Innocent (Inequitable Trilogy Book 2)

by Lesli Richardson

  But since there’s no way in hell I’ll walk away from Elliot, I need to tie another knot in my rope and hang on tight. Because Elliot needs us.

  Truth be told, part of me needs him, too.

  More than I ever realized was possible.

  Chapter Fifty

  Of course I’ve been to the Renwick Gallery, duh. Hello, design student? Artist?

  I mean, come on. I love the place. That’s one of the benefits of living in DC—all the museums. Obviously, I haven’t had as much free time lately to go exploring as I used to.

  Wednesday evening, I leave the West Wing after sending Elliot on to campaign headquarters with Casey and the detail. Depending on how long this takes, either I’ll meet him at headquarters, or go straight to the residence when I’m finished. The Renwick Gallery is a quick walk from the White House to the reddish brick building with tan trim. When I arrive, I find Camden standing outside and waiting for me.

  “Hey,” he says, giving me a more-than-friendly smile I feel a little guilty over. It’s the eager anticipation I see there that triggers the guilt.

  “Hey.” I know Camden’s still interested in maybe pursuing something with me, but I find I no longer have the energy to pretend to be interested.

  Except I also don’t want to hurt his feelings. He’s good at his job, and Elliot needs him on the campaign.

  He gets the door and opens it for me. “After you.”

  “Thanks.”

  The cocktail party is being held in the Grand Salon. At least I don’t feel underdressed. Most everyone here looks like they came from the office, because it’s not a formal affair. Once we check in, one of the organizers attaches herself to us and starts to introduce us around. Camden and I paste on our smiles and shift into schmooze mode.

  I hate it. I hate everything about this, but at least my mask is intact and effective.

  Finally, about two hours in, we manage to ditch our handler and Camden goes his way to talk to donors while I go mine. I end up sitting at a table and speaking with a guy from Detroit who’s involved with one of the auto manufacturers.

  “Ah, Jordan Walsh.” I involuntarily flinch, but the woman’s voice from just behind me feels like nails on a chalkboard.

  When I look up to see Congresswoman Grace Martin standing there, I stand more as a force of habit than because I want to accord her any respect. “Congresswoman.”

  “May I join you?”

  Oh, go fuck yourself… “Certainly.”

  As she lowers herself into a chair, her smile doesn’t fool me. I didn’t think there’d be any lawmakers at tonight’s event, but looks like she’s managed to slink in here, anyway.

  Thank god I’ve got a glass of wine in my hand. I’m going to need another one to deal with her, so I signal to one of the servers that I’d like a refill.

  She starts talking with the gentleman I was chatting with, and I totally don’t understand her position. She enthusiastically argues one side of the latest trade tariff issue with China—the exact opposite position that she voted for—before flipping to the other side and arguing that perspective, to the point her new debate partner seems confused where he started on the topic, much less what she really thinks.

  This is a prime example of why Grace Martin is so fucking dangerous. She’s not loyal to a party, or a position, or a platform. I’m not even sure she’s loyal to the damn country and Constitution.

  She’s loyal first and foremost to herself.

  We’re joined by two other men while the Detroit guy ends up leaving to speak with someone else.

  The conversation, of course, drifts into “moral issues.”

  Fuck me.

  I could be rude and just get up and leave, but that would be noticed. I can’t afford to piss off potential donors.

  Meaning I need to time this right.

  That’s why I drink my wine and hope I’m not too drunk to stumble my way back to the White House by the time I’m finished here. I even tune out for a few minutes, until my focus returns toward the end of Grace Martin monologuing about “family values.”

  “…and that’s what my voters want. They want Washington DC’s values and decisions to reflect them and theirs. Because that’s who built this country.”

  Ohh, there went the record screech in my brain. “Not exactly, Congresswoman.”

  Who said that?

  Oh, shit. That was me.

  The two men who sat down with us look like they’d truly appreciate the power of teleportation right…about…now.

