Crying will do that to you.
There are few nights when I don’t cry, even nearly two years out.
I grab the bottle of eyedrops from the cabinet and squirt some in, blinking up at the light and squeezing them shut before opening them. Experience has told me they’ll look normal by the time I emerge from my shower. I brush my teeth and then shave with the electric razor. I don’t want to dress up today, but I know if I show up downstairs in anything less than what she ordered me to, I’ll hear about it.
Oooh, how I’ll hear about it.
And I’ll likely get something thrown on me—like coffee—forcing me to go change anyway.
This isn’t my first rodeo with Casey-Marie Blaine.
She wouldn’t be my chief of staff if she couldn’t keep me in line, either.
As I climb into the shower I briefly consider beating off but the second I close my eyes I hear the screaming and the wind.
Eyes open, then. Except for the moment I have to close them when rinsing shampoo out of my hair. And definitely no jerking off.
With three minutes to spare, I sigh as I walk into my kitchen and hand her my empty coffee mug. “You’re trying to kill me, Case.”
I lay my overcoat and suit jacket over the back of one of the chairs. My collar’s unbuttoned, my tie draped around my neck.
“No, sir. If I was trying, you’d be dead.” She sets my empty cup in the sink and hands me a full travel mug.
“Slave driver,” I say, nudging my glasses up the bridge of my nose.
“That’s me.”
I take a sip of coffee. Perfectly prepared, as always. “You know it’s illegal to kill the governor, right?” I remind her.
“Lucky for you, sir.” I move my hands out of the way as she reaches up and fixes my collar, then ties my tie for me. I’m careful not to catch her eye while she does, because if I do, I’m going to start crying.
She knows this, so she’s careful not to look me in the eyes while she does it.
This woman has helped keep me vertical, keep me functional, and don’t think I don’t know and appreciate that.
I’d probably marry her if I thought I had half a chance with her. Except she’s way out of my league and always has been, even if our initial meeting and first couple of months of friendship was…rocky.
Once she has my tie tied, I set the travel mug on the table so I can pull on my blazer and overcoat. Then I grab my coffee and we head toward the foyer. She’s already packed my laptop for me and has it sitting on the bench just inside the front door.
“You break into my house, make me coffee, wake me up early on a Saturday, and scrounge my computer from my living room. That’s gotta be some sort of felony. I am the governor, you know.” I shoulder the strap for the laptop case and dig my keys out of my pocket.
She shoots me her trademark smirk. “You’re welcome, sir.” It’s always a lower-case s when she says it. “You have shitty security, by the way.”
We both laugh, because it’s a running joke with us. The Executive Protection Unit probably hates me because I want the bare-minimum contingent of officers around me at home. Casey has full access to my security system, including an app that allows her to remotely arm and disarm it.
Hell, she has complete and unfettered access to all parts of my life, personal and professional.
She’s the only one who does.
I set the alarm with the keypad to begin the exit countdown. Then I grab the front door and open it for her, holding it and indicating for her to go first. After we step outside and I lock the door behind us, I realize it’s just Case’s car parked in front of the house.
“I thought you threatened me with state troopers?” I shiver in the cold early morning air and watch my breath frost in front of me.
She shrugs as she slips on sunglasses and walks around to the driver’s side. “I lied. So sue me. Get your ass in the car, George.”
I head for the passenger side. Her smirk and mine are practically identical. I never would have said that before I saw a picture taken of us at an event last year, where we were looking at each other and both smirking the same damn smirk.
I don’t honestly remember if I learned it from her or she learned it from me. We’ve both been doing it as long as we’ve known each other, so I guess it doesn’t matter.
* * * *
At my front gate, she waits while the officers who will be shadowing us fall in behind us for the drive. We’re not going to our offices at the capitol today. This is campaign stuff, and I don’t mix campaign stuff with my work as governor. I mean, there are things that legally can be mixed, but I prefer to separate as much as possible.
It’s less bullshit to ensnare me in a scandal. It’s something Casey drilled into me early on in my political career and she’s never steered me wrong. The less stupid stuff we trip over and give opponents a way to hamstring us, forcing us to defend avoidable unforced errors, the better.
Today we’re going to our old law offices, where technically we’re still partners in the firm, although we’re both on official leaves of absence since I ascended to my current office. We’ve rented the place for the day—literally rented it, paid for that out of our campaign expenses and everything—and will be taking over the large conference room. It’s what we’ve done for my previous campaigns. It’s private, it’s large enough for us to bring in the people we’re using, and there’s plenty of parking.
I tip my head back against the seat. “They still got the kick-ass pizza place down the street?”
“Yeah, they do.” She smiles. “Went there last week with Declan for lunch when we drove over to give Lila the check for the rental.” She glances my way. “And yes, we’re ordering lunch from there. Don’t worry.”
“Excellent.”
“Gotta take care of the leader of the Volunteer State.”
“You know me so well.”
She snorts. “Luuucky me.”
We drive with the satellite radio playing indie rock to chase away the silence as I sip my coffee and try to wake up. It’s still early, not even seven yet, and I suuuuck at mornings.
