He wears an off-the-rack suit that isn’t exactly discount-store cheap but is definitely a far cry from bespoke finery often seen on more senior congressmen who’ve repeatedly dipped their hands into lobbyists’ honeypots. Yet it fits him well. Either he’s just that lucky, or he’s got a skilled tailor.
From what I know of his story, he doesn’t come from money. He’s Midwest hardscrabble-bootstrap stock, meaning he likely appreciates what he has, rarely takes things for granted, and is probably suffering from a raging and nearly crippling case of imposter’s syndrome.
He also possesses the kind of farm-raised good looks you can’t get from a gym or a plastic surgeon’s scalpel. Panty-dropping blue eyes, light brown hair that undoubtedly appears dark blond if he spends a lot of time in the sun, and with a slightly bashfulaw, shucks smile that’s not the slightest bit fake or forced. He’s wearing glasses tonight, but I think he normally wears contact lenses.
There are plenty of rumors that his future gaze is focused on getting himself elected POTUS.
Maybe I’m setting my sights too high but damned if I will pass up a chance to try. I’ve never been a social climber in bed. That holds no interest for me.
This man, however, interests me…and I’m not exactly sure what it is about him.
He’s a puzzle I want to spend time playing with, at the very least.
After asking the server and finding out my guess was right about what the congressman’s drinking, I order fresh drinks for me and him both. He’s almost finished the one he’s working on and I don’t want to wait too long.
Then, carrying them, I walk over and take the risk of sliding into the other side of the booth without asking first. His eyes widen and he sits back more as a reflexive reaction due to his fear. After I ease his drink over to him, I offer him a smile and hold up a hand in greeting.
Keeping my voice down, I say, “Good evening, Mr. Woodley.”
Now hereallylooks scared. Shitting bricks terrified, actually. “H-hi.”
I extend my right hand. “Leo Cruz.”
He shakes with me. “Elliot.”
I hold up my glass, waiting. Takes him a moment but he finally hoists his.
I gently clink glasses with him. “To survival.”
Slowly, his brow furrows as his fear transforms into curiosity. “To survival.” We both sip and now he studies me. “What did you survive?” he eventually asks when he realizes I’m not going to speak again until he does.
“A plane crash that forced me to take a medical retirement from the Secret Service. I used to work The Shift.”
His body language changes yet again, relaxing as he realizes he’s in the presence of someone professionally trained and sworn to keep secrets.
Good, because that’s what I want. I want him to let his guard down with me, to let me in.
“Wow,” he says. “What happened? I mean, if you want to talk about it.”
I do, because I know it’ll help relax him even more. So I tell him.
“Worst part of it is feeling like I’m incomplete, in some ways,” I admit after I finish my tale. “I mean, I can run the average person into the ground, right? I can still hold my own in a fight. But I can’t work The Shift, can’t keep up with the rigorous physical requirements, you know?
“I could’ve transferred into another unit but, after you’ve worked at the top, everything else amounts to a demotion, no matter what the reason. Worse, I hate how the guys I used to work with look at me like they feel sorry for me. It’s the pity thatreallyfucking kills me. Like I’m damaged goods. Adding insult to injury, right? It was easier to move on to more profitable professional pastures.”
Elliot slowly nods as he turns his glass in his hands. “I know,” he quietly says. “Purple Heart and a fake leg. But I’m a ‘hero.’” He makes the air quotes with his index fingers without releasing the glass. “I’m not a fucking hero. I didn’t duck in the right direction, so I got my foot and part of my leg shot off. Yet I’m theluckyone, because I lived while two other guys—men in my command—died that day. Five others seriously wounded.”
Then he sighs and those gorgeous blue eyes of his lock on mine. “But I guess I don’t have to tell you howthatfeels.”
“No. I know all too well.” I swirl the ice in my drink, take a sip, and set it back on top of the ring of condensation on the table. “I was in charge of the team. We were doing advance work for a campaign appearance.”
Without lifting his glass, Elliot slides it across the table and gently clinks it against mine. “To them,” he softly says.
I nod. “To them.”
We drink.
This man is utterly broken, in some ways.