  “Why do you say that, Jordan?” Grace drawls.

  “Because it’s not the truth.” I rarely engage in stating my opinion like this, but I’m Leo’s boy, and he’s taught me well. There’s a difference between playing politics and taking shit from people. “Nothing like a bunch of mediocre white Christian guys with fragile egos telling each other they’re meant to rule the world.”

  Yeah, I’m cynical.

  Grace eyes me. “You have a better idea to pull this country out of its downward trajectory than returning our focus to God?”

  I lean forward and set my glass on the table. “Look, if you’re trying to get me to say I think we should return to the 1950s, you’re barking up the wrong tree. We’re a country of immigrants, living on land stolen from the indigenous people already living here, and which was built upon the genocide and enslavement of people of color. Nothing about that makes white Christian dudes inherently better than anyone else, and I say that as a white dude who, at one point in his life, used to identify as Christian.”

  She swirls the drink in her glass as she studies me. “Interesting opinion.”

  “It’s not an ‘opinion’—it’s factual history. Some mythical inherent ‘superiority’ didn’t give America to the Europeans. It was a combination of basic virology, imperialism, colonialism, and greed, with a heaping helping of white supremacy. Just because some white people think they’re the best doesn’t automatically mean they are. Usually means they’re the dregs.

  “Look, cream doesn’t have to proclaim it’s the best to rise to the top—it just does. Anyone, including people and religions, who spend so much time beating their own drums to convince people how good they are usually are the worst. That’s been my personal experience. I also say that as a man raised in a church as a Christian, who’s witnessed first-hand how mean and evil they can be. Don’t ‘not all’ me, either.”

  If I could see into her brain, I’m sure it’s whizzing like some sort of calculator as she processes all of this and formulates her reply.

  “Here I thought you were smart, Jordan. You sound like a man with no aspirations of your own. A man of pure principles in DC is about as rare as an innocent virgin in this town.”

  I’d like to slap her and wipe the smirk right off her face, but I’m better than that. Besides, I don’t think even Leo could save my ass if I assaulted a congresswoman. “I have plenty of aspirations. The difference between me and someone looking for a way to screw the system is that I’m in the process of working for my goals. Earning them. Not assuming I’m entitled to them just because I’m a good-looking WASPy guy. I’m sure you’ve faced your fair share of people thinking the only reason you got elected was that you’re friends with the vice president’s sister, or because your father runs a bank that holds paper on a huge swath of people and farms in your district. Or because you’re what’s perceived as a conventionally ‘pretty’ white woman.”

  Damn right I used finger quotes that time.

  And, yes, they were deliberately placed for the annoyance factor.

  Color rises in her cheeks, but she’s good, I’ll give her credit for that. She doesn’t react immediately, trying to appear cool, unflappable. “Granted, there have been some people who say that about me. And yes, it…irritates me. I worked hard to get where I am and did so on my merits.”

  That’s total bullshit, because it’s a combination of Daddy’s money and Elliot’s indirect endorsement that earned her the seat. Except I’m not
in the mood to have that argument with her because it means breaking out the charts that prove me right.

  I know I’m right—I helped compile the goddamned charts. Literally. Because we damn sure want to carry Elliot’s home state, even if we don’t need it for the Electoral College.

  Meaning I’ve done a lot of studying about the voting makeup of the Cornhusker State, and Elliot’s old district in particular.

  Especially since I’d love to help a more liberal challenger primary Grace during the next election cycle, if she even manages to hold on to her seat this time.

  Unfortunately, with Grace’s focus firmly on me, the other two men at our table suddenly see their chance for freedom and decide to bolt.

  Chickenshits.

  “Okay, then,” I say. “That’s my point. You worked for it. Wouldn’t it piss you off if some guy ran against you and made comments like how could your constituents count on you if you decided to start a family, or bullshit like that?” Because that’s exactly the kind of attack I would have my hand-picked candidate use against her.

