Skills check.
Yeah, I am that sadistic.
And, yes, I have made a few online purchases and had them shipped to me. Secret Service has to screen my mail and packages, and they know not to say a damn word about what I buy.
I add my notes and send it back, then head downstairs again to refill my coffee and make Elliot’s.
I still haven’t responded to Leo’s latest text, although I did screenshot it.
Elliot hasn’t asked to see the burner phone, or if I’ve checked it for messages from Leo.
Maybe this makes me evil, but I awoke with a small yet tenaciously growing thought deeply rooted in the darker side of my soul.
That maybe the last thing I should do is discourage Elliot from running.
Because Elliot’s promised to keep me with him. I get him elected twice, that’s eight years. Ten, altogether.
Ten years that Leo fucking Cruz will be unable to ignore me, because I’m in Elliot’s bed every night.
Maybe I’m hoping, just a little, that Elliot will come to love me and put me on a higher pedestal than Leo.
Yeah, I know that’s expert-level petty, and I’ll own it.
It’s even pettier because this is totally self-inflicted. I left of my own volition—Leo didn’t send me away. Elliot didn’t ask me to leave.
If I’d stayed, though, without a drastic change in circumstances, I would have grown resentful.
Well, here we are.
It comes in waves. Sometimes gentle and barely lapping at my mental shores, and sometimes crashing through my thoughts like a tsunami. I know it shouldn’t bother me, because I’m a functional adult and fairly in touch with my emotions.
But damned if six fucking years of not being included by Elliot hasn’t snuck up on me.
Leo could have forced him to accept me.
Hell, Leo wouldn’t have had to force him. He could’ve gotten Elliot so fucking horned up he could barely remember his own goddamned name and then smushed us together, and it would have made Elliot’s light bulb pop on.
But Leo fucking Cruz couldn’t do that. Nah, that sadist had to have a line just short of that point, a line he wouldn’t cross.
Just like he wouldn’t come after me, wouldn’t order me to stay.
Maybe I fucking wanted to be ordered to stay.
Maybe I wanted a tangible sign from him and Elliot both that I was more than a convenient hole to fill, or errand-runner, or safe alibi to keep the chatter from heading in the wrong direction.
Maybe I just wanted to fucking be included.
To feel wanted.
I suck all those thoughts deep within me and lock them in a vault. Elliot’s a goddamned train wreck emotionally, and he can’t help it. Spending time around his parents the other day drove that point home to me. Stella’s obnoxious as fuck, and Elliot’s terrified of his own shadow. Two extremes.
It’d be easier to be a dick to Elliot if he wasn’t so.
Fucking.
Nice.
By Saturday night, Elliot’s a nervous fucking wreck. I’m trying not to step in and take over and make this decision for him—yes, against him running, fucking hell—when he finally has a flash of insight that honestly makes me wonder about the full-time depth of his emotional engagement with his own soul.
“Do you think Leo’s going to hate me for declaring?”
We’re in his home office. I’m sitting in the easy chair, reading for a little while, while Elliot kneels on the floor in front of me and rubs my feet. Elliot’s naked, except for his bracelet and his collar. I set my Kindle aside, lean forward, take his hands, and hold them tucked against my chest in a Leo way.
I know, I know, we need our own things, but I’ll take the shortcuts when I need to use them and be glad I have them.
“You have to run or not for you, not for him, not for your parents, not for me. Elliot Woodley is the one who matters.”
“What if I don’t know what I want?”
In times like this, I ache for him. I’ve always had an internal compass. I might not have known the exact path to take, but I had a good guess at the general direction.
Elliot’s never had that. He’s always worked off faulty maps, because he keeps sabotaging himself. “Do you want me to call Leo tonight, talk to him, and tell him for you?”
I have programmed Leo’s work cell number into my work phone. I don’t have the same work cell number I had last time, but he’d be able to figure out who it belongs to, even if he doesn’t answer the call and I don’t leave a message. He would see the area code and prefix, make a guess, and could look it up in the government directory.
“Are you ready to talk to Leo?” he asks.
I shake my head. “I will talk to him for you, though. If you need me to. I can’t manage your relationship with him, but I can and will buffer you from him, if that’s something you need me to do for you. I am your Sir first.”
“And his boy second?” His blue gaze studies me even as pain knifes through my soul.
“Maybe not even that,” I quietly say.
“He still loves you.”
“This isn’t about me—this is about you.”
“He doesn’t want me to run.”
“He wants you to be happy more than anything.” I can say that with total honesty, because it’s something Leo’s told me many times in the past. Unless Leo’s thinking hard-shifted some time over the last six months. Which, I guess that’s possible, too.
“Am I self-sabotaging and trying to make Leo break up with me by not telling him so he gets pissed off? The way I thought he’d break up with me when I told him to date you, in the beginning? Or is it a loyalty test to see if he’ll stay by me after I don’t tell him? Or do I think I don’t deserve to be POTUS, so I’m trying to kneecap myself right out of the gate with an emotional entanglement I know I’m trying to make fail, even though I want it to work? Or is it something else?”
