Fortunately, there’s a bus line from my apartment to nearby shopping, so I don’t have to use a bike or hoof it or pay for a ride-share. My apartment isn’t on campus, but it’s reasonably close, meaning I can get by with walking. I don’t mind the walk most of the time. If I’m running late, or the weather’s horrible, sometimes I splurge for a ride-share or cab.
I’m a TA, and I work doing administrative tasks for the department, plus I help juggle the student interns and all that related garbage. Basically the same shit I did before I was chosen to work for the president-elect. I do some private design work and consulting, but again, that money goes right into my savings.
I’m no dummy.
I’m lucky I got a good deal on my efficiency apartment. One of the professors in the department wanted to move, because their parents had a rental house come available and let them have it for the same rent every month that they were paying for the apartment. Problem was, they still had eight months on their lease and didn’t want to break it.
My timing was perfect, moving back to Tallahassee. I took it over for them, with the landlord’s permission. I guess when it comes time to renew I’ll do it. I’ve been looking around—sort of—and the thought of moving again fills me with dread. Finding somewhere close, in the same price range, and having to physically…move?
I really don’t have the emotional energy to do it. Because then I think about how much I cried as I packed my stuff and cleared out my storage unit in DC, and then how much I cried on the drive to Florida.
Depressed. The word I’m fucking looking for is depressed.
Because I suppose part of me hoped Leo would swoop in once I’d been gone a couple of weeks, scoop me up, woo or order me back, and I’d be moving back to DC to be with him.
Or he’d quit and move down here to Tallahassee and we’d live together.
Guess it’s time I grow the hell up. He didn’t stop me from leaving. Why would he come after me?
I guess if it didn’t feel like he’s sometimes looking over my shoulder, like I can feel his presence, it wouldn’t be so bad.
Again, I know, wishful thinking.
But some days I might be out somewhere, and I look up, certain I’m going to see him standing there with that handsome goddamned smirk on his face, and…
I’m alone.
Life has settled into a predictable rhythm that, after my time in DC, feels boring in comparison.
I miss my co-workers in the East Wing. I miss the kids. I miss the daily Pecan duty, because that tortoise was so neat.
I miss Leo.
I miss feeling like I was part of something far bigger than myself, and like I was actually making a little bit of a positive difference in the world here and there. Maybe not as impactful as helping organize a G-7 summit, duh, but I made people smile. I made people happy.
What do I do now?
Herd students and professors and manage data entry.
Whoopee.
I know I had to leave, though. Maybe once Elliot’s out of office, Leo can come after me.
Again, wishful thinking on my part, and far from healthy, but there you go.
Today, I’ve finished with my student meetings and am now working on the data entry portion of my day. I’ve got Arctic Monkeys blasting in my ears to help drown out distracting noises from the people who are still working around the office.
I’m about halfway through my current task when I’m startled by a presence suddenly appearing in my cubicle entrance. I turn and am removing an earbud when the guy speaks.
He looks vaguely familiar and wears a black suit and charcoal tie…along with a no-nonsense air. “Jordan Walsh?”
Confused, I nod. “Who are—”
“I need you to please come with us, sir.” He signals to someone else who I can’t see.
“What?” My mind flashes back to the last White house crash I worked through three weeks before I left, when a false alarm triggered a full shut-down and shelter in place for everyone in the White House. Those agents who went around ordering everyone to stay put.
He reaches out and does the thing with his first two fingers, palm upturned, beckoning me the same way Leo always used to.
That’s when it hits me why the guy looks familiar. I don’t think I know him, but I’m certain I know what he is.
“Are you Secret Service?”
“You need to come with us, sir.”
Anger rolls through me, that Leo would send a stranger after me after months of nothing. “Why? I know my rights. If I’m not under arrest, I don’t have to go anywhere with you.”
He also wears that same resigned, barely-there calm I remember all too well from Leo and the other Secret Service agents when their patience was sorely tested.
“You’re not under arrest, Mr. Walsh, but I’m not at liberty to discuss the whys. You need to come with us. Now.” His tone brooks no resistance and sounds like I’ve hit the far end of his patience.