Case knows this, too, which is why she always cuts me slack for my morning grouchiness. Especially on weekends.
“Thank you,” I tell her when we’re halfway there.
She reaches over and pats my leg, and that’s the last either of us speak until we pull into the parking lot.
Thank god she knows me.
And thank god she puts up with me. I don’t know where I’d be right now if it wasn’t for her.
I probably would have killed myself by now.
Actually…
There’s no probably about it.
* * * *
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Free Preview: Indiscretion (Inequitable Trilogy 1)
The following is a free preview from Indiscretion (Inequitable Trilogy 1) by Tymber Dalton writing as Lesli Richardson.
Indiscretion…
He shouldn’t, but he will—again.
Leo Cruz is an experienced former Secret Service agent. Even though he survived a small-plane crash, being the body man for President ShaeLynn Samuels is frequently the most terrifying job he’s ever held.
VP Elliot Woodley is deep in the closet and has his eye on being POTUS in eight years. Trouble is, Leo can’t let Elliot go despite Elliot’s inability to commit to something long-term between them.
In walks young Jordan Walsh, like a lamb among starving lions.
And Leo’s feeling pretty damn hungry.
* * * *
Chapter One
Now — Early September
Sometimes, my morning starts with having to awaken the president of the United States.
Who is not, by any means, a morning person.
Let me say that there are times the small-plane crash I survived when I wa
s in the Secret Service was a far less terrifying experience than having to awaken President ShaeLynn Samuels when she hasn’t had enough sleep and is expecting to sleep in for a couple more hours.
Especially at 4:49 a.m. on a Sunday morning.
Doubly so if I know she’s in bed with her husband and with her chief of staff.
Who—just to be clear—are two different men.
Actually, it’s her chief of staff I really need to awaken first to help me wrangle her. Because we’ll also need him downstairs in the SitRoom.
I made the mistake of coming to work this morning, so staff decided I drew the short straw by default. My timing was perfect—or sucky, depending on how you want to look at it. I’d no sooner arrived than one of the duty officers from the Watch Team scurried up to me and tasked me with this.
Rat bastards.
I mean, yes, wrangling POTUS is literally my job, but still…
That’s why I’m now armed with a tray of coffee and their favorite cheese danishes from the downstairs kitchen. Unfortunately, I’m not allowed to carry a cattle prod in the White House, or I would have one on me now.
I watch the three chickenshit residence staff who just came on duty scatter as I approach the private living room door, that room through which I’ll enter to go knock on their inner bedroom door. I approached from this room rather than one of the other bedroom entrances because I don’t know what state the room—or its inhabitants—are currently in. I want zero risk of household staff seeing or hearing anything they shouldn’t.
I wait until the living room door fully shuts behind me to approach the bedroom door. Balancing the tray on my right hand, I lightly rap on their bedroom door three times with my left, wait, then rap three more times, a little harder. Another brief wait, then three final, hard knocks before I punch in the numeric code on the lock so I can open it.
It’s our prearranged signal. If they’re awake, it gives them time to call out and respond to keep me out, or to at least give them a chance to pull the covers around them.
Except in an emergency, only the kids and I are allowed to knock on their bedroom door before they emerge on their own in the morning.
If they’re not awake already, it means Chris will have likely roused enough by the third series of knocks that he won’t come up off the bed swinging at me before he’s fully awake.
Hey, he’s retired Secret Service. It wouldn’t surprise me if he has a gun stashed in here somewhere. He’s also extremely protective of his two pets.
Especially after Kev almost died two years ago.
They’re sound asleep. Well, Chris lets out a soft groan but doesn’t get up, meaning he awakened enough to recognize it’s me and immediately started falling asleep again.
It’s dark inside their bedroom. After the door swings shut behind me and chokes off the dim light from the living room, I pause just inside the doorway to let my eyes adjust. The heavy blackout curtains on the windows do exactly what they’re supposed to. There’s a nightlight in the bathroom that, after a moment, gives me enough working illumination trickling in from the dressing room hallway that I can step around the clothes and shoes strewn across the floor in a path from the door to the bed without tripping over them.
I carry the tray over to Kev’s side of the bed and set it on the nightstand. Shae ended up in the middle and only the top of her head is visible. They keep the bedroom temperature set to sixty-five at night because they like it comfortably chilly.
It means whoever’s in the middle can snuggle between the bodies on either side of them without getting overheated and kicking the covers off all three of them.
Shoving back the angry grief trying to roil inside my soul at the sight of the three of them comfortably snuggled together, I focus on the here and now.
On my job.
In this way, they’re blissfully happy and lucky. It’s also not their fault my personal life is currently a shitstorm they don’t even know about. Well, maybe Chris has an inkling, but he’s been pretty busy the past couple of weeks, so he might not know.
Kev’s lying on his right side, his back to Shae, and still lightly snoring. I head across the large room to one of the walk-in closets, pull the door mostly shut, and close my eyes as I turn my face away while I reach inside the doorway to find the light switch.