Wow, that’s a lot to unpack.
Luckily, I don’t have to unpack it right now.
Instead, I kiss his hands. “I’m not a psychologist. But I happen to know a guy.” I smile, and finally, Elliot smiles back. “What do you think, boy?”
A ragged breath whooshes from him. “I don’t know, Sir.” He blinks away tears. “I really don’t know.”
Chapter Thirty
Sunday morning, I awake ahead of Elliot, grab the burner phone, and take it downstairs with me when I go to make our coffee.
I kept Elliot so mentally distracted after our talk last night that he could barely put two words together, much less operate an electronic device.
I think I’m getting pretty good at this Sir stuff.
I can see I’ll be buying more prostate massagers to play with because he definitely loved it.
Hey, I’ll gladly take whatever help I can get to level the playing field between us.
I finally power up the burner phone and find that Leo sent a text two hours ago.
Leaving hotel, will be flying. I’ll check in when I reach next hotel. Love you and miss you. GD.
I know that code shorthand.
Going Dark.
Meaning his phone’s off.
Good, I don’t have to lie to Elliot when I wake him up.
I won’t respond to the text, because GD means he’ll text once he can. I screenshot it and then shut off the phone.
Let Leo think what he wants about the fact that his message was read and not responded to.
Let him be the one left spinning in the wind for a while.
I slip the phone into the pocket of Elliot’s robe—which I’m wearing, yes—take the prepared mugs of coffee upstairs, and then set the burner phone on my nightstand before I slide back into bed with Elliot.
So far, he hasn’t had any nightmares, that I’m aware of. And I haven’t seen any clear manifestations of his PTSD. It is, however, why I’m careful not to startle him awake. It was something Leo told me about, and I might be petty, but about something like this, I don’t
want to be fricking cruel to him. The guy is a legit hero. Even after he was wounded, he kept returning fire, trying to help save some of his guys who were down while they awaited backup.
That trumps my pettiness every time, and always will.
That’s why I can put him first like this.
I’m still in his robe, because I’ve learned if I don’t wear it, it’s too easy for him to get handsy with me and try to talk me into morning sex. He doesn’t wake up to my alarm, because I’m a light sleeper and my years with Leo taught me to stick to a morning routine. I use a vibration alarm, plus the alarm hits my watch and vibrates, too. I have a loud backup alarm, just in case, but I always shut it off when I wake up.
I spoon against his back, my arm slipping around his waist. Nuzzling the nape of his neck gets me immediate results and threatens to harden my cock because he scoots his butt against me. Sure, he’s taller than me, but we still fit together perfectly regardless of whether it’s me spooning him or vice versa.
Lightly grazing my teeth along the side of his throat makes him squirm, especially when I nip his earlobe. “Good morning, Mister Vice President.”
When he sucks in a deep breath, I know he’s awake. Another of Leo’s tricks—to use the title when we’re alone.
“Sunday morning?” he mutters.
“Yes.” I tug on his earlobe with my lips. “It’s Sunday morning. Big day. We need to get you up and moving.” I laid out our clothes last night and rumpled my bed.
Elliot takes another deep breath and holds it for a moment before blowing it out again. “Tell me I’m doing the right thing, Jor. Or tell me I’m making a mistake. Please?”
I make him roll onto his back so I can look him in the eyes. “I’m not going anywhere, either way. I made you a promise and I’ll keep it.”
“What if I don’t run? Would you leave?”
“Would you want me to?”
“No. I know Leo’s going to ‘see I told you so’ me to infinity, and I deserve it. This has been the best ten days I can remember in a long damn time. I don’t want you to leave.”
I’m touched that he’s counting them. “So, what are we doing today? You tell me.” If he opts out, I have a shit-ton of calls to make ASAP to campaign staff.
He thinks it over before slowly nodding. “I’m going to declare.”
“Then let’s get in the shower and get this day started.”
* * * *
I have Elliot read through the speech one last time in the car on the way over. Elliot’s campaign manager, Ken Windham, and the deputy campaign manager, Camden Bruno, are waiting for us at the event venue when we arrive. With them are at least ten other campaign workers, including the campaign’s press secretary and comms director.
It’s an outdoor event, the weather’s perfect, there’s at least two thousand people in attendance, and Elliot looks sharp in his charcoal suit and blue tie. I’m not matching ties with him today, because that’d look weird and noticeable, but I am wearing a tie that we both have.
So kinda matchies, but not exactly.
He knows, though. That’s the whole point.
The crowd is already stoked from the previous two speakers when Elliot hits the stage. He sort of jogs out, which gives the impression of youth and vigor, broadly smiling and shaking hands with the guy who introduced him before taking his place at the podium.
Ken’s standing there with his arms crossed over his chest as he watches. He leans in close to me, one hand holding a paper in front of his mouth as he mutters, “What’s your deal?”
“Sorry?”
“With the vice president. What’s your deal?”
Ken doesn’t know about Elliot and Leo. He’s not in the inner circle, and never will be.
