Summary:
Henley is off-limits for Levar. So why can’t he stay away?
Five years ago, Levar survived a terrorist attack. The bombing left its scars, but he’s picked up his life. He loves working for the vice president—who is openly bisexual—as his press secretary.
Levar can’t afford a pesky attraction that proves to be frustratingly stubborn. Worse, those highly combustible sparks are with the very last person he should be falling for: Henley Platt, a well-known reporter covering the White House.
Henley may not be Levar’s enemy, but he’s definitely not his friend. He can’t be, not when their jobs put them on opposite sides. Henley is absolutely off-limits, even when he shows his appreciation for the sexy lingerie Levar loves to wear.
When the terrorists strike again with a devastating blow to the White House, Levar and Henley lean on each other for support. The sparks become a raging fire that won’t be doused, but what happens if they’re found out?
Press is the first book in the White House Men series, a romantic suspense gay romance series set in the White House. Think The West Wing but gay, and with less politics. Each book has a new love story with a happily ever after, but the suspense plot ends on a cliffhanger and will be continued in the rest of the series, so the series needs to be read in order. Press has 100k words. Strong TW for detailed description of terrorist attack.
Summary:
Seth is so confused. If Coulson is straight, why is he checking Seth out?
Seth is an out and proud Secret Service agent. When he’s asked to assist the FBI on an investigation, he meets FBI agent Coulson.
Coulson is straight. Or so he says. Seth has no reason to doubt that, not even when they become close friends. Really close friends. But that’s all they are: friends.
Until Seth finds himself checking Coulson out a little too closely—especially certain over-sized body parts—and notices Coulson doing the same to him. For someone who’s straight, Coulson shows a lot of interest in Seth’s dating life, his preferences, and his hook ups. Could it be that he’s not so straight after all?
Meanwhile, every discovery they make in their investigation leads to even more questions. Who’s really behind the assassination? How did they pull it off? And most importantly: what are they planning next?
Friends is a friends-to-lovers romance that begins with a slow burn friendship but ends in high steam. The White House Men series is a romantic suspense set in the White House. Like what would happen if The West Wing and The American President had a gay lovechild. Each book has a new love story with a happily ever after, but the suspense plot ends on a cliffhanger and will be continued in the rest of the series, so the series needs to be read in order. Strong TW for detailed description of terrorist attack.
He doesn't just want the friendship or the benefits. He wants it all.
Rhett, the White House photographer, is tired of everyone treating him like he’s fragile. He wants a life of his own. Punch his V-card. A boyfriend.
Making new friends is a good first step, even if it’s with his boss, Calix, who’s fifteen years his senior. Calix is kind and protective, and he encourages Rhett to spread his wings.
When Rhett stumbles, Calix is there to catch him, and what started as friendship, grows into a mutually beneficial arrangement. Friends with benefits. Kind of.
But Calix still mourns his dead husband, so what happens when Rhett wants to extend their arrangement…indefinitely? He doesn't just want the friendship or the benefits. He wants it all.
Meanwhile, the investigation continues, and the plot gets more and more complicated…and more dangerous. How far will the terrorists go to accomplish their goal?
Click is an MM romance with hurt/comfort, an age gap, a sweet virgin, and a friends with benefits arrangement. It’s the third book in the White House Men series, a romantic suspense series set in the White House, that needs to be read in order. Click ends with a happily ever after, but the suspense plot ends on a cliffhanger and will be continued in the rest of the series.
Press #1
Prologue
“This is Levar Cousins, reporting live from the New York Pride Parade. As you can see, the weather is beautiful on this June day, the sky blue and the temperature a crisp seventy-two degrees with a slight breeze. But the parade itself is burning hot with some of the best participants and the biggest floats yet to come. Here’s a quick recap of last year’s highlights.”
Levar kept smiling until Claire, the assistant producer, told him through his earpiece they were off the air. He quickly dabbed his forehead with a cotton handkerchief, then took a sip of water.
God, he loved New York. The fast pace was in sharp contrast with the California laid-back atmosphere he’d grown up in, but he’d adapted quickly. This city truly never slept, and something was always happening. But nothing brought out the exuberant flamboyance of Greenwich Village like the Pride Parade.
The streets were packed, the crowds ten rows deep alongside the route of the parade. The rainbow was everywhere from flags to shirts, hats, body paint, and more, and Levar basked in the celebration. One day a year, he’d let himself believe that equality was achievable, that someday soon, they’d manage to eradicate homophobia and transphobia.
“You’re doing great,” Robert, his cameraman, said over the sound of the tinny music in the background as he plucked a bit of confetti out of his hair.
“Thanks. At least it’s not in the nineties, like last year.”
They smiled at each other in mutual understanding. They’d both been there last year, though Levar had participated, not reported on it. After covering five parades as a cameraman, Robert was a veteran, and Levar was grateful to be working with him. Robert had given him some good pointers already, a welcome reprieve from the hostility he often got from others at the station.
Was it his ambition and the fact that he’d gotten a lucky break early on in his career and landed this gig? Or was it mixed in with low-key homophobia? He suspected that for all its corporate blah-blah about diversity and inclusivity, the station still had a long way to go before those lofty words would become day-to-day reality.
“Fifteen seconds to live,” Claire warned him, and Levar wiped his mouth, then quickly checked his shirt, as had become his habit. He was wearing a light blue shirt that made his eyes look extra blue, and as a bonus, it also highlighted he was in good shape. Vain? Maybe, but he didn’t care. He was on TV, so damn right he wanted to look good. Besides, every time he’d worn that shirt, he’d scored a hookup, so clearly, it worked. His best friend, Rhett, had called it his get-laid shirt, and he wasn’t wrong. Claire counted off the last three seconds, and Levar’s smile was camera-ready.
“I’m excited to see this year’s outfits, floats, and signs, and we have the perfect spot to view, right across from the Stonewall Inn, where the infamous Stonewall Riots broke out that birthed the pride movement.”
He waited as Robert slowly panned to the right, showing the inn.
“Because for all the fun and extravaganza of the Pride Parade, let’s not forget the battle for equality that started it…and that’s still going on. At the core, Pride is as much a protest as it is a celebration.”
There, he snuck that one right in. One point for the gay agenda. His boss might get on his case about it, but if they hadn’t wanted a personal opinion mixed in, they shouldn’t have sent in a gay reporter. And a gay cameraman, he thought as Robert panned back to him. Too bad Levar had a firm policy on doing coworkers, or he’d hit that hard. Or maybe let Robert hit him hard. The man looked like he knew what he was doing, and it had been a while since Levar had experienced a good dicking. The kind that left him slightly sore the day after.