Despite bristling, and knowing I could probably kick and fight and not go with them, I find myself standing and saving my work on my computer. “What the hell is Leo doing this for?”
“Who?”
Yes, I get huffy and go full-on drama queen. “Oh, don’t give me that fricking bullshit innocent act.” I realize my voice is rising in pitch and volume and I draw in a breath before speaking again, this time keeping it down. “You know who I’m talking about. Leo. Leo Cruz. President Samuels’ body man? I know he sent you after me instead of coming himself. Chickenshit bastard,” I add in a mutter. “Because why should he do something difficult, when he can ask someone else to do it for him.”
Although, part of me hopes I know why he sent them after me, and I try to shove that hope deep down into the basement of my soul so I can lock it away. That’s unhealthy and codependent and will only lead me to more heartache.
I’m currently at my fill in that department.
His gaze narrows. “Mr. Cruz didn’t send us, sir.”
That makes me pause and study him. “Then who did?”
“We’re not at liberty to discuss this matter, Mr. Walsh. If you want to find out who sent us, then I suggest you come with us. Now.”
It’s weird being addressed as Mr. Walsh again after months of being plain old Jordan.
I’m also wondering who it is sending Secret Service after me if not Leo. Maybe the president, or Kev? Perhaps Chris, but wouldn’t they just tell me who it is if it was one of them?
Hell, Kev would have made a personal appearance, if it was him. He’s free to move about in a way Chris and Shae cannot, even with his Secret Service detail.
A second agent appears behind the first. That’s when I realize if I don’t want this to get super embarrassing super fast, I’d probably better do what they say, because I suspect they’re more determined and stubborn than I am.
They also likely have orders they won’t fail to uphold because of a fricking pissy and prissy TA playing hard-to-get.
I’m also reminded of my suit fetish that’s been sorely neglected these six months in the wilderness.
I miss men in suits.
Hey, I was faithful to Leo, but a bitch can look, okay?
I grab my laptop and shove it and a couple of other things into my messenger bag. “I need to tell them I’m leaving.”
“That’s already been handled, Mr. Walsh,” the second agent says.
Dammit.
Sure feels like it’s Leo who’s behind this.
When I pick up my phone from my desk and start to slide it into my pocket, the first agent holds out his hand for it.
Well, of course he does.
“You’ll get it back later, Mr. Walsh,” he says.
Fuck.
I hand it over.
He also reaches for my messenger bag, and I hand that over. After he quickly searches it, he returns that. “Thank you, Mr. Walsh.”
I pull on my sweater, because it’s chilly today. “I know the damn drill,” I mutter.
I sh
oulder the strap of my messenger bag across my chest and follow Agent One. The second agent falls into step behind me. My face is positively burning as I keep my eyes down and on the ass of the guy in front of me and not on anyone else who might still be around and watching this little drama play out.
I’m going to fucking kill Leo. I’m also going to have to come up with some sort of fucking excuse to tell everyone tomorrow who asks why I was practically perp-walked out of here by Hunk 1 and Hunk 2.
I don’t give a shit what this guy says. I’m not under arrest, and I know damn well they know if they said it was Leo summoning me that I likely wouldn’t go with them. Hell, Leo probably told them to flat-out lie to me.
We climb into a black Tahoe sitting parked in a fire lane at the curb out front, me in the back seat, the two agents in front, and we speed away from campus.
I wish I could send Leo a text blasting him for this bullshit but I guess I can save my anger and give him a dose of it in person. Not that I owe him that respect—anymore—but I don’t want my business ever showing up on the news somewhere because there are text messages of it.
Besides, I’m the one who left. I really don’t have any right to get pissy about this.
Do I?
I mean, sure, this is fucking embarrassing, but…
Fuck it. Why flay myself when I can confront him shortly?
If he wanted a reconciliation, he should’ve thought about that before ignoring me the past few months. Which is why I didn’t bother contacting him lately. When I realized I was the one initializing all the contact between us, I stopped, to see what would happen.
