That’safterthe private agency I’m working for gets their cut.
It means my ego takes a logical vacation and shuts the hell up. Which is why it’s my bank account I think of while sitting in the living room of the rented flat and listening to her ride her latest conquest into exhaustion like a Kentucky Derby hopeful.
My parents and sister are marginally happy that I’m employed by a private contractor, because I might have lied and told them I was working as a translator and profiler and getting paid well for it.
That’s…partially true.
It keeps them off my ass and they don’t worry about me, and Kayley isn’t trying to analyze me, so I call it a win.
Still, it’s not exactly my dream job.
As I lie awake at nights and stare at the ceiling, I realize this is the best my life will probably get from this point forward.
I’ll have to come to grips with that now, no matter how depressing it is.
* * * *
Over the next several years I stay alive, pad my savings account both from working and from my pension, thanks to the plane crash, and keep myself amused and employed. Washington is still my city of residence, even though I’m now subletting an apartment from a guy I work with and haven’t opted to buy a place of my own.
I gave up my old place after the plane crash. Chris and a couple of other guys packed everything for me, put most of it into storage, and shipped me what I wanted to have while in California. That meant it was easy to move into this place once I returned to DC, because most everything I needed was already there and waiting for me.
During that period, I meet Elliot Woodley and stupidly fall in love with a guy too terrified to so much as peek out of the closet, much less exit it. I can’t even tell my family I’m dating him. He asked I keep it quiet, and I will not violate his trust.
Even if it fucking grates on me.
But I love the guy. Even though we have our ups and downs, and he periodically insists I should date others, if I want to, I resist doing that.
Unlike my chances of returning to the PPD, there’s still hope Elliot might eventually come out. Maybe once he gets being a politician out of his system.
I love him enough that I’m not willing to walk away from him without trying my best to make this work.
Almost seven years after the plane crash that nearly killed me even as it hard-shifted my life in a direction I never anticipated, I’m working out of the company’s DC office one chilly February Friday afternoon when I receive a text from none other than my former boss, Special Agent Christopher Bruunt. We’ve kept in touch off and on throughout the years, which is how I know he’s risen through the ranks of the PPD.
The text is from his personal phone. It’s also vague enough to be intriguing.
You in DC, available to talk ASAP, and open to listening to an offer?
Of course the first thought that runs through my mind is being asked to reapply to PPD, but I immediately choke that off. It’s a stupid idea, for starters, and completely impossible. I’m fit—far more fit than most guys my age, and I’ll be forty in a few months—but I have bad pain days that sometimes make it impossible for me to contemplate making it all the way down the stairs of my apartment building, much less keep up with the grueling and physically taxing job of keeping up with POTUS or VPOTUS.
I stare at my phone for a long moment and consider my reply. I enjoy my job—mostly—yet I’ve felt restless as of late.
Especially knowing another presidential campaign season is on the way.
And, once again, I won’t be a part of it.
Elliot and I…
We go through phases. On-again, off-again. Not breaking up but where he withdraws from me, probably in what he thinks is an attempt to make me want to seek out others to date, because they’re always heralded by him reminding me he would understand if I wanted to do that.
Right now, I’m in an on-again phase with him. He’s in his third term. His district is small, and he’s well known there, so he doesn’t have to leave DC every weekend right now to go fundraise and campaign. He hasn’t had a serious challenger for his seat in either of his re-election campaigns. The GOP contenders always cannibalize and devour each other so much during the primaries, putting off their potential voters in the process, that Elliot has no problem slaughtering the finalist in the general election.
Also doesn’t hurt that Elliot has plenty of support from business owners and local politicians of both parties, meaning the GOP can’t field a strong enough candidate to unseat him.
But during his campaigns, Elliot withdraws from me. We still text and talk, usually every day but always with the stipulation that he doesn’t mind if I date others. Meanwhile, he doesn’t date. Not even beards, like I’d fully expect and understand if he utilized.
Because of course I’ve told him that if he wanted to date others, I’d understand.
He never does.
