Indiscretion (Inequitable Trilogy Book 1) Read online

  And lying there wide awake, staring at the ceiling while hating myself and wondering how the hell I managed to end up here in the first place, is starting to etch deep and destructive grooves into my soul, even though it’s only been two weeks since I lost Jordan.

  * * * *

  Other than the National Security Advisor being rolled out of bed by his staff, no one outside of NatSec, the military, or Intel has been summoned. It’s only a matter of time before the news leaks and we’ll have press crawling up our asscracks.

  We’re almost to the West Wing when Kev glances back at me. “Anyone call Plumber yet? I want him here for this. He needs to be looped in.”

  “No, sir. Not that I’m aware of.” Outside the residence I always use protocols, even if we’re alone and they tell me we can drop them. They might all be my friends, but old habits die hard and I refuse to get sloppy.

  Kev stops walking, meaning I almost plow into him. He arches an eyebrow at me. “You should go wake him up.”

  I grumble but, since Kev doesn’t know what happened, I don’t argue with him. Not the time for my private life to be up for discussion. “I’ll go wake up Plumber, sir.”

  Kev smirks. “Good man.”

  I pivot on my heel while they continue on with Secret Service agents shadowing them. I take out my work phone and call ahead to Elliot’s detail to warn them I’m inbound to retrieve him.

  They won’t wake him up, though. Lucky me, I get that chore.

  There was a time when I lived for it.

  This morning, however, it leaves me feeling sad and borderline resentful.

  Scratch that.

  It leaves me feeling completely resentful.

  It’s only two-and-a-half miles by car. At this time of morning on a Sunday, with a motorcycle escort and running lights, we arrive in just under seven minutes.

  That’s barely enough time for me to try to draw my emotions tight within me and lock them down. We’ve spent maybe fifteen minutes together, total, over the past two weeks.

  Part of that’s my fault.

  A large part of that.

  Okay, it’s totally my fault. Happy?

  Earlier in the week I offered to go over to his residence today to “hang out” with him, but Elliot never gave me a clear answer one way or the other.

  Normally, that’s the opening for me to decide for him after playing twenty questions with him, which is usually what he wants me to do. It’s part of the dance that’s made up the bulk of our relationship dynamic throughout the years, even from the beginning.

  Right now, I don’t have the emotional strength to engage in that charade with him.

  Once there, I let myself in with my key as the agent standing watch on the front porch silently nods in greeting. I worked with the guy on The Shift before my life shifted. Once upon a time, that likely could’ve been me standing there today. In the past, it has been me.

  Vice President Elliot Gerald Woodley never has household staff inside during nights or on the weekends while he’s home, unless he has to host a dignitary, or head of state, or is holding some sort of event or performing a photo op. So there’s no one inside to see me lock the front door behind me before I reset the alarm and head upstairs and down the hall to the master bedroom. The door’s closed but I know he’s asleep and alone.

  I open it. Without preamble, I switch on the overhead light and head for his closet. “Get up. Now. Portia and Prophet need you in the SitRoom.” Today’s situation doesn’t warrant me awaking him so rudely, but…

  Yeah. This is what he gets.

  He rolls over and groans while I rummage through his closet and put together a suitable outfit for him to wear. He’s already sitting on the edge of the bed by the time I emerge with his clothes—suit, boxers, undershirt, socks, shoes, tie, and belt.

  I drop everything but the socks and shoes on the same side of the bed where he’s now sitting, the one closest to the bathroom, and I put the socks and shoes on the floor at the end of the bed, next to the bench where he’ll sit to don them. I find his flag pin on the jacket he wore yesterday and transfer it to the lapel of the one he’ll wear today.

  Then I throw him a bone. “Do you need my help with Duck?” I don’t bother looking to see where he left his walker. He’s a big boy. If he falls and busts his ass, it’s his fault.

