True North (Compass series Book 4)

by Tamsen Parker

  She puts a tired hand up and shakes her head. “You had me until need, Slade. The only thing you need me for is something I don’t want to be needed for. It’s taken me a long time to get here, but I finally feel like I deserve more than what I was built for. My parents raised me to be a political conquest, but I’m a person with my own needs and wants and I don’t feel like that’s too much to ask for.”

  “Press—” I know she’s a person. A beautifully complicated person with so many facets it’s dizzying. So complex I’ll never learn everything about her, but I want to try. Someone should and I’ve got a head start.

  “No. You’ve always wanted me for what I could do for you. That’s what everyone wants me for and I’m so tired of it. I don’t want to feel like I can only be half a person on any given day. And I don’t want to ask you to be someone you’re embarrassed to be. I hear what you’re saying, but I’ve got no guarantee that you won’t wake up in a few days and realize what you thought was love and devotion was actually just adrenaline and infatuation. All the baby stuff being delivered to my door has been nice, but running up your credit card bill isn’t a stand-in for commitment. I can’t…” She rests her hand on the lower part of her stomach where she’s not even starting to show yet, but I bet the baby’s heart is beating. I bet it’s already taking shape inside her, and I want, more than ever, to be there for the both of them. “We can’t afford that. You’ve let me down too many times for me to take a panic-induced promise seriously. As much as I’d like to, I can’t.”

  My stomach lurches because this is the part that isn’t easy. What if she’s right? Some of the certainty I’d managed to gather during the past several hours drains away and my resolve falters. She must detect it, that slight shift from staunch to irresolute, because her eyes glitter with tears, the moisture gathering at her lashes before she can blink them away. She tosses her head, her hair whirling around her shoulder before it falls down her back.

  “That’s exactly what I’m talking about. I’ve got to go. And please don’t come to the club on Wednesdays. For a while longer, at least. I want it to keep being a safe place.”

  Her words are jagged and tearing, ripping up my insides. I make her feel unsafe? Shame and guilt crawl hot around the shreds. I don’t know that anything has ever made me feel so bad. For all the sickening anxiety that’s gripped me for years and years—Why do I want this? Why am I this way? Why do I want to hurt and humiliate the person I love?—this is what reaches deep and truly slays me.

  Because I’ve started to come around. Had a little epiphany, if you will. It doesn’t make me a bad person for wanting these things. What made me a bad person was the way I went about getting them. And I knew it. With every wave of nausea, with every pinprick of my conscience, I knew it was wrong. But I’ve found a way to do it right and I’m so grateful. There’s an immense amount of relief and even pride in knowing I’m doing it right. But if Pressly doesn’t feel safe around me—

  Her soft voice interrupts my panicked fretting. “Not because of that.”

  I blink my gaze to hers, and her face is softer as she shakes her head, the sun making a halo out of her hair. “I didn’t mean it like that. I don’t worry about you hurting me physically. You wouldn’t. You’re good that way. And I wouldn’t worry about you going too far during a scene. Swear. But in here…” She rubs where her heart is, the lilac silk crushed under her fingers. “In here it hurts to see you, and I need a break. So if you could give some space, I’d appreciate it.”

  “Yeah, of course.” I want to reach for her, tell her I want all of her, tell her I could be that man if she could hold out a little while. I’m working on it, Press. I need you to be patient with me. But she shouldn’t have to wait. I wish I could press pause on her, keep her just the way she is until I’m ready for her, until I’ve earned the privilege of having her. But there’s no reason she shouldn’t keep growing because I’m a stunted person who’s got a lot of work to do. She should be free and happy, and if someone else is able to give her that right this very second, then I should let her go.

  “Thanks,” she mutters and walks past me, not even brushing my arm, but holding her arms across her chest so she won’t. All I get is a whisper of her smell and the sound of a stifled sniff that stabs right through me.

