Desire (Determination Trilogy 3)

by Lesli Richardson

  As I stand there, staring at him, I force myself to process that he will never again walk free. There’s too much evidence, and more being uncovered by the minute.

  Already, there are deep background-sourced reports being aired that people have wondered for the past three years if maybe there’s not been some dementia taking hold. I don’t know if that’s him setting up a defense, or if it’s the truth, and it honestly doesn’t matter.

  Regardless of his supposed mental condition, when he set the wheels of this plan in motion, he knew exactly what the fuck he was doing.

  He warned me he’d do it, that day he stopped by the townhouse, in December, after Shae’s first election as POTUS.

  His vow that he’d destroy Shae and those she loved.

  A vow I mistakenly thought was nothing more than an impotent threat.

  This was deliberate, premeditated, and I’ve already given my statement to investigators.

  I’m glad I inherited Mom’s looks and not his. Especially her eyes. I don’t have to look into the mirror and see my father’s muddy brown gaze staring back at me.

  Once the FBI finishes processing the house, I’m going to retrieve whatever’s left of Mom’s things, what few good memories I can salvage, and then I’m going to arrange to have it burned to the ground.

  Chris and Shae don’t know that, either. I’m not going to tell them.

  Leo’s already agreed to help me. Considering the hundreds of death threats that have already rolled in against my father, it won’t be difficult for investigators to believe that it was a random crazy who did it.

  My mask doesn’t slip a centimeter as I study this wretched, broken demon and hold my head high.

  He finally licks his lips. “Don’t worry, you won’t have time to enjoy this. This is a temporary setback.” He grimly smiles. “Circumstantial evidence, reasonable doubt—”

  “No.” I slowly shake my head. “House held an emergency vote forty-five minutes ago. They unanimously expelled you.”

  The vote was unprecedented for a number of reasons, but in the wake of everything the country’s been through, they wanted to send an immediate message of unity…and, yes, save their own asses with voters. Normally, a vote like that wouldn’t take place until after a trial and a conviction, and even then maybe not.

  Except as soon as news broke that Dad was arrested yesterday, at least twenty women in five different states and DC stepped forward and immediately filed reports of sexual harassment against him, with incidents dating all the way back to his that failed campaign in Florida. He’d threatened to kill their loved ones if they exposed him, and he had hinted he’d killed others before and gotten away with it.

  Once investigators finish processing the current batch of charges and clear those cases, that’s something else they’ll look into.

  There are too many representatives who are already on shaky ground in their districts to allow this kind of blatant fuckery to go unanswered. Far too shaky to risk being perceived as being lenient on one of their own.

  Hence it was on those grounds—the sexual harassment and threats—that they called the expulsion vote.

  “The governor of West Virginia will sign an executive order this afternoon to call a special election to fill your seat,” I add, the ultimate insult to injury. I received that confirmation just before walking into the courthouse.

  He wobbles to his feet, an insane grimace contorting his features. “I’ll fight those bastards. They can’t do this. I’ll have my day in court. They’re denying me my right to due process!”

  Facing down this man gives me no joy, no pleasure, not an ounce of satisfaction.

  It does, however, give the ten-year-old boy strength and closure and the bravery to finally break free of this vampire’s hold.

  I step as close as the US Marshal will allow. In a whisper, I tell my father everything that I know, all the evidence against him—which even his defense attorney doesn’t know yet because we’re only one day into this and discovery motions haven’t been filed.

  I don’t gloat as I watch horror seep into his wrinkles and turn the hollows under his eyes into a Death mask. He had no idea so many of his secrets had been ferreted out. He likely thought he’d talk his way out of it, the way he’s talked—or threatened—his way out of all consequences in his life. That he’d create enough reasonable doubt he’d get off and resume his life.

  He didn’t know the shell companies and finances have all been tracked back to him—he thought his arrest was triggered by the discovery of the truck.

  He assumed with Gayle dead that there would be no one to testify against him.

