Summary:
He shouldn’t, but he will—again.
Leo Cruz is an experienced former Secret Service agent. Even though he survived a small-plane crash, being the body man for President ShaeLynn Samuels is frequently the most terrifying job he’s ever held.
VP Elliot Woodley is deep in the closet and has his eye on being POTUS in eight years. Trouble is, Leo can’t let Elliot go despite Elliot’s inability to commit to something long-term between them.
In walks young Jordan Walsh, like a lamb among starving lions.
And Leo’s feeling pretty damn hungry.
Inequitable Trilogy book 1. A standalone trilogy set in the world of the Governor Trilogy. MMM, power exchange dynamics, political romance saga, secret workplace romance, close proximity, frenemies to lovers, May/Dec, Secret Service agent, wounded veteran, smol and tall, pining, HEA
Summary:
Fear shouldn't feel this good.
Jordan Walsh never imagined he'd find himself in a strange, secret, sexy tug-of-war between Vice President Elliot Woodley and Leo Cruz, President Samuels' body man. Every ounce of common sense in Jordan's head tells him to run—not walk—fast and far from both men. The problem is, they've tangled Jordan so deeply in their web he's not sure he wants to leave.
Unfortunately, there are those who'd stoop to anything to twist Elliot to their will.
And the last thing standing between Elliot and complete destruction…is Jordan.
Inequitable Trilogy Book 2. MMM, power exchange dynamics, political romance saga, secret workplace romance, close proximity, frenemies to lovers, May/Dec, Secret Service agent, wounded veteran, smol and tall, pining, HEA. A stand-alone trilogy set in the world of the Governor Trilogy.
They're the toughest decision he'll ever make.
Elliot Woodley has dreamed about being president ever since he was a kid. He's spent his entire life working toward that goal, even though it's meant living in the deepest and darkest of closets to do so.
Except Leo saw through him. Elliot knows he should let the man go…
Yet he can't.
He also knows Leo's deliberately baiting him with Jordan.
Leo insists they can have it all. Jordan doesn't seem to grasp how badly things can go if their secret escapes.
Elliot can't stand the thought of the two of them walking off into the sunset together and leaving him behind.
But can he find the courage to ask them to stay?
Inequitable Trilogy book 3. This MMM contemporary political romance features elements of power exchange, secret workplace romances, a pants-dropping late-night tryst in the Oval Office, a switchy and possessive POTUS, close proximity, frenemies to lovers, a May/Dec age gap, a stubbornly patient Secret Service agent who'd do anything for the men he loves, a wounded veteran, smol and tall pairing, pining, and a guaranteed series HEA. It's a standalone trilogy set in the world of the Governor Trilogy.
Indiscretion #1
Chapter One
Now — Early September
Sometimes, my morning starts with having to awaken the president of the United States.
Who is not, by any means, a morning person.
Let me say that there are times the small-plane crash I survived when I was in the Secret Service was a far less terrifying experience than having to awaken President ShaeLynn Samuels when she hasn’t had enough sleep and is expecting to sleep in for a couple more hours.
Especially at 4:49 a.m. on a Sunday morning.
Doubly so if I know she’s in bed with her husband and her chief of staff.
Who—just to be clear—are two different men.
Actually, it’s her chief of staff I really need to awaken first to help me wrangle her. Because we’ll also need him downstairs in the SitRoom.
I made the mistake of coming to work this morning so staff decided I drew the short straw by default. My timing was perfect—or sucky, depending on how you want to look at it. I’d no sooner arrived when one of the duty officers from the Watch Team scurried up to me and tasked me with this.
Rat bastards.
I mean, yes, wrangling POTUS is literally my job, but still…
That’s why I’m now armed with a tray of coffee and their favorite cheese danishes from the downstairs kitchen. Unfortunately, I’m not allowed to carry a cattle prod in the White House or I would have one on me now.
I watch the three chickenshit residence staff who just came on duty scatter as I approach the private living room door, that room through which I’ll enter to go knock on their inner bedroom door. I approached from this room rather than one of the other bedroom entrances because I don’t know what state the room—or its inhabitants—are currently in.
I want zero risk of household staff seeing or hearing anything they shouldn’t. I wait until the living room door fully shuts behind me to approach the bedroom door. Balancing the tray on my right hand, I lightly rap on their bedroom door three times with my left, wait, then rap three more times, a little harder. Another brief wait, then three final, hard knocks before I punch in the numeric code on the lock so I can open it.
It’s our prearranged signal. If they’re awake, it gives them time to call out and respond to keep me out, or gives them a chance to pull the covers around them.
Except in an emergency, only the kids and I are allowed to knock on their bedroom door before they emerge on their own in the morning.
If they’re not awake already, it means Chris will have likely roused enough by the third series of knocks that he won’t come up off the bed swinging at me before he’s fully awake.
Hey, he’s retired Secret Service. It wouldn’t surprise me if he has a gun stashed in here somewhere. He’s also extremely protective of his two pets.
Especially after Kev almost died two years ago.
They’re sound asleep. Well, Chris lets out a soft groan but doesn’t get up, meaning he awakened enough to recognize it’s me and immediately started falling asleep again.
It’s dark inside their bedroom. After the door swings shut behind me and chokes off the dim light from the living room, I pause just inside the doorway to let my eyes adjust. The heavy blackout curtains on the windows do exactly what they’re supposed to. There’s a nightlight in the bathroom that, after a moment, gives me enough working illumination trickling in from the dressing room hallway that I can step around the clothes and shoes strewn across the floor in a path from the door to the bed without tripping over them.
