Innocent (Inequitable Trilogy Book 2)

by Lesli Richardson

  * * * *

  When I walk into the office the next morning, the new department receptionist greets me with a beaming smile. “Good morning, Jordan.”

  I have my professional mask in place this morning and manage not to bristle at the familiarity in her tone. “Good morning, Jessica.” I’m no longer the “new guy,” even though, technically, I’ve had more experience in the department than many of my coworkers, if you count my previous time working there.

  I’m not usually in this early. Normally, I slip in while the receptionist is out at lunch, because it means one less daily human interaction I’m forced to engage in. Any calls I receive, or mail, or papers from students, are left in my box. Most everything is done electronically, thank goodness.

  Jessica started working here only last week. She completed her undergrad the previous semester, and she’s twenty-one but looks like a fricking baby.

  Not that I’m one to speak, I suppose. I’m twenty-nine but I feel decades older despite my youthful appearance. I have a level of real-world experience that most people in our department who are older than me sorely lack.

  I also resist the urge to scold Jessica about her short, tight jeans shorts and FSU football T-shirt as not being “professional” attire, because I remember that’s not my job.

  No, I don’t wear a suit every day anymore. I usually wear a button-up with a tie, and khakis, or jeans, and am frequently mistaken by students and faculty alike for a professor. It no longer feels right to me arriving to work in shorts, despite the fact that the department manager said I can dress exactly that casually, if I wanted, unless I’m teaching a class.

  How sick is it that if it wasn’t for the fact I want to save on laundry and dry cleaning bills, and don’t want to sweat my ass off on the walk to and from work every day, I would wear a suit on the regular?

  They’re all hanging in my closet, along with my tux. I doubt I’ll be wearing them soon, but I can’t bear to get rid of them.

  Or my neckties.

  Many of which are exact matches to neckties Elliot and Leo have. Sort of a secret code Leo used to help keep us all connected.

  Matchies.

  I stop at the wall of inboxes next to Jessica’s desk and set down my travel mug on the table there so I can sort through the contents of my box.

  I’m vaguely aware of her holding something out to me. Without thinking or looking, I reach my hand back while I’m still sorting through my morning mail. “Call sheet?”

  “Sorry?”

  An unexpected and tsunami-esque wave of irritation sweeps through me, that she’s keeping me waiting and not just putting it in my fricking hand. “Is that. My daily. Call sheet?”

  “A what?”

  I’m about to turn and snap at her for being stupid when I realize she’s holding a small, pink message slip, and she looks genuinely confused.

  Fuck.

  I also realize I’m an asshole.

  I take a deep breath. “I’m sorry.” I pluck the message slip from her fingers without touching her hand and offer what I hope is a genuine-looking smile. “Old habits die hard. I’m used to someone putting my morning call sheets in my hand before I even ask for them.”

  She still looks like I hurt her feelings and I feel shitty about that. “I-I’m sorry, sir. I don’t know what that…is?”

  Yeah, of course she’s confused. Also, ironically, it feels weird as hell having her call me “sir.” I was Mr. Walsh for so long, and addressed like that mostly by people older than me, that I almost don’t know what to do with it from someone so much younger than myself.

  Along with the wistful pang that hits me in the soul over the term.

  Jesus, she looks like a damned kid.

  Okay, yes, I get the fricking irony. Happy?

  “It’s all right. Again, I’m sorry. Kinda dropped into autopilot there for a moment. I handled a lot of calls on a daily basis. Call sheets are how we organized them. Still trying to readjust to civvie life after six years.”

  Having one lone pink message slip awaiting me is…

  Depressing.

  The word I’m looking for is depressing.

  And boring.

  I scoop up my papers and mug and turn to head to my cubicle.

  At least her smile sort of returns, so I assume I’m forgiven for being snippy. “Did you really work in the White House?”

  I’m glad I’m an expert at holding my tongue, because I realize her awed tone is genuine. I haven’t exchanged more than a hundred words with her since she started working here. Guess it’s time I remedy that.

  “Yeah. I worked at the White House for six years. East Wing.” I brace myself for the volley of questions I’d rather not answer, but I know from my recent experience it’s faster to get them over with.

  Her eyes widen. “Did you ever meet the president?”

  “I worked in the East Wing for her husband, Mr. Bruunt. I interacted with him, President Samuels, and their children, on a daily basis.”

  “Why would you ever leave a job like that to come work here?”

  I struggle not to shake my right wrist, and not only because I’m holding my travel mug in that hand. “Nothing lasts forever.” I force another smile. “Going to be a brutal campaign coming up, and I’ve been wanting to finish my degree. The timing worked out with the opening here, and with getting an apartment, that’s all.”

  She leans in and I pray she’s not going to try to get overly chummy when she drops her voice. “Vice President Woodley is sooo cute. I plan on voting for him.”

  I fight the urge to scream. “It’s better to pick a candidate based on their experience and platform.”

  “But…he’s gorgeous!” She grins. “Is he dating anyone? I bet he really is, isn’t he? Probably some actress or something, right?”

