Governor (Governor Trilogy 1)

by Lesli Richardson

  One of the businesses is a tattoo studio, and it’s that storefront he directs me to park in front of.

  “Don’t shut it off yet,” he says, so I shift into park and leave it running.

  He removes his sunglasses, unfastens his seat belt, and turns so he can talk to both of us. “What we have, for me, is for life,” he says. “Boy?”

  I nod. “Yes, Sir.”

  He looks at Susa. “Pet?”

  She nods. “Yes, Sir.”

  It’s like he needs a moment to gather his thoughts. “These are our easy years,” he says. “I know law school won’t be a cakewalk, but once we’ve graduated and pass the bar and start working, especially once we get involved in politics, things will get intense. All three of us are pretty driven, right?”

  Susa and I both nod. I mean, Carter and Susa drive me, so I guess that counts, doesn’t it?

  “Once the two of you start running for office,” he continues, “we might find there are days at a time we aren’t even together.” He meets my gaze, then Susa’s. “I want all three of us to have a subtle, matching reminder of what we have, so that even when we’re apart, you know that we’re always together in heart and spirit.”

  He unlocks his phone and shows us a picture, an infinity loop. “The symbol for poly is a lemniscate inside a heart. I don’t want something that obvious, and which might make people ask questions. A small one of these, on the inside of my left wrist, and on the inside of your right wrists. Unless you’d prefer it inside your right ankle. If anyone asks, you can always tell them it reminds you that your opportunities are unlimited. If anyone notices we all have them, then we can tell them that the three of us have them because we are friends, and tell the truth, that we got them in college.”

  I nod. “Thank you, Sir. On my wrist, please.” This is big. This is permanent. That he’s willing to put a mark on himself like that, matching ours...

  It’s even better than a wedding ring. And I want it where I can easily look at it no matter where I am.

  “Pet?”

  She’s blinking back tears and nodding. “Yes, Sir. Thank you. I want it on my wrist, too, please.”

  “Then we’re good with this? This is a case where I’m giving you the opportunity to say no, if you want, and it won’t be held against you. Pet?”

  She nods. “Yes, Sir.”

  His gaze focuses on me. “Boy?”

  I nod. “Yes, Sir.”

  The rare beauty of the smile he gives me warms my heart and threatens to make me hard. It’s not a playful smirk, or a sexytime smile, or any number of smiles he has. It’s a sweet, fragile smile I rarely see him wear.

  He’s happy.

  We’ve made him happy.

  I don’t remember Carter smiling as often or as freely as he has since we started all of this. I like being the reason someone is happy. Two someones, because Susa sure as heck seems to enjoy this, too.

  Maybe it’s not the family I envisioned myself one day having. Maybe it means I’ll never have children.

  Maybe it’s better that I don’t have kids, especially considering how I was raised. Maybe I’d only be damning a child to being as fucked up as I am. I’d always wanted kids before, but if I have to trade the idea of children not yet born for these two people who, for some crazy reason, want me?

  Yeah. I’m not an idiot.

  Besides, why would I subjugate a child to being raised always in the spotlight? And with Susa, they will be, once she starts running for office. It won’t surprise me in the slightest if we one day find ourselves living in the DC area because she’s been elected as a US representative or senator, or is even a cabinet member. She insists she doesn’t want to run for POTUS, but if she decided she does, I’d support her.

  I’ll follow her, and Carter, for the rest of my life and give thanks for it. Because I know that my life is infinitely better for them being in my life.

  That makes Carter’s choice of symbolism even more appropriate.

  We go inside, Carter talks to the tattoo artist, and we fill out paperwork. Carter pays, and we all go back to watch while he goes first.

  The tattoo artist prints out the template and examines Carter’s inner left arm. “Wow, you’ve got some fairly fresh scarring.”

  “Will that be a problem?”