I carry the tray over to Kev’s side of the bed and set it on the nightstand. Shae ended up in the middle and only the top of her head is visible. They keep the bedroom temperature set to sixty-five at night because they like it comfortably chilly.
It means whoever’s in the middle can snuggle between the bodies on either side of them without getting overheated and kicking the covers off all three of them.
Shoving back the angry grief trying to roil inside my soul at the sight of the three of them comfortably snuggled together, I focus on the here and now.
On my job.
In this way, they’re blissfully happy and lucky. It’s also not their fault my personal life is currently a shitstorm they don’t even know about. Well, maybe Chris has an inkling, but he’s been pretty busy the past couple of weeks so he might not know.
Kev’s lying on his right side with his back to Shae and is still lightly snoring. I head across the large room to one of the walk-in closets, pull the door mostly shut, and close my eyes as I turn my face away while reaching inside the doorway to find the light switch.
That’s not as insanely obnoxious as turning on the dressing room hall light or one of the lamps on the nightstands. Or opening the curtains. Besides, I don’t want any of the more astute members of the press seeing a light appear in the president’s bedroom this early on a morning she’s supposed to have nothing on her schedule except her PDB in a couple of hours, followed by family time with her husband and children.
And with her chief of staff, who’s also unofficially one of her husbands.
The public doesn’t know that, obviously. They only know Kev is her chief of staff and a close friend the First Family considers part of their family, and that he lives here with them in the residence. Public opinion is greatly in favor of that, considering all Kev’s been through and survived.
Might not be such a favorable opinion if the public learns he shares a bed with the First Couple, though.
Crossing the room again, I catch sight of Chris’ eyes barely cracked open as he stares at me. He lets out a soft warning grumble.
“Sorry, boss,” I whisper, knowing he can probably hear me and, if he can’t, he can read my lips, even in that light. “NatSec.”
Another soft grumble before his eyes close again.
I round the bed and lay my right hand on Kev’s shoulder, my left retrieving his glasses from the nightstand, ready to pass them to him.
If it was Shae lying there, I would gently shake her.
I never shake Kev.
We’ve discovered he has PTSD from the shooting, even though he hasn’t sought help for that. Chris warned me about it two months after the shooting.
Instead, I gently squeeze his shoulder while rubbing with my thumb. “Prophet,” I softly say. “Watch Team needs you and Portia downstairs in the SitRoom.”
His eyes pop open and he’s already holding out his hand for his glasses as he sits up, now wide awake. He’s naked, I’m pretty sure. The covers puddle around his waist, exposing the scars along his abdomen from the shooting and resulting surgery that saved his life.
This sudden awareness of his despite how heavily he sleeps always amazes me. It’s rare that a civvie who’s never had military or first responder training can awaken this quickly. His years as a journalist prepped him for certain situations the way Chris’ years in the Secret Service prepared him. Me, too.
“What happened?” Kev asks as he seats his glasses on his face.
“Stupid Leader played target practice with a Global Hawk drone. Brass needs to brief her. NSA’s inbound now.”
Stupid Leader is our private nickname for the current little fucker running North Korea. He’s been a massive pain in Shae’s ass to the point the public should be glad Kev is Shae’s chief of staff. He alone has kept her from declaring war on the little fucker.
And the little fucker is also another commonly used private nickname of ours for the guy.
I put the mug of coffee I’ve already prepared the way Kev likes in his hand.
“Fuck. There goes our Sunday.” Kev takes a sip and turns while I reach for Shae’s mug. “Wakey-wakey, sweetheart. Duty calls.” He tugs the comforter down from her face, to her shoulders.
“Nooo,” she groans, trying to pull the comforter back up.
I see Chris’ arm move under the comforter and then Shae lets out a pained yip as she jumps.
“Ow! Motherfucker!” She shoots a glare at him over her shoulder.
His eyes are closed but the corners of his mouth have quirked in an evil smile. “Keep talking, sweetheart,” he rumbles. “I’ll gladly add more cane strokes to tonight’s total that you’ll owe me.”
“Goddammit.” She finally sits up, holding the sheet up around her with one hand as she reaches for the mug of coffee. “This is so goddamned unfair,” she mutters. “It’s fucking Sunday.”
Now that both of them are sitting up and talking, I step away from the bed. “I’ll wait outside.”
“Thanks, Leo,” Kev says. “Give us ten. Please let them know we’re on the way.”
“Yes, sir. Thank you.”
I’m turning to leave when Kev switches on his nightstand lamp, bringing another groan of protest from Shae. I let myself out the same door I entered and use the phone there in the private living room to inform the SitRoom that Portia and Prophet will be downstairs shortly. Then I head to the private kitchen to refill my travel mug with coffee, which I left in there when I prepared theirs.
The bedroom door to the main hall opens eight minutes later. Kev and Shae emerge looking wide awake. They’re both dressed in jeans. She’s wearing a collared, short-sleeved knit shirt with the presidential seal emblazoned on the left chest. Kev wears a light blue chambray long-sleeved button-down and a tie.
“Good morning, Madam President, Mr. Markos.”
“Good morning, Leo,” she says, our daily charade beginning in earnest.
I fall into step with them as we head for the main stairs, Secret Service falling in behind us, and I give Shae and Kev what little info I have.
