Mr. President:A Billionaire & Virgin Fake Fiance Romance(4)

By: Alexis Angel

Where the fuck is the interest in the common everyday American? Who’s struggling? No one cares about that. More about what kind of pussy my cock is going into.

I look back at Tracy. She's a petite woman, but don't let her size fool you. She has the tenacity of a bulldog.

"My personal life isn't the issue," I say, shaking my head. "I've been through great fucking pains to keep my personal life totally private during the campaign."

Tracy nods her head and says, "That's true, but there were still rumors."

"Sure, there were rumors," I reply. "Rumors, rumors, rumors. It doesn't stop. There are always fucking rumors, but nothing was ever provable during my campaign. Nothing is ever provable—campaign or not. Don't you agree?"

"Sir, that's exactly the problem," Tracy says, trying to drive her point home.

"I'm not following," I reply, raising my eyebrows and pressing a finger to my temple. I can feel my pulse throbbing just beneath my fingertip.

"I just mean that you've guarded your personal life so closely that it has just made people more curious," Tracy continues. "You're young, attractive, rich, and single. You're also the youngest President in the history of the United States and that's left the public curious about you."

"So you think I should be completely transparent with my personal life?" I ask, tapping my pen on the office's Resolute desk in increasing agitation. "Don't you think I deserve as much fucking privacy as anyone else?"

"That's not what I'm saying," Tracy replies. "Not exactly to that extreme anyways. I think the public thinks that you're hiding something."

"Hiding something?" I ask. "Like what?"

"I can't help you there," Tracy shrugs, her blouse bunching at the shoulders. "It's just a hunch."

I lean back in my leather chair, and put my feet up on the desk. None of my other advisors have dared to speak.

Then I hear Tracy clear her throat. "Another thing," she says, and I can't help squinting my eyes shut. This can't be good.

She continues, "Living up to your promise to 'clean the cave' has also earned you some powerful enemies."

I immediately put my feet down on the floor and sit up straight in my chair.

"Like who?" I ask.

"Well, Bob Walker for starters," she says.

"That fucking bastard," I mumble to myself. He resembles more of a marshmallow than he does a man. I campaigned against him for the presidency. Walker thought for sure he'd be president, and so did everyone else. But in a surprise twist of events, he lost.

He's now Speaker of the House, but I know he's looking for any chance he can get to snatch the presidency.

"I agree," Reese Dawson, my VP, says, speaking up and breaking the silence. "He's been spitting venom ever since you beat him."

Then Tracy continues, "The press isn't going to let up, especially not with Bob Walker pushing them, but I have an idea."

"You do?" I ask, raising my eyebrows in disbelief. "Go on."

"Well, the way I see it," Tracy says, "is that the press is going to dig until they get something. It's like a dog digging up a bone in a yard—they won't stop until they have what they are looking for. So, I think we should give them something."

"Such as?" I ask, trying not to sound too skeptical.

"A wife," Tracy replies matter-of-fact. "Well … a fiancée. "

The entire Oval Office is silent. It's so quiet, I swear you could fucking hear a cotton ball bounce across the carpet. Everyone is staring at Tracy now in disbelief, including me.

But then it dawns on me that maybe she's right.

"We could hold a press conference," I suggest, standing up from my chair and pacing behind my desk. I tend to do that when I'm deep in though. Movement helps. "I understand that my negotiations with the South Korean ambassador were above board. I'll let the public know that I'd never do anything to damage the most important relationship in my life."

"Exactly," Tracy chimes in. "That's perfect. And then you can drop the bomb that you're engaged."

I hear murmurs of approval from my staff. They are all nodding their heads in agreement. While this plan does seem crazy, I also think it can work.

Then Tracy continues, "You can tell the press that you didn't want your engagement to distract from the country's real issues and that you and whatever woman we pick were on and off but you realized after the South Korean ambassador that you needed her in your life or something like that."

Jesus fucking Christ.

It might just work.

