Diligence (Determination Trilogy 2)

by Lesli Richardson

  After that little experience, we meet the next afternoon at my office for an informal debriefing, and he brings lunch, and we talk.

  I mean, I’m not a total animal. I do enjoy talking with him. In addition to how several of our “special interests” align perfectly, he’s a nice guy, smart guy, and pleasant to chat with.

  But our time alone isn’t easy to come by. So he instructs me how to use the Signal app on my personal cell phone to keep our texts and calls private, and we keep in touch that way.

  We become friends.

  Friends who dick. He’s my down-low sadist, he’ll protect my secrets, I don’t have to worry about him giving me something antibiotics can’t cure, and he doesn’t have to worry about me giving him a raging case of child support.

  It’s a match made in mayhem.

  Hail to the chief, baby.

  * * * *

  Christopher and I are working on year three of whatever this is between us when I start seriously thinking about setting my sights higher than the Senate. If I wait too long to run, I’ll start looking like the nation’s spinster aunt, and that’s not a poll-winning image for anyone, I don’t care how you cut it.

  He helps me out with vetting people to approach about being my campaign manager, and not once does he ever try to discourage me from running.

  I’m thinking if he wanted the job of First Gentleman, I’d be happy to give it to him. I’m sure we could come up with an amicable agreement.

  Not that I’ve told him that yet.

  Not that he’s asked, either.

  In fact, one of the things he told me was that if I wanted anything more with him than what we had, I’d need to be the one to bring it up to him.

  Why haven’t I?

  Why haven’t I asked the hunky, hot—and, hellooo, hung—G-spot-man to maybe think about making things more permanent? Or at least a little more…controlly?

  Is too a word.

  Honestly?

  I don’t know. I don’t want to screw with perfection, maybe?

  I know he hasn’t had the best track record with relationships. He’s bi—helloooo, hot spank bank fantasies for me—and finally gave up trying. Apparently he had someone he was serious about ghost on him years ago, and it fucked him up emotionally.

  I can respect that. He’s honest about his shortcomings.

  He’s never, not once, asked me to pay for something for him, or asked me about money, or anything like that.

  He’s never asked me for anything, other than to obey a few mutual ground rules, and the telling him if I want more thing.

  I start to think about what happens if I do run for president. About what things will change in my life.

  No more midnight drop-in booty calls or home invasions, that’s for sure. It’d be impossible to hide what we have because of security.

  One of these days, I’ll need to think about if I want to spend the rest of my life alone. Lately, I notice Christopher’s absence more than I thought I would.

  Definitely more than I’ve ever noticed anyone’s absence from my bed in the past.

  It feels like I’ve already given him power that I didn’t even realize I had ceded. Power that he doesn’t even seem interested in, unless I mention it first.

  Not sure how I feel about that, to be honest.

  * * * *

  Christopher stops by on his way home after three weeks out of the country, and I’d be lying if I said I didn’t feel a little differently about him now than ever before.

  I missed him.

  But I also have someplace to be tonight, and am now wishing I could take him with me. I think I’m hitting that point where I’m starting to feel like his secret.

  I mean, yeah, I am his secret, and he’s my secret—okay, yes, the secrecy was by mutual assent.

  Still, I’m thinking maybe I’m ready to shift into a new gear in my life. I want to be president.

  Really, really want it.

  I also know a single, middle-aged, never-married woman without a damned good reason for being single, like being divorced or widowed, probably isn’t going to get elected. Not in this environment. There’s too much wiggle room for people to exploit my bachelorettehood for their own causes.

  Because, of course, why would a heterosexual woman stay single when she’s never been married before?

  Did you hear my eyes roll? I feel like it was audible.

  Maybe because said single woman has a memory in her brain she can’t get rid of, and isn’t sure she should even be marriage material, much less has met someone she feels is marriage material who can handle her.

  Well, until now.

  Until Christopher.

  But then as I’m getting ready for my event that evening, I receive an unexpected call from him. Have to say a little thrill rolled through me to hear from him so soon like that after having just said goodbye to him not that long ago.

  Then he tells me something that perks my ears.

  “This will sound crazy,” he says, “but I just found you your campaign manager for your presidential campaign.”

  Not Senate—president.

  I listen as he tells me who, and what prompted this, and then once I have him off the phone I immediately jump online to watch the video.

  Kevin Markos—well-respected and mostly conservative TV news journalist—has melted down on live TV like a snowball on I-4 through Orlando in the middle of July.

  Wow.

  I kind of feel bad for him, too. He literally just interviewed me Wednesday evening down in Tampa. A fellow native Floridian from the Tallahassee area, he’s always treated me nicely, although I did catch that interview of his with Owen Taylor a few years back. He flubbed that, but later it turned out one of his producers was more to blame than he was.

  Kevin Markos is also not hard on the eyes. I almost get a sort of subby vibe from him, though. Nothing wrong with that, of course.

  Kevin Markos makes some valid points in his rant, showing that, socially, at least, he’s more liberal than the average Republican. But then he starts going after Democrats, and campaign finances—and the network.

  You know, just when I started to think Christopher might be the perfect man for me, he comes out of left field with this.

