Kind of their job.
That’s why, right now, I’m heading downstairs in the elevator with twins Ivy and Myla, and their little brother, Hudson, and two Secret Service agents, in search of a tortoise.
That’s not a euphemism or code phrase.
Hudson is towing a small folding wagon behind him. We’re in search of their pet tortoise, Pecan, who gets the run of the downstairs at night.
Pecan is a Sulcata tortoise, and they get huuuge. Right now, he’s only twelve inches long, and weighs a couple of pounds. The girls are using the special “Pecan tracker” tablet the Secret Service set up for locating him. An elastic strap around Pecan’s middle holds the tracker in place on top of his shell so they can easily locate him the next morning. The tablet is secure. The only apps enabled on it are the tracker, and the interface the kids use to turn on and off the “tortoise cam” that posts live video to their website.
Pecan gets fricking fan mail. He has Halloween and Christmas costumes, and costumes for other holidays and special occasions.
I shit you not. He even has a tux. Hell, he has his own Instagram account.
Angela Shibata, our press secretary, receives several questions a week about Pecan at the daily briefings. He’s been featured on all the major late-evening talk shows, and on some of the national evening news broadcasts.
Every morning, he’s located and returned to his pen in the residence, so he’s not wandering loose while public tours are underway. Sometimes during the day, if Jordan had the time, and there were press around, and there was nothing horrible going on in the world requiring the press deluge comms staff with questions, he would bring Pecan downstairs and let him make his rounds. Pecan’s very sociable and enjoys being petted on the head. Now, the job falls to Chris, when he’s around.
It used to be one of Jordan’s favorite things to do at work. I loved watching the joy in his face as he answered questions about the tortoise, and how he got a kick out of watching people take pictures with Pecan or try to get selfies with the tortoise.
You have never snickered so hard in your life as when the prime minister of Great Britain is lying on his stomach on the floor of the Oval Office, with his cell phone out, trying to capture himself and a tortoise in the frame, with the president of the United States photobombing the shot behind them, and a dozen pool reporters and photogs and cameramen climbing all over each other in their eagerness to get pictures of it going down.
After school and on the weekends, the kids take Pecan outside. Then the press goes batshit having fun taking pictures of him.
Like they will this morning, I’m sure. In fact, I’m sure someone’s already notified the press that Pecan will be on the move shortly, and they’re probably all racing outside to get the best vantage point to film him.
Can you blame them? It’s a ratings boon, and it’s “good news,” so people eat that shit up. Rightfully so. The world’s crappy enough. Smiling over three kids and their pet tortoise is a welcomed change.
Chris brilliantly piggybacked environmental and wildlife conservation awareness and protection initiatives onto the wave of Pecanmania that swept the country once the First Tortoise joined the household. One reason Kev bought the kids a pet tortoise, which he did while Chris, Shae, and I were overseas on an official trip, was because this particular species lives upwards of seventy years.
Although they do get rather large. As in several hundred pounds.
After the kids lost their parents—Chris’ younger brother and sister-in-law—in a car accident that turned out to be murder, Kev was thinking in terms of permanence.
A pet they likely won’t have to bid a sad farewell to until they themselves are elderly. Fortunately, this family has the resources to properly care for Pecan throughout his life and to guarantee he’ll be taken care of in case he outlives everyone else.
Meanwhile, he’s probably the world’s most spoiled and famous tortoise.
Ironically, the kids asked for him to get a Secret Service moniker, so he’s known as Pepper. It’s ironic, because Pecan was also one of the P words on the code name list. Shae is Portia, Chris is Priest, and Kev is Prophet. When the kids came to live with them, they received code names: Ivy is Petal, Myla is Pixie, and Hudson is Pyro.
He picked that himself. All three kids did. Hudson loves fireworks, so it suits him.
Elliot is Plumber.
I was the one who picked Elliot’s code name, because it was an inside joke between me and him and, later, Jordan, when I told him about it.
Because the man’s damn good at laying pipe, if you know what I mean.
Not that we’ve done any of that in the past several months.
Chris privately grumbles over the kids naming the tortoise Pecan. Apparently, there’s an ongoing marital disagreement between Chris and Shae, both of them native Floridians, regarding how to properly pronounce “Pecan.”
I’m staying out of that one despite them repeatedly attempting to draw me in and win me to their side.
I’m no idiot. Around them, I call the tortoise Pepper, like the Secret Service agents do.
While the kids really don’t need me to babysit them because they have a dedicated team of Secret Service agents following them, and they are on the White House grounds, it’s a way for me to get out of my head for a little while, to keep myself busy, and to not think about the shitstorm that currently is my personal life.
So I don’t have to think about my past or contemplate my future.
So I don’t have to think about Jordan.
Which…in this case sort of defeats that purpose, but doing this still beats the alternative.
We locate Pecan in the Red Room. He’s asleep pointing face-first into the small corner formed by where the fireplace’s fascia meets the wall. Of course the fireplace is never used. It’s just for show now.
This is the damned White House. You honestly think they’d let that happen and risk burning the place down? We have central heat and AC, thank you very much.