  He shakes his head, not looking at me as he runs a hand through his disheveled light brown hair. There are a few touches of silver starting to lighten his temples. He’s even more handsome for it now than when I first met him a dozen years ago. I want to run my hands through his hair and massage his scalp, watch his eyes drop closed the way they always do…

  And Jordan’s face comes to mind.

  Guilt rolls through me and I stomp it into oblivion. I can’t afford for emotions to distract me right now.

  “I’ll get your coffee ready. You have ten minutes. Yell if you need my help getting down the stairs.” I turn and leave the bedroom door standing open behind me.

  I could’ve been here with him this morning, taking the phone call that otherwise would have roused him and doing all of this a lot more gently than I just did, except that’s not the way the world works.

  Not anymore.

  One of my greatest hopes used to be that Elliot would ditch his fear and choose me over a hopeless quest to earn his old man’s respect.

  Now?

  My greatest hope is that I can somehow wrangle into submission the flaming garbage pile where my love and kindness used to reside before I end up destroying what little good remains in my life and shredding Elliot’s soul—or future presidency—in the process.

  * * * *

  I’m standing by the front door with Elliot’s full travel mug in my hand when he slowly limps downstairs nine and a half minutes later. His hair’s damp, and it looks like he shaved. He hasn’t tied his tie yet, though. It’s draped around his neck, his collar button still unfastened. He’s wearing his glasses. That he didn’t bother putting in his contacts tells me he’s not at his best right now.

  I didn’t exactly help him in that department, either.

  From the way he’s holding the bannister as he gingerly makes his way down the stairs I know he’s in pain, but I can’t let that slow us down. I hand him his travel mug, button his collar, and quickly knot his tie for him without a word. Then I turn for the front door, knowing he’ll fall in behind me.

  The car and Secret Service detail are waiting. Opening the front door for him, I step aside and let him go first before I set the alarm and lock the door behind him. Then I follow him. Once in the car, I proceed to scan my morning e-mail on my work phone as we get underway. We’re halfway to Dupont Circle before he speaks.

  “What happened?”

  I choose to assume he means why I’ve just rolled him out of bed this way. “The little fucker.”

  With my peripheral vision, I watch as he nods and then turns his head to stare out the window.

  We can’t keep doing this.

  I can’t keep doing this.

  Unfortunately, I love the dumbass and I know he loves me.

  I take a deep breath, hold it, and slowly blow it out again.

  I don’t look at him, choosing to watch him out of the corner of my eye. “Pet,” I breathe, barely a whisper despite being alone back here with him.

  From the way his shoulders tighten I know he heard me.

  He nods slightly, slowly, deliberately.

  With my focus on my phone in my right hand, I shift position, allowing me to plant my left hand between us on the seat, next to his. My pinky finger reaches out and hooks his, stroking his once before I draw away.

  He takes a deep breath, holds it, lets it out, and looks forward for a moment before slowly nodding again.

  Jordan’s face flashes into my mind, the tears in his eyes the last time I saw him.

  Struggling against the renewed torrent of anger and grief threatening to swamp me, I lift my gaze from my phone and focus on Elliot.

&n
bsp; His gorgeous blue gaze briefly flicks my way before darting forward again. Lines crease his handsome face, deeper ones than when we first met some twelve years ago and he was still a freshman congressman and not the vice president of the United States.

  He gives me another subtle head bow that’s been one of our silent cues for years.

  I tip my head to him in response.

  Lifting his travel mug to his lips, he refocuses his gaze outside the window, on the streets and buildings of DC.

  Inside, I’m struggling not to scream, to cry.

  To grab him, shake him, and beg him to quit fucking keeping me trapped in limbo.

  To say fuck it and walk away from the life I’ve tried to build—and rebuild—for myself.

  Jordan’s last words to me echo in my brain.

  Elliot needs you.

  I wonder how long those three words will keep me going and keep me from blowing everything up and saying fuck it?