Had I not been here, it would have been a phone call from the Watch Team in the SitRoom that awakened them, or a knock on the outer bedroom door from a very reluctant Secret Service agent.
Such is my job as body man to the president of the United States—what basically occupies my entire fucking life now.
It’s okay.
It’s not like I had anything else productive going on today.
The whole reason I’m here right now when I had the day off is because lying in my fucking bed, alone, sucks balls.
And lying there wide awake, staring at the ceiling while hating myself and wondering how the hell I managed to end up alone 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 roust Plumber yet? I want him here for this. I want him read 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 personally go wake up Plumber.”
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, anyway. “I’ll go wake up Plumber, sir.”
Kev smirks. “Good man.”
I pivot on my heel while they continue 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, 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. Elliot and I have spent maybe fifteen minutes together, total, over the past two weeks.
Some 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.
Upon my arrival, 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. In the past, it has been me in that post.
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 make my way upstairs and down the hall to the master bedroom. The door’s closed but I know he’s asleep and alone.
I open the door. 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 circumstances don’t warrant me waking him so abruptly and 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, that’s his fault.
I’m afraid of the anger I might feel if I do see he’s deliberately neglecting himself, but I don’t know if the target would be him…or myself.
He shakes his head, not looking at me as he runs a hand through his disheveled light brown hair. A few touches of silver have started lightening 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…
That’s when Jordan’s face floats into my 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 also 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 holds the bannister as he gingerly makes his way down 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 us. 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 his 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 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.
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 sustain me and keep me from blowing everything up and saying fuck it?
Innocent #2
Chapter One
Now — Early September
I was not supposed to live.
Upon my birth, the doctor told my parents it was likely that I’d die, and to prepare for the worst.
Instead, I lived, much to the later consternation of my parents.
But I digress.
Throughout my life, I’ve known Heaven and Hell.
Second only to Mimi’s death, Hell, to me, is carrying a stack of collapsed moving boxes up several flights of stairs. Then, over the next couple of weeks, hauling the packed boxes one at a time to the storage unit, all while trying not to trip because I’m crying.
Hell is also staring into the depths of the storage unit before separating and organizing six years of Heaven into neatly stacked piles of boxes and furniture so I can quickly point out everything to the movers when they arrive to load my stuff into my storage pod. That way, I can get them out of here as fast as possible, meaning it’s less time for them to see me crying.
Hell is hating myself for not being strong enough to have it out with a guy who’s stupidly praying and waiting for something that will never happen.
For loving the big dope beyond reason.
It’s hating myself for being a guy who’s stupidly praying and waiting for something that will never happen.
It’s being firmly wedged between the deeply closeted vice president of the United States, and the man who loves him literally beyond all reason or sense.
Leo and I really are flip sides of the same coin. The only difference is that I sort of knew what I was getting into from the start with him, and I made the difficult choice to walk away from him when I finally realized nothing would change.
Meaning I had to make a change.
Leo had no clue what he was getting into when he first met and fell in love with Elliot. Now, Leo is stuck in neutral, hoping Elliot will change when, honestly?
I don’t think Elliot’s capable of it. Leo’s lying to himself if he thinks Elliot is.
I know Leo didn’t mean to lie to me. He honestly thought Elliot would grow to love me.
Hell is knowing I’m walking away from the perfect guy for me. Because, in the long run, I’m doing what’s best for the damned country.
Because Elliot needs Leo.
I guess in many ways Leo also needs Elliot.
The saddest thing about all this mess?
After six years with Leo, my life can still be compressed into…this.
Not much more in the way of tangible property than I first brought into this relationship.
Other than the boxes I packed with my books and a few miscellaneous items, I can use several large suitcases and have nearly all of my belongings moved out of the apartment. I packed most of my suits in a couple of boxes, because not like I’ll need those in Tallahassee. It’s cheaper to ship them in the small pod with everything else, rather than paying to buy yet another suitcase and being charged an extra baggage fee by the airline.
In retrospect, I’m glad I didn’t move what little furniture I have upstairs to Leo’s third-floor apartment. It would have meant needing Leo’s help to move out, or asking someone else to help, and I didn’t want any of that.
I wanted to wallow and do this alone.
Standing on my own two feet is kind of my schtick, I guess. I had to learn how to do that from an early age. Survival tactic.
It’s what chameleons do to survive. They blend in and observe.
Six years ago, when we made this “official,” Leo asked me about moving my furniture in, but we were incredibly busy then. I didn’t feel like hauling some of his stuff down from the apartment just to make room to haul my stuff up to the apartment. It felt like an exercise in futility, since what little time we were home and not working was usually spent eating, cleaning, fucking, or sleeping.
Not worrying about whether or not my Mimi’s secretary desk was sitting in the corner of the living room, instead of a cheap, albeit funky and custom-painted thrift-store bookshelf he’d picked up in Arlington.
Besides, we’d talked about moving into a larger place, at some point.
That…never happened.
Cue my heart literally breaking right now.
I know in Leo’s heart he hoped for a miracle. That Elliot would abandon his fear and come out so he could be open with Leo. Then I’d live with them as either a friend or “assistant,” and we’d secretly be a happy poly triad, biding our time until Elliot’s term in office ended and he returned to private life.
The prime time for that to occur would have been after President Samuels was re-elected nearly two years ago. The good will and bounce in the polls from Lauren’s death would have meant Elliot coming out barely blipped the radar.