  “It means I can’t put it any higher than here without risking issues.” He holds the template sheet in place to show Carter and get his approval. “There’s no scar tissue there. But if we put it there, it might be visible, even with a long-sleeved shirt. I know you mentioned wanting to be able to hide it.”

  “That’s fine.” Carter’s gaze locks onto mine. “It’s more important Owen can hide his.”

  The man soaps and shaves Carter’s inner left wrist, then places the template and gets final approval before he starts inking. It’s drawn as a 3D design, maybe an inch or so long, and runs from side to side on his wrist. The interior is shaded with grey and black, and the entire process from start to finish takes less than thirty minutes.

  I volunteer to go next. Carter holds my left hand as he approves where the artist places the design on my right wrist, not releasing my left hand until I’m finished and sport a matching design.

  Carter remains in place while Susa gets hers, also holding her left hand and approving of the placement.

  Once we finish, before leave the studio, Carter has us hold out our wrists next to his, and he takes a picture of the three of them together. It’s impossible to identify who we are, not even catching his wedding band in the picture.

  The smile that sweeps across his face as he studies that picture will forever be embedded in my heart and my memory.

  Carter—joyful.

  Our phones buzz seconds later after he texts the picture to our ongoing group text thread, so we can both save it to our phones.

  He kisses her, then me. “Thank you.” His voice sounds…well, choked up.

  Group hug time.

  I’m reminded that this isn’t all about me. That Carter and Susa both get things they need out of this arrangement, too. Personal, emotional things.

  Maybe I’ll never know everything that happened to Carter in Germany, when he was introduced to things that helped make him the bastard extraordinaire he is now. I suspect I probably don’t want to, because there’s not a damn thing I can do about what happened.

  Maybe it’s better I simply accept the man now, the way he is, for who he is, and give thanks he walked into my dorm room and my life.

  Because he damn sure accepts me for who I am.

  * * * *

  In the weeks following our return from Las Vegas, once we take our finals and get moved out of the dorm, Susa goes from living a borderline spartan life to wanting to completely furnish the house, full-on nesting mode—engaged.

  Since neither Carter nor I bring furniture with us, we don’t have anything to contribute. Carter doesn’t want her blowing a small mint on furniture, even if she can afford it.

  He also knows if I don’t contribute at least a little, I’ll feel like a mooch.

  The man knows me damn well, what can I say?

  So some of our afternoons are spent at thrift stores, and some of our weekend mornings are spent at yard sales, in addition to more IKEA trips. The house that already felt like a home starts to come together in a way that I feel like I’m an integral part of.

  Both of them ask my opinions, want me to make decisions.

  It’s actually a tough thing for me to do, at first, but it gets easier with time and experience. I gain confidence I never realized I lacked.

  Turns out I don’t have to have a “conversation” with Mom. She unfriends me on Facebook after I move in with Susa and Carter and belatedly post pictures from the Vegas trip, including making my profile picture a smiling selfie taken with Dad.

  The allowances stop then, too, but I don’t freak out, because Carter has already switched my banking alerts to his phone. So I don’t even know they’ve stopped until months later, when
he tells me.

  I still get a small allowance, enough to put gas in my car and little incidentals I might need, but now it comes as a weekly direct deposit from Carter. I don’t need to know my bank balance, because I okay purchases through Carter first.

  I realize my stress levels are the lowest I can ever remember them being.

  Three weeks after I move in with Susa and Carter, he has me send my last text to Mom.

  I love you, and if you want to text me, you have my number.

  She never replies.

  I hate the almost-lie, because at this point I’m pretty sure I do not love my mother. But Carter wants to handle it professionally, his thoughts always on the future and potential weaponization of anything by her against me.

  “You’re done trying to force her to love you when she’s not capable of it,” Carter says as he takes the phone from my hand and sets it on the counter after I send the text.

  Susa wraps her arms around me from behind. “You’ve got family,” she says. “Us, your dad and Katie, my mom and dad, and Carter’s family.”

  “I haven’t even met Carter’s family,” I remind her. “Neither have you.”