  Chapter Two

  Depending on the circumstances, I’m frequently summoned into the SitRoom, or asked to accompany President Samuels inside. I have the necessary security clearance.

  I’m hopeful they will exclude me today.

  If I’m lucky.

  I love Elliot but there’s nothing more frustrating than being in a situation where I basically have nothing to do except stand in the wings and stare at him.

  It’s like sandpaper rubbing against my soul, slowly grinding me down.

  Especially over these last two weeks.

  Once we reach the White House, I drop back as Elliot limps inside while saluting the guards flanking the entrance. In fact, I don’t even go inside with him. I step out of the flow of foot traffic and pause outside, where I pretend to scan e-mails on my work phone.

  I need more than a moment to myself, but I can’t take that right now.

  Shae, Chris, and Kev know what’s going on between me and Elliot, and have for years. They’ve known since before the day they tapped him to be veep that Elliot’s gay, that he’s deep in the closet, that he insists on staying there…

  And that he belongs to me.

  Me? I’m not in the closet but I’ve never made a big deal about being gay, either. Secret Service agents tend to play everything close to the vest as part of our training. I might not be Secret Service any longer, but I spent enough time working in the private security sector that it wasn’t difficult to fall back on my training and keep myself as low-profile as possible.

  Which was a big help when Chris brought me aboard to work for Shae as her body man during her campaign for president, while she was still a senator.

  It was almost as good as working The Shift. For the first time in several years, my life once again felt like it had a sense of deeper purpose.

  It wasn’t an accident Shae chose Elliot to be her running mate. In part because of his attraction as a veteran, and his education, and backstory, yes. They’d added him to their short-list of VP candidates before they hired me to work for them.

  But he landed the job because of me, because I vouched for him.

  Because they trusted me, and I promised them I could control him and make sure he didn’t fall out of line.

  Standing outside the White House, I’m mentally tracking how long it’ll take Elliot to get downstairs and safely ensconced in the SitRoom with Shae and Kev. Only once I’m certain he’s down there do I head inside.

  A mere two weeks ago, my daily routine often revolved around finding a moment to stop by Jordan’s office in the East Wing to say hello.

  Even though we usually saw each other at home later that night.

  I force myself not to walk over to the East Wing because I’m pretty sure someone else already occupies what was his office, and I don’t want to torture myself like that.

  I also don’t want to torture myself with the resentment bordering on anger over Elliot’s part in all of this.

  This being my current grief. Sure, I’m supposed to be the “Master,” whatever the fuck that means. Used to think I had a solid grasp on that.

  Then life got damned complicated. Elliot pulled back yet again, Jordan walked into my life at almost the same time, and I realized I was tired of being alone and lonely every night.

  Felt exhausted from loving a man who was terrified to publicly acknowledge who I was to him as friends, much less lovers.

  Hoped that, in some way, me dating Jordan might jolt Elliot into making a decision.

  But Jordan…

  My sweet, beautiful boy.

  Sucking in a breath and chewing on the inside of my lower lip to stave off the pain knifing through my soul helps to keep my tears at bay. I’m not much of a crier, but fucking hell I’ve shed more tears these past two weeks than I think I have in my entire goddamned life.

  I head upstairs to the residence. Even though I have a desk in the administrative office just outside the Oval Office, I officially have a small office on the third floor, not much more than a desk in a glorified closet. Today, I can retreat there for a few minutes, lock the door behind me, and gaze at the small photo of me and Jordan, which I keep pinned to the corkboard beside my desk. The photo was taken the night of Shae’s first Inauguration, before we headed to the first of the balls. We’re both wearing tuxes and my boy looks good enough to eat.

  The photographer perfectly caught us staring into each other’s eyes, with us both smiling. Jordan’s expression is full of playfully feigned innocence, while mine is barely restrained hunger. I find myself blinking against the stubborn prickle of tears that hits me.

  I’ll never forget that night.

