Lieutenant Read online

  I hope.

  I’m already trying to think of how we could explain Owen living there with us, even though I know Owen himself, and Carter, will nix that plan.

  I’m already missing our house in Tampa, our bedroom, our large bed, falling asleep in a warm, naked pile of jumbled limbs and unhampered love.

  This is going to be a major sacrifice for all three of us, but I think it’s worth it.

  Our state suffered greatly under several terms of GOP governors who were beholden not only to the state and national parties, but also to the NRA, Big Sugar, and other dark-money lobbyists. A party that spent too much time and money trying to court hard-right Evangelicals instead of returning to its fiscally conservative roots. It’s difficult to spot it if you’re merely a tourist in our state, enjoying the beaches or theme parks. Nothing feels wrong in those fantasy lands.

  It’s in the plummeting graduation rates and increased pollution statistics where the truth begins to emerge. Toxic algae blooms, increasing sinkholes, more dangerous tropical storms and hurricanes hitting our shores more frequently, the rising sea levels threatening our coastal regions.

  I’m no longer sure if, after sixteen years of running our state, I’ll still want a national office. I’m beginning to think no. I know Owen doesn’t want to pursue a US Senate or House seat. He wants to help get me elected and then return to private practice, this time in Tallahassee, so he can remain with us.

  Except…if I run for the US Senate, my time will be split between Florida and DC, and I’m not sure I can handle being away from my guys for that long, or if I’ll still have a taste for being a politician by then.

  The trooper walks me to my front door and waits to leave until I’m locked inside and have reset the alarm. I’m not going anywhere until it’s time for me to depart for the inauguration ball, and a limo will be sent for me then.

  One of the few times the three of us will be able to ride together without any questions being asked. It won’t be unexpected that we’d share a limo tonight. Our public victory celebration.

  It’s saving money that way.

  One more excuse Carter will ruthlessly use to explain some of the choices he’ll make over the next sixteen years to give us as much time together as possible. It’s less money to protect several people in one place, versus two groups of people in different locales.

  Daddy wanted to hire me a personal assistant, at his expense, to accompany me to Tallahassee. To help ensure my privacy and to do things for me like run errands, shopping, so there was no risk of spending taxpayer dollars on a state employee doing those kinds of things.

  Carter shut that down in record time, reasonably explaining that we couldn’t start our first term in office appearing to take largesse from someone so intrinsically tied to the GOP, my daddy or not.

  Fortunately, Daddy is a reasonable man and understood that.

  Unfortunately, Senator Benchley Evans is also a sneak. Carter soon caught wind of him setting up a blind trust, through which Daddy thinks he’s going to hire someone.

  I’m leaving that fight up to Carter. I don’t have time to deal with it.

  Right now, I need to get ready for tonight.

  I strip and examine my new marks in the bathroom mirror.

  Yep, those will show nicely for a few days, at least. Carter was careful not to mark me on my shoulders or neck or upper arms over the past couple of weeks, so they wouldn’t be exposed by the gown he and Owen chose for me to wear tonight.

  I take my shower and fix my hair, my makeup, and go through my work e-mail as I await the limo’s arrival. Carter had his tux sent to the mansion. He’ll take his shower and get ready with Owen, working to keep Owen calm and prep him for facing the crowd tonight.

  That’s one way Carter knows he doesn’t have to worry about me. I am my daddy’s daughter, and I was raised on these kinds of events. I can just about walk through them in my sleep.

  Even the ball is a relatively sedate affair when compared to the lavish, political party- and lobbyist-funded galas of past administrations. We’ve deliberately kept it low-cost—as low-cost as one of these things can be—and have invited people not just from our campaign staff, but lawmakers from both parties, as well as some private citizens worthy of recognition for their volunteerism, or their efforts for our campaign.

  Other than Daddy and three of his closest friends, who were more like adopted uncles to me growing up, there are no “lobbyists” on the invite list.

  Instead of spending money on A-list celebrity entertainment, Carter’s enlisted bands and choirs from a local high school and from FSU, which is located in Tallahassee. The cost of bringing them all in is still far cheaper than we’d pay for an hour of time for some well-known Top 40 band. Plus it highlights state talent. And had we accepted offers by celebrities for donated performances, it would have been labeled cronyism in the works by our opponents.

  What are they going to do, complain that talented high school and college students are being spotlighted? That will make any complaints look bad no matter how they try to spin it later.

  Carter hopes some of them will try so he can have Comms viciously lance their griping as sour grapes and petty, partisan politics. Also something we can point to as proof that it was time for a change in how things are done in our state.

  Our food tonight is being prepared by people who work for several non-profits in the Tallahassee area and which receive state funds to provide services to the homeless and needy. Meaning the fees they earn tonight are going to help charities while spotlighting them and giving them well-deserved media coverage.

  Our campaign is also paying for the decorations and facility fees. Carter is still weighing what to do with the remainder of cash left in our campaign coffers. Whatever its final destination, it’ll be a worthy recipient and that will be “leaked” to the press when it happens.

  Carter is ruthlessly protecting our infant administration. We’ll face so many outside threats as it is that any self-inflicted scandals we can prevent aren’t a bad thing.