That means he cannot know about Elliot and me, either. “He’s my best friend. Why?”
“Those were good edits you suggested. On the speech. I could always get you a job as a speechwriter.”
I smile. “Can’t get rid of me that easily. I serve at the pleasure of the vice president.”
Boy, do I.
We all pay attention as Elliot nails every note, every beat, every pause. As he makes the final approach to the climax sound bite that will be blasted around the globe and across the Internet in short order, I’m carefully watching him. We’ll have tapes of this speech at the office in less than an hour, because some of our people are filming it, too. I want to study it and him, see where we can tweak his performance.
Plus, I’m still not positive he won’t back out.
He takes a breath and, just like we practiced, his gaze sweeps the audience.
“I’ve spent most of my adult life in public service, for my home state, and for my country. Both in the military, and in government. Service is, to me, a higher calling. That’s why I’m officially declaring my candidacy for president of the United States of America.”
The crowd’s already going batshit and screaming with approval before he even gets the entire last sentence out.
It’s safe to say they’re happy he’s running.
I watch him as I and the other campaign staff clap backstage. Elliot’s staring out at the crowd, hands gripping the podium now, then he glances over and our gazes lock.
I give him a head tip.
He gives me one in return.
I guess the bottom line is everything Leo’s done with us over the years is so embedded and deep that, in some ways, we’ll never be able to let him or those commonalities go.
Like these silent cues.
In times like these, I won’t fight using them, because they’re helpful.
Then Elliot lets releases the podium and straightens, like he’s just received an injection of strength from me.
He’s still not done with the speech, though.
Once the cheering dies down enough he can be heard, he continues. “In the coming weeks, we’ll get more information about my platform posted on the website. I’m a Democrat, yes, but I am an American first. I’m not going to twist myself in knots to meet some purity test definition by far-left fringes of my own party.
“I think that, as Americans, we can all agree we need to keep our country safe and take care of our veterans and active-duty military and their families. We can agree our education system needs an overhaul. We can agree that roads and bridges and other infrastructure need improvement. We can agree that there are corporations who aren’t paying their fair share in taxes. These aren’t partisan issues—they’re American issues.
“There will be points we don’t agree on, and that’s okay. Because I would hope that you’ll listen to me to find out where we’re more alike than we are different. I won’t make everyone happy. I won’t even make everyone in my own party happy. But I have a proven track record of getting stuff done in Congress, and as vice president. I hope you’ll let me talk to you about my plans and the direction I’d like the country to continue moving in. Thank you, bless you all for coming out today, and bless this great country of ours!”
More explosive applause and cheers. That last line was mine. Elliot really balked at finishing it off with God bless America. I could’ve overruled him and just told him to say those three damned words, but then I came up with the compromise. I have a feeling it’ll stick throughout his campaign.
If he’s asked about it by any of the far-right goobers, he can honestly tell them that he has his own faith and beliefs and refuses to impose those beliefs on anyone else, and would hope that no one else would try to force him to comply with theirs.
Hence a “nondenominational” phrase.
Although he isn’t going to like that I need to start getting him out to church services at the National Cathedral on a regular basis. He’s been to a few over the years, but he doesn’t like to disrupt the public. A few times a year, he meets with one of the reverends or whatever they’re called from there, when they’ve come to the White House for a visit.
I really need to learn more about it so I can speak intelligently.
But if he wants to grab flyover-state votes, and peel away liberal conservatives from the GOP, he’s going to have to suck it up and deal.
Although, I could ask Daniel Walker-Davis for more info about all of that. He’s a House staffer, but he’s married to Senator Liam Davis, and I know they attend the National Cathedral on a regular basis.
They’re what I’d call “good Christians,” because they’re not hypocritical assholes like my parents. The men do good works in their spare time. They don’t use their religion as a campaign crutch, and they actually walk their talk without being dicks. They volunteer for several charities, pitching in with grunt work, not just with fundraising.
Elliot makes his way down toward the crowd, where barricade fencing keeps them back. Me and the other campaign workers scurry down there as Elliot starts working the rope, so to speak. Secret Service is on high alert. Belatedly, I’m kicking myself in the ass that I didn’t make Elliot wear his body armor today.
I should have.
He hates wearing it, though. It reminds him too much of what he survived. He has several suits and shirts that are specially tailored so he can wear a vest under a dress shirt and jacket, instead of over it and visible.
The reporters covering this event are swarming as well, buzzing like hornets on the edges of the crowd and shouting questions at Elliot. Ken has already promised an exclusive to a WaPo junior reporter who’s apparently the daughter of a friend of his, in exchange for her keeping quiet until now. It’ll take place in about two hours at the temporary campaign headquarters. She didn’t go on the overseas trip, and she’s about to get her byline on the story of a century.
Yeah, there’s a silent and implied quid pro quo there.
Hey, hands wash hands in this town. Maybe she’ll give us some more favorable coverage during the campaign, and she looks like she’s an insider, giving her gravitas.
She’ll likely be an embed with the campaign from this point forward.
Innocent (Inequitable Trilogy Book 2) Page 28