“This year, the organization has chosen to spread out the most extravagant participants throughout the parade, and we’ve seen some amazing floats already. If you’re just tuning in now, we’re about to see familiar groups that participate every year, including the NYPD, the NYFD, the employees from the city, and many more. It’s—"
BOOM!
The deafening blast stunned him, but then a force coming from behind him knocked him off his feet. He went flying forward, slamming into Robert and crashing down with him. His body smashed into the pavement, and for a second or two, he couldn’t breathe, his lungs refusing to fill. Breathe. His ears were ringing so loud he couldn’t hear anything else.
Breathe, dammit. Breathe!
Finally, he sucked air in with a gasp, his lungs aching as they expanded. He blinked a few times, but his vision remained hazy. Smoke. Something was burning. The sharp smell stung his nose, making his eyes water.
What the fuck had happened? The music had stopped, and instead, keening and crying drifted in the air, muffled through the ringing in his ears that hadn’t subsided yet. People were shouting, screaming, sobbing. He grunted in pain as he moved.
Robert. Was he okay?
“Levar…Levar!” Claire yelled in his earpiece. Had her voice always been that shrill? God, his head hurt.
He groaned in response. “I’m here.”
“What’s happening? We can hear you and see you, but we took you off the air. Are you okay? And Robert?”
Levar pushed himself up onto his knees. White-hot pain lit up his right wrist, and he cried out. “Fucking hell!”
“Are you hurt?” Claire shouted
Why was she shouting? He shook his head, but it didn’t clear his vision, which remained blurry.
Someone moaned. Close by. Robert. Levar crawled toward him on his knees, holding his wrist against his chest. Was it broken? “Robert! Are you okay?”
Finally, his eyes lost the blurriness. The explosion had thrown the cameraman against the iron fence they’d been filming in front of, the one around Christopher Park. He was lying like a raggedy doll amid blackened debris from god knew what, his left arm bent at a weird angle, clearly broken. He must’ve tried to brace himself. His eyes were open, and when Levar reached him, he grunted. “I’m alive. Everything hurts, but I’m alive. What the fuck happened?”
They looked at each other, and their eyes widened at the same time. “A bomb,” Levar said way too loud, his ears still ringing. “That was a bomb.”
A bombing. And he was here, with a camera. A switch flipped in his brain. “Claire, we’re okay. You said you still have our feed? Video and audio?
“Yes. We’ve been rolling B-tape the whole time. Are you good to go?”
Levar didn’t hesitate. “Yes. Robert’s arm is broken, though, so I don’t know if—“
“I can do it,” Robert cut him off. “Gimme a few moments.”
Levar pushed himself up, his legs shaky but holding. With his good arm, he pulled Robert up. Thank fuck it was him and not two-hundred-eighty-pound built-like-a-truck Martin, who he usually worked with. Robert winced, but he quickly lifted the camera, wiped off the lens, and hoisted it onto his shoulder.
“Video check?”
“Levels are good,” Claire said.
“Audio?”
Levar picked up the mic he’d dropped. “Testing one, two, three.”
“Audio isn’t perfect, but good enough. You boys ready?”
“You’re bleeding.” Robert gestured at Levar’s neck.
Levar touched it and came away with bloody fingers. “How bad is it?”
Robert stepped closer and studied it for a moment. “It’s a gash. Looks like you’ll need stitches, but you’re not bleeding out anytime soon.”
“Stitches can wait,” Levar decided. “Do we know anything yet, Claire?”
“No, but we’re on it. Police scanners are going nuts, but nothing concrete yet. I’ll keep you posted.”
Rhett.He’d been on assignment, taking pictures. Was he okay? Please, let him be okay. He’d have to text him right after.
He breathed out slowly. “Okay. I'm ready.”
He checked himself out of habit, his breath hitching when he took in his shirt, now spattered with blood, probably from that gash, and with dirt. It would have to do. He was alive, dammit. Nothing else mattered right now.
“Live in five, four, three…”
“This is Levar Cousins, reporting live from the New York Pride Parade, where an unknown explosion just rocked through the crowd here across the Stonewall Inn. We don’t know what happened, but we’ll show you what we’re seeing.”
BOOM!
Another blast hit from farther away, but Levar almost lost his footing. He frantically grabbed a traffic sign to hold on to. The camera shook as Robert struggled to stay up as well. “That was another explosion!” Levar shouted over the wails that rose around him.
He had to ignore them. If he didn’t, if he let the sheer agony in those screams get to him, he wouldn’t be able to do his job. And the world needed to see what was happening here.
“This one seems to have come from our right, farther down the parade route. We don’t have any confirmation yet of what’s going on, but people are panicking and trying to get out of here.”
He turned around, and as the smoke cleared, he got his first look at the site of the initial explosion. His breath caught in his lungs, and he stood frozen, unbelieving as he took in the carnage.
And then the third bomb went off.
* * *
Henley Platt shook his head,but the ringing in his ears wouldn’t subside. That would be sure to give him a migraine for days, he thought, then wanted to slap himself for the stupidity of that line of thinking. People had died, and he was worried about a migraine?
Get it together. Take a deep breath.
Around him, panic had erupted, and even with the loud beeping tone still wrecking his ears, the screams came through loud and clear. God, the screams. People were dying, suffering, in pain. Yelling, wailing, shouting. A stampede. People pushing each other, falling, picking each other up, then pushing some more. Burning confetti was raining down on him, and he brushed it off with slow, painful moves.
He had to get out of the way, or he’d get run over. He crawled to the side, careful not to cut himself on the broken glass all around him. As far as he could see, the blast had knocked out all the store windows. Some frames too, doors half-hinged, and windows sills half-caved in.
He found shelter in a doorway. God, his body hurt. And his ears. Okay, self-check. He took another deep breath, then ran his hands over his body. His palms were bleeding, as were his knees. The second blast had propelled him forward onto his hands and knees. He’d scraped off the skin, but the wounds were superficial. Bloody and dirty, but not serious. His wrists hurt, but he could still move them. Not broken, then. He hadn’t hit his head, so that was good.
His bag seemed okay, but then again, he’d paid almost as much for it as for the camera inside because it was guaranteed to withstand anything, according to the manufacturer. Well, if it had survived this, he’d write them a damn thank-you note and suggest they’d promote the bag as bombproof. He opened it. His camera looked undisturbed. Thank fuck for that.
He closed the bag again, then pushed himself up, letting out a curse at the pain that shot through his hands and wrists, but he made it up. He swayed, so he grabbed the doorpost and held on until the dizziness had passed. His ears finally stopped ringing, and the other noises came in much louder now. More screams. Moans. Crying. People shouting at each other, yelling, asking questions no one knew the answers to.
Something buzzed in his pocket. His phone. He pulled it out, cursing again at his stupid wrist, then accepted the call. His editor. “Henley, are you okay?”