  She’s really pissed off but desperately trying not to show it, because it’ll prove my very point and she knows it. “Yes, that would irritate me.”

  “There you go.” This is as good of a time as any for me to mic drop and make my exit. I pick up my wineglass and stand. “And on that, I’ll say good evening, Representative Martin.” I know I don’t have to use that title with her, but it’s not worth pissing her off to gig her with the Ms. title.

  Of course I can’t escape that easily. She calls out to me as I walk away. “Jordan.”

  I stop and turn.

  She’s still sitting there, staring at me with a calculating look that would do Leo or Kevin Markos proud. “Are you busy tomorrow night?”

  Her question confuses me. “Busy?”

  “For dinner. Would you like to have dinner with me tomorrow night?”

  I’d rather have my liver torn out by rabid wolves and fed to me on sandspur stalks. “I thought we did that once already and you hated my guts?” I’m done trying to be nice to her. She gets honesty from me, rude or not. I don’t owe her anything.

  My only allegiance is to Elliot.

  Well, and Leo, duh.

  She waves my comment away. “I never said that. I was irritated at Elliot for pawning me off on a staffer and dodging my requests for time to speak with him alone.”

  I resist the urge to hurl my wineglass at her. “The vice president.”

  “Yes, that’s what I said.”

  I take a step toward her. “No, that’s not what you said.” She’s going to learn this lesson if I have to beat it into her skull. “You used his first name. Unless he is present and tells you that you can address him by his first name during that particular encounter, you will always refer to him as either ‘the vice president,’ ‘Mister Vice President,’ or ‘Vice President Woodley.’ I will also accept ‘Mister Woodley.’”

  She snorts. “You’re kidding, right? I’ve known him—”

  “I am not kidding.”

  Her smile fades as she studies my expression for a moment. “I’m his sister’s best friend. I’ve known him for years.”

  “I don’t care who you are or how long you’ve known him. You are not his sister, or his mother, or his wife. Protocol dictates that you, a seated member of the House of Representatives, address him with respect for the office, regardless of what you think or feel about him as a person, or how long you’ve known him.”

  She actually huffs and I realize I’ve gotten under her skin. “Look, who do you think—”

  I drop Dom tone on her. “Grace. You will not win this one. Either you stop trying, or this conversation is over. I’m serious.”

  She re-evaluates me. “Sorry,” she mutters.

  I stare at her, waiting her out to throw her off her game. She still must not realize I’m gay and obviously isn’t used to her wiles not working on me.

  “You never answered my question,” is what she settles on.

  “About dinner?”

  “Yes. Are you free for dinner tomorrow night?”

  “Do you think by taking the vice president’s body man and best friend out to dinner it means that you’ll earn yourself private time with the vice president?”

  “I think by getting on your good side you might loosen up his calendar a little, yes. It is no secret that you control access to him.” She smiles. “My treat. Nothing to do with work, just personal. I’d like to get to know you better. We got off on the wrong foot and I’d really like a chance to make it up to you. I know Stella can be…tiring. Let me show you I’m not like her.”

  That’s bullshit, and we both know it. Except it might have worked on someone not as well versed in it as I am, taught to recognize this kind of manipulative flattery by a retired Secret Service agent with a psychology degree.

  “Well, if you’re asking me to dinner, it’ll need to be somewhere within my budget. I survive on a government employee’s salary.”

  “I said I’d pay.”

  “And I’m saying no to that. I refuse to do anything that might possibly put me afoul of an ethics investigation.”

  “I’m allowed to take you out to dinner as friends.”

  “And I’m saying no. You’re a seated member of Congress. We can dine out as ‘friends’ after you’re out of office.”

  Not that I’d ever call her a “friend.”

  She rolls her eyes and takes another sip of her drink. “Fine. Somewhere reasonably priced, then.”

