Pet: A Governor Trilogy Novel

by Lesli Richardson

  We’re almost to the West Wing when Kev glances back at me. “Anyone call Plumber yet? I want him here for this. He needs to be read in.”

  “No, sir. Not that I’m aware of.” Outside the residence I always use protocols, even if we’re alone and they tell me we can drop them. They might all be my friends, but old habits die hard and I refuse to get sloppy.

  Kev stops walking, meaning I almost plow into him. He arches an eyebrow at me. “You should go wake him up.”

  I grumble but, since Kev doesn’t know what happened, I don’t argue with him. Not the time for my private life to be up for discussion. “I’ll go wake up Plumber, sir.”

  Kev smirks. “Good man.”

  I pivot on my heel while they continue with Secret Service agents shadowing them. I take out my work phone and call ahead to Elliot’s detail to warn them I’m inbound to retrieve him.

  They won’t wake him, though. Lucky me, I get that chore.

  There was a time when I lived for it.

  This morning, however, it leaves me feeling sad and borderline resentful.

  Scratch that.

  It leaves me feeling completely resentful.

  It’s only two-and-a-half miles by car. At this time of morning on a Sunday, with a motorcycle escort and running lights, we arrive in just under seven minutes.

  That’s barely enough time for me to try to draw my emotions tight within me and lock them down. We’ve spent maybe fifteen minutes together, total, over the past two weeks.

  Part of that’s my fault.

  A large part of that.

  Okay, it’s totally my fault. Happy?

  Earlier in the week I offered to go over to his residence today to “hang out” with him, but Elliot never gave me a clear answer one way or the other.

  Normally, that’s the opening for me to decide for him after playing twenty questions with him, which is usually what he wants me to do. It’s part of the dance that’s made up the bulk of our relationship dynamic throughout the years, even from the beginning.

  Right now, I don’t have the emotional strength to engage in that charade with him.

  Once there, I let myself in with my key as the agent standing watch on the front porch silently nods in greeting. I worked with the guy on The Shift before my life shifted. Once upon a time, that likely could’ve been me standing there today. In the past, it has been me.

  Vice President Elliot Gerald Woodley never has household staff inside during nights or on the weekends while he’s home, unless he has to host a dignitary, or head of state, or is holding some sort of event, or performing a photo op. So there’s no one inside to see me lock the front door behind me before I reset the alarm and head upstairs and down the hall to the master bedroom. The door’s closed but I know he’s asleep and alone.

  I open it. Without preamble, I switch on the overhead light and head for his closet. “Get up. Now. Portia and Prophet need you in the SitRoom.” Today’s situation doesn’t warrant me awaking him so rudely, but…

  Yeah. This is what he gets.

  He rolls over and groans while I rummage through his closet and put together a suitable outfit for him to wear. He’s already sitting on the edge of the bed by the time I emerge with his clothes—suit, boxers, undershirt, socks, shoes, tie, and belt.

  I drop everything but the socks and shoes on the same side of the bed where he’s now sitting, the one closest to the bathroom, and I put the socks and shoes on the floor at the end of the bed, next to the bench where he’ll sit to don them. I find his flag pin on the jacket he wore yesterday and transfer it to the lapel of the one he’ll wear today.

  Then I throw him a bone. “Do you need my help with Duck?” I don’t bother looking to see where he left his walker. He’s a big boy. If he falls and busts his ass, it’s his fault.

  He shakes his head, not looking at me as he runs a hand through his disheveled light brown hair. There are a few touches of silver starting to lighten his temples. He’s even more handsome for it now than when I first met him a dozen years ago. I want to run my hands through his hair and massage his scalp, watch his eyes drop closed the way they always do…

  And Jordan’s face floats into my mind.

  Guilt rolls through me and I stomp it into oblivion. I can’t afford for emotions to distract me right now.

  “I’ll get your coffee ready. You have ten minutes. Yell if you need my help getting down the stairs.” I turn and leave the bedroom door standing open behind me.

  I could’ve been here with him this morning, taking the phone call that otherwise would have roused him, and doing all of this a lot more gently than I just did, except that’s not the way the world works.

  Not anymore.

  One of my greatest hopes used to be that Elliot would ditch his fear and choose me over a hopeless quest to earn his old man’s respect.

  Now?

  My greatest hope is that I can somehow wrangle into submission the flaming garbage pile where my love and kindness used to reside before I end up destroying what little good remains in my life and shredding Elliot’s soul—or future presidency—in the process.

  * * * *

  I’m standing by the front door with Elliot’s full travel mug in my hand when he slowly limps downstairs nine and a half minutes later. His hair’s damp, and it looks like he shaved. He hasn’t tied his tie yet, though. It’s draped around his neck, his collar button still unfastened. He’s wearing his glasses. That he didn’t bother putting in his contacts tells me he’s not at his best right now.

  I didn’t exactly help him in that department, either.

  From the way he’s holding the bannister as he gingerly makes his way down the stairs I know he’s in pain but I can’t let that slow us down. I hand him his travel mug, button his collar, and quickly knot his tie for him without a word. Then I turn for the front door, knowing he’ll fall in behind me.

