Innocent (Inequitable Trilogy Book 2)

by Lesli Richardson

  The commendation award ceremony is first thing in the morning, followed by Elliot meeting the troops, and a brief tour around the base. After, we’ll head to the farm, arriving just before lunchtime. Elliot’s parents have had a Secret Service detail for the past three months, even though they didn’t want one, because of an incident involving one of their neighbors. The man’s farm was being foreclosed on, ironically by the bank Grace Martin’s father owns.

  Well, after months of wrangling and trying to refinance the loan, and rejected applications for farm subsidies, he finally snapped. He killed himself after setting fire to his main barn—with him inside it.

  The prevailing theory is that he hoped to make it look like an accident so his family could claim his life insurance. Over the next several days, the bank, Grace Martin, and others received envelopes containing white powder that turned out to be insecticide and were traced back to the man.

  Meanwhile, it was enough to set Secret Service on edge. They have an RV parked in the Woodleys’ yard as a mobile command center and always have at least one agent on duty.

  Stella once asked Elliot for a protective detail, and he told her no, and not to ask again. That if she wanted private security, she could hire it and have one of her “benefactors” pay for it.

  Far as I know, that’s the last time she asked.

  But the detail on the property is how we know for certain Elliot’s parents are home—because they’ve been alerted to our arrival and asked not to tell his parents. Before we head there via motorcade, Elliot and I change out of our suits and into jeans and sneakers. I’m wearing a button-up under my denim jacket because it feels chilly to me today. Elliot’s wearing a Cornhuskers hoody over a charcoal Henley.

  I watch him as we speed down two-lane roads, rolling past miles of pastures and fields in diverse stages of growth. It uncomfortably reminds me in some ways of where I came from, and I try not to compare the fields I’m seeing to the ones from my youth. While my parents weren’t farmers, we lived in a farming community. Plus, my father’s job was farming-adjacent, so I know enough to be dangerous.

  “I’ve been trying to talk him into switching to hops.”

  I’m not sure I heard him correctly. “Sorry?”

  “Dad.” Elliot shifts his body so he’s facing me. “Corn is getting harder to make a living with on a family operation their size. US soy market’s still in the shitter. I looked into it. The type of soil they have here, he could grow hops. Even if he didn’t shift all-in on it, he could plant fifteen or twenty acres of it on a trial basis. Hook up with regional craft and microbreweries. Or, he could shift into growing specialty and heirloom crops for seed. There are viable alternatives to growing corn.”

  I sense…something. “What’s going on?”

  “They’re struggling. They’ve been struggling. For years. They’re not getting any younger, but no way will Dad sell out. His family’s raised corn for generations. Farm’s been in the family for over a hundred years. I’m tired of him and Mom always stressing over how they’re going to pay the mortgage.

  “I don’t make enough money I can bail them out if they fail, and you know damn well I won’t take lobbyists’ money.” A dark glare flashes across his expression before my placid boy returns. “Their note’s held by the same bank Grace Martin’s father runs.”

  “Oh.” Again, while I don’t hail from a farming family, I remember discussions my parents had with friends of theirs who did own and run farms.

  Now I understand why, when Elliot told me about the farmer who snapped, I sensed a darker undertone to the story.

  It’s personal.

  “Yeah.” He nudges his glasses up his nose, because I had him take out his contacts after the event. It’s one less thing he has to deal with and worry about. “I’d love for them to be able to pay their bills with farming, and not need to rely on subsidies and crop insurance every year. But trying to talk Dad into a new way of thinking is impossible. He sure as hell won’t sell out and retire. You might as well set him on fire.”

  “I take it you’ve shown him the potential numbers?”

  “Yeah. I did everything but make a PowerPoint for them.”

  “What about your mom?”

  “She won’t challenge him on this. The irony is she has an acre and a half right around the house that’s just hers, right? She grows nearly everything she puts on their table, preserves a lot of it, and she even sells some of it up a little farm stand by the road, because she grows it organically. She’ll pull in several hundred dollars a week in season, and that’s just from neighbors and their friends at church. Sells some to local wholesalers, too. During the season, she’ll earn their grocery money and then some just from what she takes care of herself.”