  *

  A week later, I’m sitting behind my desk, elbows on either side of the blotter, feet flat on the floor, head in my hands. I should feel like a big man—the bill I’ve been pitching around town looks like it’s going to pass. Thanks in part to Senator Johnson. That should make me feel like a million bucks too, that I’ve managed to get people who are usually so far on the other side of the divide we can’t even see each other, never mind shake hands over a deal. To get something good done for once in this godforsaken hellhole of indecision and stalemates. I fucking hate DC sometimes.

  I should be proud because we’re going to house hundreds of veterans and, if this works, hopefully thousands more. If that’s successful and convinces people that Housing First actually works and is less expensive than how we’re doing things now, potentially tens of thousands of civilians too. I should be proud, but I’m not. I’m fucking ashamed of myself.

  Why didn’t I ask Press to marry me? Toss her over my shoulder and bring her home? Why didn’t I tell her it doesn’t matter what she likes in bed, that I want us to be a family again and make a bigger one? I’ll have to work on keeping my temper in check because I’ve heard children are miserable little shits who press every one of your buttons, but I’d do it. And I’d be glad to. Someone that Press and I made? Together? I’ve never had a soft spot for babies, but now that’s what I dream about.

  I’m as bad as my grandmother, speculating on whose nose and whose eyes the kid will have when, in reality, babies all look the same: like bobble-headed smoosh-faced old men. And yet, I get a twinge of sadness that my parents will never get to meet this kid. They loved Press, and she loved them back. But at this point, I don’t even know if I’ll ever be allowed to see the baby. Press was fucking ripshit with me.

  I sent her a playmat one of the women in my office swears by, a gift card for a prenatal massage at a place that was voted Best in the District three years running by Capital Mom Magazine, and some black and white flashcards that are supposed to be good visual stimulation—something about high contrast? I don’t know. The last time I studied anything this hard it was for the bar. Who knew babies were so complicated?

  I still haven’t heard from Pressly, and I’m doing my very best to not drive over to her apartment, knock on her door, and get down on my knees. I’ll give her space as I promised I would in the notes I’ve sent. This is her ruling to hand down, her judgment to make. If she wanted to see me—if she didn’t hate me—she’d call. Or write me another one of those letters on her stationery. But it’s been nothing but radio silence and I have to assume she’s just done. I’ve finally fucked up enough that she doesn’t believe in me anymore.

  And yet Johnson… He’d called my office this morning and said we had his vote. Plus McGinty and Isaacs, two others who’d still been on the yellow part of the board. I don’t know if Press changed her mind and went to bat for me—or rather, for this bill. I’d almost rather she hadn’t. Then it might prove to her something I haven’t been able to. That I don’t want her for political purposes. How better to demonstrate that than passing a bill with her being on the other side of it? But it’s not like her to be spiteful. If anything, she’d have been neutral and told the senator exactly what he needed to know to make an informed decision. Because she’s smart and good at her job.

  But I need to stop obsessing over her. Let it go because she doesn’t want me. And I can’t honestly say I blame her. If I can’t have Press, though, I at least want to chalk something up in the win column. Have to, otherwise what am I doing here?

  I press the button for my intercom, and Jenny answers, her voice the peculiar sound of chipper mixed with exhaustion. It’s a common enough tone around DC, esp
ecially when there’s something high stakes going on. For some reason, it makes me smile to hear it. She’s gotten really invested in this, worked harder than I’ve ever seen her work, and I’m grateful for her help.

  “Yes, sir?”

  “Get me a phone list, Jenny.”

  “Taking one last run at the yellows?”

  “Exactly.”

  “Want me to grab you one of those kale and Brussel sprout salads you’ve been liking before you get started?”

  I’m oddly touched that she remembered. Now that there’s actually a way to please me and not just get an earful every day, she seems inclined to figure out how to make me happy. This is way better.

  “Yes, thank you. And something incredibly caffeinated.”

  “On it. I’ll be in your office with everything in twenty.”