Or it could have happened after Kev was shot last year, and public opinion once again spiked in a favorable bounce for the Samuels’ administration. With the news about Kev’s father being behind not only the shooting, but also responsible for Lauren’s death, and the death of the president’s brother- and sister-in-law, among others, Elliot coming out would have been seen as happy fun-time good news. At the very least, Elliot could have quietly moved Leo into the vice president’s official residence, unofficially, even without coming out, and I could’ve maintained Leo’s apartment as my residence. I wouldn’t have minded that option. Seriously.
I wouldn’t have been with Leo at the vice president’s residence every night, I’m sure, but I can live on my own. I wasn’t even jealous of Elliot.
Hard to be jealous of a guy who’s so miserable in his own fricking skin that he’s practically terrified of his shadow.
Honestly?
I feel sorry for Elliot.
Hating his guts and feeling sorry for him aren’t mutually exclusive, you know.
Okay, saying I hate his guts is a little extreme. I’m even planning on voting for him, when he runs. Elliot at his best in private is fantastic. There were times Leo and I went over to his place and hung out for a couple of hours. Or relaxed upstairs in the White House residence with the president and her family, just being normal people for a while.
During those interludes, I absolutely could see why Leo fell in love with Elliot. He’s smart, funny, and not an asshole.
In the rare moments the three of us spent time together in Elliot’s bedroom, I could see even more why Leo loves him. Elliot’s sexy as hell. I’m not a Top but watching the two of them play together revved my motor.
Over the years, it grew impossible for me to ignore how Elliot watched me when he thought Leo and I weren’t looking at him. How he so obviously envied Leo being able to freely fraternize with me in a way that he and Leo couldn’t with each other.
How the hell is Elliot supposed to win an election and run the country if he’s focused on me? On hating me?
Maybe not hating me, but let’s be honest that I’m not his favorite person. The only reason he offered to let Leo date others in the first place was because of his own fear of coming out.
That’s damned sure not healthy.
Which brings me to why I’m standing here, crying my eyes out as I realize I’m basically where I started six years ago.
Other than the shit-ton of experience I got from working in the White House, and the shattered heart I’ll bear for the rest of my life.
Leo Cruz will always own a part of my soul, even though I uncollared myself and returned my day collar. My heart will forever ache for him and miss the things we did together.
Staying will only prolong the inevitable and could possibly negatively impact the freaking presidential election. That’s guilt I don’t want hanging over my head.
Six years ago, I never saw myself in the middle of an explosively secret situation that could have shoved me onto the front pages for weeks if anyone ever discovered our secret.
Guess my parents wouldn’t have been able to deny my existence then, would they?
As satisfying as that thought is, it’s not realistic. No way in hell am I subjecting myself to that kind of firestorm merely to spite my homophobic ’rents.
Life’s too short.
It’s too short for bad books, for bad food…
And it’s too short to keep beating my head against a stupid wall with nothing to show for my efforts except perpetual uncertainty and barely constrained envy.
Because Vice President Elliot Woodley’s first and only love is Leo Cruz.
And Elliot’s Hell is watching Leo being able to live with and freely love me. All while he probably fears Leo will walk away into the sunset with me, when I know there is no way in Hell Leo will ever leave Elliot.
It’s just my bad luck that, unlike Leo, Elliot doesn’t have enough room in his heart for me.
Once the movers finish loading everything into the pod and I put my padlock on it, they haul it away. The small pod will be delivered to my new apartment building once I confirm my address. It’ll be dropped into a parking spot I’ll never use—because I don’t own a car—where I, and another hired team of movers, can unpack it immediately upon my arrival.
Then they’ll move it to the storage unit complex for me, where I can unpack what’s left into my new storage unit.
Bingo, bongo, my life will start over.
Again.
I haven’t signed the lease for the new apartment yet. I’ll stay in a hotel temporarily, until after I look at the apartment in person, sign the lease, and then arrange the pod delivery with my things. One of the professors in the department wanted to move, because their parents had a rental house come available and let them have it for the same rent every month that they were paying for the apartment.
Problem was, they still had eight months on their lease and didn’t want to break it. The professor is holding off looking for someone else to take over the lease based on my department head vouching for me.
Meanwhile, I return to Leo’s apartment.
God, that fucking hurts, thinking of it as his now and not ours.
Leo’s not home, for which I’m feeling…torn. It’s good that he’s not here, watching me finish my packing. The grief in his gaze has grown so deep over these past two weeks that it’s shredding my heart even more. I’ve whittled down what I still have in Leo’s apartment to four large suitcases, a carryon, and my laptop case.
I fly out tomorrow evening, but I didn’t tell him that.
I don’t need to.
He knows.
Without thinking, I shake my right hand as tears sting my eyes.
Yeah, my day collar.
That has to come off.
No, I don’t want to remove it. I promised him when I accepted it that I’d never take it off without permission.
Keeping it on is more self-torture of the unhealthy kind. It’s no healthier than Leo lying to himself about Elliot ever coming out of the closet.
Twelve fricking years, they’ve been together.
If Elliot can’t make himself come out in all that time, it ain’t happening.
Just sayin’.
Guy’s a decorated, wounded war vet, has an economics degree, is an experienced lawmaker. He’s the fricking vice president.
Yet he’s still terrified to come out.
It’s not like he’s a twelve-year-old kid petrified his ultra-religious parents might send him to a gay conversion therapy camp.
Oh, right. That was me.
And yet, I still managed to reach out to Mimi—my grandmother—who literally lived on the other end of the country, seek her help, and change my life.
Chart my own course, set my own sails.