His silence speaks volumes, and I’m no idiot.
We speed south, down Springhill Road, and it takes me only a few minutes before I know exactly where we’re heading.
Tallahassee International.
Sure enough, only twenty minutes later, we’re slowing as the agent driving turns down a service road and heads toward what I’m pretty sure is a secure area.
After going through a couple of security checkpoints, we round a corner, and on the parking ramp sits Angel.
Air Force One.
Motherfucker.
I mean, I already knew that’s what I was going to see. It shouldn’t be a shocker, I suppose.
So I guess we’re doing this. I knew that was bullpucky about it not being Leo behind this.
It’s not bad enough I ripped my own heart and soul to shreds doing the adult thing and walking away from him so that I’m not an impediment to Elliot becoming president. Now Leo’s got to try to suck me back in like this?
I mean, let’s not call, or write, or something logical.
Oh, noooo.
Let’s not romantically show up at my door with a dozen roses one evening.
Or, considering my finances, I’d accept a case of ramen noodles and canned tuna.
No, Leo Davidson Cruz has to pull out all the stops and drag my ass out of my office and all the way over here to the airport and put on a really big show.
I’ve been scrupulously avoiding any coverage about President Samuels’ whereabouts, because I didn’t want to play the “what if” game with myself about Leo’s whereabouts.
Worse, I didn’t want to catch a glimpse of him on TV and have it shatter my heart. I cry enough already. I’m having to use the allergies excuse a lot less than I did in the beginning though, so I guess that’s a win.
I don’t have cable but I also avoid anything that might lead me to a news site, especially a political news site.
It’s working, I guess. I haven’t locked myself in the bathroom at work to have a midday cry in at least two months because I accidentally found myself staring at a picture of us that made me bawl.
Not only do we drive out onto the parking ramp, we pull right up next to the fucking plane. There’s no crowd around, no press, so I don’t know what’s going on. I’m assuming that means President Samuels isn’t around and the press is wherever she is.
Again, I suppose Leo couldn’t have asked me to meet him somewhere a little less imposing or public.
Couldn’t take the time to show up in person to talk to me.
A really big shew…
One of the agents gets the car door for me. His meaning is clear when he points toward the staircase that’s pushed against the plane.
Pulling myself up to my full five-seven, I hold my head high and march my happy little ass up the stairs, determined I am going to make Leo fricking Cruz regret trying to play me like this.
Even if I miss him like damn crazy and hate myself every day for walking away from him.
And even though part of me knows when I see him it’ll take every ounce of self-control I have not to run to him and throw myself at him and beg him to take me back.
Except when the agents stop behind me, going no farther than the plane’s entry, I’m shocked when I realize who’s standing there in the doorway to the private suite in the nose of the plane.
Because it’s not Leo.
It’s Elliot.
* * * *
For more information about the Inequitable Trilogy, or other stand-alone trilogies set in the world of the Governor Trilogy, please visit my website at:
https://tymberdalton.com/books/series-info/inequitable-trilogy/
About the Author
Author Lesli Richardson, who is better-known by her more prolific wild-child Tymber Dalton pen name, lives in the Tampa Bay region of Florida with her husband (aka “The World’s Best Husband™”) and too many pets. She writes a wide variety of heat levels and genres, from mainstream sci-fi all the way to scorching ménage.
The USA Today Bestselling Author (as Tymber) and two-time EPIC award winner is a part-time Viking shield-maiden in training who loves to shoot skeet and play D&D with her friends. She’s also the author of over one hundred and sixty books and counting, including The Reluctant Dom, Cross Country Chaos, the Bleacke Shifters series, the Governor Trilogy, the Determination Trilogy, The Great Turning Trilogy, the Suncoast Society series, the Love Slave for Two series, the Triple Trouble series, the Coffeeshop Coven series, the Good Will Ghost Hunting series, the Drunk Monkeys series, and many others.
She lives in her own little world, but it’s okay—they all know her there.
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Indiscretion (Inequitable Trilogy Book 1) Page 48