Indiscretion (Inequitable Trilogy Book 1)

by Lesli Richardson

  I’m four years older than him but his ordeals have aged him somewhat. Still damned handsome.

  I can tell from our conversation that he’s brilliant and witty and self-effacing. Who knows if he’s in politics for the right reasons? But he’s apparently not a narcissistic asshole or TV reality star, so I’ll consider it a win.

  Elliot slowly sits back, staring at me, his throat working nervously as he nudges his glasses up on his nose. I’m a sucker for guys with glasses and always have been. There’s a sweet vulnerability there that sucks my sadist right the hell in every damn time.

  “No one will ever know,” I say so softly it’s nearly a whisper. “I swear it.”

  From the rise and fall of his chest, I can tell it’s taking him every ounce of strength he has to remain in place and not run scared.

  If only he’ll trust me, give me a chance.

  Finally, a barely perceptible nod.

  Our tabs are already settled, so I give him the slightest of head tilts before I slide out of my side of the booth and slowly walk toward the door. I can see his reflection in it as I reach out to push it open.

  He’s following me, a definite limp making him bob a little as he walks. He carries a battered canvas messenger bag that seems perfectly him, somehow.

  I slow my exit so I’m holding the door open for him when he walks through.

  “Thanks,” he murmurs, pausing on the sidewalk to see which way I head.

  We walk together in silence, not arm-in-arm or holding hands. Just two DC suits heading somewhere this evening.

  Nothing to see here.

  He’s about an inch shorter than my six-two and easily keeps up with my limping stride.

  At my building’s front door, I already have my keys out and I’m glancing around. We’re alone, and thankfully there’s no one in the lobby getting their mail. Taking a calculated risk, when I open the door for him, I keep my hand on it, elbow up, forcing him to duck under my arm.

  He does, without hesitation.

  Hopefully, the smile I’m wearing doesn’t scare him as I step around him and head for the stairs.

  Only thing I don’t like about my building is it’s a walkup and I’m on the third floor. But the rent’s reasonable, because I’m subletting from a guy I work with who’s on assignment in London for a couple of years and who doesn’t want to let go of the apartment in case he ever decides to move back. It’s a quiet building, the basement workout room’s decent, and most of its residents are long-term civil servants.

  It also means I get a bit of a workout every day, whether I want it or not, just by leaving my apartment.

  At least I’m not on the fourth or fifth floors.

  That would suuuuuuck.

  We’re already on the second-floor landing when I apologize. “Sorry. I should have mentioned I’m on the third floor.” I mean, I’m not sorry but it seems proper to offer an apology.

  Plus, I want to hear his reaction.

  He’s not even breathing heavily, even though he’s taking his time and heavily relying on the handrail lining the stairwell. “No big deal. I live in a third-floor walkup.”

  Not smiling isn’t an option. “Something else we have in common then.”

  “Yeah.”

  Then a thought hits me and I pause, turning. “Not on C Street, are you?” Please, don’t let him live there.

  He looks confused. “No. Why?”

  If he doesn’t know, I realize that’s another conversation we need to have.

  At another time. “Never mind. Doesn’t matter. I was curious.”

  Between college, training for the Secret Service, and then active service, I never learned how to live anything but lightly. Even though at this stage of my life I have a place of my own and don’t usually have to jet off at a moment’s notice any longer.

  I could also afford a place much larger and more expensive than the one I’m in, but I like the neighborhood, I like the price, and it’s a short walk on a good day to most everywhere I need to go. If the weather’s bad, or it’s not a good day for me pain-wise, it’s easy to call a cab or ride service to pick me up and ferry me around. I don’t have a car. If I need one for work, I rent one and expense it.

  More money and aggravation saved on my part. Besides, I enjoy watching my savings account grow every month.

  Something else my native-Californian parents and sister cannot understand—how I can get by without a car of my own, or why I choose to live in a tiny one-bedroom apartment.

  I’m at the end of the hall, another reason I like this apartment. It’s quiet and gives me a little more privacy. I unlock and open the door, then quickly disarm my alarm. After I flip the lights on, I wait for Elliot to step inside past me before dropping my keys in the bowl on the bookshelf next to the door. I lock us in and he stands there in my entry looking…lost.

  Stepping close, into his personal space, I look into his blue eyes and wait.

  He nervously licks his lips and meets my gaze. “I…don’t know what to do next,” he finally whispers, as if afraid someone will overhear us.

  I take his bag from him and set it aside. Bracing my left hand on the wall behind him, over his right shoulder, I lean in close.

  He doesn’t pull away.

  “We can talk,” I softly say, barely a whisper. “Or we can do more. How much more depends on you and what you want. I’m clear, and I have lube and condoms.”

  His nostrils flare as he processes my offer.

  He gives me a tentative nod. I suppose this is truly the moment our dynamic started, the pattern of him wanting me to order and push because he’s rarely brave enough to ask, but I didn’t recognize it as such at the time.

  I arch an eyebrow at him. “More?”

  Another nod.