He’d never heard the veteran editor like this, almost panicked. “I’m alive, Julie. Minor scrapes and bruises. What do we know?”
“It’s okay to take a moment and—”
“I’m good. I promise. Tell me what you know.”
“Three blasts. The first one right in front of the Stonewall Inn, the second two minutes later about 900 yards up the route, and the third one a minute after that 900 yards in the other direction. Where are you?”
“Crossing of 7th, 4th, and Christopher, close to Christopher Station. How many dead?”
“They don’t know, but Channel 11 has a news reporter on the scene who’s been reporting live since right before the second blast, and the carnage is such that they’ve switched to a thirty-seconds-delayed broadcast to blur out the worst. It’s… It’s bad.”
His mom. She knew he was going to the parade. She’d be scared to death if she saw the breaking news and the reports. And she’d watch because she always has the TV on. “Julie, can you ask someone to call my mom and tell her I’m okay? Number is in my personnel file.”
“On it.”
She called out to someone and repeated the request. Good. That was taken care of. He hated worrying his mom. She’d suffered enough for a lifetime.
He took a deep breath and forced all thoughts of his mom down. He had a job to do. “I was a hundred feet or so from the second bomb. It knocked me off my feet, but I got lucky because an NYPD armored vehicle shielded me, taking the direct force of the blast.”
The truck, once so imposing, was now a blackened, dented wreck, looking gloomy and apocalyptic.
“Thank god. Henley, can you report? Are you able to do your work? I know you’re off today, but—”
“Yeah. I hurt my wrists, though, so I’m not sure I can write anything.”
“Don’t worry about that. Is your phone battery charged?”
He let out a short laugh. “Always, boss. You trained me well. Backup charger in my bag.”
“You have a camera on you?”
“Yeah. Brought my Nikon to take pics of the parade. I don’t have my big zoom with me because it was too damn heavy to lug around all day, but I should be good.”
“All right. Get your camera ready and shoot as much as you can. Put on your headset, stuff your phone into your pocket, and talk. We’ll record the call, and André will work with you on this. Your name will be first in the byline.”
“I don’t even care, Julie.”
“You will a few days from now. Do your job, Henley. We’ll listen.”
He took a deep breath. Okay. He could do this. He’d never been fond of live reporting and hadn’t done it in ages, but he had experience. All he needed to do was shift his head into the right gear, turn his emotions off, and become a reporter, an observer. He opened his bag again and lifted the camera out, then took off the lens cap and put it in his left front pocket. Thank fuck he’d decided to bring his camera when he’d made plans to attend the parade.
His wrists protested against the weight of the camera and the moving around, but he pushed down the pain. They weren’t broken, so it wasn’t an emergency. Whatever was wrong with them would have to wait. Work came first now. He closed the camera bag again, locked his phone, and stuffed that into his right front pocket. Showtime.
“I’m walking toward the site of the third blast. People are still running away.” He checked his watch. “It’s been six minutes now since the third explosion, so I think we’re all hoping this was it. The armored vehicle in front of me took the full hit of the blast, shielding me and the NYPD officers inside it. The streets are littered with glass from broken windows and all kinds of debris.”
He swallowed. “I…I see the first wounded. It’s chaos here, but amid all that, people are helping each other. A few feet from me lies a man, a participant in the parade, judging by his outfit. His right lower leg has been ripped off. Someone’s using his belt to make a tourniquet.”
“911 is getting flooded with calls,” Julie said. “They’re trying to get to everyone, but with so many people there and three different bomb sites, it’s gonna take emergency services a while to get through.”
Sirens wailed in the distance, the piercing sound only adding to the surreal atmosphere. What had been a joyous celebration only minutes before was now a…a gruesome, harrowing wreckage. The city that had once been home to him now felt like a war zone. The usual sounds of traffic were missing, the honking horns, cab drivers yelling, and the beep-beep of delivery trucks backing up.
Even the smell was off. Wrong. New York always smelled of exhaust fumes, a strangely comforting scent that Henley associated with being home, but now his nose was filled with smoke, whips of sharp, toxic odors…and the nauseating stench of burnt flesh.
He took a steadying breath. “I see a few first responders. They must’ve been stationed here as one of the first aid posts for the Parade.”
He kept walking, describing what he saw and taking a ton of pictures. When he got closer to the blast site, his stomach roiled. “I can’t even guess how many have been killed, but…bodies are lying in the streets, some of them missing limbs.”
A lean man sat on the sidewalk, dressed in a pair of jeans shorts and an “I’m his” T-shirt that had once been white but was now covered with bloodstains. In his arms lay a big man, lifeless, his broad, naked, furry chest showing large wounds and copious amounts of blood. Henley was no doctor, but no way was that man still alive.
“Matthew, Matthew…” the lean guy wailed as he held his boyfriend or husband close.
Henley swallowed as he watched them through his lens, taking multiple pictures. He felt like a vulture preying on death, but he had to. It was his job to present the news, no matter how horrible it was. Across the street, another photographer, holding a camera with a much bigger zoom lens, shot pictures of the two men as well. They lowered their cameras at the same time. Henley didn’t recognize him, but that didn’t mean anything. He raised his hand in acknowledgment, and the other guy did the same.
“Many people have large chest wounds.” He picked back up his report. “Either from the direct blast or flying objects as a result of the explosion. Head wounds, lots of injuries to limbs, legs especially. People are taking off shirts and ripping them into pieces to use as temporary bandages.”
He lifted his camera again, clicking away. Praise Jesus for digital cameras. “The glass has been knocked out of the windows in the whole area. Thank god I’m wearing sturdy boots, or the glass would cut straight through my soles. I’m now close to the blast site, about thirty feet away.”
“Can you tell where and how the bomb was positioned?”
“No. The FBI and the ATF will have to send forensic experts to determine that. There’s nothing left here. Everything is leveled. The…the pavement is stained with blood, as are the buildings. People have been smashed into the walls.”
“Henley…” Julie’s voice was filled with horror. Thankfully, she left it at that because he wasn’t sure he could’ve held it together had she shown more sympathy. He had a job to do, and that required disabling his emotions. He’d grieve later, whenever that was.
“I see the first cops. They’re cordoning off the blast site, which seems smart if they want to preserve evidence. Hold on. Let me take some more pics.”
He kept walking, painting the horror he was witnessing, and often stopping to record the scene with his camera. “People are helping each other. Right now, I’m watching a guy coordinating a group of people who want to help, telling them what to do.” He raised his camera, zooming in a little to get a better view. The guy looked familiar. He took a picture, then zoomed in a little more. “It’s Senator Shafer, the Democratic senator for Massachusetts. He was walking in the parade today.”
“Can you get his reaction?” Julie asked.