  Sure, maybe Christopher sees or knows something about the situation that I don’t, but I don’t understand how he extrapolates this hot mess I’m watching into Markos becoming my campaign manager.

  No one is going to take me seriously with this guy running my war room. Not after this fiasco.

  Still…

  I know Christopher is a very careful man, very cautious, almost to the point of obsession. At this time, he’s been in the Secret Service something like twenty-three years. Based on his job duties, seeing the larger playing field is kind of a requirement. Knowing secret details is critical, too.

  All of his other choices of people for me to speak with have been perfectly reasonable, and me saying no to them is more about me and the vibe I feel with them than a true failing on their part. Unless you’ve run a presidential campaign before, you really don’t have experience running one, so that’s not the issue, either.

  What’s up Christopher’s sleeve?

  I don’t know, but I guess I’ll find out when I can talk to him tomorrow.

  I finish getting ready, because my car will be here for me soon. In retrospect, I’m glad Chris called me, because Kevin Markos’ televised self-immolation of his career is topic number one at the charity dinner.

  It also allows me to do a little digging, and learn a few things.

  Like what might have triggered his on-air tantrum.

  It’s hard for me to reconcile the pleasant, polite, knowledgable, respectable journalist I dealt with a couple of days ago with the man who almost seemed to tap into a different emotional dimension for a few minutes on live TV.

  The reasons, I learn, are likely compounded. Full News Broadcasting isn’t exactly a stellar gig anymore. The other broadcasters, except for Kevin Mar
kos’ ex-wife, Lauren Baltazar, have been trying to literally whitewash two white attackers who went after two gay black Hill staffers. The network probably pushed Markos to give the father of one of the attackers some airtime and positive PR.

  And the mother of one of the victims died not long before Markos went on the air, and he’d been told about it.

  All contributing factors.

  At least one thing is now certain—Markos is out of a job, and has a non-compete clause for another two years that will keep him off the air at major news networks in the US.

  By the time I head home that evening, I’ll admit I’m…curious.

  Christopher wouldn’t tell me over the phone why he came to his conclusion about Markos being perfect as my campaign manager, but he’s coming by in the morning, and then we’ll talk about it.

  After he spanks my ass and fucks my ass, that is.

  I’ll leave the questions until then.

  Because boy, do I have questions.

  Chapter Four

  Now

  Because it’s easier for people to come to us than it is for us to go to them since my election, we opt to spend Christmas in DC at the townhouse. It’s a small family affair—myself, Christopher, his brother and sister-in-law Charles and Tory and their three children, and Tory’s parents, and Kevin and Lauren.

  With Christopher and Charles’ parents deceased, Hudson and Shawna Harris have become adopted parents to the brothers. Charles looks like a slightly younger version of his beefy older brother. Dr. Tory Harris is mixed race, her father white and her mother black. She’s an only child, and the grandparents dote on their grandchildren. Twins Ivy and Myla, who are four, have their mother’s light brown skin, curly dark brown hair, and Charles and Christopher’s green eyes. Little Hudson, who’s barely two, looks more like his father in the face, only with the same light brown skin and curly dark brown hair as his mother and sisters, and his gorgeous green eyes.

  Charles and Tory give the okay for the official photographer to shadow us throughout the day, getting plenty of pictures of Christopher and myself cooking, the kids unwrapping presents under our tree, and then later of them playing out in the backyard on this unseasonably warm December day in DC. Carefully selected pictures and video will be released to the pool and make great PR for us.

  Although I privately grumble to Chris about the staged picture Kevin and Chris set up, of Kevin sitting in one of our easy chairs with Lauren draped sideways across his lap, his arm around her waist and her arm around his neck, both of them smiling as they watch the twins playing a video game on our TV while Christopher and Charles coach them.

  A picture that implies something that isn’t really happening.

  A picture to sell a silent story.

  I get why. It’ll help fuel speculation that the couple might be getting back together, or that they’re still intimate, which is a nothingburger.

  It’ll also distract people from the fact that Kevin still lives in the townhouse with us.

  Late that night, once Kevin returns from borrowing Christopher’s SUV to drive Lauren home, I practically tackle him onto our bed.

  Yeah, I want to re-stake my claim on him. He might be my Sir, but he’s mine. I agree Lauren is the best person to be my press secretary and director of our communications department, but honestly?

  Sometimes, I want to cut a bitch.

  Unlike me, Lauren can get away with touching Kevin in public or in front of witnesses and cameras. She can lean against him, drape an arm around him, kiss his cheek. He might be her boss, but they have a history. Everyone knows this, and it would actually be weirder, and attract more attention, if that familiarity wasn’t on display in appropriate forums from time to time.

  I am not allowed any of those familiarities with Kevin in public, because it’ll indicate a level of intimacy we’re not supposed to have, not even as friends.

  And, sometimes?

  I’m convinced Lauren does it on purpose. Especially when I catch her looking at me with a slightly smug smile that screams, “Hah!”

  I know she thinks Kevin is only involved with Christopher, but I wish to holy fuck she’d get herself a boyfriend and leave mine alone.

