“Good boy.” He kisses me, and for a few sweet moments it shuts down my brain and every thought in my head except one.
Him.
My world, my rock, my love. Always in the shadows and watching over me and Elliot.
My stalky Sir.
Finally, he strokes my back one last time. “I need to get moving.” He holds my arm to steady me as I climb off him, then he stands and straightens my clothes. A sad smile curves his lips. “I miss tying your tie every morning, baby.”
“We’ll find you a White House job, when he’s elected.”
“You know that won’t work.”
“Why can’t it?” A wave of fury rolls through me before I can reel it back in. “Why can’t we have you here in some way?”
Leo presses a kiss to the tip of my nose. “I’m always going to be with the two of you, in some way. Maybe not the way we all wish I could be, but the clock is ticking until we can be together.”
“And life is short.”
“That it is.”
I want to argue this out—yeah, I know, I’m an idiot—but Leo’s on a schedule and not going to make anyone else late just because we’re…discussing.
Except he gets me moving, and before I realize it, I’m returning to the West Wing and Leo’s on his way to whatever it is he has to do.
It sucks not being able to claim him. Not being able to just go out and do things like we used to. At least back then, even though I knew Elliot was first in his heart, I was the guy on his arm and in his bed every night.
Now, I don’t even get that much.
Plus, if I wasn’t so damned busy, it’d give me time to lift my head andreallylook at the future…
Then I absolutely would freak the frack out over the enormity of the situation. Of the totality of the responsibility I have, instead of dealing with each task before me in a piecemeal fashion.
Unless something horrible happens, chances are I will be the body man to POTUS.
* * * *
I’m not even back to my office yet when my campaign phone rings. I’m close to the West Wing lobby, so I divert there and head outside as I answer. “Jordan Walsh.”
“It’s Ken. We have confirmed debate rules and dates.” Ken Windham, the campaign manager.
Shit. This is thelastthing I wanted to deal with today. We’ve been engaged in a pretty vocal back-and-forth with Boone’s campaign and the three networks who want to hold televised debates between him and Elliot.
I mean, I’m not worried about Elliot’s performances against Boone. Elliot’s going to mop the floor with the guy. It’s telling that Boone’s campaign is demanding the debate stages be no warmer than sixty-seven degrees. The guy’s going to sweat his balls off. They’ll need to put down a bunch of wet floor warning cones around his podium.
I rub my forehead. “Yeah?”
“Yeah. We need to set up a practice schedule ASAP. I’ve already hired the consultants.”
Great. There goes what little sleep I’ll be able to squeeze in for Elliot.
And there goes what little time we’ll be able to carve out for Leo. “We’ll handle scheduling that tonight when we get there.”
“Are you all right? You don’t sound so good.”
No, I’m not.“Yeah, I’m fine. Just tired.”
“I heard that. Oh, don’t forget about the cocktail party tomorrow night.”