Henley hesitated as he lowered his camera. “He’s saving lives, Julie. I’m not comfortable diverting his attention. People are literally dying in the streets.”
“I trust your judgment, Henley. Your call. We can always contact him later for a statement.”
Henley kept watching the senator as he pointed at people and gave them a job to do. It was an amazing sight to see and a classic example of natural leadership.
“This guy is destined for more,” he said to himself.
“What did you say?” Julie asked.
“Nothing. Just a… Nothing.”
He went back to work, reporting on the horror that would become known as the New York Pride Bombing.
Friends #2
Prologue
Seth Rodecker was as excited as could be for his first Pride Parade in New York City. He’d walked his fair share of parades, but never here, at the birthplace of the Pride movement. Stonewall…even the name gave him chills. Brave people had fought here for equal rights, for freedom. New York was where it had all begun. This city was something else, indeed.
A burst of colors surrounded him. People, signs, banners, and balloons—in every color of the rainbow. Energy buzzed in the air, participants in the parade laughing and talking, admiring each other’s outfits and decorations.
He tried not to show how stoked he was to be here, not wanting to appear too childishly psyched in the company of the other federal law enforcement agents. They all worked for government agencies with a wide variety of acronyms. He didn't even ask, knowing some of them wouldn't be allowed to share what they did anyway. He was the only one representing the Secret Service, but it was a start.
“Damn, Rodecker, you’re wearing a suit?”
Seth slowly turned around as he widened his arms and did a semispin to show off his navy suit, grinning at Paul Roof, an FBI agent he’d hung out with several times. “I’m a Secret Service agent, Roof. If I go to work in anything else than a suit, my boss will saddle me with the shittiest assignments you can think of for the next three months. And just out of spite, he might do it if he spots me on my day off without one as well, so nope, I’ll wear the damn suit. And look, isn’t my rainbow tie cute?”
Paul shook his head, laughing. “Nothing about you is cute, Rodecker. I swear to Christ, cute is about the last word that comes to mind when I think about you.”
Seth winked at him. “But at least you do admit to thinking of me.”
“More like having nightmares.”
“You mean about the time I beat you on the shooting range? I know, that hurt.”
“You didn’t beat me on the… Fuck you, Rodecker.”
Seth trailed his eyes over the agent. Paul was attractive, with a lean, tight body, but he wasn’t Seth’s type. Seth had specific demands. Big requirements that Paul couldn’t fulfill. Luckily, in the two years he’d now lived in New York, he’d found enough bed partners to satisfy his needs. “Nah, but thanks for offering.”
Paul rolled his eyes. “I walked straight into that one.”
“Damn right.”
It felt good to let his guard down. His monthly LEO Pride meetings, the local chapter of LGBTQ+ law enforcement officers, were the only times when he could be himself in a group other than his family. And even then, he was always aware he was a federal agent and represented his agency. “Worthy of Trust and Confidence,” the Secret Service motto rang, and he’d vowed to live a life true to that lofty promise.
Being one of the few openly gay Secret Service agents wasn’t easy, and that was the understatement of the decade. He’d known that when he’d applied, had been told in no uncertain terms that he’d be a trailblazer when they hired him, and now, two years in, he’d lived it. He had to walk a fine line. He’d caught a lot of flak already, and while most of it had been contained to whispered remarks and some homophobic jokes, he wasn't stupid enough to invite more by pushing his boundaries. It was what it was, all part of the job. Then again, it hadn’t been any different in the Las Vegas Police Department or working for the DA’s office. LGBTQ+ folks might have equal rights on paper, but that didn’t mean they were treated the same. Not yet. One day, hopefully, and that was why he walked the parade.
“You ready?” Paul asked.
“Ready as I’ll ever be.”
“God, you’ll be cooking in that suit,” Gaby, a very pregnant DEA agent who Seth adored, commented.
“You’re cooking as well,” he said with a laugh, pointing at her protruding front.
She rubbed her belly. “Six more weeks and this little girl will be done cooking. Her mama and I can’t wait to meet her.”
“She’s lucky with you as parents. I grew up with a super accepting dad, and let me tell you, it made all the difference.”
They lined up behind the banner one of them had made. “Proud Federal Agents” it read in big black letters on a white banner decorated with a ton of rainbow flags. While it wasn’t highly creative, it did convey the message, and it certainly fit their image. Extravaganza wasn’t exactly compatible with what they did for a living.
Being outside on a sunny, glorious day like this was a treat in itself and not one Seth could enjoy that often, as his work kept him plenty busy. Most people who thought of the Secret Service immediately reasoned he was on the protective detail of the president or the first lady, but Seth worked for the New York office. He did protective duties occasionally, especially for big sessions of the UN, but he mostly focused on analyzing letters, emails, phone calls, and every other type of communication that flowed through the Secret Service’s PIAD, the Protective Intelligence and Assessment Division. He loved it—analyzing information had always been his thing—but he was hoping to get a spot on a protective detail soon.
They waved at the crowds, smiled, and chatted amicably with each other as they walked, sometimes shouting to get heard over the loud music and the cheering. Gaby had told Seth their group was bigger than last year by ten percent. Progress. Agonizingly slow as it was, it still counted as progress.
The float in front of them moved at a snail’s pace, and as the parade meandered its way toward the Stonewall Inn, Seth was indeed boiling hot. He ignored it, like he always did. Mind over matter. He didn’t know any other way.
He’d spent countless hours standing outside in the sun when he was put on protective detail duty, sweating his ass off while not only wearing a suit but also a covert vest. They were warm, somewhat cumbersome, even though they were tailor made, and at times, annoying as fuck, but like anything else that was part of the job, one got used to it. Hell, he was wearing one even now, and he was technically off duty. Force of habit, really, and one his supervisor, the legendary agent Dan “the Man” Miller, had drilled into him.
“Don’t ever make me lose a fucking agent because you can’t be bothered to wear your vest. I swear I will kill you all over again myself,” Dan had threatened, and Seth had taken those words seriously.
"You’re Seth, right?" a tall guy next to him asked him, interrupting his musings. "I think that's how I recall you introducing yourself. Secret Service?”
Seth nodded. "That's me. Sorry, I don't remember your name."
The guy laughed, revealing a pair of pearly white teeth, almost blinding. "Clearly, I need to work on making a better first impression. I'm Frank Priest, FBI. I haven’t seen you at the parade before.”
He was flirting, huh? Seth took him in quickly as he shook his hand. His smile was nice enough, but again, not his type. He’d become picky, considering how little time he had to hook up. When he did, it had damn well better be satisfying. Not that he would tell Frank that. No need to antagonize people he might be working with later.
"It's my first time," Seth said.
Frank bumped his shoulder. "No worries. We’ll be gentle when we pop your cherry."