  Right now, we’re still surfing a wave of both major parties’ desperation over our landslide victory numbers. Lawmakers are trying to jockey for position to appear to their constituents to be the most reasonable at working with us.

  That has to continue for as long as possible for us to achieve a fraction of our agenda. Giving either party a toehold to exploit scandal will torpedo us. But the fact that we ran as Independent—and won by such a huge margin—has already opened the floodgates of candidates deserting both parties to switch their affiliation to I.

  It’s also why I know we’ll have to make such excruciating personal sacrifices, and we’ll all face some lonely nights ahead of us.

  I’m used to that. I was raised in a family where that was the norm, not the exception. I know I’ll be okay.

  And it’s why I desperately worry about what the stress of that will do not only to Carter without Owen sharing a bed with us, but especially to Owen.

  I consider Owen every bit as much my husband as Carter. So does Carter.

  Dray knows, because he works for us, but he’s also a trusted family friend and has signed an NDA. We just can’t tell anyone else.

  Yet.

  Owen completes both of us in ways I never imagined possible. Which is why this works for all three of us.

  One day, we’ll be able to openly express our love and our relationship.

  Unfortunately, today is not that day.

  Chapter Two

  Logistically, it’s easier for the limo to pick me up first, then swing by the mansion and get Owen and Carter. Normally, the governor doesn’t get a huge security detail on a scale like you see for POTUS or other dignitaries. But on a normal workday, when going to the office and back to the mansion, Owen will usually have an officer assigned as a driver, as well as a shadow car. I’ll normally have one officer, who is also my driver.

  Unless we’re making an appearance somewhere. That’s when the head of security wi
ll evaluate every situation on a case-by-case basis. Our daily security detail officers, and security for any work-related events, are paid for by the state. Tonight, we’ll have a car ahead of and behind the limo, since we’re all together.

  Extra officers that Carter was careful to make sure were paid for—as was the limo—from our campaign funds. This isn’t an expense the taxpayers are footing. We are going to be extremely careful with how we spend funds.

  I’m ready to go when an FHP officer in full dress uniform rings our doorbell.

  “Good evening, Mrs. Evans.”

  “Good evening, Officer.”

  He offers me his arm to hold after I’ve set the alarm and locked the front door behind me.

  I smile. “Thank you, Officer.”

  I hook arms with him and let him escort me down the front walk, to where the limo is waiting, even though my heart is aching that it’s not Owen or even Carter who’s walking with me. There aren’t many opportunities now where I get to walk with Owen and can hold his hand or his arm without it raising suspicions.

  Tonight is one such night.

  Ironically, it’s a very high-profile night, too.

  The driver is holding my door open for me, and the officer waits until I’m safely inside and the door’s closed to return to his marked car idling in front of the limo.

  And away we go.

  Carter’s already planned our arrival at the ball. He told us that he’ll help me out of the limo, but make a very public point of handing me off to Owen for the walk inside, and he wants us to have the first dance together tonight. He wants there to be no whispers or innuendo, wants people to see that he has no problems with Owen having that kind of contact with me.

  We’re Governor Taylor and Lieutenant-Governor Evans. We’ve earned the right to celebrate tonight.

  My sweet boy. He did it, just like Carter and I knew he could.

  It’s a short ride to the mansion. Carter and Owen are standing on the front porch and waiting for me when the limo pulls up. They look gorgeous, the two of them together and dressed to the nines in their tuxes, both of them in black ties. I’d been looking at my phone, and I snap a quick picture of them, for my eyes only, before I drop my phone in my purse.

  My boys clean up well. Not that I had any doubt of that. They both look gorgeous on a daily basis in their suits and ties.

  I keep myself planted in the middle of the limo’s backseat as the driver opens the door for the men.

  Tonight, despite our previous rules, Owen has to go first. He’ll be walking ahead of both of us for the next four to eight years.

  At least, he will in public.

  I know our boy will hate it every time, feeling it’s not right, wanting us to walk ahead of him. But he’ll still do it, because he’s our good boy.

  “Governor Taylor,” the driver says.

  “Thank you.”

  My boy ducks inside the limo. His smile lights fires in me after his gaze sweeps over me, taking in the sight of me wearing this gorgeous shimmering blue gown, a gown which he helped pick out.

  “Mrs. Evans,” he says, smiling.

  I wink. “Governor Taylor.”

  He moves out of the way so Carter can get past him and sit on my far side. Owen will exit the limo first and needs to sit on the passenger side. With the door closed, Owen settles in on my right.

  “Here we go,” Carter murmurs. “Public faces.”

  I don’t care. My hands sneak out, to either side, and my fingers curl around their hands. Inside the limo’s darkened interior, the gesture can’t be seen. Even if someone’s planted a secret IR camera or something, it can be explained away as simply feeling nervous and wanting to hold their hands.

  We’re friends, for crying out loud.

  Even if I wish we could publicly come out to the world as more.

