Power #2 (The Power Romance Series - Book #2) by Adams Claire

Author:Adams, Claire [Adams, Claire]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Published: 2015-03-24T07:00:00+00:00

Chapter 8

I went home a bit later, feeling beat from the day. The mental and emotional fatigue from Jason’s continuous game was making me feel off my game. I slumped in the back of the taxi on the way back, not even bothering to laugh at the taxi driver’s jokes as we flew across the city.

“You White House people never laugh,” he murmured in his Mexican accent, driving swiftly.

I knew, in that moment, that I had turned into everyone else—even when all this time I had thought I was different. I knew that everyone worked for someone else; I knew that everyone was a pawn in someone else’s game. I just used to consider myself higher up on the food chain.

I arrived at my home and sat at the kitchen table, not wanting to get undressed after what I’d learned about Jason’s two extra cameras. I peered around the room as I poured a glass of wine. I began talking:

“Hello, Jason. How are you tonight? You’re doing well? Would you like a glass of wine? No?” I felt my quivering voice as it emanated through my throat. I felt like I was going insane.

I sat deeper in the chair and began to drink deeper, longer. I hadn’t bothered to turn on the television, and I could only hear the traffic as it coursed by my apartment building. “I have to move,” I said again. “I have to get out of here.” For a moment, I considered this with greater certainty. If I moved away, I would rid myself of these cameras that lurked like beasts throughout my apartment. I swallowed. The wine was so bitter, and I loved it; it made my blood flow looser through my body.

I stood, peering into the armoire once more. Perhaps there was another camera? I began to search for it, opening old teapots and peering into the old china, smelling old age and years and years of dust. I needed to clean, I knew. But I’d been too bogged down with work for the past—oh—seven years; I had completely forgotten how to be alive.

I set all the teapots against the wall and continued to graze through the armoire, searching for the small cameras. I felt like I was growing increasingly crazy as I went; I felt that I was on a mission to find something that could never be found—something that was futile. I swallowed and leaned back, feeling desolation take hold of me. I reached for the wine and closed my eyes, listening as the traffic dissipated as the people finally arrived home to their wives, their husbands, their children. For the first time in possibly ever, I wished I didn’t live alone. I’d always wanted my own place during college, even when I’d been the president of the sorority. I’d lived alone all throughout my twenties. It just seemed natural: it was my home. It was my place.

But I was nearing thirty. I wanted to come home to something besides my wine bottle, my subtle hangover.

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