  As he staggers back, heavily collapsing onto the bunk, I lift my chin a little higher. “If you’d stopped at McDannig, Charlie, and Tory, you would have gotten away with it,” I add. “Maybe even if you’d stopped at Lauren. But you got greedy, didn’t you?”

  I’ve put this timeline together in my head. Based on what I now know, I’m certain I’m right. “When I made the comments to the press about you the week before I was shot, that sent you over the edge. Before that, Gayle was supposed to die of cancer and ‘leave instructions with you’ for his family to claim the funds, wasn’t he? They’d never know what he did, and you’d explain things away to his family. Maybe tell them Gayle didn’t want them to know about the funds before he died because he was afraid they’d be confiscated or something. I’m sure you had a bullshit excuse ready that they’d believe.

  “But you couldn’t stand the thought of me publicly denouncing you, could you? So you offered him another sizable payment. You probably thought he’d get shot and killed by Chris’ detail. Maybe you told him to try to do just that. Probably gave him the schedule. You weren’t expecting it when he was taken into custody, and you didn’t know that he hadn’t done anything with the truck.

  “There’s a record of you calling calling Jasper Schoult from your house on Sunday, literally minutes after you completed the last deposit. He received another call from a burner cell yesterday morning while he visited Gayle. That call was triangulated to within a few hundred yards of your house.

  “You paid Gayle extra to kill himself, right? Because that’s what everyone thinks. Once investigators confronted Jasper Schoult yesterday, he abandoned privilege. He had no clue Gayle was anything to you but an old henchman from ‘back in the day’ you wanted taken care of, but didn’t want a connection to you, for obvious reasons. Once they laid out the full criminal conspiracy, money laundering, and the other murders, Schoult immediately broke privilege and told them everything. Including that you made that burner call, and you spoke to Gayle.”

  His jaw falls open, but I’m not done. I know this is bad, this could taint his case, he could try to claim tampering or some bullshit, but I don’t fucking care. Besides, there’s too much evidence that was secured the right way.

  And I know.

  “Lawyers don’t do well in prison, Mr. Markos,” I softly remind him. “Gayle took the easy way out. You might want to think about doing that, too. Shae is still president, I’m still her chief of staff, and I’m going to testify at your trial that you told me you were going to ruin Shae. That’s premeditation. You’ll die in prison, one way or another. How much humiliation you go through in the process is totally up to you.”

  My mask slips only enough a dark, cold smile can make it past. “And when you die, I’m going to have you buried in an unmarked grave somewhere Shae, Chris, and I can go and piss on you whenever we feel like it.”

  I turn and head for the exit as his wordless screams of rage and rattles from his manacles fill the space.

  The US Marshal signals for the door to be unlocked, and he escorts me to my awaiting detail.

  I don’t look back.

  Chapter Eighteen

  Shae

  Two weeks after Edwin Markos’ arrest, he conveniently dies in his sleep while in custody.

  At least, that’s the cause of death Leo informs me will go on the man’s death certifica
te.

  He was, after all, an old man. And he was alone in an isolation cell. He just…didn’t wake up the next morning.

  I don’t want to know any more than that, because plausible deniability, yo.

  No, seriously, I don’t want to know.

  But if anyone is ever charged in the bastard’s death, the last thing I’ll do before I leave office at the end of my second term is issue a full goddamned pardon for the person, and fuck the optics, if it’s charged as a federal crime.

  What’ll they do, fire me?

  Ha!

  I hear about this development fifteen minutes after it’s confirmed a little after five a.m., long before the public is notified. I’m in the workout room upstairs on the third floor in the residence when Leo comes upstairs and notifies me. I hurry to wake Kev and Chris and tell them, where I’d left them sleeping in and comfortably snuggled against each other in bed in the master bedroom.

  Yes, that’s one nice thing about not worrying about reelection—I’ve hit the “I don’t give a shit” portion of the festivities when it comes to staff seeing Kev coming and going from our bedroom.

