Chapter One Lena
Chapter One
Lena
“Holy lobster, Batman, look at this.”
My best friend, Chelsea, snickers into her glass of champagne and points to the enormous painting in front of her.
It’s a lobster.
Dancing with a squid.
This painting is the size of the windows that span behind my mother’s desk in the Oval Office. I should know. I was just in there this morning.
Sipping my one and only glass of champagne, I tilt my head to the side, still staring at the painting. There’s a lot going on. “Is that a—”
“Starfish fucking a clam? Yeah, I think so.”
I blink over at Chelsea, and she grins at me.
“What did you bring me to?”
Chelsea laughs and pats my shoulder. “An art exhibit opening in New York City. Come on, it’s fun. We’re dressed up, drinking bomb champagne, surrounded by your hot security guys.”
I glance over to my Secret Service men. There they are, like always.
Dressed in suits, with things in their ears, just like in the movies.
Only difference is, we’re not outside, so they’re not wearing sunglasses.
Richie has been with me since I was a teenager.
But the other one is new. I don’t remember his name.
The rest are scattered throughout the gallery and outside.
I frown at my best friend of twenty years, since our first day of kindergarten.
“They’re not hot.” Only one has ever been hot, and he hasn’t worked for me for years. “They’re annoying.”
“If you have to have annoying security, they might as well be hot. They can be both.” She winks at me, and we move along to another piece that features a sink full of dirty dishes and a golden retriever humping a poodle.
“My eyes may never recover from this,” I mutter, making her cackle with delight. Chelsea’s laugh always makes me smile.
We couldn’t be more different. She’s the wild one. The risk-taker, the loud person with no filter.
She’s also stunning, with long blond hair, bright-cerulean eyes, and an hourglass figure that fills out her blue dress perfectly.
She’s a showstopper.
I can never tell her no about anything, including this last-minute trip into New York City for this exhibit. Chels loves the city, and I would rather be anywhere else.
Somewhere quiet, where I can think, where there aren’t many people. Or any people at all.
“You should have an exhibit of your own, Lena,” Chelsea says, sobering. “You’re way better than this.”
“You can’t compare my art to this. It’s not the same.”
Chelsea rolls her eyes as she loops her arm through mine, and we click on our stilettos to another room, another gallery. And of course security follows.
“You know what I mean,” she says. “Your art is fucking beautiful, and it should be displayed for others to enjoy. To buy. You could make a killing.”
Shaking my head, I give her arm a squeeze. “Thanks for the vote of confidence, but I’m okay.”
I’ve told her before, I don’t want to draw more attention to myself. My mother is the president of the United States. I get plenty of attention already, and I hate it with a passion.
“Maybe once your mom’s term is over, and things settle down a bit,” she says and tips her head against my shoulder.
Probably not.
But in my usual fashion, because I can’t tell her no, I simply say, “Maybe.”
“Oh! I could totally be your manager. You could just do the art side, and I could run the business side.”
Not in this lifetime.
I love her, but Chelsea can’t manage her own allowance from her parents. She’s twenty-four and has already spent her entire trust fund, and her parents still give her ten grand a month for living expenses.
And yet by the middle of the month, she’s broke and asking me for a loan.
Which I always give her.
And I hate myself for it. I know I’m enabling the shit out of her, but damn it, she’s like a sister to me. I don’t have siblings. Just Chelsea. She battled a cocaine addiction for years, and she’s finally clean. She has so much potential—she just doesn’t have any self-esteem.
Because her parents, while filthy fucking rich, are assholes.
“Oh, look!” She points to the side of the room. “A dessert buffet. Let’s be naughty and eat some calories rather than just drink them.”
I blink over at her. “Chels.”
With a huff of her breath, she shakes her head. “Come on, Mom, I want some of that cake.”
I nod at people that I know as we walk through. This is definitely a who’s who of New York’s elite, and I know the only reason I was invited is who my mom is.
“Well, you look delicious.”
I know that voice.