  “They’ll adopt you,” Carter says. “I wouldn’t put you through something traumatic with them.”

  “No,” I snark. “Just with Benchley.”

  He grins. “Hey, I needed your emotional support.”

  “No, you wanted a witness in case he tried to kill you.”

  Susa giggles. “True story.”

  Benchley Evans is not happy with Carter.

  As in, at all.

  He’s even less happy that Susa eloped without a prenup, and that she refuses to put a postnup in place.

  To add insult to injury, Carter tells Benchley that Susa plans to run for office eventually…and all three of us have changed our voter affiliation to Independent.

  I’m honestly shocked the man didn’t stroke out right there.

  When Benchley tries to bribe me to give him dirt on Carter, I’m not sure if I earn his respect when I politely decline the six-figure cash amount, or if Benchley’s more aggravated than ever that he won’t be able to pry Susa from Carter.

  But life settles down, and I’m happy.

  We are happy.

  Carter’s absolutely right that this is the best time of our lives right now, and I plan on enjoying it to the fullest.

  Chapter Thirty-Nine

  Time passes…

  On the wall of the New Tampa house, prominently displayed in the living room, hangs an eight-by-ten picture, which is surrounded by a mosaic of smaller framed pictures also taken on that day. The featured picture is three of us, in our green caps and gowns, grinning as we throw the USF Bulls horns at the camera, which is being held by Dad.

  There are other pictures from that day, of Dad, Katie, and their kids with me and us. Katie is very pregnant with their fourth child, and my little sister Dawn is only two. There are also pictures with Benchley and Michelle Evans, and with Parker and Charlotte Wilson. Plus a few of the Wilson brothers and their significant others who made it, too.

  Another series of pictures, set in a collage frame, with us in black caps and gowns, taken three years later upon our graduation from Stetson.

  A picture of the three of us, taken for us by a waitress, of us all grinning and happily drunk at the tap house the evening after we received our notices that we’d all passed the bar exam on our first try.

  Yes, we took an Uber that night, duh.

  My heavy day collar was replaced by a stainless steel necklace that simply looks like a slightly heavier patterned chain. Susa has a matching one she wears, or a bracelet she wears on her right wrist, if her outfit would make the necklace look out of place.

  Carter wears a bracelet of the same patterned chain on his left wrist.

  Even if we weren’t doing that, I’d still feel connected to both of them by the tattoos we all wear.

  Our families have accepted that we’re inseparable. Any family function invitations automatically include all three of us. Juggling three family holidays—because I’ve missed enough holidays with Dad and Carter and Susa refuse to allow me to miss any more—is tricky, but we manage it with Susa usually doing that task because she’s the most diplomatic.

  Benchley still hates Carter. More than once, Benchley has privately told me he wishes I’d married Susa, but it’s not like that’s a state secret or anything. Although the fact that he openly told me he’d foot the bill for Susa’s divorce if I could steal her from Carter shocked me.

  Of course I immediately reported that to Carter, who laughed his ass off at it.

  So did Susa.

  Finding jobs isn’t a problem, either. We let Susa take point on that, because Senator Benchley’s daughter is a hot commodity. We pretty much end up the subject of a desperate bidding war between four of the state’s top firms to hire the three of us.

  I leave that final decision up to Carter and Susa. I don’t care where we work, as long as we’re together.

  As Carter himself said, fuck merits. I want a job, financial security. I never want to return to those feelings of desperation where I had to crawl on my belly over broken glass to appease Mom so my pittance of an allowance would continue.

  Over the next year, we settle into our jobs at the law firm we chose to work for. We work out of their main office in a high-rise building in downtown Tampa. None of us mind that we have three smaller, windowless offices tucked away in the bowels of the floor, situated right next to each other, because we’re together.

