Innocent (Inequitable Trilogy Book 2)

by Lesli Richardson

  As I kneel on Leo’s bed and breathe my stress away, an idea floats into my mind. Grace will be texting me soon. I’ll simply tell her dinner’s out, but I can stop by her place to talk for a little while. She might be more direct in private, anyway.

  Alone.

  I’m willing to take that risk, because if she tries to say I made a pass at her, I can trot out a bunch of people and my security clearance forms that all back me up when I say I’m gay. Meaning she’ll look like an idiot.

  I have no doubts if she tried that it would backfire on her in a massive way without harming me or casting shadows over Elliot’s campaign.

  Already, I feel better, but I stay there for another fifteen minutes. Here, I can feel Leo’s love wrapped around me just as his scent embraces me. I’m sitting up when my personal cell buzzes. When I check, I find a message from Grace.

  6pm. How about my place? Any food allergies?

  Followed by her address. I wouldn’t put it past her to try to poison me if I had a food allergy.

  She can wait for a while. If I answer immediately, it’ll look like I have nothing better to do than to reply to her texts.

  Setting my phone aside, I stretch out on Leo’s bed and pull his pillow into my arms. We haven’t been able to spend a chunk of time with Leo in weeks. Nothing more than a few stolen minutes here and there, like my brief interlude with him in his office yesterday, and one evening last week at the residence. On that evening, I had to get Elliot ready for a dinner speech, so we didn’t have time to play. What little time Leo could spend with us that night, I had him focus on Elliot.

  Leo promises he’ll make it up to me, but I’m not holding him to that. For starters, he doesn’t “owe” me anything. Elliot needs us focused on him.

  Once Elliot’s out of the White House, Leo and I will be able to spend time with each other and with Elliot. That means helping Elliot reach that point as quickly as possible by him not losing this election. Otherwise, we’re in a four- to eight-year holding pattern until the next time he can run for POTUS, depending on the outcome.

  I stretch my time there as long as I can before I sadly remove my cuffs and get dressed. I leave my collar on until I have to remove it to button my shirt and knot my tie. Then I kiss the collar and lay it in the dresser drawer where Leo keeps them, along with my cuffs.

  Still hanging on the wall in his bedroom is the picture of the two of us at Shae’s first inauguration. That magical night will remain embedded in my memories until the day I die.

  Next to it hangs the picture I drew of him and Elliot. I remember how touched I was that he got it framed. The gesture reminded me so much of Mimi’s love and positive energy.

  I need to make him one of just Elliot. Maybe take a picture of Elliot when he’s asleep so I can draw that for him.

  The more I think about it, the more I realize how perfect that would be.

  Before I can set the alarm, my personal cell rings, and I’m already smiling as I answer. “Hello, Daddy.”

  “Did you need some decompression time, baby boy?”

  There’s no reason to deny it. “Yes, Daddy. I curled up in your bed.”

  He sadly sighs. “My good boy. Sorry I couldn’t call you when I saw the alert from the alarm. The president was in the middle of a rope line. We’re on Air Force One and getting ready to take off now.”

  “It’s fine, Daddy.” I lean against the wall. “I was just getting ready to set the alarm and leave.”

  “Can I come over late tomorrow night and spend the whole night? I’ve got a slight schedule change that gives me a little wiggle room. I know we won’t get to see each other this weekend.”

  My heart races. “What time?”

  “Not until after ten, at least.”

  I’ll be done with Grace Martin long before then, and I know two men who desperately need time with their Dom.

  “Yes, Sir. That’d be great. Elliot and I would love waking up with you.”

  “Does that mean I’d get my boy, too? Or do I have to deal with Elliot’s Sir?” I hear the smile in his voice.

  “I think Elliot’s Sir could take the night off.”

  “Excellent.” He chuckles. “That guy’s too good at his job. He can be a real prick sometimes.”

  Now I’m smiling in a way I haven’t in too damn long. “He has to be. The president’s body man has set a high bar to live up to.”

  “Ah, you sweet-talker. Keep sucking up to me like that and you might find yourself a happy boy tomorrow night.”

