Indiscretion (Inequitable Trilogy Book 1)

by Lesli Richardson

  This is going to be a fantastic weekend.

  Chapter Six

  Now

  I was never much of a drinker in my younger days for a damned good reason—it doesn’t usually hit me hard at the time, but I nearly always have one hell of a hangover the next morning if I have more than one or two drinks.

  Monday morning is no different. When my alarm goes off at 3:45 a.m., I decide to hit snooze instead of heading downstairs for a workout like I usually do.

  Except I can’t go back to sleep.

  I think about how Jordan would frequently join me for my workout.

  Or on the mornings he didn’t, how he’d still be in bed when I returned to the apartment. How he’d look so adorable that I hated to wake him up.

  And the way I would usually wake him up—with a kiss that frequently ended with us having morning sex.

  Even on the mornings it didn’t end up with us having morning sex, and on the mornings I didn’t go work out, it was nice to lie there for a few minutes with Jordan’s warmth wrapped around me. I rarely woke up in the middle of the night where he wasn’t at least touching me with a foot or a hand, and usually with his cute butt tightly pressed against me.

  Or safely snuggled in my arms, if we’d spooned in our sleep.

  Then there were the times I awoke from a nightmare, usually about the plane crash, or about something happening to Elliot and me being unable to stop it, when Jordan was there to comfort me.

  The loneliness and grief I feel eclipse my hangover and make it clear sleeping in today is not in the cards.

  Sitting up, I debate the merits of making myself throw up or not. If my stomach doesn’t settle soon I will, or else I’ll risk getting sick this morning while in a less opportune setting.

  Like while standing in the Oval Office.

  It’s tempting to call in sick, but I can’t.

  Scratch that—I won’t. I have to be running one hell of a fever, or in so much pain that I can’t walk and can’t drag myself downstairs, to call in sick.

  Forcing myself out of bed and into the bathroom, after I empty my bladder and wash my hands, I open the medicine cabinet to see what I might have on hand to take for my stomach.

  I’m gut-punched to spy Jordan’s bottles of essential oils there. Peppermint, lavender, ginger.

  I blink back tears and grab the peppermint and ginger. First twisting the cap off the peppermint, I cup one hand around the top of the bottle and deeply inhale the aroma. That immediately helps quiet my stomach and my head. Then I tip my head back and let five drops of the oil hit the back of my throat. Wincing at the taste, I swallow, chasing it with a couple of swallows of water from the tap. After following that with five drops of the ginger taken the same way, I stand there for a moment to see if it’s going to help or not.

  One nasty-tasting belch later, my head’s still low-key throbbing but I know my stomach’s settled already.

  Thank you, boy.

  I return the bottles to their spot in the cabinet and wonder what other emotional landmines I’ll run across. Last week, it was realizing I still have a canister of his favorite flavor of coffee in the cabinet.

  It only takes a minute to make myself a cup of coffee. I carry it back into the bathroom so I can shave and take my shower. I’ll manage to miss the worst of morning rush-hour traffic if I leave this early.

  Twenty minutes later, I’m on my second cup of coffee, I’ve downed some Tylenol for my residual headache, I drank two glasses of water to help rehydrate me from yesterday’s drinking binge, and I’m shaved, dressed, and ready to head to work.

  I even look like a functioning adult.

  I still haven’t powered up the burner phone and read Elliot’s reply, although, as always, I’ve tucked the phone into my pocket.

  Don’t want to look.

  Can’t make me.

  Because despite finding Jordan’s oil in my medicine cabinet, I’m on a relatively even keel this morning—whatever the fuck that means—and I don’t want to blow it. Therefore, I opt to leave the burner phone off.

  It’s not even five a.m. when I walk into the White House and head upstairs to the residence. I’m far earlier than I need to be here, but it means I can go up to my office on the third floor and handle a couple of e-mails before I return to the second floor to awaken Shae and Kev.