Hudson drops the handle of the wagon and walks over to the tortoise. “Ready for your fans, mister?”
Pecan pokes his head out and looks up at the sound of Hudson’s voice.
Yes, tortoises are good pets, if you have the means to properly care for them. Pecan responds, and when he’s wide awake, he’ll even sometimes come when called by name. Especially if he thinks you’re holding one of his favorite treats.
The twins help Hudson put Pecan into the wagon. They know to wait until we’re outside to swap out the tracker for the camera and activate it.
The kids are adorable. The twins are nine, and Hudson’s seven. It’s amazing how resilient they are, how much they’ve been through, and yet they’re still happy, normal kids.
As normal as they can be as members of the First Family.
They default to calling Chris and Shae “Dad” and “Mom” most of the time now. I know there’s been a discussion with the kids regarding Kev, but they know to never discuss their living arrangements with anyone. It’s been couched in terms of security and safety, but it accomplishes the same result—that the kids don’t spill the beans.
There’s another reason I opted to follow the kids down here today.
Jordan frequently ended up with Pecan duty on school mornings. He was personally responsible for most of the tortoise’s most popular costumes. He was instrumental in putting together a limited-edition Pecan photo calendar that was sold as a fundraiser for the wildlife preservation charity Chris is heavily involved with.
One of Jordan’s duties was helping stage pictures for social media posts for the East Wing. This was one of the things he loved doing, and it was so utterly, perfectly Jordan that I feel a little closer to him by taking part in it today.
I blink back tears as I watch the kids carefully situate Pecan on the towel in his wagon before trundling him outside.
This isn’t fair. Jordan should be here.
I want to take a picture of them and send it to him and even
start to reach for my personal phone…
But then I remember.
Elliot needs you.
Jordan’s last words to me echo through my memory even as I struggle against another wave of crushing grief.
I’m forty-six years old. Never before have I ever felt so utterly lost and alone. Not even in those darkest days after the plane crash, when I tried to rebuild both my body and my life.
I’ve faced loss before…or thought I had.
Since losing Jordan, every bit of pain I ever thought I knew now pales in comparison.
At this point, I suppose I can only pray it gets better before I give in to the self-destruction seductively beckoning to me from within the darkness deep inside my soul.
Hopefully, before I accidentally take Elliot—or Shae—down with me.
Chapter Three
Then
The evening I officially meet Elliot Gerald Woodley for the first time, I spot the freshman congressman in a bar early on a Friday night, before the place has gotten crazy and crowded. He’s sitting by himself in a narrow booth and looking terrified as fuck as he clutches in both hands what appears to be a bourbon on the rocks.
While there are a few het-presenting couples at tables and at the bar, the place is well-known as an upscale, predominantly gay hangout for people who spend a lot of time on and around Capitol Hill. Sort of a corner closet, if you will. Not exactly a seedy hook-up joint. More of a down-low kind of place.
Where you can have plausible deniability, if you’re seen there.
Even better?
It’s a block from my apartment building.
Which was a happy coincidence.
He’s not wearing his lapel pin, but the congressman’s face is not unknown to me. I know a little about US Representative Elliot Woodley (D-NE), including that he nearly died while deployed overseas in the army. The guy’s also handsome. If he’s in the closet, meaning he’s not looking for drama or a scandal, he might be exactly what I’m looking for.
If he’s a bottom.
Please let him be a bottom.
My guess is if he was a Top, he wouldn’t look so terrified while he sits there nursing what I think might be Jack Daniel’s. I could be wrong, but I doubt it.
About him not being a Top, and about the JD on ice.
I currently work for a private security contractor, doing some personal protection fieldwork but mostly instruction, logistics management, and threat assessment, along with the occasional assignment requiring my linguistics or psychology training. It’s work that pays well and allows me the freedom to pick and choose my assignments. Meaning I usually stick with easy or safe ones that keep me busy and prevent boredom from settling in.
This weekend, however, I’m completely unoccupied and searching for fun.
After observing Elliot for about ten minutes, I notice it doesn’t appear he’s specifically waiting for someone. If I hesitate too long in approaching him he’s liable to leave when he finishes his drink.
Or bolt, like a terrified deer.
He wears an off-the-rack suit that isn’t exactly discount-store cheap but is definitely a far cry from bespoke finery often seen on more senior congressmen who’ve repeatedly dipped their hands into lobbyists’ honeypots. Yet it fits him well. Either he’s just that lucky, or he’s got a skilled tailor.
From what I know of his story, he doesn’t come from money. He’s Midwest hardscrabble-bootstrap stock, meaning he likely appreciates what he has, rarely takes things for granted, and is probably suffering from a raging and nearly crippling case of imposter’s syndrome.
He also possesses the kind of farm-raised good looks you can’t get from a gym or a plastic surgeon’s scalpel. Panty-dropping blue eyes, light brown hair that undoubtedly appears dark blond if he spends a lot of time in the sun, and with a slightly bashful aw, shucks smile that’s not the slightest bit fake or forced. He’s wearing glasses tonight, but I think he normally wears contact lenses.