I was twelve.
Elliot’s forty-three years old, and Leo’s forty-seven.
How many more years of Leo’s life is Elliot going to waste? How many of his own?
I’m twenty-nine, and this isn’t healthy.
As it was, I held off putting in my notice for a week because Leo begged me to give him one last chance to convince Elliot.
I don’t know what he said or tried during that extra week, but I know he wasn’t successful.
If he had been, I wouldn’t be standing here right now, crying my eyes out.
Guess I’m lucky Leo didn’t order me to stay.
Who am I kidding? If he had, I would have stayed.
Hell is crying, because as hard as Leo fights to try to get Elliot to let him in, I wish he’d fought a fraction that hard to get me to stay.
When Leo arrives home from work he doesn’t speak. He pulls me into his arms, kisses me with a level of passion that hasn’t waned since that first frantic night we made love six years earlier, and breaks my heart with his quiet tears that mix with mine as he makes love to me in a bed we’re sharing for the last time.
Why am I doing this?
Why am I killing both of us by leaving?
Except…nothing’s going to change. Whether I do this now or in two years, when it’ll hurt even more, I’m still going to mourn. Worse, me staying could hurt Elliot and I don’t want to do that.
It’s like the stars aligned when I called my old department head at FSU to talk to her about what I’d need to do to resume the pursuit of my master’s degree.
She told me there was also a job opening, and oh, hey, look at that, an available apartment in my price range, because one of the professors was moving.
An apartment just off campus, an easy walk for me.
Do ass-kickings from the Universe come any clearer than that?
If I still believed in God and prayer, I would have said it was a message from the Lord telling me in no uncertain terms that leaving was the right course of action.
Fucking kills me, but growing pains always hurt, don’t they? Women give birth in agony, and then heal.
Usually.
I can suck it up and do this.
Leo won’t.
Leo will never admit Elliot won’t change. Can’t change. Leo will never be able to see this can’t work. Because despite Leo’s training and cynicism, where Elliot Woodley is concerned, Leo is forever an optimist. And Leo will always put himself last, no matter what.
Loving Leo enough, or his love for me, isn’t the problem and never will be. Leo and I are perfect together.
But, aside from Elliot’s fear, so are Elliot and Leo. Perfect together, that is.
Last month, Kevin Markos, the president’s chief of staff—and the other third of the secret triad comprised of her, her husband, and Kev—sits down with me for a closed-door meeting.
Just the two of us.
“Do you know where you’re going with your career, Jordan?”
The man is spooky good at what he does. Part of it’s the years he spent as a cable news anchor, insightfully piercing the layers of an interview subject’s bullshit to get to the heart of the matter.
“I honestly don’t know. I’m not sure what my role will be when Elliot’s elected. Everyone seems to assume I’ll be part of the campaign.”
That’s something else. That Elliot hasn’t been able to outright say to Leo or anyone else yes, he’s running. It’s obvious from everything he does and says, but he’s never turned to the man who’d die for him without hesitation and told him he’s running.
“Do you want to be part of the campaign?” Kev asks.
“I mean…” I think about it. “I’m getting really good at this stuff.” I laugh. “I never thought I’d like reading polls and planning ground strategy. Never thought I’d understand, much less like politics.”
Kev sits back. “Liking it and being good at it can be mutually exclusive. Before you decide this is the path you want to be on, you need to take a long, hard, honest look around DC at people who do it for a living. You’re a sweet guy, a nice guy. If this is the life you want, more power to you, because yes, you are dedicated, and yes, you have a knack for this.”
The hovering darkness I’d felt growing thicker for months finally makes itself known. “You don’t think I should be here?”
“On the contrary. I think you will be great here, or in politics in general. I think you have the potential for a lucrative, exciting career in politics.” He studies me. “But is that what you want to do?”
“Why?”
“Because I know what Leo hoped would happen hasn’t. I’m not putting my nose in the middle of your relationship. That’s not me. But you and I both know Elliot needs Leo. And Leo’s never walking away from Elliot.”
I slowly twist my hands in my lap without looking at them. “And Elliot’s not warming up to me like that,” I softly say.
We sit there for a moment as I let that settle in the air between us like dust beaten from curtains that have been pulled closed for far too long.
“Has Elliot said anything to you about me?” I finally ask.
Kev shakes his head. “I know Elliot is Leo’s good boy. He’ll do whatever Leo asks of him.”
“Except come out.”
Kev shrugs. “I can’t fault the guy. I’m still technically in the closet. I’m a dirty secret who can take down a presidency, if I make one wrong decision or have a single, stupid misstep. You and I are members of a very exclusive club, in that way. That’s the only reason we’re talking now—because I do know where you’re coming from, in some ways.”
“If I stay, I stay a dirty secret, and I make Elliot miserable in the process.”
“I don’t think you’re making him miserable.”
“I damn sure ain’t makin’ him happy, Kev.”
He smiles. “You can’t make people happy or unhappy. They choose their path.” He plays with his pen before pointing it at me. “If you stay, you need to have a focus besides Leo, or it could make you bitter. That means focusing on your career.” He taps the pen on his desk for emphasis on the last word. “Because if I know Leo Cruz, he’s not going to be happy letting you date anyone, and I know damn well you don’t have time for a hobby.”
I snort. “I don’t want to date anyone else, but you aren’t wrong there, either.” Besides, we have an agreement that it’s only the three of us—me and Leo and Elliot.