  Except this morning, as I’m climbing the stairs to the third floor, I come face-to-face with Chris coming down them, looking fresh from a workout.

  He smiles when he sees me. “Hey. You’re early.”

  “Good morning, sir.”

  He arches an eyebrow. “Dude, seriously? Even right now? Can’t just call me Chris, huh?”

  I force a smile I don’t feel. “Someone trained me well, sir. He’d kick my ass if I didn’t use protocols with the First Family.”

  He laughs and smacks me on the shoulder. “They’re both awake already,” he says. “They’ll probably be ready for coffee in a few.”

  “Why are you up so early, if I might ask?” The kids don’t have to be up for thirty minutes. Unless there’s been a schedule change no one told me about, Chris usually takes care of getting them ready ahead of Yasmine’s arrival for her to ferry them to school, then he works out.

  He grins. “Wanted to give Prophet and Portia a little alone time this morning. She got kind of mouthy with him yesterday afternoon and he wanted to give her an attitude adjustment before she starts her day.” He shrugs. “You know how that is.” He winks, because he knows I know exactly what he means.

  “Ah.” It means the president of the United States is in the process of getting a spanking—or more—from her chief of staff. “I’ll go make sure their breakfast is underway.” I turn to head downstairs with him.

  We’re almost to the bottom of the stairs when Chris drops the bomb on me. “Oh, by the way, Shae said she’s sending you to California with Elliot today. You might want to go ahead and run back home to pack, if you don’t have a bag here.”

  I nearly miss the next step, forcing me to grab the handrail to keep from face-planting down the stairs and having it witnessed by my former boss, the First Spouse. “Say again?”

  “You heard me.”

  “I…” I’m literally dumbstruck and have to scurry after him. “But President Samuels has a pretty busy schedule the next couple of days.”

  “Yeah, well, see, that’s the thing about being POTUS, Leo.”

  “Sir?”

  He turns, and I see he wears maybe the most evil smile I’ve ever seen on another human being’s face. “She can change things around if she decides to. Kev’s already added you to the travel roster. Don’t worry, I’ll get their coffee and breakfast.” He glances at his watch. “You really should run home and pack, because you’re going to be Elliot’s body man this week.” He winks. “I’ll tell Shae I sent you home, and that you’ll be back soon.”

  That’s as good as an order.

  Fuck.

  I’m going to kill Elliot.

  * * * *

  When I know I’ll be traveling with Shae, I keep a bag ready to go in my office.

  Our schedule for this week was all local, so no travel required, other than a few motorcade trips around DC. This means yes, I do need to go home and pack, because I don’t know what Elliot’s official schedule is.

  Sure, I could turn the burner phone on and read the message he left me yesterday but now I’m pissed off.

  I don’t know what Elliot said to Shae to warrant this change in schedule, but this is bullshit. He can’t use his office as the excuse why he can’t be open about his relationship with me and use his office to finagle time alone with me on a cross-country trip without so much as consulting me about it first.

  Worse, me not being Shae’s body man puts at risk the carefully choreographed dance I help her, Kev, and Chris perform on a daily basis around staff and the public at large. Yes, Kev, as her chief of staff and officially living in the residence, has full access to her.

  No one els
e knows exactly how much access he truly has. Not even Angie, the press secretary, knows they’re anything other than really close friends. Loren used to think there was a thing between Kev and Chris, and that Shae was just a beard. Except Kev hadn’t told Loren—his ex-wife and best friend—that he was also involved with Shae.

  Having another person around, like me, even behind closed doors, mean there’s little chance of rumors starting. I’m not merely Shae’s body man—I’m her alibi man.

  It’s a job I do not mind in the least, because it’s more than that, and I love what I do. It’s the closest I’ll ever get to working The Shift again. I feel like I’m doing something noble and worthwhile.

  I also like Shae as a person and as an employer, which helps a lot. I might not agree with all of her politics, but she has a good heart and is a person of integrity who never makes any decision lightly or in haste.

