. I could feel Xavier’s presence, even as I walked past the closed Oval Office door. I could nearly see him in there, tapping a pen against his lip (and perhaps thinking of me?). I wondered if anything had happened with his wife recently; I wondered if he had left my apartment only to go hold her in his own bed. The thought of this chilled me to the bone.

  Suddenly, after I passed his office, I heard his door open. My very spine seemed to chill. I continued walking slowly, primly, hoping he wouldn’t call out to me. But I could feel his eyes on me.

  Then, I heard him: “Amanda.” The word was so sensual from his lips. I wanted to smack him, suddenly. I wouldn’t have
been involved in this debacle if it hadn’t been for him—if he hadn’t of asked me out. He had the true power here.

  I spun around, allowing my hair to wind around my neck. “What is it?” I asked him. I didn’t make eye contact with him, but I could feel his presence before me. His suit was cut so primly; he held his hands in his pockets with such subtle sensuality. His beard was growing in bit-by-bit on his chin. And he was looking at me with such a worried expression on his face.

  “Amanda. I heard you fell ill yesterday at work.”

  I nodded, swallowing. “I didn’t feel very well, no,” I murmured. I tried to smile, but the muscles didn’t work. I wanted to flee back to my desk, to continue my dutiful work. All I could think about in those moments was what I was meant to do: promote Jason. Tell the president, perhaps, that he would be a better campaign leader than I was. Tell him that I didn’t feel like I could take on the role anymore, especially after everything that had happened.

  But I didn’t want to remind the president of what had happened.

  Xavier stepped forward. His eyebrows had narrowed more starkly over his eyes. “Amanda, I need you to tell me if something is wrong. Do you want to talk in my office?” He ducked his head to the right, trying to catch my eyes. But I held firm.

  I shook my head. “I have so much to do, Mr. President. I’ll have an updated explanation to you in the afternoon.”

  “Explanation of what?” Xavier asked. His voice was leading, as if he were searching for something—an explanation for what was going on between us, instead of the campaign.

  I cleared my throat. “Explanation of—of the campaign, of course,” I answered. I smiled at him, still looking somewhere far away from him, down the hall.

  I spun back around and fled toward my desk. I passed by Jason’s, where I heard him speaking on the phone to one of our backers. It took all my strength not to spin toward him and pound his face with my fist.