Elliot even has standing permission from Leo to use me however he wants, something I fantasized heavily about early on…and an offer Elliot’s never taken advantage of.
Another rejection that doesn’t sting as much now as it used to.
At least, that’s what I tell myself.
“If you stay, then you and I should have an open line of communication over the next couple of years, and even beyond, if you want. I can coach you. Not just about politics, but about managing optics. You’ve learned a lot already. There are even more things you’ll need to know.”
“Like throwing people off the scent and keeping them off it?”
Kev smiles. “Exactly. Among other political warfare tactics.”
I settle back in my chair and think about it for a moment. “If I don’t stay, I should probably leave sooner rather than later.”
“Probably. But I think it’ll break Leo’s heart if you leave.”
“You’re not helping. I thought you were trying to hint I should leave?”
“I’m not trying to confuse you. I’m trying to show you I’m a sounding board. We’re on the same team. That’s why we’re talking. If I thought you should leave, you’d already be gone. Elliot’s going to need Leo. And the only thing out there that could take Elliot down, if he doesn’t come out, is someone stumbling over the three of you. I’m here to help you with managing that.”
Kev chuckles. “In two years, it’s not my problem any longer, but I want to help you as much or as little as you’ll accept.”
When we finish our conversation that afternoon, I return to my office in the East Wing, shut the door, and use my personal cell to call my old department head, Dr. Sently.
You know what happens next.
Now you’re caught up.
Leo wouldn’t let me give him back the key for the apartment or the storage unit. That last afternoon, when I took off the chainmail bracelet Leo had given me as my day collar and I put it in his hand…
I know the tears in his eyes and the agony in his voice will haunt me for the rest of my life.
That I hurt this man who I love almost beyond reason.
Except I love him enough to let him go so I’m not constantly pulling him away from Elliot.
Elliot needs him.
The country needs Elliot.
And it’s obvious Elliot neither needs nor wants me. He damn sure doesn’t love me.
This bitch right here doesn’t need to be hit over the head with a clue-by-four.
Incisive #3
CHAPTER ONE
THEN
Once upon a time, there was a guy with a sister three years younger than him. They were raised by their loving parents on a farm in a rural area of Nebraska.
Which is a redundancy, because most of the danged state is rural area and populated by farmers. Average, ordinary farmers.
One day, for some stupid reason, this guy decided he wanted to be president of the United States. Even more stupidly, he told everyone his plans.
Oh, I should add that this was all long before he eventually realized he was unquestionably gay. As a result, he buried himself deeply in the closet.
Like, Mariana Trench-deep. Because he knew he’d receive negative pushback from his family if he ever came out. If they didn’t disown him outright.
I know, there’s a lot of info missing from my tale. Sorry about that.
Except I’m not so good at telling stories like this and I’m getting a little ahead of myself, aren’t I?
Everyone assumes I’m a doting older brother to my only sibling. Isn’t that how big brothers are supposed to be? Especially with their little sisters. Be loving and loyal, protect and ride-or-die them. Right?
Yeaaah.
See, the problem is to have that kind of dynamic, and for it to be a functional, healthy dynamic, the little sister needs to be a loving, loyal sibling in return.
Otherwise, the guy is just some poor dumb schmuck who keeps getting tossed under the bus by his sister, or used by her and her friends for shits and giggles. Or he’s used by her and her friends to advance their careers.
Until one day the guy finally realizes he’s always going to get the short end of the stick in that relationship, finds his spine, and manages to put his foot down. And keep it there.
Wait. There I go again, getting ahead of myself.
See? I told you I’m not skilled at spinning tales. I enjoy a good story as much as the next guy, but when it comes to the writing of stories I am in no way talented in that department, much less an expert. Damned sure not an author.
That’s why I majored in economics in college and not literature.
I wasn’t much more than a toddler when my parents told me I would soon get a little sister. There was no jealousy on my part to discover I wouldn’t be the only child any longer. Heck, I was looking forward to having someone around to play with and take care of. Mom and Dad told me I was getting to be a big boy, and it’d be my job as her older brother to help look after her.
One of my earliest memories is a neighbor taking me to the hospital where Mom and Dad were, and Dad scooping me into his arms and holding me so I could see the tiny swaddled baby cradled in Mom’s arms where she laid in her hospital bed. When I was older they told me that when I first saw Stella I pointed at her and called her “my” baby.
I helped Mom take care of her as much as she’d let me.
As Stella grew older I guess none of us changed that dynamic. Stella quickly transformed into a spoiled and contrarian kid. Oh, she did chores, because that was one thing my parents were sticklers about. We wouldn’t get out of doing them unless we were literally so sick we couldn’t get out of bed. Farmers don’t have the luxury of taking sick days for piddly crap.
Unfortunately, my baby sister became a master manipulator at a very young age. I think I was maybe seven or eight when I started to realize all the pitifully desperate attention I paid Stella would never be reciprocated. More times than I could ever hope to count I watched her turn on the waterworks in front of our parents and just as easily shut them down again when she thought the coast was clear.
Usually to my detriment, getting her way with our parents and shafting me in the process.
As the years passed Stella only grew sneakier and craftier. Just when I’d think she made a breakthrough and was starting to mature and desire a genuine relationship with me, she’d fuck me over without a second thought.
Or apology.
Like one time when I was fifteen. Stella and her bestie from school, Grace Martin, were horsing around in the living room, practicing cheerleader moves after Mom had specifically told Stella not to do that in the house. Of course as soon as Mom stepped outside they started doing it again. In the process they accidentally broke Mom’s favorite vase.
