But that brown gaze of his weighs me down, pins me to the present, keeps me grounded.
He strokes my forehead. “My very good boy. You can do this. Win or lose, you’ve got this. I’ll be right there beside you the whole time, I swear. I won’t leave you alone. Deep breath.”
I take one, hold it, blow it out.
He lets me lie there for a couple of minutes before he pats me on the shoulder. “Sit up.”
All too short a time together, but we can’t risk more. Especially not right now. I sit up, putting our faces at the same height.
He cups my face in his hands and presses his forehead against mine. “I want to kiss you so fucking hard right now, Owen, but I can’t risk someone spotting it.” He’s right—I’ll look like we’ve been making out.
We apparently can’t do subtle when it comes to that. Us kissing—reallykissing—always ends up with both of us sporting red and swollen lips, our cheeks pink from stubble rubbing, and our trousers tented from hard cocks.
There is nothing subtle about the way Carter and Ikiss.
Frankly, I kind of prefer it like that.
His thumbs gently caress my lips and I kiss them instead.
Then he lightly presses his lips to mine, all too briefly, controlling it and barely controlling himself. “You’ve made me proud, boy. Just a few more hours, regardless, and then the three of us will have time alone together. Okay?”
“Yes, Sir.”
He motions for me to stand. I rise, then take his hands and help him up off the floor. He’s tried to hide his pain from me today, but the soft grunt he makes lets me know he’s really hurting and doing a damn good job of hiding it from most everyone else. The campaign has been a grind for him, too. His pain isn’t nearly as bad as it used to be when I first met him, but he’s a man, not a machine. The incident at the school, however, marked the start of a pain cycle for him that he’s having trouble climbing out of. We’ve scaled back our morning runs to shorter, slower walks, doing more gentle reps on machines in our spare bedroom, either in Tampa or in Tallahassee.
He had to go back on one of the anti-anxiety meds he’d been able to discontinue our second year of law school because the nightmares resumed with a frequency and fury that scared even Carter. They’re only just now starting to decrease in frequency and intensity, even a couple of months later.
It’s another reason Susa tries to make sure Carter is with me as many nights as possible, because she knows he does better with me sleeping in bed with him.
He straightens my clothes, and I straighten his, and he pulls me in for a tight, strong hug. “You’remyboy,” he whispers in my ear. “No matter what. Nothing tonight changes that.”
“Yes, Sir.” As he releases me and heads for the door, despite all our hard work, part of me prays I lose tonight.
Because if I do, it means we can go back to being who we were without worrying about the press or rumors.
I know it’s selfish of me, but I’ve never claimed to be perfect.
I’ve only claimed to beHis.
* * * *
I awoke that Tuesday morning in the arms of the two people in this world I truly love most, just a guy, an attorney, a lawmaker. Florida Senator Owen Taylor.
A loved and owned boy.
I will eventually go to sleep tonight as Governor-Elect Taylor.
Even before MSNBC and WFLA in Tampa calls the race in my favor, the energy in the suite has amped up, grown electric, frenetic. Everyone’s smiling, including Carter and Susa, and I’m hoping the smile I’ve plastered on my face looks real enough.
But it’s pretty obvious how it’s going to shake out by ten p.m. I have taken enough of a lead over the other candidates that there aren’t enough ballots remaining to be tallied to help them close that gap.
The minority party candidates all call and concede by ten fifteen.
Jack Coffield, the Democrat, concedes at ten thirty-seven, once the last ballots in Miami-Dade are reported. I took the county by ten points, something unheard of.
Only Steven Shallows, the Republican, hangs in there until the guy with the massive electronic whiteboard on MSNBC explains the math and why they’re calling it in my favor at ten fifty-eight.
The phone Carter’s holding rings at ten fifty-nine.