  * * * *

  I know the “rules” that Carter has put in place to protect us, the three of us. I was raised on a variation of them, my father taking me to many political events over the years as I was growing up. Especially as Momma grew to hate them and I usually ended up being Daddy’s plus-one for RSVPs. Giving my daddy all due credit, however, he wasn’t mean or even particularly strict when teaching me about the “public rules” he gave me. He led by action, treating me in many ways like an adult, even when I was still a little kid.

  Assume we are always being watched and recorded.

  Assume anyone can hear what we’re saying—and that they are recording it.

  If saying something in a whisper, always cover your mouth so your lips can’t be read—but assume it’s not safe to talk in public.

  Assume all mics are hot, and treat them accordingly.

  Never let down your guard until safely behind a locked door with the curtains drawn and you have double-checked you’re alone in the space.

  And even then, assume the walls are paper-thin, and that there are people standing outside with their ears pressed against the door, unless it’s a situation like you’re safely at home.

  Even in a car, assume people can see and hear you.

  No public displays of affection with each other, beyond the occasional hug.

  Remember the long-game and our goals.

  Never lose our cool in public.

  Although Owen did break that last one during the campaign, when that stupid fucking Kevin Markos from Full News Broadcasting interviewed him the Sunday after the school shooting.

  But even Carter gave Owen a mulligan on that one, because Owen still handled it professionally, and it is likely no coincidence that Owen’s poll numbers gained another five points after the live interview aired.

  Other networks replayed Owen’s on-air takedown of Kevin Markos for several days. Both Rachel Maddow and Anderson Cooper—as well as all the late-night talk show comedians—had a field day with it at Markos’ expense. Hell, even Fox News’ morning crew zinged Markos over it on Monday morning.

  When Carter gently squeezes my left hand and doesn’t pull away, I know he’s not going to ding me for this, either. I also feel badly, because there are things I can get away with around Owen that Carter can’t. Like dancing together tonight.

  I wish I could put Owen’s hand in Carter’s and send the two of them out to the middle of the dance floor together, because Carter has certainly earned that. He loves Owen beyond depth and reason, and I don’t begrudge it in the slightest.

  Carter fell in love with Owen.

  Owen fell in love with me.

  I fell in love with Carter.

  Somewhere, along the way, we all fell in love with each other, held on tightly, and didn’t let go.

  But the world at large is incapable of understanding that, how that works.

  Especially the world of politics. They’d eat us alive, looking down on Owen for choosing to kneel before us, and looking down on me for having two men. Carter would likely come out okay, except some would criticize him for “sharing” his wife.

  Carter, however, would literally throw himself on a sword before exposing Owen to a scandal of our own making. He would, without hesitation, take any blame and direct all criticism onto himself to protect our boy.

  It’s why he’s ruthlessly protected our administration from the day we filed primary paperwork, hiring an attorney dedicated to doing nothing but making sure we didn’t violate a single campaign finance law or break any election laws. It’s why, if in doubt, we paid from our own pockets and then the campaign reimbursed us later, if it was a valid and allowed expense. It nearly always was valid and allowed.

  But we were careful.

  Nothing got paid out of the campaign accounts unless there was a receipt. Period. Every donation was documented, and yes, we refused several large and questionable donations. It was better to err on the side of caution.

  Now, here we are. We have allies on both sides of the aisle because we were courageous enough to take a stand and fight the good fight. It’s given good people in both parties the courage to take stands of their o
wn to help us accomplish our agenda. It inspired several lawmakers to change their party affiliation from Dem or GOP to Independent.

  Make no mistake, it’s also made us a few enemies. Though our three worst enemies, who we were most concerned about derailing our agenda, lost their re-election bids. Three state senators—two Republicans and a Democrat.

  Turfed out by the voters. One of the Republicans actually got thoroughly trounced in his primary by a moderate first-time candidate who was only twenty-two and had just graduated college with a poli sci degree.

  Granted, we have term limits in Florida, but it’s hard to get turfed out after one term once you win the general the first time. Especially in a primary.

  You really have to be doing something wrong.

  Or, you’ve really had to run afoul of the father of a candidate for lieutenant governor, said father who then anonymously drops some interesting documents about shady real estate dealings you’ve conducted in another state into the inbox of a reporter for the Miami Herald.

  Thanks, Daddy. I owe you yet another one.

  * * * *

  Owen’s fingers stay curled around my right hand until a block before the hotel where the inaugural ball is being held. Then I give his hand another squeeze and pull mine away.

  It’s showtime.

  Owen is so much better at these events now than when we first started this journey. Carter and I had to deprogram a childhood’s worth of bullshit, courtesy of his narcissistic bitch of a mother. He was always nervous, sort of stiff, and terrified to talk too much.

  Whereas Daddy always encouraged me at these events, even when I was literally a kid, to talk to people, to ask questions, taught me how to converse.

  Owen’s mother used him as a prop for her own purposes.

  Okay, in a completely unhealthy and nonconsensual way, compared to how I’m admittedly using him. As Carter himself said, we broke Owen down, with love, to first deprogram him and remove all the bullshit he’d been taught. Then we built him back up stronger, better, healthier. Owen is the man he is now because of the hard and unconventional choices we all made back then. The Owen we know and love was reborn over sixteen years ago, his second year of college, when he and Carter became roommates in the dorm and then they met me the first day of school.