  The car and Secret Service detail are waiting. Opening the front door for him, I step aside and let him go first before I set the alarm and lock the door behind him. Then I follow him. Once in the car, I proceed to scan my morning e-mail on my work phone as we get underway. We’re halfway to Dupont Circle before he speaks.

  “What happened?”

  I choose to assume he means why I’ve just rolled him out of bed this way. “The little fucker.”

  With my peripheral vision, I watch as he nods and then turns his head to stare out his window.

  We can’t keep doing this.

  I can’t keep doing this.

  Unfortunately, I love the dumbass and I know he loves me.

  I take a deep breath, hold it, and slowly blow it out again.

  I don’t look at him, choosing to watch him out of the corner of my eye. “Pet,” I breathe, barely a whisper despite being alone back here with him.

  From the way his shoulders tighten I know he heard me.

  He nods slightly, slowly, deliberately.

  With my focus on my phone in my right hand, I shift position, allowing me to plant my left hand between us on the seat, next to his. My pinky finger reaches out and hooks his, stroking once before I draw away.

  He takes a deep breath, holds it, lets it out, and looks forward for a moment before slowly nodding again.

  Jordan’s face flashes into my mind, the tears in his eyes the last time I saw him.

  Struggling against the renewed torrent of anger and grief threatening to swamp me, I lift my gaze from my phone and focus on Elliot.

  His gorgeous blue gaze briefly flicks my way before darting forward again. Lines crease his handsome face, deeper ones than when we first met some twelve years ago and he was still a freshman congressman and not the vice president of the United States.

  He gives me another subtle head bow that’s been one of our silent cues for years.

  I tip my head to him in response.

  Lifting his travel mug to his lips, he refocuses his gaze outside the window, on the streets and buildings of DC.

  Inside, I’m stru
ggling not to scream, to cry.

  To grab him, shake him, and beg him to quit fucking keeping me trapped in limbo.

  To say fuck it and walk away from the life I’ve tried to build—and rebuild—for myself.

  Jordan’s last words to me echo in my brain.

  Elliot needs you.

  I wonder how long those three words will keep me going and keep me from blowing everything up and saying fuck it?

  * * * *

  Buy the Inequitable Trilogy Now!

  1) Indiscretion

  2) Innocent

  3) Incisive

  Free Preview: Sacred (Devout Trilogy 1)

  The following is a free preview from Sacred (Devout Trilogy 1) by Tymber Dalton writing as Lesli Richardson.

  Sacred…

  In college, I made the mistake of falling in love with Ward, who was deep in the closet and terrified to come out to his conservative, religious family.

  He called me Master. Said he loved me. Said he’d be mine forever.

  I guess he lied, because he ghosted and didn’t even attend graduation. It broke my heart and f*cked my head.

  Eventually, I moved on, married a great guy, and became a US senator.

  Guess who just showed up as a freshman senator? And guess who’s my hall-pass f*ck?

  Did I say I moved on?

  I guess I lied.

  Ward can’t run from me now.

  * * * *

  Chapter One

  Now — January 1

  I know that by nearly all standards I am a lucky man leading a blessed life. Sitting in church today, listening to our minister give her sermon about blessings, helps me reflect upon that.

  Blessings.

  My biggest and brightest of blessings currently sits at my right side, his left hand resting on my thigh and my right arm draped around his shoulders.

  Glancing down, the gold wedding band on his left ring finger is also proof positive of my blessings.

  The ring I put there ten years ago, when I finally yanked my head out of my ass and realized the only person I needed stood right there in front of me, patiently waiting for me to move past my old trauma.

  No matter what the ghosts of my past chattered at me at the time, and no matter how my wounded, aching heart scolded me for not moving on sooner.

  No matter what my soul still cried out for.

  Here this man, after I confessed to him how fucked up I was, still wanted to be mine. Despite his own reservations about the institution of marriage, he willingly accepted the choice to live with me and the phantom shadows in my soul, assuring me he was strong enough to share me with those noisy ghosts.

  Which have quieted, finally, thanks in no small part to Daniel’s love and devotion. Although there were countless days I never thought they would stop tormenting me.

  One particular ghost, actually.

  I shove that thought away and focus on Reverend Ormand’s words. I like this UU church and miss it when we’re in DC and can’t make it home to Massachusetts. We’ve attended it for most of our marriage, although Daniel wasn’t certain about it, at first. He was raised in a liberal Methodist church, and Reverend Ormand frequently blends in bits and pieces from other beliefs, not just Christianity.

  Like me, it eventually grew on him, I suppose.

  When we’re in DC, we attend an Episcopal church with a very inclusive minister and congregation, although we don’t manage to make it to services every Sunday. Frequently, work interferes, or one or both of us are too tired to make it.

  We’re both members of a couple of prayer groups on the Hill, and sometimes making it to one or more of those is all we can cram in on any given week. I don’t like to attend church alone. I did enough of that before I met and married Daniel. Sometimes, it’s better for our personal well-being—and our marriage—to sleep late on a Sunday morning when we can and spend it focused on each other.

  I’m reasonably certain God won’t hold it against either of us.