Oh my god, if the jokes already descended to that level this early in the day, it was going to be a long parade. Still, he smiled and winked at Frank. "This virgin very much appreciates it."
Frank did a thorough look down Seth's body. "Something tells me you’re not a virgin in every way…”
Seth barely resisted the temptation to roll his eyes. Subtle, the guy wasn't. But maybe this was the New York culture he still hadn't gotten used to? Las Vegas might be Sin City, and he’d certainly scored enough hookups there, but New Yorkers were a breed all in themselves. He was still on the fence on whether he appreciated the directness that bordered on aggressiveness sometimes.
"Something tells me you aren't either," he flirted back because why not? He might as well have some fun. He could’ve made a joke about the guy’s last name, but he let it go. Too easy.
"What are the odds of you and me having a more private celebration after the parade?”
Damn, the guy moved fast. Seth smiled at him to soften the blow as he shook his head. "Sorry, not hooking up with fellow federal agents. Sooner or later, we may have to work together, so it's asking for trouble."
"Damn.” Frank sighed. "I hate it when I get rejected for such a totally reasonable reason. Makes it hard to argue with you."
Seth shrugged. "I'd suggest you don't try, then. Besides, once I've made up my mind, I'm not going to change it anyway."
“Leave him alone, Priest. You’re not his type,” Paul said good-naturedly, but his tone held an edge of steel that Seth could appreciate. Frank, too, apparently, because he left Seth’s side.
“Thanks,” Seth said when Frank had dropped farther to the back.
Paul waved his hand. “No worries. He can be a little too direct and aggressive, but he’s a good guy.”
As they continued, Seth scanned the crowds out of habit as much as out of curiosity. Seeing so many families along the route warmed him. Moms with kids, even babies in strollers, dads carrying their children on their shoulders. He was walking for them to show them what was possible. They’d break the ceilings, smash through the barriers that were still there. They’d blaze the trail for the next generation and the one after that, all so that one day, no one even cared anymore who you loved.
His eyes caught a young man who stood on the sidewalk, watching the parade as it crawled by. He looked out of place. Out of habit, Seth took in his appearance. He was five five, maybe five six, around twenty years old. Slender build, one forty-five pounds, give or take. Black unstyled hair, brown eyes, a darker brown complexion that could’ve been Indian. Nothing about the cutoff jeans and white shirt with a rainbow he was wearing stood out, and neither did his rainbow Converse Seth glimpsed between the feet of dozens of others.
And yet…something was off. A warning tingle shivered down Seth’s spine, a foreboding he’d learned not to ignore. Seth narrowed his eyes, not looking away. What was he picking up on? It took him a second in this uncommon environment.
The guy’s hands. The hands always gave it away.
They were balled into fists, the force so strong his arms and shoulders were rigid from the muscle tension. He seemed angry. No, not angry. His eyes were darting from the crowd to the end of the float. He was nervous. Why? People were happy, celebrating. Cheering. Waving flags. This guy wasn’t.
Seth stopped walking, and Gaby barely avoided bumping into him, holding on to him to keep her balance.
“Hey, Seth, watch where—“
Seth held up his hand to cut her off, and then the young man spotted him. His eyes went wide, and even from fifteen feet away, Seth noticed him paling.
Oh god. Instincts kicked in, and he did what he’d done a thousand times, what had been drilled into him by countless hours of training. He followed the suspect’s eyes, which jerked from Seth toward the float in front of them.
BOOM!
The massive explosion came from farther up the route, shaking the ground under their feet. Seth had his Sig Sauer in his hand before he even realized it, his body flooding with adrenaline. What had happened? An explosion. Too heavy for fireworks, for gunfire. A bomb? It had to be.
Oh god, oh god, oh god.
“What the hell was that?” Paul called out, and within seconds, the relaxed postures in their group had changed. More guns came out, and they automatically formed a unit, their backs toward each other, their guns pointing outward.
Seth scanned his surroundings, his whole body on high alert, the adrenaline still pumping through his veins. People were yelling, looking confused and scared. The float in front of them had stopped completely now. In the distance, smoke rose…and so did screams.
The guy on the sidewalk. He was somehow connected to this.
Seth whipped back around, his eyes searching for the young man he’d spotted right before the explosion. He was gone. Seth searched methodically. He’d been there seconds before. He couldn’t be far away. Somehow, he was the key to what was happening. His mind pictured him perfectly, and he kept scanning the masses of people, now running, pushing, and shoving, panicking to get away.
“Call it in,” Gaby snapped at Paul, who had his phone in his hand.
There.Amid a sea of colorful participants and spectators, Seth found the white shirt of the guy he’d spotted…racing away at high speed.
He sprang into motion.
“Seth?” Gaby called out.
“Suspect!” he called over his shoulder, then pushed his way through the panicking crowd. He wasn’t too gentle as he shoved people aside. The guy looked over his shoulder, visibly shaken when he spotted Seth.
“Stop! Federal agent!” Seth called out, but his voice got lost in the noise around him.
“Seth!”
Gaby had followed him, her gun still drawn, her eyes sharp as she elbowed her way toward him. Seth didn’t slow down to wait for her. He couldn’t let this guy get away. Somehow, he was involved.
Unexpectedly, the guy stopped running, turned around, and looked at Seth…then passed him. What was he staring at? Gaby? No. Seth followed his eyes. The float. He was staring at the float the federal agents had walked behind. Why?
Seth froze just as the guy sprinted away again. This time, Seth didn’t follow.
A bomb. There was a second one.
Before the thought had even fully formed, his mouth opened. “Gun! Gun!”
Everyone around him dove to the ground, their training kicking in, except for Seth, who stood tall and made himself as broad as possible. Secret Service agents didn’t seek cover. They protected. “Bomb!” he yelled at the top of his lungs. “Get down!”
And then he dove too, covering Gaby with his body. A second later, the float exploded, knocking him out cold instantly.
Five hours after the explosion, while Seth was still in surgery, Gaby gave birth to a healthy, if prematurely born baby girl. She named her Rody, after the man who’d saved her life by shielding her mom…and by wearing a damn vest that had caught the shrapnel that might’ve killed him otherwise.
* * *
Coulson Padman’s heart was pounding as he got closer to the blast site. The siren on top of his Bu-ride blared, the flashing blue lights reflecting in the window. But even with those, he still couldn’t go fast. The streets were crowded with people who’d fled from the scene. They looked dazed and in shock, their colorful outfits a sharp contrast to their tear-stricken faces. But they’d survived at least.
Three hours after the last bomb had gone off, he’d been cleared to visit the scene. As soon as he’d heard about a mass casualty incident, he’d rushed to the EOC, the Emergency Operations Center, where all senior leadership had gathered to run the investigation. He’d taken it upon himself to bring some supplies to the incident commanders at the scene, taking the opportunity to see the devastation for himself.
