In Bed With Mr. President

2. Angry Bird

Celeste's POV

I know I’m in trouble the moment I step out of the Uber. Trust me, it's not even because of the campaign or the thousands of people gathered outside the venue or the fact that I have absolutely no idea on what to do but it's the damn security, there is too much of it.

Black SUVs line the entrance. Men in dark suits stand around with earpieces pressed against their ears, watching everyone who walks past like they’re expecting somebody to pull a weapon from their pocket, and it's triggering for me.

Maybe this is normal for presidential campaigns, but I wouldn’t know because the only campaign I’ve ever participated in before today is the one in my head where I campaign against getting my life together.

I adjust the plastic badge hanging around my neck.

CIARA IAN.

EVENT OPERATIONS.

My sister’s name looks strangely official against my chest, but still, I'm scared to do this. Rehab has taught me to abstain from anything partially illegal even.

But I have to do this, for Ciara. It's the least thing I can bring to the table.

The convention center hosting the campaign rally is enormous. A giant American flag stretches across the arena, and there's a massive screen displaying Jordan Rogers’ face.

His campaign slogan sits beneath it: A NEW AMERICA. A NEW GENERATION.

I stare at it for a moment and I have to admit that his kind of face belongs on magazine covers rather than campaign posters.

Well, it seems being twenty-nine is now old enough to run an entire country. Nothing is impossible anymore when you're a billionaire.

I take a deep breath before walking toward the entrance. People are everywhere, supporters wearing campaign shirts, reporters moving around with cameras, and volunteers distributing pamphlets.

Everyone looks like they know why they're there if not to support the candidate that's fit to govern the United States and the people.

Once I struggle my way to the entrance, a woman wearing a staff lanyard looks at my badge. “Event Operations?”

I nod confidently. Thankfully, nobody checks the badge against a photo ID.

“Back entrance. Someone will assign you.” She moves on before I can ask anything else.

Okay, easy.

I follow a group of staff members to the back entrance area, and surprisingly, I did fit in. The backstage area is nothing like the polished entrance outside. The walls are plain with temporary signs taped along them and cables secured across the floor. Everyone here is busy.

"Excuse me.” A female voice call out to me, but I'm not so sure. I slowly turn around, and the woman’s eyes immediately drop to the badge hanging from my neck.

“Ciara?”

I maintain composure quickly so as not to raise suspicion. "Yeah?"

"Can you take these backstage?" She points toward two boxes sitting beside a plastic table.

"Sure.” I pick up one of the boxes, and it's heavier than it looks.

What possibly could be inside?

“Where exactly am I taking them?” I ask her politely.

“Stage left. There’s a staff table behind the curtain. Someone will collect them.”

"Alright." I nod obediently because that's what I'm here for.

I carry the box through a service corridor, following the signs taped against the walls. Thank God I haven't lost my ability to read because the signs along the walls are the only thing keeping me from getting lost. And I have to admit, backstage is where all the magic seems to happen.

Everyone seems focused on preparing for something important. Well, this is important. No one is relaxed.

I reach the curtain as the woman directed and peek through. The convention hall looks completely different from this side.

Thousands of people fill the seats beyond the stage, their voices blending into one with the occasional burst of campaign music. The giant screen above them displays Jordan Rogers’ face... again.

America needs to find another face. Not someone everyone would end up simping for and making viral t****k edits of.

I place the box on the staff table and straighten up. “Finally.”

I turn around to head back to get the other box before a campaign worker draws my attention by pointing toward a pile of folders. "Can you take those to the green room?”

I stare at him for a moment because I'm about to ask him what if I hadn't been sent here.

“Sure.” I fake a nice smile because that's what Ciara would do rather than complaining.

I grab the folders and follow the directions he points at, which is further down the corridor, past a security checkpoint.

The officer stops me and looks at my badge. “Event Operations?”

I nod, not bothering to speak.

His eyes linger on my face for a second before dropping back to the badge. “Go ahead.”

