Innocent (Inequitable Trilogy Book 2) Page 6

It’ll be a guy I feel safe enough with to drop my masks and disguises and allow him to see the true me.

  I’m only twenty-two. There is no damn rush for me to get myself fucked or to suck a cock. The other reason I want to wait is because it’s too easy catch something in this day and age. I want the first guy I eventually decide to sleep with to be stable, serious about his life, and someone who isn’t simply fucking anything on two legs because he’s young and horny and can.

  Someone I consider at least my intellectual and emotional equal. Someone as choosy as I am.

  Snobbish? Sure, I’ll own it.

  Add to that I’m serious about finishing my master’s degree, and spending time on a relationship isn’t in my immediate future. Mimi taught me to have priorities, to respect myself, and to never sell myself short. That, sometimes, I’d have to be my strongest champion and advocate.

  To this day, how my father ever emerged from her loins baffles me. Apparently, my mom and her family were far more religious than Mimi and Grandpa Jordan, and Dad fell in with them.

  It was only after I started living with Mimi that I learned she never liked my mother.

  Apparently, neither did Grandpa Jordan, which is another reason they sold out and moved to Tallahassee after they both retired. They didn’t want to be near Mom and her family.

  That, and the lack of a state income tax. And cheaper home prices.

  Oh, and decent weather in the winter.

  When I walk into the office, our receptionist looks up. “Oh, Jordan, glad you’re here. Dr. Sently asked me to have you stop by her office immediately when you arrive.”

  Alarm bells ring in my head, but I keep my expression calm. “Why?”

  “She didn’t say.”

  “Am I in trouble?”

  “Not so far as I know.”

  I grab everything from my box and weave my way through the cubicles in our department to her office, where I knock on the open doorway.

  She’s sitting behind her desk and smiles when she sees me. “Ah, Jordan. Please, come in and close the door.”

  I do, and she waves me to a chair.

  “What’s going on, Dr. Sently?”

  “I’ll be brief. Would you be interested in a short-term, all-expenses-paid design job in Washington, DC?”

  This isn’t what I expected at all. “Say again?”

  Her smile widens. “A once-in-a-lifetime job opportunity. The president-elect wants a design student from FSU to handle decorating the White House residence and her office.”

  I damn near choke. “You’re…serious?”

  “Absolutely.”

  “What about school?”

  “I’ll help you handle that.”

  “They’ll pay all expenses?”

  “And you’ll get paid, too.”

  Hot damn! “I’m in. What do I have to do?”

  “I’ll call them back and they’ll want to talk to you. Can you hand off your students to others?”

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  “Perfect.”

  Four hours later, I’m once again sitting in Dr. Sently’s office, this time with Kevin Markos. I recognize him from TV—he used to have his own show on conservative cable news network FNB, and his infamous on-air meltdown made news on all the networks. He now works for the president-elect as her chief of staff.

  He’s also a hottie, and I wonder if he’s single. I wouldn’t mind giving up my V-card to a guy like him, even if he is older than me. He looks damned good in a suit.

  Hmm. I might have a suit fetish, along with one for older guys.

  We’re also video-chatting with President-elect Samuels and her husband, Christopher Bruunt, which…helloooo, really freaking out now. Mr. Bruunt is another hottie, and President-elect Samuels is wonderfully kind and gracious. Her VP, Congressman Elliot Woodley, is also haawwt.

  I’m glad I voted for her. Otherwise, this would be awwwwkward.

  Yes, I researched before I voted. It wasn’t just because her VP is hotter than fuck.

  Mostly.

  Okay, maybe a little. A tiny little. He looks amazing in his suit.

  Sigh.

  Yes, I’m fully recognizing a pattern now, all right? Sheesh.

  But the offer is the real deal and not an elaborate hoax. That night, as I’m sitting on my bed in my dorm room and filling out all the forms Mr. Markos gave me—including forms for fricking security clearance, and a non-disclosure agreement—I’m…stunned.