  Especially since there are plenty of times Daniel’s on the road on Sundays, traveling to events with his boss, Congressman Marlowe Effings. Unlike senators such as myself, the US House reps are running for re-election every other year. Seems like they spend most of their time in campaign and fundraising mode.

  I miss Daniel when he’s not home, but at least we work in the same town and can eat lunch or dinner together on the regular. We’ve made it work all these years and I’m not complaining. He loves his job and thrives in it.

  But when he is home?

  Then he’s all mine, and my boy gives me his undivided attention.

  At least, until work calls him.

  More than once, I’ve had to hold his phone up to his ear for him because I literally had him tied up and wasn’t about to untie him and ruin our play, but he needed to deal with an issue in one of the offices.

  Daniel’s an old hat at this, though. He’s worked for Effings for years and is now his chief of staff. Started out as a campaign volunteer, which is what he was doing when we first met.

  I’m getting ready to begin year three of my second term in the US Senate. And when we return to DC in three days, I won’t need to engage in office musical chairs. I was able to keep my current office, happy to swap my offered new assignment to larger digs with a re-elected former GOP senator from Wyoming, who’s already said this is his last term. He became a persona non grata to the GOP after switching from GOP to Independent when he filed to run for re-election for his fourth term. Due to his popularity, he still handily won re-election.

  His margin of victory only rubbed salt in the GOP’s wound. For years, he frequently crossed the aisle and voted with Democrats regarding social issues, which vexed his fellow party members.

  In exchange for trading him the larger office, I received his tiny “hideaway” office in the Capitol building. He lost his old office due to construction and has been desperate to find somewhere larger than the tiny space he’d been assigned. None of his former GOP colleagues would make a deal with him. From what I heard, incoming freshmen GOP senators were warned not to trade with him, either.

  The incoming GOP freshman who would have gotten my current office is now getting the one the senior senator would’ve been assigned, because fuck you, that’s why.

  Didn’t hurt that President-elect ShaeLynn Samuels—former Senator ShaeLynn Samuels—put in a word to let the horse-trade go through.

  Hey, I’m always willing to reach across the aisle. Especially if it’ll benefit me or my constituents. Otherwise, it’d be unheard of for a second-term senator, majority party or not, to score one of those little gems. The hideaway office is literally smaller than the walk-in closet in our master bedroom here, but it’s convenient for quick, private meetings.

  And quick, private blowjobs.

  Believe me, my hubby and I plan on making good use of it for that.

  Sometimes, I wonder if I hadn’t survived the pain and loss I endured early on if I’d be able to appreciate what and who I have now.

  Daniel.

  As if he knows I’m thinking about him, he tips his head against my shoulder. I smile and kiss the top of his head. I wouldn’t be the man I am today if not for his healing love and strength.

  Blessings.

  Something I’m smart enough to never take for granted again.

  * * * *

  “Your mind was far away, Master,” Daniel teases later as we leave church and hold hands for the walk to our SUV. We each carry our Bibles in the other. His breath billows and freezes in the cold air. “Did you even hear the sermon?”

  Sometimes, he can read me too well.

  I squeeze his hand and pull him back, almost behind me, when I spot an oncoming car I think is approaching a little too fast to stop in time for the slushy road conditions. We pause, waiting for it to pass or stop before crossing the street to where I parked our SUV.

  “I was listening. She had me thinking, though.”

  “Did she, now?”

  “Yes.”
The car nosedives as the driver brakes hard and comes to a stop, then waves us and a few others waiting to cross to go ahead. Only then do I step forward and lead the way across the street. I take no risks with Daniel’s safety, as corny as that might sound. Yes, he’s a grown-ass man of thirty-eight, but this is one of the few ways I can show my love for him.

  “Thinking about what?” he asks.

  We round the Mercedes SUV’s front and I click the button on the key fob to unlock the doors. I open his door for him and hold it while he climbs in. Then I wait until I’m satisfied he’s safely tucked in to close it and walk around so I can slide behind the wheel. The Mercedes is comfortable for my six-five frame. I get cranky trying to cram myself into a small car.

  Daniel prefers his tiny Honda. He won’t let me upgrade him into something better and it’s one of the few things I won’t overrule him on.

  Yet.

  It was the first new-new car he’d ever purchased. When we were dating and things grew serious between us, and we were negotiating limits and protocols, he made it a hard limit. I promised him then I’d never make him sell it.

  I try to be a man of my word. Doesn’t mean I haven’t taken him window shopping at car dealerships every chance I get. It’s over twelve years old now. It’s in good shape, though, because he takes excellent care of it, and it’s got low miles.

  Still haven’t tempted him into a larger, safer car.

  If we’re going somewhere together, we take my Mercedes regardless of who’s driving, because I don’t like having my knees jammed into my chin. That’s what it feels like, to me anyway, when riding in his car.

  When we’re in DC, we take cabs or ride-share services or walk. Having a car in DC is impractical for us. Rarely, when we actually need a car, we rent one, or drive the Mercedes down instead of taking the train.

  I adjust the heat with his question still lingering in my mind, but he’s my good boy and knows I heard him. He doesn’t have to repeat himself.

  He patiently waits me out.