  Since Kevin is still the bastard’s next of kin, disposal of Markos’ body is up to him. At Leo’s…careful suggestion, Kevin tells officials he wants the man cremated immediately without an autopsy. Less than twenty-four hours after Markos drew his last breath, he’s nothing more than a couple of pounds of ash and charred bone.

  Burn, motherfucker.

  Burn.

  I hold my breath until that process is completed. It certainly looks like, based upon investigators’ initial work, there might be three more suspicious deaths in Edwin Markos’ orbit that could be attributed to him. Not like Markos would have talked about them, though. He refused to say anything to investigators after his initial arraignment.

  Kev admitted to me that he went to the courthouse that morning and confronted him. That’s the only closure he needed. Chris doesn’t know Kev did that, though. It’s for the best, because Chris would worry and fret about future blowback for it.

  It’s also for the best that Chris didn’t get to sit in a courtroom with the fucker, because he likely would have tried to kill Markos. At the very least he would have created a very ugly scene that the kids didn’t need to hear about later from others. Because Chris keeps telling me, in private, how shook he is thinking about what Markos might have done to Kev had he left the room and allowed the man a few minutes of private time with Kev.

  How Kev might not be with us now.

  How guilty Chris feels Markos was even allowed in the hospital in the first place.

  I keep reminding him that we didn’t know. But the Sadist is a very soft-hearted man when it comes to those he loves and considers His.

  I give him and Kev as much alone time as I can for Kev to try to reassure Chris he’s alive and well and not going anywhere.

  Yes, he’s living full-time in the White House from this point on. Again, what is the public going to do, fire me? Considering what happened, anyone who tries to disagree can go piss up a rope. We pay for his food and expenses the way we do for the kids. He’s not a moocher or a freeloader.

  And now, for Chris and the kids, Tory’s parents, and for Kevin, and Lauren’s family, healing can finally begin.

  A few weeks after that all dies down, Chris and Leo go with Kevin to his father’s house to sort through his belongings. At our attorney’s recommendation, after Kevin retrieves what he knows he wants from the house, we have a professional moving company come in and, under Leo’s supervision, box up everything and empty the house, taking the contents to a storage unit Kevin rents just outside DC.

  All papers are kept separate and easily accessible. We don’t know what incriminating evidence might remain. While I know Kevin wanted to light a match to the place, he understands that evidence might give others closure in the future, and he wouldn’t want to deny them that.

  For now, Kev hires professional cleaners and then puts the house up for sale.

  I’m genuinely shocked his father didn’t change his will to cut Kev out, but apparently the man was so narcissistic he didn’t think he’d die.

  Kevin puts the money from the sale into an account, escrowed in case there are any lawsuits against the estate from others.

  He said if none are forthcoming, he’ll keep that aside for the kids, for their college educations.

  Dammit, he made me cry. And not from a spanking, either, for once.

  We’re selling both Florida houses, and the DC townhouse. They are an unnecessary expense and a draw on Secret Service resources. We’re going to buy a house in this region, somewhere rural, but close enough we can easy ferry Tory’s parents back and forth, and large enough for all of us.

  Once the kids have graduated from high school, we’ll buy a house in Florida for the three of us and sell the one up here. Then we’ll settle in and nest. Chris and Kev will be more than ready to have my undivided attention.

  Although Elliot is making frequent “hints” to Kev that he’d like him to run his campaign, or, at the very least, consult as a strategist and then come aboard as his chief of staff.

  Worst fucking job in government, but my Sir is seriously considering it, with our blessings. Kev’s good—damned good. For a variety of reasons.

  I’m not sure how I’ll feel about that closer to the election. I might be ready for Kev to quit when I leave. I know first-hand how exhausting Kev’s job already is.

  Can I just be selfish and enjoy my guys?

  I want to raise our kids. Hudson started slipping and calling us Mom and Dad a few months ago, and we haven’t corrected him.