There are plenty of rumors that his future gaze is focused on getting himself elected POTUS.
Maybe I’m setting my sights too high but damned if I will pass up a chance to try. I’ve never been a social climber in bed. That holds no interest for me.
This man, however, interests me…and I’m not exactly sure what it is about him.
He’s a puzzle I want to spend time playing with, at the very least.
After asking the server and finding out my guess was right about what the congressman’s drinking, I order fresh drinks for me and him both. He’s almost finished the one he’s working on and I don’t want to wait too long.
Then, carrying them, I walk over and take the risk of sliding into the other side of the booth without asking first. His eyes widen and he sits back more as a reflexive reaction due to his fear. After I ease his drink over to him, I offer him a smile and hold up a hand in greeting.
Keeping my voice down, I say, “Good evening, Mr. Woodley.”
Now he really looks scared. Shitting bricks terrified, actually. “H-hi.”
I extend my right hand. “Leo Cruz.”
He shakes with me. “Elliot.”
I hold up my glass, waiting. Takes him a moment but he finally hoists his.
I gently clink glasses with him. “To survival.”
Slowly, his brow furrows as his fear transforms into curiosity. “To survival.” We both sip and now he studies me. “What did you survive?” he eventually asks when he realizes I’m not going to speak again until he does.
“A plane crash that forced me to take a medical retirement from the Secret Service. I used to work The Shift.”
His body language changes yet again, relaxing as he realizes he’s in the presence of someone professionally trained and sworn to keep secrets.
Good, because that’s what I want. I want him to let his guard down with me, to let me in.
“Wow,” he says. “What happened? I mean, if you want to talk about it.”
I do, because I know it’ll help relax him even more. So I tell him.
“Worst part of it is feeling like I’m incomplete, in some ways,” I admit after I finish my tale. “I mean, I can run the average person into the ground, right? I can still hold my own in a fight. But I can’t work The Shift, can’t keep up with the rigorous physical requirements, you know?
“I could’ve transferred into another unit but, after you’ve worked at the top, everything else amounts to a demotion, no matter what the reason. Worse, I hate how the guys I used to work with look at me like they feel sorry for me. It’s the pity that really fucking kills me. Like I’m damaged goods. Adding insult to injury, right? It was easier to move on to more profitable professional pastures.”
Elliot slowly nods as he turns his glass in his hands. “I know,” he quietly says. “Purple Heart and a fake leg. But I’m a ‘hero.’” He makes the air quotes with his index fingers without releasing the glass. “I’m not a fucking hero. I didn’t duck in the right direction, so I got my foot and part of my leg shot off. Yet I’m the lucky one, because I lived while two other guys—men in my command—died that day. Five others seriously wounded.”
Then he sighs and those gorgeous blue eyes of his lock on mine. “But I guess I don’t have to tell you how that feels.”
“No. I know all too well.” I swirl the ice in my drink, take a sip, and set it back on top of the ring of condensation on the table. “I was in charge of the team. We were doing advance work for a campaign appearance.”
Without lifting his glass, Elliot slides it across the table and gently clinks it against mine. “To them,” he softly says.
I nod. “To them.”
We drink.
This man is utterly broken, in some ways.
Familiar ways.
It wells from every pore and makes me sympathetically ache with him, like the pain in our souls throbs on the same wavelength.
Taking him home tonight won’t be enough for me. I can tell that already.
I need him. I need t
he fact that he already gets a massive part of my psyche, and I get him, too.
I need every bit of nervous terror he’s emitting.
I need to be the one to make his desires and secret longings come to life.
Nothing short of totally possessing this man will do.
I get it—I just met him. Explaining my need for him is a waste of time. It’s deeper and darker and far more serious than simply wanting to get my rocks off. More than just an overnight indiscretion.
Inside the core of my being, my soul resonates with his pain and longing.
I want to soothe him.
I want to stripe his ass.
I want to become intimately familiar with the curve of his back as he kneels before me.
I want to watch his eyes as I sink my cock deep inside him and claim him everywhere.
I want to own him.
The question, of course, is will he let me?
* * * *
We spend another thirty minutes talking before I finally go there.
I drop my voice. “Why are you here tonight, Elliot?”
He’s focused on his glass again. “Third time I’ve come here. First two times I had a couple of drinks and left again without talking to anyone. I didn’t know what to do. I was too scared to approach anybody.”
Cool. He’s cautious because of his fear. Meaning, hopefully, he won’t turn into a train wreck with me. “My apartment’s only a block away.” I sit back. “Let’s head there and continue our conversation in private.” I’m looking him right in the eyes as I say it.
Up until this point, our “conversation” has primarily consisted of dancing around the issue that has us crossing paths tonight in this particular bar.
He’s dancing because he’s terrified, and yet also filled with blatant longing.
I’m dancing because I recognize his terror and desperately do not want to scare him off. I am reasonably certain if he bolts out that door, and he’s not on my arm, so to speak, I’ll never get another chance to approach him like this.
He’ll dive head-first back into his closet and nail the door shut behind him.
Indiscretion (Inequitable Trilogy Book 1) Page 3