Pasting on a plastic smile, I take a steadying breath and turn to find Howard Tobias Matthews III ogling my tits as he lifts his glass to his lips.
Not champagne.
Bourbon.
His diamond-studded Rolex flashes beneath the cuff of his white dress shirt. He’s in a custom black suit, which molds over his body perfectly.
On paper, Howey is the perfect man.
A Harvard Law grad, attorney with a prestigious New York City firm, tall, dark, and handsome, with a muscled body and an impressive financial portfolio, and he comes from the kind of family that would have hosted grand balls during the Gilded Age.
He’s also a selfish, narcissistic asshole, and I only learned that after I dated him for a year.
“Hello, Howey.”
“Goodbye, Howey,” Chelsea says and flips the man the bird, and I have to press my lips together so I don’t laugh.
Chels always hated this guy.
“Still have your yappy friend by your side, I see.” Howey’s voice is like honey.
If he wasn’t such a monumental asshole, he really would be a catch.
Seeing him makes me feel nothing. I never thought I was in love with him, but I enjoyed dating him. Especially in the beginning, when he was attentive and kind. Sexy. He really was good in bed. He didn’t cause trouble with my detail, and he was respectful to my mother.
And then, it all went to shit so fast, my head spun. So no, I don’t feel anything at all when I look at him. No remorse. No longing or sadness.
“Are you enjoying the exhibit?” I ask him, ignoring the dig at Chelsea.
“It’s interesting.” He glances around the room, and then his brown eyes fall on me once more, flicking down to my cleavage. “It just got better.”
“Yeah, well, I think we were getting ready to head out. I need to get back to DC tonight.”
That’s a bald-faced lie. We’re staying in the city for the weekend to shop and eat at our favorite restaurants.
But Howey isn’t invited to tag along.
“Come out on the veranda with me,” Howey says, and I shake my head.
“I need the restroom.” I turn to Chelsea, who’s suddenly chatting with a woman I don’t recognize. “I’ll be back.”
“Okay, I’ll grab you some cake,” she says with a smile, and I turn to walk away.
“Lena,” Howey says, stopping me. His eyes have softened, and he reaches out to tuck my hair behind my ear. “I’d really just like to talk to you.”
I sigh and back out of his reach, which makes his eyes narrow.
“You lost that right the day you smacked me across the face. Goodbye, Howey.”
I walk across the room, toward the hallway where I noticed the sign for the public restroom. My detail is right behind me, and I glance back at them, directing my comment to Richie.
“I don’t want him near me again.”
“Yes, ma’am.”
My detail makes me wait to enter the restroom until it’s empty, and then they stand outside the door, making sure no one can get in with me.
It’s over the top and ridiculous. It’s always driven me nuts.
I wonder if they can hear me pee out there.
When I was a teenager, I rebelled against the security.
Chelsea would talk me into ditching them all the time, which we’d do, and then go get ice cream, or go shopping.
We never did anything too crazy—we just loved the adrenaline rush of losing the security guys.
And then I always got into a heap of trouble afterward.
When the incident happened five years ago, I put my foot down and told Chelsea we’d never do it again. Because people got hurt that day, all because of me.
And it still haunts my dreams.
Once I’ve washed my hands, I open the door and step out of the restroom, but then frown when I don’t see Richie. The new guy glances my way, and I look down the hallway.
“Where’s Richie?”
“He had to handle something.”
No, that’s wrong.
My guys never leave my side. Not for anything.
The hair on the nape of my neck stands on end as I hold this guy’s stare.
“What did he have to handle?”
“Don’t worry about it. He’ll be right back. Your friend’s waiting for you in the car out back.”
He points with his thumb toward the opposite end of the hallway, where there’s an exit sign.
I can hear Gideon’s voice in my head. He was with me from the minute my mom took office until the night of the incident.
“Trust your gut. If something feels off, it likely is.”
My heart beats faster, but I manage to keep my face calm.
“Chelsea wasn’t ready to go yet.”
“She is now. She’s out back with Richie.”