  I brace my other hand over his left shoulder and now he’s caged by my body. There’s a heady mix of fear and lust rolling off him in absolutely sinful waves. I want to bathe in that and him all night long. My cock grows thick and presses against my zipper in my slacks. It takes every ounce of willpower I have not to grind against him.

  Leaning close enough our lips could brush against each other if I go any farther, I say, “For this weekend, you can call me Sir. I don’t have anywhere to be until work on Monday morning. If you’d like to spend the weekend here, with me, I’d like to have you.”

  “Yes, Sir,” he whispers. “Please.”

  “You ever been with a guy before?”

  “Once, years ago. In college. We blew each other.” He sucks in a deep breath. “But I’ve always fantasized about…more than that. I don’t just mean sex.”

  Please please pleeeeease… “More?”

  He stares into my eyes. “Having a Sir.”

  My inner sadist sits up, stretches, and lets out a silent, hungry growl. “Then kiss me, boy.”

  I wasn’t expecting him to grab the lapels of my blazer and haul me against his body like a drowning man. He kisses me with a sweet and needy hunger that sets my cock howling for relief.

  I guess I know what I’ll be doing for the next forty-eight hours.

  Or, rather, who I’ll be doing.

  Whether Elliot still wants me by the time Monday morning rolls around…

  I guess we’ll find out. If it’s up to me, he’s never going to be with another man.

  Much less anyone else.

  Chapter Four

  Now

  It’s nearly eleven in the morning when the kids finish playing outside with Pecan. I help verify they’ve turned off the tortoise cam before they load Pecan into his wagon and we head inside.

  While we await the elevator, I drop back and turn to one of the agents on duty today.

  “Is Plumber still on-site?”

  He speaks into his radio and, a moment later, he nods.

  I’m torn between feeling shitty about how I treated Elliot this morning, while also wishing I’d awakened him by dumping a glass of cold water on him.

  The perfect real-life metaphor.

&nb
sp; When the elevator slides open, I send the kids upstairs with a promise I’ll stop by before I leave.

  Then I force myself to walk down to the West Wing.

  Elliot’s office door is closed. I’m one of three people, besides Secret Service, who are allowed to open the door without knocking first, if it’s closed.

  Shae and Kev are the other two.

  Not even Elliot’s own chief of staff has permission to walk in without knocking and waiting for a response. It’s one of the few ways Elliot can silently defer to me around others without it raising eyebrows. If it’s ever needed, we’ll use the excuse that I’m conducting business for the president and I require immediate access.

  Today, since it’s Sunday, Elliot’s alone in his office, and all of his staff—at least the ones based over here and who don’t work out of the EEOB—have the day off.

  I’m supposed to have the day off, too, but we already know how that worked out for me.

  I stand there for a moment with my hand resting flat on the cool surface of the door while trying to make up my mind what to do.

  I’m frustrated, I’m hurting…and I don’t know if face-time with Elliot right now is a smart move on my part.

  Except I love him. I know he loves me.

  And I’ve already lost so much.

  There’s a lot of relatively fucked up mental and emotional garbage in Elliot’s head, garbage that he’s been unable to adequately address because of his self-made prison and futile attempts to earn his family’s approval and respect.

  That’s in addition to a heaping dose of PTSD and survivor’s guilt that he’s never truly sought help for.

  I have two choices.

  I can shove Elliot away once and for all and complete the destruction of my personal life, meaning I walk away from my job and Washington altogether. Staying if I’ve broken up with Elliot would hurt too damn much, and I’m no masochist.

  Then again, all these years spent circling Elliot have been emotional masochism, haven’t they?

  Except leaving also means shredding Elliot emotionally, and the thought of doing that guts me. It would also mean letting Chris down and opening the triad to exposure, and the thought of that grates on me even worse. I’ve been asked to uphold a trust. I don’t take that lightly. Especially considering who Shae is.

  Or, my other option is that I can suck it up and try to deal with this like an adult.

  Like the “master” I claim to be.

  Unfortunately, I currently have zero confidence in my abilities in that area. I know Elliot’s hurting, but my resentment is making it difficult for me to set my pain aside.

  I take a deep breath, grab the doorknob…

  And find it’s locked.

  My left hand’s already squeezed into a tight fist and halfway up to angrily pound on his door before I catch myself and common sense takes over.

  No. I will not do this.

  Especially not here.

  I’m a fucking adult, and this is the goddamned White House.

  The burner in my pocket is one of three cell phones I usually carry, and it’s exclusively used to text and call Elliot. I leave it in my pocket and head upstairs to see the kids one more time, clarify with Shae it’s all right if I take off for the rest of the day, and then I head out. I’m three blocks from the White House when I pull out the burner and fire off a text.

  Stopped by office & door locked. Message received. See you whenever next wk. GD

  Yes, it’s passive-aggressive—emphasis on the aggressive—and I’ll fucking own that.

  Unfortunately, I’m currently out of fucks, flying or otherwise. It’s best I separate myself from him for now before I say or do something I cannot take back.

  Before I really hurt him.