  She is a president I am proud to call my president.

  And yes, I voted for her both times. I also wouldn’t have put my boy’s name in the hat for VP if I hadn’t believed in Shae and her overall vision for our country.

  Springing for a cab instead of asking a Secret Service agent to drive me, I sit back as we navigate through the streets of DC. Angrily, I dig the burner phone out of my pocket and power it on.

  I don’t know what I think I’m going to do. I should order Elliot to tell Shae it’s not necessary for me to go with him…even if yesterday, before the locked office door, I likely would have jumped at the chance to do just this.

  The irony doesn’t escape me. Yet in the wake of losing Jordan, I am incapable of appreciating it.

  I close my eyes and take a deep breath while waiting for the phone to finish its power-on cycle. We have return receipts enacted in the app. He’ll be able to see I’ve seen his reply if I open the app and read the message.

  Instead, I pull out my work phone and look up Elliot’s schedule. He’s likely awake by now, probably working out in the upstairs bedroom in his residence. It holds enough equipment that he doesn’t need to go somewhere else, meaning he doesn’t have to feel self-conscious about people watching him, or the press getting pictures of him. Although, sometimes, he and I both will join Chris in the workout room in the Executive Residence and then shower and change before heading downstairs to the West Wing for work.

  Yes, Elliot will be awake soon, if not already. He’s due at the White House at 7:30, has meetings with NatSec advisors until 9:00, followed by a video call with a second-grade science class from Maryland at 9:30, a meeting with House aides from 10:00 until 11:00, and then he heads to the Senate for his thing there. Back to the White House by 1:00, with lunch crammed in there somewhere, and then off to Andrews by 3:00 for the flight out to California.

  And on from there. A dinner meeting tonight with California state DNC, DSCC, and DCCC bigwigs, a full day of meetings and appearances tomorrow, including a keynote speech tomorrow night.

  Swallowing back the guilt welling inside me, I realize I haven’t seen his speech.

  Of course he has speechwriters. Some of them work for Shae and Elliot, some are assigned to only one or the other.

  Elliot nearly always has me look over the final draft of speeches for him. I’ve sat through enough of them I know when they’ve flubbed phrasing something the way he’d say it, and how to revise it so that it sounds natural for him. Kev does the same thing for Shae—every speech goes through him before she even sees it.

  Wednesday’s schedule is also grueling, even by Elliot’s standards. He’s visiting several schools, making a speech at an air base, christening a new ship, and touring a solar cell manufacturing plant that just expanded and added nearly five thousand jobs. Thursday morning, he has four appearances before flying back to DC.

  On Friday, he starts his day in the Senate, back to the White House for meetings, and then a speech Friday night.

  Whew. I’m exhausted simply reading all of that, because I know it means Elliot’s letting his staff spread him too thin.

  With a vague sense of dread, my finger hovers over the icon for the Signal app. I finally force myself to tap it and then open the thread with him.

  I’m sorry, Sir! I locked it bc that aide from EW was in PS office & I didn’t want her stopping by & talking to me. Please, I’m sorry! I DO want to see You. I need You, Sir. I’m sorry.

  Oh, son of a bitch.

  I feel like I’ve been gut-punched.

  Closing my eyes against the prickle of tears threatening, I realize what a fucking asshole I’ve been. First, how I woke him yesterday, and now…this.

  Had I not been so consumed by my self-pity yesterday…

  Well, last night I wouldn’t have been alone. Neither would he.

  I know exactly which aide he means. I will have a talk with Chris as soon as I return to the White House. Her name’s Hannah, I think, and she makes goo-goo eyes at Elliot every time she’s in the same room with him. Plus, she finds any and every excuse to put herself in the same room as Elliot, which is easy to do since she has almost full access to the West Wing, due to her duties. She’s not allowed upstairs unescorted but she’s free to move back and forth between the East and West Wing. While no second-hand rumors have reached me—yet, because asking around would be weird, since the fact that I’m gay isn’t a state secret—I know exactly what her goal is merely from watching the way she watches Elliot.