The NYPD had officially transferred jurisdiction to the FBI after having done a phenomenal job as first responders. They’d worked well with the EMTs, NYFD, and medical volunteers already on the scene, as well as everyone else who’d been called in. Within thirty minutes after the last bomb, all wounded had been transported from the scene. Triage had functioned perfectly, the most critically wounded had been transported first, and the initial reports from the hospitals were positive. All the training the city had done on emergency response had paid off. Unified Command had been in place from the get-go, and everyone had worked well together.
The scene had now been secured, thoroughly swiped for more explosives, and it was time for the second phase: finding the bastards who’d done this. He mentally prepared himself for what he would see. Three bombs. Hundreds of people hurt. The first estimate was at least a hundred dead. A battle zone. It would look like a battle zone. He’d studied enough footage of other mass casualty incidents to know what to expect.
He flashed his FBI badge to the NYPD officers trying to keep people at a distance, their faces tight and ashen. One officer took a barricade aside to let him through. “Good luck,” he said. “Go get those bastards. Show them we’re New York tough.”
Coulson nodded. This was his city, goddammit. They’d survived 9/11 and had come back stronger. They’d survive this too. “Yes, we are.”
Another deep breath. Focus.
He stopped his car just outside of the scene’s perimeter, blatantly parking on the sidewalk. No one would ticket him today. The first thing that hit him when he walked toward the scene was the relative silence—no loud, pumping music, no cheering spectators. Instead, sirens still wailed in the distance, dropping off the last wounded, and closer by, people were shouting orders.
Working on this investigation was, in all likelihood, the most important job he’d ever do in his life, and he wouldn’t fuck it up. All his years working in the terrorism unit of the FBI had prepared him for this.
When he turned the corner, he came to a full stop, and his breath caught in his lungs. He’d been right. It did look like a battle zone. A smoldering, blackened battlefield where debris littered the ground, where red stains painted the concrete, where remnants of banners and flags, of shoes and clothes, lay on the ground, dirty. Empty strollers lined the sidewalk, some toppled over, purses and diaper bags still hanging from them, parents having taken off with their babies in their arms. People had run for their lives. How many had never made it out?
He straightened his shoulders. Time to do his job. He put on booties and gloves, then went to find Blake Edwards, the Incident Commander. He was talking to a group of people, and Coulson waited until he was done.
“Coulson, glad to see ya,” Blake said, eagerly taking the bottle of water Coulson held out to him and downing it in a few big gulps.
“How are things progressing?” Coulson asked.
“According to plan. We’ve secured the perimeter and have cordoned it off. NYPD is providing manpower to keep people out.”
Coulson let out a tired sigh. People wanted to get access to what they had left behind—purses, backpacks, strollers. Coulson understood, but the answer was no. Not until they had cataloged and examined everything. The NYPD officers had the ungrateful task of making that clear. Then again, they were New York cops, used to their fair share of verbal abuse—unfortunately.
“We’ve started preserving evidence,” Blake continued.
“What’s the weather forecast?”
“Clear overnight and partially clouded tomorrow with a slight breeze. No rain in the forecast for the next forty-eight hours. That means we’ll be able to preserve the evidence without rushing.”
Coulson nodded. “Good. We have teams from Boston and DC coming in tonight and more forensic teams from other cities tomorrow.”
“We’re gonna need all hands. All hospitals have been contacted and know that any shrapnel they remove from patients should be collected and cataloged. They know, but we figured it couldn’t hurt to remind them and stress the importance of a clear chain of custody.”
Coulson couldn’t agree more. It wouldn’t be the first time crucial evidence wasn’t admissible in court because of sloppy work.
“All teams have been put to work on victim interviews, collecting camera footage and cell phones, and of course, working the scene,” Blake said.
“I see the roadwork lights have arrived?”
Blake nodded. “The city is getting us more, but these are enough for now.”
“Anything else you need right now?”
“Not that I can think of other than the spare batteries you brought.”
Coulson put a hand on his shoulder. “Godspeed, Blake.”
Coulson walked around, making sure not to get in the way of anyone. Technically, he had no reason to be here, and yet he wanted to take the scene in with his own eyes. Get his own first impressions.
The wounded had all been transported to hospitals, but some of the dead remained. They had been covered with sheets as much as possible, but even then, the utter desolation and horror of the scene around him were impossible to ignore. He almost tripped over a torn-off foot, taking even more care after that where he put his feet.
Forensic teams were working the scene systematically. They had taken pictures and videos first, then spray-painted orange grids on the pavement and the street, dividing it into numbered squares. They worked each square, collecting all evidence and bagging it, carefully labeling it with the grid number.
It had grown quiet around them, the solemn atmosphere only interrupted by ringing cell phones left behind at the scene. The sounds were eerie in the night when everyone worked in heavy, oppressive silence that spoke of death and mourning, of loss and tragedy.
Coulson’s lungs hurt from the fumes that still hung in the air. Smoke, lingering traces of smoldering plastic and probably a ton of toxic materials he preferred not to think about, and worst of all, burnt flesh. He turned off all emotions, locking them deep inside him. He couldn’t allow them to surface because if he did, he wouldn’t be able to do his job.
“Agent Padman?”
He turned around. A uniformed NYPD officer showed him his badge. “Yes.”
“I’m Detective Gus Myers. I’m with the Joint Terrorism Task Force. We’ve met before, but I wasn’t sure if—”
“Yeah, I remember. Glad you’re here, Detective.” He took in his disheveled appearance. “You okay?”
“I was near the blast site of the third bomb, working. My ears are still ringing somewhat, so my apologies if I’m talking too loud.”
Coulson waved his hand. “All good. Any initial observations you can share?”
“Based on the blast pattern, that third bomb was in one of the floats, so it was either remotely detonated or on a timer. This was not a homemade, pressure cooker-type bomb like in Boston. This was much bigger and stronger. My first association was Oklahoma City.”
Coulson frowned, even as dread pooled in his stomach. Could it be domestic? Were they looking at another Unabomber? “You have special expertise in explosive devices?”
“Yeah. I was an explosive ordnance disposal specialist in the army. Multiple tours.”
He knew what he was talking about, then. “The ATF will do an analysis, of course, but let’s assume you’re correct. The bombers would’ve had to transport it into the city. Store it somewhere. You said you think the third bomb was on the float? Which one?”
“Club 69, the gay sex club. They had a large float, pulled by a truck.”
“I’ll let Command know we need to look into where the floats were stored before the parade. You have access to the portal, right?” he asked, referring to the Law Enforcement Enterprise Portal known as LEEP or simply the portal.
“Yeah. I’ll make sure to upload everything.”
“I know all the paperwork fucking sucks, but we all know this one needs to be by the book.”