  “I can only hope, Sir.”

  As I head downstairs a few minutes later, my smile feels permanently embedded in my face.

  Not even thoughts of Grace Martin can darken my mood right now.

  I’m such a naive idiot.

  Chapter Fifty-One

  Grace wasn’t happy to learn we weren’t having dinner tonight, but she didn’t refuse my offer to stop by so we could talk for a few minutes.

  I don’t want to be here at all, but I know I have to do this for Elliot’s sake.

  Despite placing a few phone calls, I still haven’t figured out Grace’s motives or plan. Hopefully, tonight will finally reveal that. She’s under the impression I’m open to hearing her out. It was tempting to bring Leo into this, until I realized that I might need to take actions to stop her that I don’t want Leo knowing about.

  Plausible deniability.

  I’m expendable—Leo isn’t, no matter what he might think. He’s not expendable to the president, and damn sure not to Elliot. If something happens to me, Leo can still be with Elliot after Elliot takes office.

  Maybe I’ll get my ass beaten later for this, but I’m going with my gut. Something else Leo told me to rely on, and something that’s helped me throughout my life.

  I once again leave Elliot in Casey’s capable hands. She’ll ride with him to campaign headquarters, and I’ll meet up with him there before returning to the residence.

  Where Leo will join us later, after he’s finished with whatever he’s got going on tonight.

  When I arrive at Grace’s building and she buzzes me in, I keep my head down over my phone while glancing around, searching for obvious security camera placements. There’s one at the front entrance, positioned to capture the face of anyone unlocking the door or getting buzzed in. I see one over the mailbox area, and another by the elevator.

  My Sir taught me well, but it doesn’t mean there aren’t more I’m not seeing.

  I hit the call button on the elevator and pretend to stretch and crack my neck, which allows me to spot another camera placed facing the main entry doors.

  Okay, then. At least there’s no doorman or front desk. It’s not a dump, but it’s definitely not the ritziest building in DC. I’ve already checked and can’t find any other members of Congress who live here, although there are a few staffers who list this building as their address. So that’s…odd.

  I’ll assume there’s at least one camera in the elevator, so I don’t even bother looking when I step in and hit the button for the fifth floor. Instead, I focus on my phone again—my personal phone, in case the camera’s really good and aimed at an angle that can catch my screen.

  The building interests me because it means Grace is trying to send a statement to people. Her family has money. Not Bill Gates money, but she could afford to live in a private townhouse in a gated community, if she wanted. Or, at the very least, an exclusive condo building with on-site security.

  So why does she choose to live in a mid-priced building that doesn’t even have a doorman?

  My guess is she’s straddling a line between living above her means, in terms of a congressman’s salary, but not flashing her money around to draw unwanted attention. In addition to her government salary, her FEC filings show she’s got her own money from investments and a trust. An easy way of concealing dark money, but who am I to nitpick?

  When the door slides open on the fifth floor, I step out and pause to glance around, like I’m orienting myself and looki
ng for signage. There’s another camera directly opposite the elevator, probably with a one-eighty field of vision to catch both directions down the hall.

  Before I start walking toward Grace’s apartment, I tuck my personal cell into my shirt pocket. She must have been standing at her door and watching for me through the viewfinder, because she opens it before I can knock. She’s barefoot and wearing a pair of jeans and a loose, orange tunic that washes out her complexion in an unflattering way and makes her makeup look…off. Like hell will I tell her that, though. Her blonde hair is up in a messy bun that’s too casual to be anything but carefully coiffed. Her come-hither smile curdles my stomach, but I smile in return.

  “Jordan, very prompt. I like that. Come in.”

  “Thank you, Congresswoman Martin.”

  She waits until the door swings shut behind me to chuckle. “Grace, please. Yes, I’m telling you to call me by my first name while we’re alone in private.”

  “You looked like you wanted to slap me at our last meeting.”

  “I did.” She leads me into the apartment. “But upon further reflection, I realized you’re not wrong. There is an expectation of protocol, and I should have referred to the vice president as such.”