  To become the Second Lady.

  We have a lot of shorthand in our texts. EW, if you haven’t guessed, is East Wing. PS means Press Secretary’s office.

  What’s worse in this one text, and what really makes me feel like shit, is that Elliot’s not only asking to see me, he’s telling me he needs me.

  Begging me.

  It rarely happens. He only does that when he’s at his lowest and the knot he’s tied in the end of his rope is rapidly fraying.

  Badly.

  Even worse?

  There’s a second text, sent late yesterday evening.

  SLS just called. I’m sorry, Sir. I didn’t ask for the schedule change. She’s the one who ordered it. So You can visit Your family. I’m sorry.

  Fuck.

  I lay my head back against the seat, eyes closed again. SLS—ShaeLynn Samuels.

  POTUS.

  Honestly? Before this morning, I hadn’t even considered that she’d think about that. It is totally her, too. She knows I’m from California and that my parents and sister still live there. She always worries about me burning out and not taking enough time off for myself. Plenty of times I’ve showed up for work when I didn’t need to be there, because I’d been monitoring things on my day off. She’s groused at me countless times to take long weekends or go visit my family.

  Except she’s only got a few years left. This may be the last time in my life I get to serve in the White House. Nothing’s guaranteed, including my relationship with Elliot.

  And yes, I believe Elliot when he says he didn’t ask her to assign me to him. But he spent the night in emotional agony, his PTSD and anxiety no doubt doing ten times the damage to his psyche than I did with my temper tantrum.

  My pet’s in pain, he’s struggling, and I once again dropped the ball.

  Worse, my actions, and petty behavior, exacerbated his pain and anxiety.

  My grief and anger over Jordan’s loss don’t magically disappear but this is a gut-check as I once again hear Jordan’s words, in his voice.

  Elliot needs you.

  I guess this means that, like it or not, I’m going to California.

  Chapter Seven

  Then

  Once we’re both naked, I help Elliot up and off the bed and into my bathroom. I bring everything with us—Duck and the liner and stump socks, all of that. Then I make him show me what else needs to be done.

  I also get my first good look at his left leg in normal light. There’s the largest scar, from the amputation, a dark pink, twisting line which starts on the outside of his calf several inches above where his leg ends, trave
ls down and around the end of the stump, and back up the inside of his calf. Then there are other scars, on both legs and his torso.

  I put the lid down on the toilet and make him sit there while, under his instruction, I take care of washing out his liner, turning it right side out again, and drying it. I get my first good look at Duck, too. I hand-wash the limb socks in the sink with a little laundry soap and hang them over my towel rack to dry.

  One of them is worn over his stump, under the liner, and that one both helps protect his skin and is moisture-wicking. The others are worn on the liner to take up space between it and the sleeve. Depending on how swollen his stump is on any given day, or even from between morning and afternoon, he can add or subtract outer socks to keep from having too much of a gap. He carries extra supplies in the messenger bag he brought with him, because sometimes he has to adjust things during the day, or he gets really hot and sweats and has to change out socks.

  “Do you have enough extras?” I ask.

  “In my bag. I always carry spares.”

  Once that’s finished and my education is complete, I turn and hold my hands out to him, wiggling my fingers. He takes them and I pull him to his feet and into my arms. “If you’re not wearing Duck, should I not ask you to get on the floor?”

  He smiles but I can tell he’s not in subspace any longer. Not even close.

  That’s okay, because I’ll have fun dropping him into it again.

  “I can kneel just fine without it on.” Before I can order it, he drops to his knees and bows for me.

  There’s the view I fantasized about. The gentle ridges of his ribs, and the way his spine nicely curves to disappear at the seam of his gorgeous ass.

  He nuzzles the tops of my feet with his lips. “Like this, Sir? Am I doing it right?”

  My cock’s so hard it’s throbbing. “Oooh, buddy, that’s perfect.”