Gus shrugged. “Paperwork is a necessary evil, but it does make our jobs a hell of a lot easier when everyone does their part. As an old Chinese proverb says, the palest ink is better than the best memory.”
Coulson liked that expression. Relying on your memory was a rookie mistake, especially with an investigation as complicated as this one. No one would be able to remember little details after absorbing too many of them. They’d become mixed up, get lost. Crucial information could disappear all because people couldn’t be bothered to write shit down. That couldn’t happen here.
His phone rang. His supervisor, Abraham Zadoff. “Padman.”
“Coulson, I need you to go to Presbyterian Lower Manhattan to talk to a survivor, a Secret Service agent who was walking in the parade. He is confident he saw a suspect, even chased him until the second bomb went off. Considering his job, I consider him a highly reliable source. Go talk to him. His name is Seth Rodecker, room B19. He just got out of surgery.”
“On my way.”
Even though it was past midnight when he got to the hospital, Coulson wasn’t tired. He’d chugged down a Gatorade from a vending machine and already had a double espresso from the Starbucks that had stayed open to serve the first responders and investigative teams. He was running on caffeine and adrenaline now.
The hospital was overcrowded, patients lining the hallways, but a glance showed him everyone had been triaged and tagged according to the urgency of their wounds. He found Seth Rodecker in room B19, looking as pale as the sheet that covered him. His neck and shoulders had bandages all over, and he seemed asleep. Coulson pulled up a chair next to him and put a hand on his shoulder. “Agent Rodecker?”
A pair of startling blue eyes flew open, instantly sharp and alert.
“I’m Special Agent Coulson Padman, FBI.” He showed him his badge. “You talked to one of our agents earlier, and he reported you had information about one of the bombers.”
“Yes.” Seth tried to push himself up, then winced in pain.
“Let me,” Coulson said and used the remote to bring the bed up a little so Seth could see him better.
“Thank you. Any chance you can get me a sip of water?”
“Sure.” Coulson held the cup out to him and placed the straw against his lips. “You had surgery?”
Seth drank greedily, then leaned back against the pillows with a sigh. “Yeah. I had shrapnel embedded in my neck and upper back. They had to take that out and sew me up. I also have some second-degree burns. But it’s all relatively superficial, so I’m expected to make a full recovery, minus some scars.”
“I’m glad to hear that. Can you answer some questions?”
“Absolutely.”
“Tell me what you saw.”
“Initially, I was maybe twenty-five feet from the float that held the second bomb. Before the first bomb went off, I spotted someone in the crowds who behaved suspiciously. He wasn’t cheering or participating but standing with a strained expression and balled fists. Nervous. Angry. When he saw I’d noticed him, he visibly reacted. He was scared. Then the first bomb went off, and I took my eyes off him for a few seconds. When I looked again, he was fleeing the scene. I gave chase, with DEA agent Gaby Santos on my heels. At one point, the suspect stopped and looked at the float that had been in front of me. In a split second, I realized there had to be a second bomb, so I called out a warning and shouted at people to take cover. Then the second bomb went off.”
Coulson’s heart was racing. This was not the vivid imagination of some bystander who’d seen too many episodes of CSI or NCIS. Rodecker was a highly trained agent, specialized in analyzing human behavior. “Can you give me a physical description?”
Rodecker looked at him as if the question itself was an insult, and maybe it was. “Five five or five six, around twenty years old. Black hair, brown eyes, darker brown complexion, possibly Indian. Slender build, one fifty pounds max. He was wearing cropped jeans, a white shirt with a rainbow on it, and rainbow Converse shoes. No cap or sunglasses. No bag as far as I could see.”
Coulson pulled up a map on his phone. “Tell me exactly where the float was, what your position was, and where you saw him.”
Without hesitation, Rodecker pointed all three out, and Coulson carefully marked them on his phone. “Which way did he run, and how far did he get before you lost sight of him?”
Coulson marked those locations as well. “You were walking the parade, correct? With a group or by yourself?”
“With LEO Pride, the local chapter of LGBTQ+ law enforcement officers. We had about fifty participants, I think.”
“Can you give me the names of everyone around you?”
Rodecker listed names, and Coulson wrote them all down.
“I don’t think any of them survived,” Seth said softly when Coulson looked up again. “They would’ve been too close to the blast.”
Coulson sighed. He could lie and give the man false hope, but what was the point? They both knew better. “Yeah, chances are small. I’m sorry.”
Seth swallowed visibly. “They were good people who served their country.”
“I know.”
The Secret Service agent was growing tired, his eyes drifting shut. “Get some sleep,” Coulson said kindly. “I may be back later with more questions and most likely a sketch artist.”
“Anytime,” Rodecker said, his eyes already closed.
When Coulson left the room, he wanted to scream with excitement. They had a description, one so detailed and specific that they knew exactly what to look for on the footage they’d collect. They’d catch these bastards and bring them to justice.
Click #3
1
The White House had grown silent, but Calix had only vaguely noticed it. Hyperfocus, one of his college professors had taught him once. The ability to focus on a task so completely he didn't take in anything about the world around him. It had explained a lot to Calix, for example, how he could sink into a book and not hear his husband calling his name a thousand times. Matthew had come to accept it over time, but he'd teased Calix mercilessly.
His assistant, Sheila, had left hours before, but Calix had wanted to finish reading the reports on his desk. He should've known that was an impossible task. Three hours later and he'd barely made a dent in the pile. In his defense, he still had a lot to learn, so he couldn't quite distinguish between what was important and what he could safely delegate. After all, he'd been on the job for only a couple of months, and both he and Del had expected to have much more time to prepare for the transition.
No, not Del. President Shafer. He had to stop calling him by his first name, a habit that was hard to break. They’d known each other so long, but dammit, he'd address him properly before the man left office. Del cared little for formalities, but Calix was embarrassed when he slipped up in front of others. It had been one thing when Del had been vice president, but now that he was president, it mattered.
Calix closed the report he'd finished reading and leaned back in his chair. With a precise move, he dropped his head to the left, holding it for a few seconds, then stretching the other side. His neck hurt; it always did. The pain had become a constant companion. He'd consulted every specialist, tried every therapy from acupuncture to foot reflexology, but nothing worked, so he'd accepted he'd have to get used to the ache.
He pushed his chair back and got up, then did a few more stretches in a futile attempt to get the kinks out of the muscles in his neck, shoulders, and back. He'd better make sure to get a good run in, in the morning. He'd been working too much, even by his standards, and his body was paying the price.
A quick check on the clock told him it was past nine in the evening. He really needed to go home. Not that there was anyone waiting for him, but working eighteen-hour days had become a bad habit. No matter how grand his office in the West Wing was with its dark blue carpet, the mahogany desk, and classic chairs that had probably cost more than all the furniture in his house combined, it wasn't home. Not that his house even felt like home without Matthew waiting for him.