  Sometimes, Ivy and Myla call us that, too.

  If they want to, fine. If not—fine. We love them, and that love isn’t contingent upon them using a specific title for us.

  I need my kids to be happy and feel loved.

  I’ll damn sure never extract any kind of promise from them like my mother did to me.

  Because of the circumstances with the kids, I got sneaky and asked Benchley and Michelle if they’d mind if the kids called them Grandma and Grandpa. Michelle was all for that plan, leaving Benchley smiling and nodding his assent, too.

  And we added a new member to the household, and it’s totally Kev’s fault.

  Chris and I had to be out of town for a summit meeting in Paris. The kids were going to a zoo with their class, and Kev and Yasmine went with them.

  Somehow, and I’m still a little foggy on the details, there was a discussion with one of the reptile keepers, who apparently was also a breeder, and raised tortoises, and there was an impromptu after-school detour arranged by Secret Service.

  Chris and I awoke to our phones blowing up with media swamping us and asking what the “First Tortoise” was going to be named.

  Because Kev told the kids sure, they could have a pet tortoise.

  And it gets better.

  He bought them not just any ole tortoise, but a Sulcata. These fuckers get huge!

  But when I asked him over the phone, once we realized we weren’t drunk or dead in some sort of alternate dimension, Kev quietly explained Sulcatas live a loooong time.

  In other words, unlike a dog, or cat, who might not live more than ten or fifteen years, the kids likely won’t have to bid a sad good-bye to their pet.

  Even Chris couldn’t argue with his logic.

  And Hudson ended up naming him Pecan, much to Chris’ dismay, although my Sir hid his reaction well.

  But now Pecan has the run of the White House, and we have baby gates upstairs to keep him from falling down them. After hours, when he roams the first floor, Secret Service actually came up with a strap that goes around him and holds a tracker so they can quickly find him.

  As a school project, Ivy and Myla set up a “White House Tortoise Cam” website, strapped a small camera to him when they take him outside for grass time, and now he’s the most popular tortoise in the world. He’s also a hit during press briefings.


  Go figure.

  Tonight, the three of us are all snuggled in bed together, Kev in the middle. It’s cold outside, tomorrow is Thanksgiving, and we’re going to have a full house of guests and family.

  Pecan is confined to a specially built pen that can hold him, located off the family kitchen, because we don’t want him to accidentally get stepped on or lost. He’ll get to come out and visit tomorrow once things settle down.

  Physically, Kev has fully healed from the attack. Emotionally, I’m sure it’s going to take him a while, but he has our love to support him.

  Our family.

  I insisted that he be included on our Christmas picture cards this year. Him, Elliot, and Leo, and Yasmine. A double secret right out there in the wide open.

  Kev leans in to kiss me, and I know what he wants because I can feel his cock pressing against me.

  Chris, who I thought had been dozing, speaks up. “Are we doing this? Because I could go either way.”

  “I’m doing something, Sir,” he quips.

  Chris reaches out, fists his hair, and hauls him in for a kiss. “What was that, boy?”

  He grins. “Took a bullet for ya.”

  Chris freezes, blinks, and bursts out laughing. “Motherfucker,” he mutters. “I’m never going to live that down, will I?”

  “No, Sir.”

  This joking has replaced some of the tearful, heavy conversations of just a couple of months ago, and it relieves me, honestly.

  My boys are back, and there’s an easy, sweet undercurrent to our lives now that was missing for far too long.

  “If I let you fuck my ass, can I go a day without you playing that card?” Chris says.

  “Oooh, baby.” Kev rolls toward him. “How about I make a First Spouse Sandwich?”

  “Sold.”

  I let out a meep as I find myself grabbed, rolled, and on the bottom of the pile in the middle of the bed with Chris on top of me, his cock easily sliding home inside me.

  He smiles down at me. “Hiya, President Samuels.”

  “Hey there, yourself, Special Agent Bruunt.”