  “Can I ask a stupid question?”

  He smiles. “Sure.”

  “Doesn’t everyone around them have their own farms? I mean, I get how someone in New York state can run a farm stand and make money from tourists and locals passing through, but how is that possible somewhere like here?” I wave toward the window, indicating the miles of rolling farmlands. “Not like Disneyworld’s in their backyard and attracting folks.”

  “Many do have their own farms. Not everyone grows small plots like hers. Some people are running large operations and don’t have time. If you need tomatoes, and you don’t grow your own, would you rather run all the way into town, to the grocery store, or stop by your neighbor, who you’ve known for years, and pay roughly the same price, for a better product, and be able to gossip for a few minutes?”

  “True.”

  “When we were kids, Stella used to hate the fuck out of working in the garden. I didn’t mind it, because it wasn’t nearly as boring as spending hours on a tractor or a combine.”

  “Why didn’t you switch jobs?”

  “Because Dad banned her from farm machinery.” He laughs. “He gave in to her whining when she was twelve. She was on a tractor for five minutes before she fucked up what she was doing and Dad was screaming at her. He tried her on four more pieces of equipment, and she either screwed up, or broke something. He then told her she’d be lucky if he even let her get her learner’s permit to drive before she was eighteen and he couldn’t stop her.”

  “Wow. Bet she hated that.”

  “Absolutely, she did. I think she thought I was a suck-up, because I never minded the little garden. Time alone, no one bothering me. Got to eat what I was growing. Mom even let me help her pick what to plant every year.” I see an evil grin sparking in his eyes.

  “Let me guess—you picked stuff Stella hated?”

  He laughs. “Maayyybe.” He shrugs. “I can’t help it that she hates Brussels sprouts and beets, and I love them.”

  We slow for a turn and I realize from the way Elliot sits up a little straighter that we’re close.

  “How long’s it been since you were last here?”

  “Years,” he quietly says.

  “Why are we really here today, boy?” I whisper.

  It takes him a moment to consider his answer. “I don’t know, Sir.”

  Oh, boy. “Are you hoping when you tell them you’re going to announce that they’ll ask you not to?”

  He slowly nods. “Maybe.”

  “You don’t have to announce.”

  He meets my gaze. “I know. What do you think I should do?”

  “I think you should figure out if you really want to run or not run for your reasons, not anyone else’s.”

  He smirks. “That’s such a Leo answer it’s fucking spooky.”

  I reach over and poke his arm. “Well, it’s the truth.”

  Chapter Twenty-Eight

  When we pull into their driveway, I’m watching Elliot’s face more than I’m looking at our surroundings. I grew up in an agricultural community. I know what farms look like.

  What I don’t know is how this will impact Elliot later.

  An agent opens the back door and I gesture to Elliot. “After you, Mister Vice Preside
nt.”

  He rolls his eyes at me but his hand brushes across my thigh, squeezing, as he passes me and climbs out.

  So this is where my boy grew up. It looks like any other typical farm. The small, two-story house stands in the middle of a perimeter of what looks like older trees, planted as a windbreak, no doubt. I see the small garden plot off to the side, where it looks like his mom is utilizing square foot gardening techniques for some of her produce, and rows for others.

  I follow Elliot as we walk past the Secret Service’s RV and around the side of the house to the back door.

  “Why not the front door?” I quietly ask.

  Elliot smiles. “Only company who isn’t family, or salespeople, use the front door.”

  “Ah.” When I was growing up, our back door led to a fenced-in yard, so no one came in that way. Ditto at Mimi’s house.

  He knocks and opens it, motioning for me to follow him inside while the agents wait outside.

  “Mom? Dad?” Elliot cocks his head, listening.

  His mom’s head appears from a doorway, a wide smile quickly spreading across her face as she hustles down the hallway toward us. “Elliot! You didn’t tell us you were coming!”

