Her Secret Service (Jane Roe 1), Jason Letts [story reading .txt] 📗

her lap. He was only making it harder. Saying thank you and goodbye would’ve been easier. Part of her wished he’d gotten angry so she could feel mad instead of just bad.

“I’ve got to get some more wrapping from the compartment,” the doctor said, backing out of the cab. Jane sighed, wishing she was the one who’d fallen and gotten hurt.

“What I really wanted to say was that I understand what you meant about feeling lost in your job, unrecognized and undistinguished between the role you have to play and who you are. We’ve both been trapped by the things we do, and—”

She hadn’t even seen it coming until she felt his lips against hers. All of a sudden he was there kissing her, and all of the things in her head got blown away like dust in the wind. It was a good thing her mouth was busy, because she would’ve been speechless anyway. Unconsciously, she set her hand on his chest and felt his hand on the back of her head, guiding her closer. The warmth of his lips and the taste of him made her heart skip a beat.

When their lips parted, Jane could scarcely comprehend what was going on. It had barely registered with her that they were together in the presidential limo, let alone that she had just kissed the president. But that was their whole thing. He was Alex, an athletic and handsome idealist two years older than her who just happened to have a very important job.

He had his own world too, and as much as he seemed besmirched with what they had just shared, dreadful implications were flickering across his eyes.

“I shouldn’t have done that,” he said, and she could only imagine that images of Leslie Hodge and all of the others were parading through his head.

Her hand was still on his chest, and he didn’t seem to mind it.

“Don’t worry. If there’s one thing I can do, it’s keep a secret.”

13

Slanesville, West Virginia

The long dirt road off Slanesville Pike had so many substantial bumps in it that Oliver was sure it would finally blow out the suspension on his Fiesta. If he hadn’t come this way before, traveling this deep into the forested mountains at dusk would’ve made him think he’d end up stranded and unable to ever return to civilization.

Only the utility wire draped along the ground and rocks beside the path had given him the fortitude to keep going, a thin tube scarcely two inches thick connecting civilization to the farthest depths of the Appalachians.

If it had rained any more the road would’ve been impassable, leaving Oliver completely out of luck, but the only real obstacle he faced was a doe sprinting across the path in front of him. Headlights on, he took every turn along the road trying to remember if this was the same as how it looked before and how much farther he had left to go.

It was fully dark by the time he made it to the cabin in the woods, more of a handmade shack of some size that looked like a relic of centuries past. Oliver had to pull the car up and keep it running with the headlights on to be able to see enough to make it to the entrance. Along the way, the sounds of a gurgling stream and owls in the treetops left him feeling like he wasn’t nearly as alone as he would’ve liked.

For a city boy, the sounds of the forest were unsettling, but he had no refuge left from which to plan his come-from-behind, upset victory against the president.

The cabin belonged to a man named Eric Hanlahan. He was someone Oliver Ip had come across on Facebook who stood out for his unvarnished views and willingness to say anything, no matter how outlandish or offensive. He was perfect, conjuring controversial statements at ease that Oliver himself never would’ve thought of for his various pseudonyms.

It took some time to finally gain the man’s trust enough to convince him to grant an interview, but when Oliver ventured along to the end of the dirt path that first time he discovered the old man dead in his bed after peering in through a window. So he did what any sensible person would do, dragged the body deeper into the woods to a crevasse where it could rot, set up a direct deposit for the electricity and internet bills from the man’s bank account, started posting using Hanlahan’s Facebook profile so no one would think anything was wrong, and began generally propping up a life that could prove useful in any number of ways.

The interview was a hit, and the only downside was that Oliver had to come back a couple of times since to handle the tax bills, which needed to be taken care of with forged checks. But based on the nest egg good ole’ Eric had in his bank account, there was no reason his afterlife couldn’t last another six or seven years.

Little did Oliver know how handy this would become, and opportunities to advance his interests were everywhere. A GMC pickup truck, newer than one might think and possibly the last thing the owner had bought, was nestled in a crook along one side of the building with an extended roof that formed a rudimentary garage.

Oliver nudged open the fraying, unpainted wooden door and flicked on a light that illuminated a simple but comfortable rustic abode. The smell of rodent feces had gotten worse since the last time he was here, but considering who was after him that was the least of his worries. Going to the pantry, he started pulling canned food off the shelf. There was enough of it to last him a year, and the propane stove worked like a charm.

Other than refusing to get into the bed where the death had occurred, Oliver was ready to become Eric Hanlahan for as long as it took to figure out a new