  It’s also no coincidence there are days Kev locks us in his office at my headquarters and puts me on my knees between his thighs so he can sit there smiling down at me while I worship his cock.

  During these times, he whispers that I’m his good girl, tells me how much he loves me, and what a good job I’m doing, how happy he is with me.

  How proud he is of me.

  It helps settle and reset my mood and cranks back my homicidal urges.

  In public, I’m all smiles and besties with Lauren, though.

  Don’t get me wrong—I respect her, and even like her, when she’s not touching my boyfriend. Just because she’s a Republican doesn’t mean we don’t have common ground. When she officially came to meet with me the day after the election, a sit-down between her, myself, Christopher, and Kevin, she was bluntly frank about where she disagreed with me on policies foreign and domestic.

  Only she also discovered we have a lot in common.

  It’s not like I’m going to make her go out and lie her ass off to the press corps every day. Of course there’s an element of spin—that’s just a fact of life. But as Kev likes to say, facts are. She might not agree with all my positions, but then again, she reported on things and had to portray a party line she didn’t agree with at FNB.

  At least now she can have a back-and-forth with others to help clarify issues, and she gets a chance to make her opinion heard with me before we finalize talking points and official positions.

  I also decide that, on the White House staff organizational chart, press secretary is head of communications, and answers only to the chief of staff, and then me. This puts Tim Bayard, our social media director, under her. Lauren recommends hiring Angela Shibata, one of Lauren’s very capable and driven producers from her former show on FNB, to be communications director/deputy press secretary. Angela is a Democrat who is loyal to Lauren, which was the only reason she stayed at the network for as long as she did.

  Kev makes it so.

  Thus our communications department is born. I give Lauren complete discretion, with Kevin supervising, to winnow through our campaign’s communications and speech-writing staffers and decide who comes aboard and who doesn’t, and in what capacity. In the process of hiring, Lauren taps two more producers from her old FNB show, as well as Kevin’s old producer, Lou, to help round out the main contingent of speechwriters, communications specialists, and staff. Some of the staff who don’t end up under Lauren will go to work in the East Wing with Christopher, or will be sent to other departments for their communications staff.

  Kevin confides in me that Lauren did vote for me, even if she doesn’t want others to know.

  I don’t care. Even if she hadn’t voted for me, as long as she’s dedicated to working with me and not against me, and Kevin trusts her, that’s all that matters.

  What amuses me—and Kevin—is that as New Year’s rolls around, FNB is howling in rage that we’ve eviscerated them by pilfering what was obviously their best and brightest talent. Their ratings are tanking, and they’ve aired an unprecedented number of corrections and retractions over the last three weeks due to errors in research and writing.

  Word reaches Kev that management over there seriously considers forcing everyone to sign a loyalty pledge that’s also a non-compete agreement, and would include a clause forbidding working for my administration during its existence. Fortunately, their legal department shuts that down before it comes to fruition.

  Doesn’t matter, because we’ve gotten what we came for and left them a smoking ruin as far as true talent goes.

  Let the SEC investigation finish destroying their reputation.

  Even better?

  That investigation started over a year ago, during a Republican administration, not mine.

  * * * *

&n
bsp; As we slip into New Year’s, the three of us opt to spend it alone at home. We’re going to spend the next four to eight years in front of cameras and engaging in public celebrations.

  I want this.

  I need this—them.

  I need time alone with them before we are swept up into the public eye and I’m not able to enjoy a holiday night hidden away without it conjuring wild speculation as to why I don’t want to be seen in public.

  After dinner, Chris and Kevin build a fire in the fireplace for us. We curl up together on blankets and make love there with music playing. Tonight, I picked the Pandora station. The electronic music gods must love me, because we get a mix of jazz and modern classical that allows us to focus only on each other.

  You’d think that with the three of us together we’d have sex a lot more often than we do. Except a presidential campaign—and transition—is a massive undertaking. Every night we’re actually in bed together, we usually collapse, exhausted, sometimes with no energy to do anything more than snuggle and kiss each other good-night.

  Tonight though, we focus on us. Christopher is always in charge, and Kev and I prefer it that way. Sometimes he’s in a mood to bottom to Kev, but tonight I’m on the bottom of the pile, so to speak.

  Christopher and Kevin can easily shut off my brain. Tonight, they set out to do just that. Christopher holds me first.

  “Come here, girl,” he says, patting his bare thigh.

  Already suspecting what’s in store, I happily comply. With him sitting up and leaning back against the couch, my back is to him and his arms wrap around me, firmly anchoring me against his chest while I’m impaled on his cock and my legs are draped over his thighs and forced wide open by them.

  Kevin flashes us both a playful smile before bending his head and using that sweet, sexy tongue of his to explore and tease me, where our bodies are joined.

  Guessing from the sound of Chris’ gasps and moans, Kev’s probably working his way lower, to our husband’s balls. Up again, his tongue playfully swipes around my sensitive flesh, taking me close to the edge but not quite getting me over. This is one of their favorite games with me, the men sometimes swapping positions back and forth several times as they take turns making me come before they finally finish inside me. According to them, they love the feel of my body squeezing them while they’re embedded within me.