Stella and Grace blamed it on me, when I hadn’t even been in the house. No, my ass had been outside working in Mom’s garden while those two were supposedly doing homework.
Naturally, I got punished for it.
It was just the latest incident in a running, hidden war between the two of us that for many years I didn’t even realize was being waged at the time.
Stupid me.
Once again, I kept silent about it and didn’t bother protesting my innocence. It wouldn’t have done any good and would have pissed off my parents even more.
Because of course they were going to believe Stella and her best friend, the daughter of the wealthy banker who held the mortgage on their farm, over their own son.
That’s okay. I held that betrayal—along with countless others—in reserve, stuffed deep into the secret well I specially dug to house all my resentment, anger, and other residual emotions left over from our childhood.
I think my sister was happier than I was when I decided to go into politics. It wasn’t easy to keep her and her friends at arm’s length while I served in the Nebraska Unicameral.
When I was elected to my first term in the US House, Stella was going to fly with me to Washington to watch my swearing in. She’d already talked it up to my parents about how excited she was to be going with me, and how proud she was of me.
Keep in mind, this was before I’d even officially extended her an invitation for the trip.
It was also far more care and concern than she showed me after I nearly died on the other side of the world. Although I learned from others she didn’t hesitate to cry about my injuries in front of people when she thought it’d earn her sympathy.
So to cut Stella out of the arrangements at that point would have upset my parents and created a rift I didn’t want to prematurely impose on my relationship with them. Unfortunately, my parents claimed they couldn’t take the time away from their farm but I arranged for them to watch the ceremony via the Internet.
That meant after the travel plans were finalized I told my chronically late younger sister that the charter flight my staff and I were taking left two hours later than it actually did.
Might have told Stella to meet me at the wrong airport, too.
Frankly, I hadn’t smiled so hard in years as I did when we landed in DC and I turned on my phone to find a flurry of first puzzled and then angry texts from my sister.
Of course I didn’t put it in writing when I told her the time and place to catch the charter. Are you nuts?
But for literally the first time in my life I was able to turn something around on my sister and my parents took my side. I mean, obviously, why would I deliberately give Stella the wrong information about something so important? It’s not my fault she was more interested in talking about the outfit she planned to wear than listening to me relay vital details.
Yes, that would totally be Stella and my parents knew it, too. All of Stella’s life she’s gotten things wrong, including dates and times, due to her self-absorption and inattention to details.
Plus I made sure to mention it more than once to my parents how happy I was Stella would be in attendance.
Hey, gaslighting can flow both ways.
If nothing else my sister was a valuable teacher in demonstrating how I didn’t want to conduct myself while in office. Both her and her bestie, Grace Martin, who eventually ended up running for and winning my old US House seat after I became VP. Grace proved even more cut-throat and cunning than my little sister and I often wonder which of them was the more negative influence on the other.
This dysfunctional sibling dynamic we shared also meant I knew there was no way in hell I could ever let Stella—much less Grace—know my secret before I was ready to come out to my parents. She would have wielded it against me like a bloody cudgel.
I suspect Stella and Grace started planning how to use me to their advantage from the moment I filed to run for the House seat. Mostly because neither of them gave a single shit, flying or otherwise, about my life until that moment. They were also eager to leverage their relationship with me without actually doing any, you know, meaningful work to help my campaign.
Stella is, if nothing else, extremely resourceful when it comes to doing as little as possible and yet getting highly paid for it and claiming all the credit for herself. I think that’s why she gravitated toward working in public relations and lobbying. Politics is a natural fit for someone like her, who wants to glom onto the coattails of other people doing, you know, actual work.
Don’t get me wrong, I love my little sister. But I stopped chasing her affection back when we were kids. I think I came to terms with our relationship long before I ever started coming to terms with the fact that I will likely never achieve the level of acceptance and respect and admiration I’m looking for from my father.
No, I don’t know why I can’t yet make peace with that.
Part of it might be because while I’ve seen my father express admiration and respect for others on occasion, I’ve yet to see my sister express a true emotion that didn’t first center on her. Maybe, deep down, part of me still hopes for a miracle with Dad while I know there is no possibility of one with my sister.
Joining ShaeLynn Samuels’ presidential ticket and running as her VP means my life forever changes and jams me under an unpleasant microscope of public scrutiny that’s impossible to escape.
It also means Stella and Grace are more determined than ever to cozy up to me when it suits their purposes. I dodge my sister’s calls and texts several times a week.
At first I manage to conceal the worst of this from Leo, because I know damned well if he takes a stance against Stella to ruin her so she’ll quit bothering me she would stand zero chance against him. Neither would Grace. I don’t necessarily want Stella crushed, because that would hurt Mom and Dad. I just want her—and Grace—to leave me the hell alone and not drag me into their unethical and likely illegal activities.
Only when it becomes apparent that Stella has a more nefarious agenda do I finally limit her in-person access to me. The deciding factor is an impromptu private meeting one bitterly cold November afternoon not long after ShaeLynn’s first presidential election. I’m at my DC House office, where I’m wrapping up a few last details before my term as a US House rep officially ends. This is also well before Grace Martin runs for and is elected to what is about to become my old seat.
Somehow, Stella manages to sweet-talk her way into my office building via her friendship with another congressman’s staffer. Since I stupidly haven’t left orders restricting her access at that point my Secret Service detail admits her.