  This is going to be a looong damn day. I can feel it already. I want to scold her for unprofessional behavior, for improperly discussing both personal and campaign matters—veering into ethics violations—and a litany of things that mask my pain…

  And which also mean absolute jack shit within the context of a Florida university’s design department.

  This isn’t the East Wing.

  This isn’t a well-run comms or policy shop.

  This isn’t a campaign war room.

  These aren’t ethics violations, because this isn’t the fricking White House.

  This is…

  Hell.

  This is Hell, is what it is.

  I’ve planted myself firmly in Hell.

  I take a step back, toward the doorway that’ll allow me to escape to my cubicle. “I’m sorry, Jessica.” I offer a final smile. “I could tell you all about that, but then I’d have to kill you. National security, you know.” I drop her what I hope she takes as a playful wink.

  Her eyes widen again before she bursts out laughing. I use that as my cue to make my escape and head to my desk.

  All I want to do is pop my earbuds in and start working.

  I don’t want to socialize. I don’t want to fraternize.

  I don’t want to think about DC, or the White House, or how tight Elliot Woodley’s ass is, or how gorgeous his cock is.

  Or how I never even got to suck it.

  I don’t want to…think, period.

  * * * *

  We have an afternoon staff meeting.

  This is a weekly affair, and my third one since returning.

  Another level of Hell to endure.

  For starters, everyone treats it like a social gathering instead of getting down to business. There’s no agenda, no order, no efficiency. It hasn’t started on time once yet, and damn sure doesn’t end when it’s supposed to. There are no post-meeting minutes dropping into my e-mail within a few hours after it ends.

  I struggle time and again not to interrupt and shut people down when they veer off the hint of whatever vague topic the department head is addressing.

  Then someone brings in homemade cookies, and we get bogged down in a d
iscussion of Pinterest bathroom tile and plumbing fixture trends.

  All while I struggle not to scream in frustration.

  When I stand, having long ago hit my fuck it level, the department head notices.

  “What’s wrong, Jordan?”

  I fake a smile. “Nothing, Dr. Sently. I thought we were finished. I was going to return to work.”

  “Oh, no.” She laughs. “We’ve barely gotten started.”

  “Ah.” Motherfucker.

  She waves me back down into my chair. “I appreciate how serious you are, but we love to socialize. Keep in touch with each other. I want to make sure everyone’s getting what they need. We do things a little differently now than you might remember. It’s been a while.”

  Was she always like this? I don’t remember feeling this level of frustration last time I worked for her. I don’t ever remember hating these meetings so much. Then again, I was rarely in them, because of my schedule and my work.

  “Right.” I force myself to lower my ass into my seat while making a mental note to start scheduling student appointments during these weekly meeting times.

  I’m obviously not in the East Wing anymore, Toto.

  When the meeting finally breaks up nearly an hour later, and I shoot to my feet in my eagerness to escape as everyone else stands, the director speaks. “Jordan, hang back for a sec, please?”

  I can’t help it. My head drops and I stare at my feet. I’m barely suppressing the snark that wants to fly free.

  If I’d ever run a meeting like this, Chris would’ve skewered me and run me up the White House flagpole. Leo would have paddled my ass for it, too, and Kev would’ve ripped me a new one.

  “Yes, ma’am?” I ask once we’re alone.

  She smiles. “I appreciate your dedication to your work, but it’s all right for you to dial it back a little. You don’t have to be so formal. So…intense.” She waves her hand, indicating my clothes. Today, a light blue Oxford, sleeves rolled up, green tie, khakis, and loafers. “I’ve had four professors ask me if we hired a new teacher and didn’t tell them. Took me a moment to realize they meant you.”

  She chuckles. “I think they’re worried about their jobs, because they’re not tenured. It’s okay to wear shorts and jeans, you know. I thought I told you that? It seems like I remember you used to dress more…casually.”

  Her memory’s a little faulty. I always dressed better than weekend loafing for work, but I never wore a tie back then, unless I was meeting with someone as part of my professional internship. Plus, I would sometimes wear T-shirts with jeans. But I never wore shorts, or sweats, unless I was only going to class. Not even for meeting with students I was advising.

  “I really don’t have a lot in the way of casual wear that would be appropriate for work, ma’am. I have suits, and a tux. I have a few pairs of shorts, but for working out or hiking, mostly. I only have a couple of pairs of casual shorts. And jeans are hotter to walk around in than slacks.”

  She laughs. “Well, what did you wear on the weekends?”

  “Usually a suit. Or this. There was rarely a weekend I didn’t go in to work at least once or twice, or have an event to attend, or coordinate.”

  Her smile fades to confusion. “Really?”

  I don’t understand what she doesn’t understand. “Yes, ma’am. It was DC. I helped plan many events, and usually had to be in attendance.”

  She studies me. “Jordan, I have absolutely no complaints about you or your work. Your students seem to love you, but I have to ask. Are you really happy here? This seems a little…like you’re settling, when you’re way overqualified for this position.”

  I suck in a deep breath and lie my ass off. “I’m just readjusting, ma’am. I spent six years working in a high-pressure, high-protocol environment.” Living in one, too. “This job is perfect for me right now, because I can finish my degree. Like you said, I need to…dial it back. Decompress. I’m not even unpacked all the way yet.” Technically not a lie, but it leaves the impression I have more stuff than I really do.