  It was the night Jordan completely gave himself to me as my boy, heart and soul—asked to be mine—and my world truly changed forever.

  It was also a melancholy night, because I couldn’t proudly stand beside Elliot and publicly celebrate with him. I couldn’t dance with him.

  I couldn’t do anything more than give him a friendly bro hug and watch from afar as he uncomfortably danced first with Shae, then with his mom and sister, before making excuses to sit down because of his leg.

  Which was mostly an excuse to get him out of dancing with anyone else. Even then, plenty of eligible women were already throwing themselves at him.

  Reaching out, I touch a finger to the picture. I have a larger version, an eight-by-ten, framed and hanging on the wall in my bedroom at home.

  Another, stronger wave of grief and resentment rolls through me. This time, I tip my chair back and stare at the picture of us.

  I could have married Jordan.

  I could have walked away from Elliot, married Jordan, and left the politics of DC behind me for good once Shae’s second term ends. Made a damned good life for us in the private sector where I’d been working when Chris plucked me up and dropped me back into the maelstrom that is our nation’s capital and its political machinations.

  There are so many things I could have done differently. I can beat myself up about them a thousand different ways and it still won’t change one salient point: my sweet, beautiful boy is gone.

  So are my dreams of living life with him safely tucked by my side.

  Leaving me picking up the pieces of my shattered heart and soul while trying not to hate Elliot, all while trying to do my job as the caretaker to the president of the United States of America.

  * * * *

  At 8:02 a.m., I’m in the family dining room in the residence and finishing my breakfast with Chris and the kids when I receive a text on my work phone from Secret Service that Portia, Prophet, and Plumber are out of the SitRoom and on the move. I don’t know where Elliot’s going next, but Shae and Kev are on their way upstairs to the residence.

  I opt to stay and tell Chris and the kids that they’re on their way.

  Honestly?

  I don’t want to cross paths with Elliot right now.

  By the time the two of them make it upstairs, Chris is cooking breakfast for them—he’s a damned good cook and enjoys the hell out of doing it for his f
amily. They both look exhausted as they greet the kids and me and slump into chairs at the table. Kev’s loosened his tie and unfastened the top button of his shirt, his sleeves now rolled up to his elbows.

  I suspect there’s more office time in store for Kev today. He’s damned dedicated and good at his job. He currently holds the record for longest-serving chief of staff in a position that usually sees a minimum of two or three turnovers by this point in a president’s second term.

  He’ll never leave Shae’s side, though. Not willingly.

  Because he loves her, and Chris.

  The three of them together are pure magic and have been for years. They’re not the only political poly triad out there, either. That’s why I was stupidly dead-certain I could capture that same magic for myself, Elliot, and Jordan.

  Now I’m left wondering if I’ll still have Elliot by the time Shae leaves office.

  How horrible is it that a tiny part of my soul is starting to rot and ask, So, what? when I think about losing him?

  I know Jordan wanted me to continue taking care of Elliot, but damned if I have the emotional strength to do so right now.

  Hell, if it wasn’t for the fact that I’m friends with Chris, Shae, and Kev, I’d have walked away from everything two weeks ago.

  Except I know that’s not what Jordan would want me to do.

  The psychologist hidden deep inside my wounded and battered soul also recognizes that it’s my pain and grief chattering at me. That I need to give myself time to heal and not make any rash decisions while consumed by the blazing fires of my personal pain.

  That I’d eventually hate myself even more than I already do if I abandoned Elliot and everything we have together.

  What little of it there is, anymore.

  I realize Kev’s watching me, his brow furrowed slightly. I shake my head once, because I don’t want him asking me if I’m okay.

  I’m not.

  Besides, I hate lying in front of the kids.

  * * * *

  I’m “Uncle Leo” to the kids, the way Elliot is “Uncle Elliot.” Yasmine, their nanny, is off today. It was supposed to be a family day today, but Shae and Kev have to focus on the North Korean clusterfuck.