  That gives me twenty more minutes to get my talking points in order to facedown the holdouts. Or twenty minutes to ruminate over Pressly and how things went so horribly wrong and if…nope, fixing it feels beyond my abilities. Perhaps figuring out how best to get blitzed when I get home, in a way that won’t leave me with too bad of a hangover so I can still get in to work tomorrow morning. Maybe I’ll sleep here.

  I sign off with Jenny and pull out a clean notepad to scribble strategy on. It’s going to be a long night. And an even longer week. What I wouldn’t do to bury myself in Press and forget about all this for a few hours. But that’s an even more futile dream than getting the last four senators I need on my side.

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  ‡

  It’s another week filled with a lot of pacing, a lot of yelling, and yeah, a lot of drinking. On Wednesday night, I itch to go to the club, can practically feel the flogger or the crop in my hand, can almost hear Pressly’s giggles that dissolve into moans while I work her into a frenzy. But what I actually have is a half-empty bottle of gin that I’ve started squeezing limes through the top of because I’m too fucking lazy and heartbroken to deal with the glasses sitting in my sink and I don’t have any tonic anyhow. Holy fuck am I a mess.

  And yet somehow, despite all that, on Friday the bill passes. Possibly the most major piece of legislation I’ve been involved with over my whole career and one of the most progressive, a bill that everyone said would fail because it’s too much. Now it’s on its way to becoming law. And I did that. With a shit ton of other people’s help, obviously, and I’ve done my best to make sure they know it, but this program has been my baby. It’s a success. I’m a success.

  It doesn’t feel that way, though.

  Over the weekend and into Monday night, I celebrate the same way I sulk: in a bottle. Vodka this time because I’m all out of gin. The victory should have made me happy. In front of the cameras, I plaster on a professional, gracious face of triumph. Inside I should be setting off fireworks that spell out “Eat that, fuckers,” but instead I feel dark and empty.

  I miss Pressly. I miss seeing her and smelling her and touching her. I miss sitting across the table from her at a restaurant and stripping her down to nothing. I miss her animated conversation about her job and her silly, exuberant singing. I miss the feel of her body against mine when we fuck, yeah, but I miss the soft press of her against me when we lie in bed.

  The ache inside doesn’t feel like I’m missing a single piece. If that were it, I might have a chance in hell of filling it. It’s like I only have the nuts and she’s got all the bolts and without her, I fall apart. Life feels hollow without her.

  My phone rings, and I ignore it. I’m so sloshed I wouldn’t be good for anyone right now. After a few rings, the call goes to voicemail, but it’s only a minute before it’s ringing again.

  “Dammit.”

  Either it’s the office with something important or… My heart kicks at the possibility that it might be Pressly. Maybe she needs me too.

  But when I pick it up and turn it over, the screen flashes RLW. Rey. Ugh. I’ve been dodging his calls all week. I do not want to talk to that man. He’s going to have a lecture, and I don’t want to hear it. I know I’m fucked up, and I don’t want his healthy, come-as-you-are attitude. I want to drown my feelings in drink and forget all about it. And on Friday, I’ll stock my liquor cabinet so full that I’ll have to have Jenny call to make sure I wake up in time for my flight on Monday morning. What I wouldn’t give not to have to go back to New Orleans.

  The ringing stops and then starts again, and I throw the damn phone across the room. It hits the back of the couch and slides down into the slouch of a blanket that’s been there for days because most of the time I don’t make it to my bed at night. Why bother?

  The muffled jangling sound comes to a halt, and I slump back into my chair.

  I’m only vaguely startled when there’s a knock at my door. My mutter of “Are you fucking kidding me?” is mostly for show. Because am I really surprised? No. Nor would I be surprised if he picked the goddamn lock if I didn’t answer. Probably taught himself how to pick locks in case anyone ever lost a key to some handcuffs or because he fancies himself Houdini or some shit.

  When I’ve stumbled my way to the door and nearly clocked myself opening it because I’m less steady on my feet than I thought, it’s to an unimpressed Rey Walter in a goddamn impeccable suit leaning a hand against my doorframe.