That’s not as insanely obnoxious as turning on the dressing room hall light, or one of the lamps on the nightstands. Or opening the curtains. Besides, I don’t want any of the more astute members of the press seeing a light appear in the president’s bedroom this early on a morning she’s supposed to have nothing on her schedule except her PDB in a couple of hours, followed by family time with her husband and children.
And with her chief of staff, who’s also unofficially one of her husbands. The public doesn’t know that, obviously. They only know Kev is her chief of staff and a close friend the First Family considers part of their family, and that he lives here with them in the residence. Public opinion is greatly in favor of that, considering all Kev’s been through and survived.
Might not be such a favorable opinion if the public learns he shares a bed with the First Couple, though.
Crossing the room again, I catch sight of Chris’ eyes barely cracked open as he stares at me. He lets out a soft warning grumble.
“Sorry, boss,” I whisper, knowing he can probably hear me and, if he can’t, he can read my lips, even in that light. “NatSec.”
Another soft grumble before his eyes close again.
I round the bed and lay my right hand on Kev’s shoulder, my left retrieving his glasses from the nightstand, ready to pass them to him.
If it was Shae lying there, I would gently shake her.
I never shake Kev.
We’ve discovered he has PTSD from the shooting, even though he hasn’t sought help for that. Chris warned me about it two months after the shooting.
Instead, I gently squeeze his shoulder while rubbing with my thumb. “Prophet,” I softly say. “Watch Team needs you and Portia downstairs in the SitRoom.”
His eyes pop open and he’s already holding out his hand for his glasses as he sits up, now wide awake. He’s naked, I’m pretty sure. The covers puddle around his waist, exposing the scars along his abdomen from the shooting and resulting surgery that saved his life.
This sudden awareness of his despite how heavily he sleeps always amazes me. It’s rare that a civvie who’s never had military or first responder training can awaken this quickly. His years as a journalist prepped him for certain situations the way Chris’ years in the Secret Service prepared him. Mine, too.
“What happened?” Kev asks as he seats his glasses on his face.
“The Stupid Leader played target practice with a Global Hawk drone. Brass needs to brief her. NSA’s inbound now.”
Stupid Leader is our private nickname for the current little fucker running North Korea. He’s been a massive pain in Shae’s ass to the point the public should be glad Kev is Shae’s chief of staff. He alone has kept her from declaring war on the little fucker.
And the little fucker is also another commonly used private nickname of ours for the guy.
I put the mug of coffee I’ve already prepared the way Kev likes in his hand.
“Fuck. There goes our Sunday.” Kev takes a sip and turns while I reach for Shae’s mug. “Wakey-wakey, sweetheart. Duty calls.” He tugs the comforter down from her face, to her shoulders.
“Nooo,” she groans, trying to pull the comforter back up.
I see Chris’ arm move under the comforter and then Shae lets out a pained yip as she jumps.
“Ow! Motherfucker!” She shoots a glare at him over her shoulder.
His eyes are closed but the corners of his mouth have quirked in an evil smile. “Keep talking, sweetheart,” he rumbles. “I’ll gladly add more cane strokes to tonight’s total that you’ll owe me.”
“Goddammit.” She finally sits up, holding the sheet around her as she reaches for the mug of coffee.
“This is so goddamned unfair,” she mutters. “It’s fucking Sunday.”
Now that both of them are sitting up and talking, I step away from the bed. “I’ll wait out there.”
“Thanks, Leo,” Kev says. “Give us ten. Please let them know we’re on the way.”
“Yes, sir. Thank you.”
I’m turning to leave when Kev switches on his nightstand lamp, bringing another groan of protest from Shae. I let myself out and use the phone in the private living room to tell the SitRoom that Portia and Prophet will be downstairs shortly. Then I head to the private kitchen to refill my travel mug with coffee, which I left in there when I prepared theirs.
The bedroom door opens eight minutes later. Kev and Shae emerge looking wide awake. They’re both dressed in jeans. She’s wearing a collared, short-sleeved knit shirt with the presidential seal emblazoned on the left chest. Kev’s wearing a button-down and a tie.
“Good morning, Madam President, Mr. Markos.”
“Good morning, Leo,” she says, our daily charade beginning.
I fall into step with them as we head for the stairs, Secret Service falling in behind us, and I give Shae and Kev what little info I have.
Had I not been here, it would have been a phone call from the Watch Team in the SitRoom, or a knock on the outer bedroom door from a very reluctant Secret Service agent, that awakened them.
Such is my job as body man to the president of the United States—what basically occupies my entire fucking life now.
It’s okay.
It’s not like I had anything else productive going on today.
The whole reason I’m here right now when I had the day off is because lying in my fucking bed, alone, sucks balls.
And lying there wide awake, staring at the ceiling while hating myself and wondering how the hell I managed to end up here in the first place, is starting to etch deep and destructive grooves into my soul, even though it’s only been two weeks since I lost Jordan.
* * * *
Other than the National Security Advisor being rolled out of bed by his staff, no one outside of NatSec, the military, or Intel has been summoned. It’s only a matter of time before the news leaks and we’ll have press crawling up our asscracks.
Pet: A Governor Trilogy Novel Page 20