  Based on the copy of Elliot’s schedule I saw yesterday or the day before, I think Elliot has meetings tomorrow morning and is supposed to be in the Senate chambers to preside over a ceremonial thing before lunch. In the afternoon, he’s flying out to California for…something. To be honest, I haven’t even seen his most current schedule for this coming week. Elliot won’t return to DC until Thursday, I think.

  Fuck if I know, or even care right now. Which is totally unlike me. I used to memorize his daily schedule and bust my ass to try to slip as much contact into our days as possible.

  I normally have daily rituals with him, where I text him every morning when I get up, even if I know it’ll be awhile before he can respond, so he’ll know I’m thinking about him. Then I text him last thing every night before I go to sleep, even if we’ve talked on the phone that evening. It’s something we’ve done over the years to help keep us close even when distance and circumstances separate us.

  But in the wake of losing Jordan, it’s all I can do to drag my ass out of bed in the morning, dress myself, and deal with Shae, meaning I’ve let all the rest slide.

  Maybe I do need some time to myself.

  The GD is a shorthand code we have for going dark.

  Meaning I’m turning off the burner until further notice.

  Also meaning that, unless Elliot uses his personal phone or an official phone to contact me on my work or personal cell phone, he won’t be able to contact me.

  Or, of course, if he sees me in person.

  Right now, the likelihood of that is apparently next to zilch.

  Despite how it would be logical and easily explainable that the vice president called me on my personal or work phone, Elliot is filled with mind-numbing fear and will never do that, unless it’s legitimately for something work-related.

  Going dark.

  Dark, like my mood over the past two weeks.

  Dark.

  Like my grief.

  Dark.

  As dark as the inky, poisonous slime currently engulfing my soul.

  Dark.

  Growing darker by the day.

  But I don’t turn the burner off when I slip it into my pocket before hailing a cab. Once I’m inside the cab and on my way home, I loosen my tie and ignore the quick buzz of the burner in my pocket, which means Elliot’s replied. I’ll look at it later.

  Actually…

  I slip my hand inside my pocket, find the power button, and hold it down until I know the phone’s shut off.

  There.

  I won’t be tempted to say something I can’t take back, or forced to rein in my temper over what will probably be an excuse that I know is him trying to bait me, consciously or not, into ordering him to let me have contact with him.

  All because he’s too chickenshit to admit he needs me or wants me, and he can’t bring himself to simply ask me to come to him.

  No. Not playing those games today. I don’t have the energy for them anymore. He had his chance to ask me when I made the suggestion the first time, and then again this morning when we were together.

  Message received.

  Loud and clear.

  I bought the burners for us specifically for this purpose, so there’s nothing to track back to either of us. I paid cash for them while in Florida several years ago, and I use pre-paid debit cards, also purchased with cash, to pay the bill. All we use them for is to text and call each other, and that’s it. We use the Signal app to do that, for an extra layer of security encrypting our texts and call data. The apps are set to auto-delete messages after they’ve been read, and both phones have Wi-Fi and Bluetooth disabled, so the phones aren’t discoverable through anything but cell towers.

  For obvious reasons, he never takes his into the SitRoom. It stays in his desk when he’s in the White House, and goes home with him. If he’s traveling, it stays in his pocket, sometimes off. I showed him how to pull the battery in case he’ll be in a sensitive situation. The chances of there being malware on it are infinitesimal, because I check them monthly, and the only active app on his is the Signal app. He can’t even make phone calls or send regular texts with his, because I disabled the features.

  I mean, could someone dig long and hard enough and maybe one day come up
with a CCTV picture to correspond to a transaction of me buying a debit card and expose me?

  Maybe, but there’d have to be a crime to trigger the search warrants. Plus, enough time will have passed that it’s unlikely there will be any existing footage. We’re not committing any crimes. We never do government business through these phones.

  There’s nothing illegal in what we’re doing. It’d only be a personal—and politically adjacent—scandal. Besides, DC is a large city but small enough, with enough overlapping cell towers, and a large enough population, that it helps obfuscate our trail even more.

  When I reach my apartment, I resist the urge to power the phone on again and read his response.

  I could do that hoping he’s asking me to return to the White House, and that he’s apologizing to me for him locking his office door when he damn well knew I was on the premises and would likely stop by.

  Or I could do that hoping his response leaves me any of the usual openings he offers for me to decide for him and show up.

  Or it could simply be him telling me okay, and that he’ll see me next week. Which will hurt.

  Or…?

  Or probably none of the above, which will probably sting like fucking hell, too.

  I’ve touched that stove countless times in the past. I’ve never kept a relationship like this before, where I have to bust my ass all the time and feel like I’m getting little to nothing in return much of the time.

  I get it. He’s not anonymous. He’s in the closet and terrified of being outed.

  He loves me every bit as much as I love him.

  That all used to be good enough.

  Everyone has a breaking point, though.

  It’s starting to look like losing Jordan was mine. At least with Jordan in my life, I had…someone. Something.

  I wasn’t alone and lonely.

  Worse, my mind is consumed with thoughts of Jordan, and…

  Dark.

  The truth is, I’m not going dark—I’ve been there. My soul dove deep into the abyss two weeks ago.

  The question is will I ever be able to recover and head toward the light?