  Mimi would be screaming with joy right now, I know she would.

  I miss you, Mimi.

  I knew I’d lose her one day, but I didn’t think it’d be this soon. I thought she’d be able to see me make my dreams come true.

  Since her death I’ve been lost, in some ways. We never left anything unsaid, though. Because of her, I learned I deserved the right to be honest and open about my feelings. To speak my mind. To demand my emotional real estate.

  That I was worthy and worthwhile and didn’t need to prove anything to anyone except to myself.

  That last lesson I’m still working on, because I’d love to have something to tell my parents “fuck you” over.

  I think this is that thing.

  Hell, I still haven’t told them Mimi died. She told me she didn’t want them at the funeral, and she wasn’t leaving them anything, so she preferred I defer telling them. Or not tell them at all, if I didn’t want to.

  Again, I didn’t think that was something I’d face so soon.

  But in just a few days, I’ll be in Washington, DC. I have so much to do before then, including packing all the stuff from my room and moving what I’m not taking with me to my storage unit. They’re putting me up in a hotel until at least after the inauguration in January. The length of my stay will depend on how long it takes to finish everything. They’ve already purchased the one-way plane ticket to DC for me.

  I’ll need to buy several large suitcases to hold everything I want to take, but it’s worth it.

  This is…real.

  This is happening.

  Had someone told me this when I was a kid, I wouldn’t have believed them.

  That kid lived in terror. That kid had a mask he was terrified to turn loose of for fear of being exposed.

  Now?

  It’s hard to believe my life has led me…here.

  All I need to do is make the most of this opportunity and not waste it. Because this could be the chance I’ve been waiting for.

  Like hell will I squander it.

  Chapter Six

  You know how in romance movies there’s always this meet-cute moment between the couple? One where, later, the couple can retell the events to someone else and smile?

  Yeah, that’s not exactly how it happens with me and Leo.

  For starters, I’m still having difficulty believing that I’m even here, at the White House.

  Me.

  Stunned, I stand outside the gate for at least five minutes, staring at the fricking place before I find the nerve to approach the checkpoint and produce my ID.

  Even then, I’m certain they are going to say Haha, sorry, you’re not on “the list,” kid.

  Right?

  Hell, I was shocked at the airport yesterday when a driver was standing in the baggage claim area with my name written on a sign. Shocked me again when he drove me to a hotel where my room was not only ready, but paid for in advance, and the desk clerk who checked me in treated me with deference like I was a movie star or something.

  I am shocked into silence when the White House guard takes my ID, taps my name into his computer, then takes my picture and, moments later, produces a visitor’s pass for me that says yep, I, Jordan Remington Walsh, am allowed access.

  To the fricking White House.

  And he even tells me where to go, and who, specifically, to ask for.

  I am expected.

  At the fricking White House.

  Me!

  The kid my parents hoped would turn straight, or die quickly and find Jesus before
he did. They were okay with either option, which shows just how fucked up my childhood was, all right?

  I report to the office I’m told to and find the Chief Usher actually waiting.

  For me!

  Then he says something that totally blows my mind, which, after all the recent events, I didn’t realize was still possible.

  “Leo Cruz from President-elect Samuels’ staff was supposed to join us, but he’s running late and told me to start without him. Do you want to start in the West Wing, the East Wing, or upstairs, in the residence?”

  Honestly? Despite seeing blueprints and pictures, I am…clueless.

  I am still trying to process I am.

  In.

  The.

  Fricking.

  White House.

  ME!

  So, what does this dumbass say to the guy, once I remember how to speak?

  “I…guess wherever you feel is best. Maybe least- to most-involved?”

  He smiles. “East Wing it is. The residence will probably take the longest. I hear Mr. Bruunt isn’t terribly picky when it comes to his offices. There likely won’t be much to do there.”

  And off we go, with a Secret Service agent silently shadowing us. That’s a requirement, since I don’t yet have a completed background check, meaning I can’t have unsupervised access to the White House.