  “You brought this on yourself,” he says as he breezes past me into my house and drops a messenger bag just inside. “Go get in the shower because you smell even worse than you look. I’ll put on some coffee, and then you and I are going to have a little chat.”

  “Rey—”

  “No. I just spent five hours on a plane, you’re the first of three stops I have to make tonight, and I don’t have time for your self-indulgent bullshit.”

  “Is this how you talk to India?”

  “No, it’s not. You want to lay with your head in my lap while I stroke your hair and coddle you?”

  It was an off-hand mutter, and I’m surprised he actually answered me because he takes his promises of confidentiality annoyingly seriously. And with that…India’s more like a lynx than a kitten, but maybe for the right man, she’d purr. The image is too much for my sodden brain to handle. I can only respond to his challenge with a grumbled “No.”

  “Didn’t think so. Get in the goddamn shower.”

  A good twenty minutes later, I make my way downstairs. A hot shower turned cold with a thorough wash of my hair and a scrupulous scrub of every inch of my body with soap, I’m dressed in clean clothes. I feel comfortable enough with Rey not to put on a suit but instead pull on lounge pants and an old law school T-shirt. What I’m wearing isn’t going to change his opinion of me, for better or for ill, and frankly even the idea of fastening buttons and drawing up a zipper is exhausting.

  Rey’s sitting on the living room couch scrolling through his phone, but I see that he’s tidied the space and some in the kitchen. My chest burns with embarrassment that he knows what a fucking disaster I am and that he felt the need to clean up after me. Is he going to charge me the same exorbitant rate for this as his other services? Or is this a complimentary house call?

  I dump myself into a chair, and Rey absently hands me one of the coffee mugs from the table. Black. Good man. I wait for him to finish with his emails or whatever it is he’s dealing with. A resigned shake of his head and putting the phone facedown on the table signal that it’s my turn.

  “What are you doing here?”

  “Must be something in the air around here because you all are in need of some supervision.”

  “So it’s not just me?”

  “Not even close.”

  That makes me feel better. At least he didn’t make the trip just for me. How much of a mess would a person need to be for that to be true?

  “But I’m your first stop?”

  “Yes.” He leans back against the couch and crosses an ankle over a knee, looking like this is the millionth time he’s been in my house instead of the first. His ability to look at ease is remarkable. I can
only picture him looking more comfortable if he had his feet propped on Matthew’s back. It’s probably that effortlessness that lets him look at me over his coffee mug like I’ve got some explaining to do.

  “I thought the next time I was out here I’d be joining you and Press at the Black House or sipping cocktails with you over dinner while she suffered through sobriety because she’s carrying your child. What the hell happened? You had the perfect opportunity. You of all people should understand that. Work the crisis, man. Adrenaline, intensity, knight-in-shining-armor, all that good stuff. So why are you here and without Pressly?”

  “I don’t deserve her.”

  The tick up of his eyebrow is the only indication he finds my candor surprising. “Not if you’re going to sit here sulking, you don’t. But other than that, I’ve got a news flash for you, Slade.” He leans forward and rests his elbows on his knees, threading his fingers together. Professor Walter has arrived and class is in session. “It doesn’t matter what you think. What matters is what she thinks, and she believes in you. She desperately wants you to step up and be that guy. Be a husband, be a father. She has an inordinate amount of faith in you, in spite of your myriad fuckups, and all you have to do is claim it.”

  “What if I’m not good enough?”

  “You’re not an imposter. You belong here. You’ve earned everything that sits around you. This house, your title, the clothes on your back, and the money in your bank account. Do you feel like that yet?”

  I take a minute to consider, because he’s really asking. And the thing is, after years and years, the answer is finally, “Yeah, I do.”

  “And how’d you get here?”

  “I faked it.”

  “So why can’t you do that with her? Put on the dog-and-pony show of being good enough, throw up a Potemkin village of the life you want with her, and sooner or later it’ll become reality. That’s how it’s worked with everything else, right? Why not with her?”