  No, I’m not falling for it. Duh. She’s trying to set the hook by being agreeable. “Wow. You’re admitting you were wrong?”

  “I have my moments. Can I get you something to drink? I make a mean martini.”

  I nod. “Sure. Dry, please.”

  “Dirty? Olives?”

  “Sure, and yes, please.”

  “You’ve got it.” She leads the way to the kitchen while I take in my surroundings. It’s a nice place but looks like it was decorated right out of an Essential Home catalog. It’s just…off by a degree or two. Like her hair, it’s too casually perfect. Staged.

  Fake.

  A mask.

  I know all too well about those.

  My trained designer’s eye skims the walls, the shelves, the end tables. This isn’t a home—it’s a curated showplace to set a specific tone. From where I stand at the breakfast bar, looking at the visible built-ins in the living room, I glean that there isn’t a single personalized item in sight. Although, someone certainly seems fond of Target and Pier One, based upon the bric-a-brac carefully placed on the shelves to achieve a symmetrical feel.

  It’s all as fake as her smile. Even her act of mixing our drinks feels practiced and staged.

  If you think I’m going to actually drink that drink, you haven’t been paying attention.

  “Why am I here, Grace?”

  “Hmm. No small talk, or trying to put me at ease, or feeling me out?”

  “Why should I waste our time? We both know you want something from me. I want to know what that something is.”

  She laughs. It bounces like jagged, broken glass reflecting the light from a neon bar sign at last call. “I like you, Jordan. You’re a puzzle.”

  I shrug. “I’m just a guy.”

  She tsks. “Oh, that’s wrong, and we both know it.” She pours our drinks from the same shaker and reaches for a jar of olives. I haven’t seen her slip anything into them but I wouldn’t put it past her.

  “You went from being a grad student at FSU, to designing the residences for POTUS and VPOTUS, to working in the East Wing, to being the vice president’s body man. Now, you’re apparently some sort of ghost wunderkind advising the vice president’s campaign. Not just as a poll interpreter, or voter whisperer, either. You have veto power over important decisions, and if you aren’t on board with something, the vice president won’t agree to it, either. Some people say you’re channeling Kevin Markos. Or is he outright advising you?”

  I smile in reply. She doesn’t deserve an answer.

  She hands me a martini glass, picks up hers, and gently clinks mine. “To interesting encounters.”

  “To living in interesting times.” I pretend to take a sip. “It’s good, thank you.”

  “Dry enough for you?”

  I nod. “Rates pleasantly high on the drought index.”

  Another of those jagged-glass laughs. “Let’s sit and talk. Why don’t you take your jacket off and get comfortable?” She walks past me and heads toward the living room.

  I follow. “I am comfortable. And I can’t stay too long.” I’m still wearing my blazer and I’m hyperaware of the fact that hidden cameras can literally be everywhere. I’m also well aware of her history.

  Thank you, Sir. Leo taught me well.

  Yes, I finally learned my damned lesson about situational awareness, all right?

  She sits in a large, comfy chair with her legs curled under her. I take the sofa, sitting in the middle.

  “Why am I here, Grace?”

  Even her head-cock and the way she studies me feels artificial and practiced. “I want to get to know you better.”

  “Why?” I pretend to sip my martini. I don’t want to take any chances with it.

  She plays with the toothpick holding her three olives, stirring her drink with them. “Because Stella Woodley is my best friend, and you are best friends with Elliot Woodley.”

  No. That’s a lie designed to draw me in and lower my defenses. Still, I slowly nod, like I’m listening.

  She continues. “I don’t want an adversarial relationship with you. I think we both know the vice president is positioned to take up President Samuels’ mantle and run with it right into a two-term presidency of his own. I also don’t have to tell you that the press is already starting to darkly hum a little about his marital status, or lack thereof.”

  My stomach painfully tightens. There haven’t been many stories, because every time someone gives me a heads-up that there might be one in the works, I make sure Elliot’s photographed eating with Yasmine or some other single female. “So?”