  Only the president can grant that kind of override. I have a feeling lame duck President Fullmer might not feel very charitable in that regard, considering I work for the woman who thoroughly trounced his ass in last week’s election.

  Not only do I get to see the Oval Office, but the president’s private study, dining area, and the vice president’s office—because Congressman Woodley’s asked me to decorate his office and residence, too.

  His residence will be the easiest, because he’s only asking for changes in the master bathroom, master bedroom, and the spare room he’ll use as a home office. Another room will be converted into a workout room. He’s already requested the four third-floor bedrooms not be outfitted as guest rooms, and instead be emptied and used for storage for his personal belongings that will be moved from his apartment and not used elsewhere in the house.

  I guess he doesn’t like having guests. That’ll leave him with only one guest room on the second floor, the same floor as the master suite.

  I’ll select furniture for him from the inventory available once I pick out the furnishings for the executive residence. He doesn’t have much in the way of furniture of his own, and he’ll be buying a new mattress, once I choose a bedframe. He prefers king-sized, and I already have a few options scouted from the furniture inventory catalog. He’d also like a new sofa, and I have a budget for buying a few things for him that he’ll keep once he moves on.

  I’m touring Number One Observatory Circle tomorrow to check the layout and verify measurements before I create my proposal, because the current vice president and his family will be out of town. Now that the election is over, they’re off to look at several choices for a permanent residence in their home state of Arizona.

  I have permission—and the budget—to do more in Mr. Woodley’s residence if I want to, but he really only cares about the four rooms he specified. I suppose it’ll be easier for me since he’s single and I don’t have to worry about a wife changing my plans a bazillion times after they’re finalized.

  President-elect Samuels has a very short list of requirements for the residence and her offices, and Mr. Bruunt strikes me as very laid-back and easy to work with.

  Her chief of staff, Kevin Markos…

  Rawr.

  I wonder if he’s gay and single, because he’s a hottie. He’s the kind of guy I wouldn’t mind eventually crawling into bed with. President-elect Samuel’s husband’s a hottie, too. So’s the vice president, and—

  Fricking focus, Jordan!

  I snap back to the present and find the Chief Usher waiting on me. I barely remember my notebook is in my hand. With trembling fingers, I grab the mechanical pencil I carry tucked behind my ear and start sketching and noting ideas as I follow the man around, forcing my mind back onto the tour and taking copious notes.

  When we finish with the East and West Wings, and the Chief Usher leads me upstairs to the private residence to look around, I think I might swallow my tongue. I’m so…gobsmacked.

  Yay, I can finally use that word without sounding pretentious.

  Suck my ass, David. This is totally a legit time and place to use that word.

  Like he’ll ever enter the White House as anything other than a tourist, much less the executive residence portion of it.

  “Th-thank you for this,” I stammer. “I really appreciate it.”

  “Sorry again that I can’t let you take pictures, but it’s both a privacy and a security issue. I can give you a thumb drive of a catalogue of approved official pictures for reference.”

  “No, that’s all right. Mr. Markos already provided those. And the blueprints and 3D renderings are more than adequate. Mostly, I needed to see it all in person to get a sense of the light and actually feel the space before I start selecting paint colors, wall and floor treatments, and furniture.”

  “Well, if you need anything else, let me know. I can e-mail you a current list of everything that’s in use right now from the furniture inventory.”

  “Thank you. That would be appreciated.”

  “Also, I’ll give you my cell number and direct line so you can bypass the switchboard, if you need to call me. Don’t hesitate to reach out with any questions.” He kindly smiles. “I’ve done this a few times now. I’m sort of an expert at it. I promise I’ll help you with anything you need. Simply reach out and ask.”

  He’s very warm and gracious and has been doing his best to put me at ease. “Th-thank you so much.” I’ve never stammered so much in my life, either. “I’ll definitely be calling you next week.” I laugh. “Once I’ve had a chance to wrap my head around this.”