He was just packing up the last stuff when a faint noise drifted in from the hallway. He frowned. Del had left for the residence already, hadn't he? Yeah, he'd gone up around seven for dinner with Sarah and Kenn. So who was still here?
Calix had sent Levar home early. It was a slow news day, and they weren't expecting anything else today that warranted the press secretary's presence. Besides, the guy deserved to be with his boyfriend every now and then. He and Henley really were too cute together, and that was coming from a man who rarely shipped couples. Between those two and the new lovebirds Seth and Coulson, the Secret Service Agent and FBI agent who had found each other, love seemed to be in the air. But not for him. Never again. He'd had the love of his life…and he'd lost him. That part of his life was over.
He walked into the hallway and almost ran into Rhett. "Hey, what are you still doing here?"
Levar had recommended Rhett Foles for the position of White House photographer, and Calix had gladly followed his advice, wanting someone who could be trusted more than anything else. Rhett was not just Levar's longtime friend but his roommate as well, and so far, he'd done a terrific job, earning every high praise.
Rhett took a step or two back. "Earlier today, the president asked me to take some photos of the family dinner. I'm sorry. I should've checked it with you. It's not an official White House function, but I think he likes the idea of preserving memories for later."
"Oh, that's all right. No need to explain. Whenever the president asks you to do something, you don't need to come to me first."
Rhett's face filled with relief. When dealing with him, Calix should consider his vulnerability more. They all had their trauma from the Pride Bombing, but Rhett seemed to be still struggling more than others. Not that Calix blamed him or thought he was weak. Everyone was different and handled the horrific events of that day in their own way and at their own pace. Rhett seemed to need more time than others.
"Okay, that's good to know. I wasn't sure if I should ask you or not, but it didn't feel right to question the president's requests either."
Calix smiled to assure him. "Yeah, you're caught between a rock and a hard place. Technically, I'm your boss, but obviously, the president trumps me at any time, so good luck figuring out that chain of command."
Rhett blinked. "That's very helpful. Thank you."
Calix loved the slight cheekiness in that statement. "How are you doing otherwise?"
Now that he'd bumped into Rhett, he might as well check in with him. The faint smell of vanilla hit his nose, and he took a quick whiff. Where was that coming from? Was someone baking cookies? How could that even be? The West Wing had no kitchen.
"I'm okay. Good, I mean. I'm good."
Calix refocused and cocked his head, studying Rhett. He was thirty-two, if Calix remembered correctly, but at times, Rhett appeared much younger than that. Not immature or inexperienced, just vulnerable. Almost fragile. Like a child he wanted to protect. Maybe because Calix was fifteen years older? Fucking ancient compared to Rhett. "Which one is it, okay or good? We both know there's a vast difference between the two."
Rhett looked at the floor, shuffling his feet. "I didn't think you were asking me to share the details of my troubled existence. I figured 'good' would be the appropriate answer, since it's not like I'm dealing with any urgent disasters or calamities."
Calix chuckled. "The details of your troubled existence, huh? That description covers a lot. A touch dramatic, but I like it."
Rhett peeked at him from beneath his lashes. "It's kind of a running joke between Levar and me. I shouldn't have used those words. I promise I'm good to work here."
"Rhett, I wasn't criticizing. I thought it was funny, a little tongue in cheek and self-deprecating, which I can appreciate."
He kept his voice gentle. Rhett reminded him of an animal, a rabbit that would flee if you came too close, or a kitten that hadn't decided yet if it could trust you or not. Skittish, that was the word.
"Oh, okay. Sorry."
"And my question wasn't purely work related. You're doing an outstanding job, your photos are amazing, and I have no concerns whatsoever about your performance or your ability to carry out your duties."
The tension between Rhett's eyebrows disappeared. "That's good to know. Thank you. I really like this job."
"Yeah? What do you like about it? Because it seems to me, it's so…passive? You're recording what others are doing. Again, that's no criticism at all, but it feels to me like you're always the observer."
Rhett's face lit up, his blue eyes coming to life. "Exactly, and that's what I love about it. I've always preferred to watch from the sidelines. Even in high school, I was the one who did the videos for the football team, took photos for the school newspaper, worked on the yearbook committee every single year. The idea of recording history for prosperity appeals to me."
"I like how you look at it. It makes perfect sense. And you're good at what you do. I've marveled at your ability to become practically invisible and blend into the background. Even when I know you're taking pictures, I barely notice you. I guess I've always been too much of an activist to be content to merely watch others do things."
"You're a doer. That's been clear to me from just watching you. So is the president. You get things done. Levar is the same. He makes a to-do list every morning and is never happier than when he can check everything off. I would be terrified of such a list. What's energizing and motivating for him is anxiety inducing for me, and I guess that's why he's the press secretary and I'm the photographer."
Calix laughed. "I have to tell you I have mad respect for him. Facing reporters every day? I'm an extrovert and have always been good at public speaking, but my stomach clenches every time I even set foot into the press room. I don't know how he does it."
Rhett laughed as well, startling Calix. He'd never heard such a happy, carefree sound from him. "You and me both. But it's been educational as well as inspiring to watch him grow in his role."
"I bet. As his roommate, you've had a front-row seat to his public and personal life. I can imagine that must've been challenging at times."
Rhett's smile faded. "I can’t express how grateful I am for his friendship. Without him, I wouldn't have survived the last five years, and I definitely wouldn't be where I am right now. I know he's the one who got me this job, and I'll never be able to repay him for it. Or you. I know it sounds corny, but I truly appreciate you gave me a shot despite my…history."
Calix put a hand on his shoulder, then squeezed firmly. "You earned this job. It might've started as a favor, on the recommendation of someone I trust. But over time, you've more than proven how good you are. You have this position based on your own merits, not just because you're Levar's friend or roommate. You're part of our team now, and I'm thrilled to have you."
A pretty blush stained Rhett's cheeks, and Calix's insides grew warm. He'd done a good deed, affirming him. What a great way to end this exhausting workday on a positive note.
"Now, go home and get some sleep. It's been a long day for both of us. I'll see you tomorrow."
"See you tomorrow," Rhett said softly, and Calix watched him as he walked off, his posture lighter and more relaxed than it had been before. See? A good deed indeed. If only everything else on his plate was so easy to fix.
Saturday Series Spotlight
Nora Phoenix is a bestelling author of MM romance. She writes in various subgenres of gay romance, including contemporary, mpreg, and sci fi. Nora is known for a mix of steamy romance, usually a dash of kink, all the feels, and some suspense.
Proud single mom. Book addict. Eternal optimist. Unapologetic feminist. Ace. Panromantic.
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Friends #2
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