  Carter, no shocker, is amazing in depositions and trials. Civil, not criminal, because Carter is a mastermind when it comes to seeing the big picture and has easily proven himself many times over. Juries love him, opposing counsel loathes him. Add in the man’s memory, and he’s practically lethal when it comes to thinking on his feet.

  Susa is quickly making a name for herself tackling state-level cases that involve complicated political wrangling.

  Me? I’m amassing respectable billable hours with some big-issue cases, like class-action environmental lawsuits. I can digest dry statistics and paint human pictures with the numbers, which my co-counsels envy.

  I know that, eventually, Susa is going to put the house in New Tampa on the market and we’ll be moving. I don’t know when that’s going to happen, or where, exactly, we’ll be moving to in the area. It’s up to Carter, and Susa’s leaving it in his hands. I know he has specific criteria for when and where we move, but he hasn’t yet shared that with either of us.

  That means it doesn’t matter, to me. Carter will handle it.

  I’ve made more money in this year than I ever imagined possible, as have Carter and Susa. We’re the envy of our associates. There are already whispers that we might be eyed for junior partner status by the end of next year, if we keep this up.

  Katie had her baby, and my two youngest siblings are a joy to visit. Dawn is six, Paul is four. The three of us fly out to Vegas several times a year, and Dad’s working on getting transferred to Tampa.

  I post family pictures of me with them every time we visit.

  Out of curiosity, I look up Mom’s Facebook profile, just to realize she’s blocked me at some point.

  Oh, well.

  Thirteen months after we start working for the Tampa firm, Carter sends me a text one morning to see if I have a couple of hours free around lunchtime, which I do. He asks me to reserve the time for him. I mark myself as unavailable on my calendar and I’m ready to go when he stops inside my doorway just before eleven that morning.

  We always play things cool in the office, even between Carter and Susa. No PDAs, not even innocent kisses. People know we live together, that we’re all friends, and that Carter and Susa are married, but we don’t want rumors flying. I follow him down to the parking garage and we climb into his car. Carter doesn’t tell me where we’re going today, which doesn’t surprise me.

  He only tells me a destination when he wants to.


  Or when he wants to mindfuck me.

  Again, didn’t say I objected.

  Honestly? Doesn’t matter to me where we’re going. It’s nice to spend some time alone with him, just like it’s nice to spend time alone with Susa. Once we’re in the car, he reaches over and holds my hand as he drives, and I can unplug for a little while and just be his boy.

  Carter’s pain isn’t nearly as bad as it once was, even though he still has bad days from time to time. His nightmares have also eased up, although when he has one, it’s a doozy, and usually when I’m not in bed with him because one of us is out of town for work.

  While Carter and I still work out together nearly every morning, we’re frequently discussing work while we do. We’ve become workaholics, wanting to build a name for ourselves. Susa doesn’t join us because she’s not a morning person and prefers to work out in the evening, in air-conditioning, usually in our office building’s gym. She normally drives herself to work in the morning, while Carter and I frequently ride together. It’s not uncommon for us to swap cars so that two who didn’t ride in together ride home while the third drives.

  This arrangement works for us, and I love everything about it. We spend every night in bed together, except for the rare nights one of us needs to travel for work.

  They haven’t brought up me running for office in a while, so part of me is starting to relax and think maybe they’ve put that aside, that we’ll be focusing on Susa running in several years, once she’s ready.

  I’m fine with that, even if there’s still a tiny little pang inside me that will always wonder what if.

  Right now, Carter’s wearing sunglasses, so I can’t really read his eyes. And he’s driving—of course, #controlfreak—and, well, I’m along for the ride.

  Maybe literally, maybe metaphorically.

  This is Carter the bastard extraordinaire, so maybe some of both, in this case.

  If I’m lucky.

  We take the Crosstown and head east, away from downtown and toward Brandon. Once there, we leave the highway and slow a few minutes later, turning in at a gated community, stopping for the kiosk at the front gate where a touchpad is located. He rolls down his window and, without even looking at the directory, punches in a number he’s apparently memorized.