  “It is a little overwhelming, I’m sure.”

  “That’s one word for it.” My life feels like a dream right now. I’ve already submitted all the paperwork to the Secret Service for the background check, but I have preliminary clearance to do what I need to do. If I have to be with the president-elect, her husband, or the vice president, there must be Secret Service or senior staff present, like Mr. Markos, or Mr. Cruz, who I haven’t met yet. It’s unlikely I’ll be here long enough to need a fuller, more in-depth security clearance, but Mr. Markos said it was easier to get it started in case they need my services in the future.

  There are already packing boxes in some of the rooms—the bedrooms and sitting rooms the First Family is obviously using. I know the First Family has a house out in Montana, and will be moving there once President Fullmer leaves office in January.

  We’re upstairs for less than an hour, but I am able to see everything I had questions about. Now I’ll be able to sit down with President-Elect Samuels and her husband and work out my plans. The Chief Usher completes our tour of the residence back in the main entryway on the second floor, and we are starting for the stairs to head down when we meet a man coming up the stairwell.

  “Hi, Chuck,” the guy says to the Chief Usher as he ascends. “Oh, hey, Dale,” he says to the agent shadowing us. “Sorry I’m late, but President-elect Samuels’ meeting ran long.”

  “Hey, Leo,” my guide says. “We just finished here. We’re all done.”

  I pull up short, clutching my notebook to my chest as the man stops below me, putting me at eye level with him.

  Eyes that are a gorgeous and expressive brown, with flecks of amber and green in them.

  Eyes that narrow a little as my breath catches and I realize I feel like all the air just got sucked out of the room.

  His dark brown hair looks straight and fine, business-short and neatly styled, a few strands of light brown and grey here and there, and his complexion is slightly tan. Compared to him, I look like a ghost. He’s clean-shaven and cuts a damne
d sharp image in his suit.

  A suit I suspect is custom-tailored to hide weapons, from what I’ve already learned researching Secret Service agents. He definitely looks like Secret Service.

  Did I think Kevin Markos, Christopher Bruunt, and Elliot Woodley were hotties?

  This guy has them beat, hands-down. He makes those tens look like negative ones.

  He extends his hand. “Jordan Walsh, I presume? Leo Cruz.”

  I nervously nudge my glasses up on my nose. “Y-yes. Hi. Nice to meet you, sir.” I finally remember my manners and shake with him. This is President-elect Samuels’ body man. I believe I remember Mr. Markos telling me Leo was a former coworker of Chris Bruunt’s when he was in the Secret Service. Leo looks like Secret Service, too.

  Fuck, the man’s gorgeous.

  The outer edges of his handsome lips curl ever so slightly, giving him a deliciously predatory air. His gaze never leaves mine. “Nice to finally meet you, too, Jordan. President-elect Samuels, Mr. Markos, and Mr. Bruunt spoke very highly of you.” His grip is firm, and he doesn’t seem to be in a hurry to release my hand. “Sorry I was delayed.”

  “Th-that’s okay.” I swallow hard and try to remember to speak like I know how the hell to use my brain and vocal cords in tandem.

  Probably straight. Probably straight. Probably straight!

  But a bitch can dream, right?

  Oooohhhh, can I dream.

  There is a very strong likelihood Leo Cruz will feature prominently in my future wank fantasies.

  He eventually releases my hand after one brief, final squeeze that has my cock hardening in my slacks and leaves me wanting to squirm under him.

  Losing my virginity isn’t in my immediate game plan, but damned if this hunk was into me, I would gladly shred my V-card for him and let him inside me.

  Why don’t we have hotties like this in Tallahassee?

  I mean, if we do, they’re damn sure running with a totally different crowd than I am, I suppose.

  “Listen, have you had lunch yet?” he asks as we start downstairs and he falls into step next to me.

  Swallowing hard, I shake my head because I don’t want to sound like a naive idiot.

  Except right now I feel like a lamb among lions, and I don’t mean that in a biblical sense, either.