I walk through, and my heart beats a little faster now. The hallway isn't as rowdy as the others, which probably means I'm getting closer to where Jordan Rogers is.

And speaking of Jordan Rogers, I turn the corner and nearly walk straight into him. I stop so abruptly that the folders in my hands almost slide onto the floor.

Shit. I hope no one notices me staring.

The first thing I notice is that he’s taller than I expected, and the posters definitely did not do him justice.

He stands a few feet away in a fitted navy suit, and his tie is loosened as though the heat of the afternoon has already tested his patience.

He’s surrounded by three people and if I had to guess, he's with a senior campaign staffer, a security officer and a man who looks like he has just made the biggest mistake of his professional life.

Jordan is staring him down.

A death stare. “You had one responsibility.” His voice is low, but the anger beneath it is unmasked.

The staffer is visibly shaking. “Mr. Rogers, I was only trying to...”

“I don’t care what you were trying to do.”

Rude, Mr. President.

He steps closer to him. “The press briefing was moved twenty minutes ago. Why wasn’t I informed?”

“We thought...”

“You thought?” Jordan corrects harshly.

The man stops talking.

I stand there awkwardly with the folders pressed against my chest. I should leave and find my way to the greenroom, but I’m frozen because this is the only path there.

Jordan runs a hand through his hair. “Fix it.” He commands.

“Yes, sir.”

“And if I find out this happens again, you won’t be part of the team." His eyes shift to the woman beside him. "Either of you."

They both nod and move away.

Is this the man America is trusting with the country? They better see him get angry over a schedule shift.

He turns around, and I'm not quick enough to realize that his eyes land on me. s**t.

Neither of us says anything, and I suddenly become hyperaware of everything. The badge around my neck, the folders in my hands, and the fact that the future president of the United States is looking directly at me.

What would Ciara do?

He raises an eyebrow, and that's definitely him wondering if I'm lost or just a creep.

I should probably say hello and maybe smile or introduce myself.

I'm so silly. I stare at him instead because up close, he's so attractive.

Sharp jaw, dark eyes, and smooth dark hair. His facial expression suggests smiling isn't something he does voluntarily.

He's definitely an angry bird.

I look away from him and try to find my way.

"America is about to elect an angry bird." The thought escapes my mouth in a whisper.

“What did you just say?” Jordan's voice calls out in disbelief.

Shit. I swear I only whispered.

My entire body freezes. I can't even turn around to face him.

He's definitely still looking at me, and I can't take the risk of him taking note of my badge or registering my face.

This is Ciara's job and reputation, and I can not ruin this for her because I have apparently lost the ability to keep my thoughts inside my head.

I pretend not to be the one he is calling out to, and I continue walking.

“Excuse me.” He's definitely calling out to me.

Super s**t.

I increase my steps and my heart starts pounding and it's not because I’m attracted to him but because I’m about to get fired from a job that isn’t even mine and he might probably send security after me.

I'm almost around the corner when another voice cuts through the hallway. "Mr. Rogers, they're ready for you."

I hear his footsteps stop behind me, but I don't turn around to find out whether he's still watching me. I just keep walking.

Phew. He's been called up to the stage.

"Ah!" I jolt when someone beside me grabs my attention.

I take a deep breath when I see her uniform, and she's a janitress.

“Are you new?” She asks.

“Yes.”

She glances toward the hallway I just escaped from and then back at me. “You just spoke to Mr. Rogers?”

I hesitate before answering. "Technically."

His voice must have carried down the corridor.

She looks sympathetic. “Pray today’s campaign goes well.”

I frown. “Why?”

She lowers her voice. “Because when things go wrong, Mr. Rogers goes on a firing spree.”

“And?”

Her eyes fall to my badge. “You’re probably going to be on the list.”

I stare at her and back at the hallway before looking at my sister’s name hanging around my neck.

I’ve been here for less than an hour, and I’ve already pissed off the man who might become the next president of the United States.

I'm in so much trouble.