  I remain by the back door, watching. He obviously loves his mom very much. There’s a little envy there, because once again, I see someone welcomed by their family, where I’m an outcast.

  Except in Elliot’s case, he doesn’t know if his parents will still accept him once he comes out. He’s reasonably sure they won’t, hence his reticence.

  At least we’ll all have Meredith and Alan Cruz, if we make it that far as a triad.

  Hopefully.

  I miss them and haven’t yet told them I’m back in DC, because I don’t want them tipping my hand to Leo.

  This situation explosively grew all sorts of complicated, and stands to get even more complicated. The Cruzes don’t know Elliot’s the true love of their son’s life and has been for over a decade.

  Elliot got his gorgeous blue eyes and drop-dead good looks from his mom. Now sixty-one, Norah Woodley was only eighteen when she had Elliot. While some of the weight of her years is visible in the lines in her brow and around her eyes and lips, she’s still an attractive woman. I know Elliot inherited his height and build from his father, Oliver Woodley. Stella inherited Oliver’s brown eyes, as well as the pinched, judgmental squint she perpetually wears.

  I swear if you didn’t know Elliot and Stella were related, you wouldn’t assume they were siblings, unless you saw them standing next to their parents.

  Elliot turns with his arm around his mom’s shoulders. “Mom, you’ve met him before, but you might not remember him. This is Jordan Walsh. He’s my best friend, and I just hired him to be my personal assistant.”

  A warm thrill runs through me at that descriptor—best friend. Norah offers me a friendly smile and a hug. “I’m pretty sure I remember you. You look familiar.”

  “Yes, ma’am. We met during President Samuels’ first inauguration.”

  “He decorated my residence and office,” Elliot adds. The way he smiles at me as he says it makes me want to puff with pride.

  “Oh, of course. We’ve seen you at some of the holiday dinners at the White House, too, haven’t we?”

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  “He’s living with me now,” Elliot says, nearly shocking me, until I realize why he’s saying this.

  “I’m sorry?” She understandably sounds confused.

  “He’s living with me in my official residence. He’s in the spare bedroom. He used to work in the East Wing, for Chris Bruunt. I didn’t have a body man, and I really need one. He’d returned to Tallahassee to work on his degree, but I managed to talk him into coming back and working for me. When you guys come visit me now, we’ll put you up at Blair House, because Jordan’s living in the bedroom you were using.”

  Understanding dawns—so she thinks. “He’s your helper.”

  That’s one word for it, I suppose.

  “Yes, Mom. Exactly. He goes everywhere with me and helps me out. I really count on him.” His gaze meets mine but doesn’t linger long. “Where’s Dad?”

  “He’s out in the north field, working on the irrigation system.” She smiles. “I’ll call him and ask him to come in to eat lunch. Oh, he’s going to be so surprised!”

  “Thanks. Hey, do you mind if I show Jordan around upstairs?”

  “No, go right ahead, honey. Do you want lunch? I haven’t made ours yet.”

  “Thanks, Mom. We’d appreciate that.”

  In the kitchen is one of the areas where I excel. “Is there anything I can do to help, ma’am?” I have a feeling I’ll never be calling her Mom.

  “No, that’s all right, sweetie. I’ve got it. Let Elliot show you around, if he wants.”

  After she turns and starts to make her way down the hall, Jordan drops me a wink. Then he turns and follows her, and I fall in step behind him. When we reach the stairs, he leads the way up.

  I can see what he means, though, when he told me that him staying with his parents was never practical. The house is tidy and clean, but between the steep stairs and the narrow doorways, it would have been difficult for him to get around with his walker, and impossible with his wheelchair.

  He opens the door to one bedroom and smiles as we walk in. The furniture’s old and plain, but as with the rest of the house, the room is tidy and clean. There’s a bed, a single, along with a narrow dresser. But the sewing table in one corner speaks to this room’s repurposing. It’s not a large room, smaller than my old bedroom at my parents’ house.