Tracy is right. Now I'm totally fucking convinced that this plan is just crazy enough to work … as long as I don't really have to get married. Because there's no way I can agree to that.

Tracy seems to know exactly what I'm silently thinking and she places one hand on my shoulder, "Don't worry, Austin, you aren't really getting married. We're just giving the press, and the public, what they want—a bone to dig up in the yard. Something to grab onto."

"Okay, now that we've got that figured out, who are we going to get to play the role of the fake fiancée? It's not everyday that a woman agrees to be put into that kind of spotlight."

"True," Tracy smiles, "but leave it to me. I'll handle it. I've got just the woman we need."

“Make sure you get me some sort of fucking ring too, I don’t care what. Something that looks expensive but doesn’t cost too much,” I tell Tracy. She rolls her eyes at me.

“What?” I ask. “I don’t want to use my grandmother’s heirloom. Not for a fake fiancée.”

As she smiles and walks out of the room, I begin to wonder … what have I just gotten myself into?



I look at my computer screen and drum my fingertips on my desk. I’ve been staring at my schedule for the past five minutes, trying to figure out why the President’s Chief of Staff has decided to set up a meeting with me. My sources say that it’s connected with the recent scandal, the one with the South Korean ambassador, but I don’t see why the President would need me right now. At first I thought of turning her down straight away, but it’s not like you can shoot down a Tracy Comerford without at least waiting to see what she wants.

God, Tracy Comerford. I used to go to school with her. We haven’t kept in touch, and I’m more than a bit curious why now of all times she’s coming to me.

Just like everyone else on Earth, I’ve been following President Austin’s scandal. His Chief of Staff setting up a meeting at a time like this has managed to capture my curiosity, but again, I don’t see where I might fit in such a situation. Perhaps the President wants to use me as bait so that he can gather some blackmail material? That’s my bread and butter, I know, but when we’re talking about the higher echelons of politics … well, let’s just say that I don’t like to meddle with Presidents. It wouldn’t be the first time someone holding compromising material just vanishes into thin air, if you know what I mean.

I only turn my gaze away from the screen when I hear someone knocking at the door to my office.

“Yeah?” I say, raising my voice.

“Ashley, your ten o’clock appointment is here,” Mike tells me, stepping inside the office and running his fingers down the length of his tie. He’s been my assistant ever since I opened up shop and, more than his good looks, he knows exactly what I need and when I need it.

“Yeah, send her in,” I say, rubbing my temples and taking a deep breath. With a quick nod, Mike turns on his heels and waltzes out of the office. I look at him go, wishfully looking at how good his ass looks in his dress pants. 25 years old and with a body sculpted inside the gym, Mike is half-assistant, half-eye-candy. Don’t judge me; men have been employing eye-candy since forever, and who am I to buck that trend?

One minute later, Mike steps inside my office with a woman trailing after him, her button up shirt and pencil skirt telling me straight away that she’s a consummate professional.

“Thank you for taking the time,” Tracy greets me as Mike leaves and closes the door behind him. She takes a moment to glance around my office, and then she gives me an approving nod. “Nice taste,” she compliments as I stand up and offer her my hand.

“Thank you,” I tell her as she shakes my hand. “It’s not a high-rise corner office, but I like it as it is.”

I actually considered a corner office in some high-rise building when I started hunting for a place where I could set up shop, but in the end, I decided for something more discreet. It makes sense if you take into account that one of the pillars of what I do is discretion. Besides, although my office is not a cavernous room, it’s enough to let anyone coming in know that I’m the one in charge inside these four walls. The décor –sleek, modern, and elegant, does the rest.

“So, to what do I owe the honor?” I ask Tracy as I sit back down, more than ready to get down to business. I’ve never liked to pussyfoot around anything. I wave at the seat in front of my desk and she sits down, crossing her legs and folding her hands over one knee.

Now let me be clear on one thing.

I know Tracy professionally and personally from the same mutual friends back when we were in school. But we never really interacted. This is all new for me.

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