I tilt my head to the side. “You said he was taking care of something.”
“He’s taking care of Chelsea.” His jaw tightens, that muscle twitching with his frustration. “Come on, we need to go.”
Slowly shaking my head, I start to move to the other end of the hallway where the party is still happening, but his hand catches my upper arm, and he starts to drag me away.
I have an emergency button on my watch, which I immediately press, and within seconds, more Secret Service rush in.
Cold metal is pressed against my neck.
“I’m taking her,” this asshole says. His voice shakes a bit, and my eyes find Richie’s. Where was he?
Without hesitation, Richie raises his gun and fires, and my would-be kidnapper falls to the ground, dead.
Oh, God.
I stare down in horror at the blood as it spreads over the floor, and then I’m flanked by three men and taken out to the SUV. They’re talking into phones and communicators, but the blood is rushing so loudly in my head, I can’t hear a word they’re saying.
He was going to take me.
“How?” Is that my voice? So small and breathy.
Richie turns to me, but I don’t understand the words coming out of his lips. His face is set in concerned lines.
Was he in on it?
He wasn’t there.
He was supposed to be there.
“Blackbird is secure. ETA two hours,” I hear someone say as we zoom through Manhattan, just as I start to shake, and I’m hurled back in time five years.
“Get her out of here!” Gideon pushes me toward Richie, but I don’t want to leave him. No one makes me feel as safe as Gideon. No one can protect me like him.
I shake my head, clinging to him.
“No. I’ll go with you.”
“Go with Richie. That’s an order.”
I shake my head again, but then shots ring out, and Gideon grunts, then collapses to the ground.
“Oh my God!”
“Go,” Gideon says. His face is white, his voice strained. “Get the fuck out of here, Lena.”
Strong arms pull me back, but I’m yelling for Gideon. I won’t leave him.
“Lena.” Richie shakes my shoulder, pulling me out of the past. “Shit, she’s going into shock.”
“Of course she is. She just saw a man die.”
“I’ve told you exactly what happened five times,” I tell my mother, who’s sitting with me and my detail in the living room of the White House, in sweats. Her eyes are cold and hard. She’s in scary executive-president mode right now.
Which is better than the terrified-mama mode she was in about an hour ago. I don’t know what to do with that. My mother is not emotional. And she’s never gone into mama-bear mode with me.
My dad’s pacing behind the couch, pushing his hand through his salt-and-pepper hair over and over again.
“He passed everything,” Richie says for the fifth time. “There were no red flags to make us think that he was a threat.”
“Well, he clearly was,” Mom says. Her voice is like ice, and it makes Richie shift on his feet. “The mess has been dealt with?”
“Yes, Madam President,” Bishop, the head of the Secret Service, says. “It’s been dealt with, and it won’t make the press. The other people in the gallery have been debriefed. There won’t be any mention of it anywhere.”
The press only knows what those in charge want them to know. Politics is like the Mafia on steroids.
“You’ll stay here for the immediate future,” Dad says to me.
“I have a life—”
“And you’ll be here, where we can protect you better,” Mom adds, her voice leaving no room for disagreement.
I love my apartment. I don’t want to live in the White House.
I hate this haunted house.
Resigned, I let out a sigh. “Do you need me for anything else, or can I go to bed?”
“Go on up,” Mom replies, and catches my hand as I walk by. “Try to get some sleep.”
“I’m sure that won’t happen.” I kiss her cheek, then give Dad a side hug before climbing the stairs to my old bedroom. But suddenly, a thought occurs to me, and I turn back. “Wait. What about Chelsea?”
“She’s fine,” Richie says. “She’s at the hotel, and she’ll be back in DC on Monday.”
“She’s staying in New York after everything that happened tonight?” I frown and reach for my phone, but there aren’t any missed calls or texts from her.
“She doesn’t know what happened,” Bishop replies, with no emotion on his face. “She thinks you were pulled back here on official business.”
“And you won’t tell her otherwise,” Mom adds. “Good night, Lena.”
Fuck my life.