My gut tightens when Stella appears in the doorway of my inner office.
“Hey, big brother!” she brightly chirps in a tone I also recognize as the precursor to an ask.
Probably a gigantic one.
“What are you doing here? I’m busy.” Throwing her out at this point is useless. Worse than useless, because she’ll no doubt go screaming to any reporter who’ll listen that I evicted her.
Even more annoying, she’ll likely go to our parents and try to enlist their sympathy and support. That means it’s normally easier to prevent her access to me in the first place. Now that she’s here I need to deal with her as quickly as possible.
I make myself a mental reminder to leave orders with my detail to prevent future drop-ins. Especially at my new residence once I’m sworn in as VP.
Stella slips inside and closes my office door behind her while wearing a smile that further tightens my gut because I also know that expression very well. She has an agenda that I’m not going to like.
“I wanted to talk to my brother for a few minutes. What’s wrong with that?”
“Because I’m busy. And you never just want to talk.” I make a show of rifling through a briefing binder. “What do you need? Please make it fast. I’m really busy and in a hurry.”
“You are sooo going to thank me later. I’m fixing you up with a date for the inauguration, and—”
“Nope.”
“At least hear me out!”
“No.” I finally focus on her, shooting her what I hope is a dark glare. “I don’t give a crap who it is. I’m not letting you fix me up with a date for anything. Stop it.”
The hurt shock on her face would make me waver if I didn’t know her tricks. “But it’s Grace Martin!”
“Absolutely not.” I slam the briefing notebook I’m holding onto my desk and take great satisfaction in how she flinches. “I’m not letting you fix me up with anyone. Don’t want your help and don’t need it, either.”
“But she’s single and so are you. You’ve known her for years. Come on, do me a favor, huh?” The return of her sneaky smile tells me all I need to know. “Besides, I already promised her I’d talk to you about it. You know her family has money, and—”
Before I even process I’m doing it, I’m already rounding my desk and getting in Stella’s face, making her scramble back. I drop my voice and muster the best angry Leo impersonation I can.
“Let me make something perfectly clear to you, Stella. I will not let you use me as a political favor vending machine. Now, I love you, and you’re my sister. But if you think you’re going to waltz yourself into the White House on my coattails, think again. Knock it off or I’ll have you banned from all access to me.”
Her eyes widen and from the way she blinks it’s obvious she didn’t expect this reaction. “Sheesh, all right. Calm the hell down, bro. I was trying to do you a favor.”
“Don’t do me any favors. Are we finished here? Or do I need to have Secret Service add you to the no-access list now and save myself eight years of aggravation?”
And I mean it, too. I don’t want to be like that but I won’t put up with this.
Her gaze narrows and she crossed her arms over her chest. “You know I’m friends with a lot of important people, right? And so’s Grace. People who can make or break your career.”
“Are you threatening me? Because if you are, I’ll be happy to call a press conference and blow the whistle on you right now, so help me I will. I’m sure all your ‘friends’ will love seeing you make the news for trying to trade favors. FYI, I didn’t need any help from your so-called friends to get where I am today.” My heart pounds in my chest because I’ve never stood up to her like this before.
She studies me and apparently realizes she’s played her hand too far this time. Holding her hands up, she rolls her fucking eyes at me. “Chill the fuck out, El.”
I reach around her and open the door. With my best smile, and in a loud, cheery tone I know my staffers and the Secret Service agent stationed just outside my office door can hear, I say, “Thanks for stopping by, sis. Love you, too. Sorry I can’t spend time with you but I’m really swamped. I wish you’d called first.”
Her lips press into a grim, thin line as she obviously struggles not to say something that will get her tackled and tased by my protective detail. “Yeah, whatever,” she mutters. Then she turns on her heel and practically stomps out.
Once she’s gone I lean close to the agent just outside my door and speak into his ear. “No one other than my staff, campaign staff, President-elect Samuels, her husband, Kevin Markos, Leo Cruz, or Jordan Walsh make it past the outer door today while I’m here. And I want my sister’s access to campaign headquarters and to my residence revoked immediately until further notice.”
Not that I think Jordan will randomly show up today, but a guy can dream, right?
That’s a whole ’nother complicated emotional issue.
Without even batting an eye the agent nods. “Yes, sir.” He speaks into the microphone concealed under the wrist cuff of his jacket to pass the order on.
I retreat into my office and close the door, taking a moment to lean against it and haul in deep, shaky breaths as adrenaline courses through me.
I don’t know for sure what fuckery Stella is up to but I do know one thing for certain: if given half a chance, she’ll fuck me over to help herself or Grace without a second thought and with zero regrets because Stella has zero love or loyalty for anyone other than herself.
Like hell will I let her.
The only problem is, I don’t know where her next attempt will come from, or what form it’ll take.
Or who will be helping her.
Lesli Richardson is the writer behind the curtain of her better-known pen name, Tymber Dalton (her "wild child" side). She lives in the Tampa Bay region of Florida with her spouse, writer Jon Dalton, and too many pets. When she's not playing D&D with her friends or shooting skeet, she's a part-time Viking shield-maiden in training, among other pursuits. The USA Today Bestselling Author (as Tymber) and two-time EPIC award winner is the author of over two hundred books and counting.
She lives in her own little world, but it's okay, because they all know her there.
She also loves to hear from readers! Please feel free to drop by her website and sign up for updates to keep abreast of the latest news, snarkage, and releases. There you'll also find reading order lists and more information about her different series.
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Incisive #3
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