  “Then, yes, I should be able to have dinner with you tomorrow evening.” I don’t want to do this at all, but she’s after way more than getting her “friends” face-time with Elliot. I need to find out exactly what that something is. I also don’t want to put it off until after the weekend trip. My schedule will grow even tighter the closer we get to the election. I might need every hour I can steal to counter her moves, and I don’t want to get caught flat-footed.

  “I’m making you exactly zero promises,” I add. “I will not trade favors. You get no quid pro quo from me. If you know as much as you think you do about me, you’ll know that, too.”

  She arches an eyebrow at me. “So that’s a yes?”

  WWLD?

  Leo would manipulate her to figure out her game.

  I finish my drink. “You have my cell number. Text me a time and place. As long as no emergencies crop up, I’ll probably be able to meet you.” I head out, my mind spinning.

  I have to find out what her game is because, obviously, her long-term plans include Elliot. It’s the only thing that makes sense. It’s got to be something political, and Grace understands that she needs my rubberstamp for Elliot to even listen to her. Stella’s proved to be a liability, so now Grace is trying the direct approach to reach me and get to Elliot.

  Not going to let that happen for a variety of reasons. The most important reason being that Grace is a calculating, conniving bitch who I don’t trust a single inch.

  Like hell is she getting time alone with Elliot. I wouldn’t put it past her to try to extort him. Not after everything Leo told me he learned about her, and the things I’ve learned on my own since then.

  I head to Leo’s so I have a chance to cool off before I return to Elliot. I know Leo won’t be home, because he’s out of town with the president this evening, but it’s my totally safe place to decompress.

  As soon as I switch the alarm off and lock the door behind me, I strip completely naked. Then I put on my leather collar and cuffs, grab my cell phones, and climb onto Leo’s bed, where I put myself into a full, formal bow with my head buried in his pillow.

  Ahhhh.

  Shut up—it works. Since Sir’s given me permission to do things like this, activities that help soothe my soul when He’s not around, I’m going to take advantage of them.

  Alone and able to focus, my mind clears, allowing me to think. Leo’s warned me about Grace Martin and some of her previous fuckery. I know for a fact there are mo
re things she’s done that he won’t tell me about. We’re only a couple of months from the election, and life’s getting crazy. No telling what she’s capable of.

  I’m willing to bet she’s not up to anything good. Her numbers aren’t that great in Nebraska. She’s up for re-election, so I’m not sure why she’s spending so much time around DC. She should be flying home every chance she gets so she can campaign.

  That means Grace feels pretty secure for some reason, even though the polls do not show her ahead by a comfortable margin. In fact, her opponent has been closing the gap for weeks now, doing better with every new poll. Allie Tinesdale, an Independent, has been attending every pep rally and rubber-chicken dinner and American Legion barbecue she can wrangle an invite to. She’s hustling in a way Grace never has and appears hungry for it. The Democrat who’s running, a young moderate by the name of Jace Packer, isn’t even pulling five percent in the polls, although he shows a lot of promise. Once this election is over, I plan to contact him to see if he wants advice for the next election. I won’t be able to work for him, but I can give him pointers.

  Nothing wrong with that, right?

  Another long, slow, deep inhale fills my lungs with Leo’s scent.

  Why would Grace not care that her re-election chances are far from guaranteed? She’s totally wrapped up in her identity as a member of Congress. There has to be a reason.

  Think, Jordan.

  No way in hell will I allow Elliot to stump for Grace, if that’s her goal. She’s not loyal to anyone but herself, and she’s pissed off people on both sides of the aisle. Plus, Elliot’s campaign schedule is packed. And she’s a Republican. At this stage of Elliot’s career, I cannot let him endorse anyone from the GOP, unless the other candidate kills kittens for sport, or something heinous like that.

  Until I hear Grace out, I can’t prepare my next step. Honestly, I don’t want anything to do with having dinner alone with her in public. I really don’t want pictures of us popping up anywhere, and I have little doubts that she’d stage it so someone photographs us together and then tries to leverage it against me for access to Elliot.