  She shrugs—practiced. “He needs a First Lady. His poll numbers would be helped by a romance and wedding. I wouldn’t mind being that person.”

  Wow. This is ballsy, even for her.

  Still, I follow Leo’s guidance and don’t give anything away, not with a gesture or a facial expression. “Even if he’s not in the market for a First Lady right now? He’s focused on his work.” And his poll numbers damned sure don’t need any help.

  “I would be beneficial for him. We’ve known each other for years. Plus, I’m a Republican, and he’s a Democrat. That means I can help convince even more people to vote for him. We’d look good together on camera. DC’s new power couple. A modern-day Camelot.”

  Somehow, I stifle the shudder that tries to wash through me. “What are you asking of me?”

  “I’m asking you to help him win the presidency.”

  I hear the unspoken or. Instead of asking again, I watch and wait for her to continue.

  She finally does. “There are people Stella works for and with, people I’m also closely acquainted with, shall we say, who’d happily knock the vice president out of the running in any number of ways. Including ways that would effectively ruin the rest of his life. Some of those people are offering me very enticing…incentives to help them do just that.”

  Stirring my drink with my toothpick of olives, mirroring her actions, buys me a few seconds to calculate. I pivot to playing an unexperienced nice guy. “You have me confused. What are their plans? And how would you marrying the vice president fit into those plans?”

  “They want him controllable. They don’t think he is right now, so they’re willing to remove him from the equation. I would benefit either way. Now, I would prefer not to hurt my best friend or her brother. I’ll even sign a pre-nup saying that once Elliot’s out of office, we’ll quietly divorce. Politics takes a heavy toll on yet another personal relationship, yadda-yadda. Complete with an NDA and an agreement that I won’t write a tell-all book, or give any interviews that disparage him, or reveal personal details. We can even have separate bedrooms.” She smiles. “Unless he wants to share a bed with me. I’ve always thought he was hot. I wouldn’t mind that at a
ll.”

  White hot jealousy flares inside me, but I calmly settle back against the couch. “Why are you approaching me, Grace? What do you want from me? Or, should I ask, what’s in it for me? And how do I know that you aren’t trying to entrap me?” I glance around like I’m looking for a camera.

  She smiles and I see more than a hint of greedy eagerness there. She’s assuming that, since I haven’t stormed off in outrage, I’m open to listening. “Even if it would help me, I’m not stupid enough to collect evidence that could entrap me. These are very powerful people I’m talking about, Jordan. They’re the one-percent of the one-percent. They’ll get their way, one way or another. They’re not sitting through another eight years of a liberal POTUS and being shut out of the process the way they have. They want their guy in the White House, because they already know they’ve lost the House and the Senate this time around, and probably the next election cycle, as well.”

  “Again, what do you want from me?”

  “Well, let’s be honest—this is your fault.”

  I arch an eyebrow at her. “My fault?”

  Da fuq?

  “Yes.” She cocks her head at me. “My friends wanted to talk to him. You said you’d talk to Elliot for me. They only wanted his ear, that’s all. A few things here and there. Now?” She shrugs. “They are very unhappy that they aren’t able to talk to him. Meaning I need to resort to drastic actions.”

  “Doesn’t that put you at odds with them, if you’re First Lady?”

  “No, because then they come to me. I’m the power broker. That’s something I’d love to rub their faces in. Elliot’s from a conservative family from a conservative part of the country. I can make this work. I’m going to marry him, and it’s what’s best for him in the long run. He’ll get to be POTUS, I get to be a power broker, those friends of mine get a say in how they want things run, and we’re all happy.”

  I see she’s still trying to play both ends against the middle. That’s been her modus operandi and a hallmark of her career.

  She arches a perfectly groomed eyebrow at me. “You’d especially be happy, because you will become a golden child for all my friends. Not all of them are conservative, either. Some of these friends, shockingly enough, are liberals. It’s a…” The tip of her tongue flicks out and moistens her lips. “It’s like a family. You’ve heard of them, haven’t you? You’ve been around DC long enough I would expect you have.”