  “Well, all right. If you say so.”

  “Thank you, ma’am.” I dart out of the conference room and finally make it back to my desk.

  Yep, I’m going to start scheduling my student conferences during the weekly meeting. There was no good reason for me to be there.

  At all.

  I mean that literally. That could have been handled by e-mail.

  My disguise is in danger of slipping because my irritation at how this place is run is trying to get the better of me.

  I mean, I get it. Logical Jordan understands my irritation is a symptom more of me and my mental state than anything being wrong with the department. I’m the square peg trying to fit myself into a round hole.

  I need to pull my shit together. I can do this. I used to be a master chameleon at blending in with other people, especially at work. Hell, I did it for the past six years without any trouble.

  Except that was a different world. Where not being able to shift patterns on the fly meant the difference between success or finding yourself being discussed on political blogs the next day.

  Or being uncomfortably roasted by Rachel Maddow and Anderson Cooper on their shows.

  The worst thing to happen here is…

  Well, not much. Even getting fired is damned difficult, because it’s a university. I don’t have to fight every day to prove to the world that I deserve to be here.

  Wow. That’s a fricking depressing thought, now that I’m actually processing it.

  There’s never going to be an adrenaline jolt with this job, whereas before I had them nearly daily. Sometimes multiple times in a day.

  There’s never going to be a last-minute crisis to make me a hero for solving.

  There’s never going to be any satisfaction like standing back and watching an event I helped put together be talked about in glowing terms by journalists and politicos from around the country and, sometimes, from around the world.

  There’s so much more that’s never going to happen again, and I mean professionally.

  That’s not even touching the personal stuff.

  As all that slams home, I slump back in my chair and stare at my computer monitor, letting my eyes unfocus and blurring the words on the screen until I remove my glasses and rub at my eyes.

  In the East Wing, on a daily basis, I usually accomplished more before lunch than I do here in a fricking week. Easily.

  My throat tightens and my eyes prickle as a quiet voice speaks in my mind.

  This was a mistake. I never should have left Leo. I’m a fucking dumbass.

  Except…I can’t take it back.

  Yes, I’d hoped Leo would have contacted me by now and begged me to return.

  It’s also increasingly obvious Leo will never ask me to come back. I’ve texted with him a few times, trying to…

  I don’t know what I was trying to do.

  Worse…what if I admit it to him, that it was a mistake, and ask to come back? Then what?

  What if he tells me no?

  I don’t know if I could even handle that. That’s a level of rejection I think would break me in a way nothing else has managed thus far in my life.

  I grab my right hand with my left to stop it from twisting and focus on breathing for a minute.

  I need to get a handle on this. I need to get my shit together, and fast.

  This isn’t like me.

  The problem is, I don’t know what is “me” anymore. I’m not sure how I got…here.

  Even worse?

  Despite knowing what I “should” be doing, I honestly don’t know where I go from here, much less how I go about doing it.

  Chapter Three

  Then

  Once Upon a Time…

  There’s this myth that New York—the state, not just the city—is this bastion of liberally progressive social ideals.

  Of course, in some places, it is.

  But the small community where I grew up on the ed
ge of Hamilton County was every bit as conservative as if it were located hundreds of miles south of the Mason-Dixon line. The area is well-known for being a GOP stronghold in the state, despite its low population. In general, the farmers and blue-collar workers hold little respect and a whole lot of contempt for the “rich liberal coastal elites” from New York City, Long Island, and other nearby environs.

  They feel under-appreciated, taken for granted, and ridiculed by the city dwellers.

  I cannot say that they’re exactly wrong to feel like that, because it was a mindset entrenched within me growing up. How much of that was true and how much of it perception perpetuated throughout generations is up in the air.

  The problem is, while there were plenty of conservative-voting liberal-minded folks in our area regarding people of color and the LGBTQ community, my parents were not two of them.

  Neither were a majority of the other members of the small and very strict Evangelical Baptist church they attended every Sunday.

  Dad’s a farm equipment mechanic who took over the business from Mom’s father. Mom taught piano and played for our church, and earned extra money playing at weddings and other events, as well as working part-time doing various things in the summer.

  Growing up, I had a lot of trouble with my health. Born prematurely at thirty weeks and three days, I weighed only three pounds, four ounces, and spent several weeks in the NICU before I was sent home with my exhausted and now borderline financially bankrupted parents.

  Their friends labelled me a “survivor.”

  Their “miracle.”

  A “blessing from God.”

  Apparently, they’d been trying to have me for a while, and had pretty much given up hope on ever having a baby when I surprised them.

  Never let it be said I chose the easy path in life. Starting with my emergence from the womb.

  Then I was hit hard by pneumonia when I was eighteen months old and spent several weeks in the hospital. Nearly died, by all counts, and my parents’ finances took yet another massive hit. I got sick a lot growing up, missed a lot of school, especially in the winter.

  Yet I was a great student, kept my grades up, and was still lauded by my parents’ friends as their little miracle.