Sinner (Shelter Harbor #1)(211)

My nervousness of course has nothing to with Reagan talking to the media. No, fuck that, she’s flawless up there, looking every bit the political powerhouse behind the podium. Her answers are effortless, she’s direct and yet light, and she makes them laugh without even trying to play the comedian.

No, what I’m fidgeting about is how I’m going to apologize to her about yesterday when we’re done here. There’s a nervous, rumbling energy inside of me that tumbles under the surface. The kind I usually only get when I’m strapping on my gloves for what I know is going to be a long, rough session with the bag, or when I think too long about the past. I want to tell her everything - all of it - and that quite honestly scares the shit out of me.

I’m walking towards her with a grin on my face, ready to pull her away from all of this and just lay it all out, when mother-fucking Chet swoops out of nowhere with Donald tailing behind him like a puppy dog.

And then it’s just a repeat of the previous day, where I’m gritting my teeth and trying to keep my cool while this asshole cracks stupid jokes and mugs for the cameras next to Reagan, using every ounce of my willpower to try and ignore the fact that he keeps touching her on the arm.

And really, it’s not even Chet. It’s the thought of any guy putting their hands on her that makes me rage inside. The thought makes my fists clench up and brings me right back to where I was, drunk and fucked up in whatever shit-hole third world slum we were in at the time back then. I can’t help but think of my hands on her. My hands running down her sides, feeling the curve of her hips and the heat between her legs.

Fuck, I mean I was so close to everything one time, and not just the prospect of fucking her, but I mean everything. That last time we were both here, I know it was something more and something deeper than just the idea of banging a chick. It was fucking way more than that, which is why five goddamn years later I still can’t get it out of my head and still can’t get her out from under my skin.

I think I even knew back then that when I kissed her for that first time, I was just done. With her, there was light, and peace, and finally a fucking silence to the blaring of my memories that scream through my head. I was so fucking close to knowing her, and letting her in before I ruined it.

I realize I’ve been zoning out again as I hear Chet’s horrible little weasel laugh.

“So I say, that’s how you putt a par-three, baby!” Donald erupts in laughter right along with him, and even Reagan is humoring him with a smile. The kind of smile I’ve barely seen tossed my way in days.

“Am I right, Hudson?” Chet winks at me. “Yeah this guy knows what I’m talking about!”

I have no fucking idea in the world what he’s talking about.

“Hey so Hudson, remind me what it is you do over at Archer Holdings? You were a fighter pilot or something, right? Currahee!” Chet pumps his fist in the air like he’s at a football game or something.

Seriously, punching this asshole in the face right here and right now would be an act of mercy.

“I was a Marine, actually. And Currahee is the 101st Airborne; Army.”

Reagan gives me a look, and I begrudgingly plaster a nicer, totally disingenuous look on my face. “I make sure the money flows in the right direction at Archer and just pretty much fix problems.”

Chet grins and elbow’s me in the arm like we’re buddies. “Fix things, huh? So, you think you can fix this girl’s phone so she can call me back sometime?” Chet laughs hysterically at his own joke, with Donald right there with him clapping him on the back.

No, but I can fix how fucking straight your teeth are in about five seconds, dickwad.

But Reagan is laughing too, even though I know she can’t stand this clown either. She’s touching his arm and leaning into him, and I wince as a photographer flashes a quick shot of the two of them like that which I’m sure will end up on some stupid blog somewhere involving ‘romance on the campaign trail’ or some other bullshit that Donald and Erika cook up.

I want to hate all of this. All the fucking pageantry and the concocted narratives, and I definitely want to hate Reagan having her picture taken with this fucking guy.

But deep down, I get it. I look around at the college volunteers clearing chairs from the front lawn. I see the campaign posters with her face on them, and the boxes of buttons and t-shirts with her name emblazoned across them, and I get it.

Chet’s obnoxious, and vanilla, and a total talking head, but he fits the part. This is who she should be with, I think darkly to myself. Not some fucked up broken toy soldier like me, with all the shit I’m still carrying around on my shoulders. This girl is fucking incredible, but her being with a guy like this just makes sense, and I’m fucking delusional to think otherwise.