  He sits on the bed and smiles up at me. “Feel like getting frisky, Sir?” he whispers. “I had a lot of sexy dreams in this bed.”

  I chuckle. “Not with your Mom downstairs, no.” Although it would be tempting as hell, if we were alone in the house, to put him on his knees and fuck his mouth, so he’d have a good memory of this room to carry with him.

  He lays back on the bed and, still whispering, says, “I can’t tell you how many nights the only way I could fall asleep was to masturbate to fantasies of me finally getting to be with a guy.”

  That’s when it hits me.

  Leo’s never set foot inside this room. Hell, he’s never been inside this house. It wouldn’t shock me if he’s driven by the property, or diverted a spy satellite to take high-quality photos of the property, or something like that.

  But Elliot’s never brought Leo here.

  I sit on the edge of the bed as Elliot sits up and moves over to give me room. “Why did you bring me here when you’ve never brought Leo?” We’re still whispering.

  His smile fades and his gaze focuses on the ceiling for a moment. “He got nearly all the big firsts with me. I wasn’t really thinking about it like that when I decided to come here, but I’d be lying if I didn’t admit I like the symmetry of it. If I ever do come out, I might never be welcomed here again, so bringing him would be moot.” He looks at me. “Do you think he’ll be upset?”

  Oh, boy. He just said if he ever comes out.

  Not when.

  Not my job to manage his relationship with Leo, but this is going to crush the man. It’s almost enough to make me feel sorry for the sadist.

  I reach over and stroke Elliot’s hair. Like this, without the suit, and with his glasses, he looks like a hot guy who’s well within my reach, not the scorching hot government executive who’s one breath from the nuclear codes and definitely out of my league.

  “I think Leo is pragmatic. He’s going to be upset about you not telling him you’re running before he hears it elsewhere.” Yeah, I know I could easily stop that…but, you know…

  #pettybitch

  I can also take the cop-out that it’s a work-related issue I won’t interfere with.

  #stillpetty

  “He has to know I’m running.”

  “Did you ever say the words to him, ‘Leo, I’m running’?”

  He blushes. “Not exactly.”

  “
Then why would he assume it?”

  “Because everyone else fricking has.”

  You can’t see into the bedroom from the stairs, but when we hear his mom call up from the base of the stairs, I still stand and move to the window to look out. I also take out Elliot’s burner and use the camera on it to snap a few pictures of the room, and video, to maybe one day show Leo.

  “Your father’s on his way.”

  “Did you tell him I’m here?” Elliot calls back.

  “No, but I said lunch was ready and I had some good news for him.”

  “Thanks, Mom.” He laughs and drops his voice. “Hope he isn’t scared shitless when he sees the motorcade. Don’t want him thinking I died or something. He’s already had one bad scare in his life regarding me. He doesn’t need another one.”

  There’s a lot about Elliot I don’t know, including stuff like that. Personal anecdotes that aren’t part of his official White House website bio.

  A whole life’s worth of anecdotes, including many secret ones that include Leo.

  It’s overwhelming and I realize I need a moment. “Which way to the bathroom?”

  He stands and leads me there, standing with his back pressed against the doorframe so I have to slide sideways past him.

  Then he cages me with his arms and leans in, stealing a kiss from me before releasing me. The adorably playful look he wears makes me want to drag him in there with me and fuck him over the sink.

  “Behave, boy,” I mouth to him as I nudge him out of the bathroom by closing the door.

  I do need to use it.

  I also need to take a few deep breaths and recenter myself. Being Elliot’s Sir full-time is hard fricking work. Leo’s a better Dom than I am, that’s for sure.

  I’m thinking about calling Leo tonight, after Elliot’s asleep, and telling him multiple things. Starting with I’m back, I’m living with Elliot, the new status quo, and, oh yeah, by the way, Elliot’s declaring Sunday.

  Except I’m not even ready to face Leo yet. How can I possibly judge Elliot for not telling Leo his news when I damn sure can’t tell Leo mine?