I’m no stranger to this sensation. “Yes, Sir.”
Igetthe irony. I’m the leader of the free world and I willingly cede control to a man fourteen years my junior.
Hey, it’s not crazy if it works.
Oh, itdefinitelyworks.
Now if itkeepsworking for the next two to six years, I’ll survive.
Maybe I should have thought about all this a little more carefully before I was stupid enough to go through with running for president.
CHAPTERSEVEN
THEN: NOVEMBER—ELECTION DAY
Most people would feelcontented to reach what anyone else in their right mind likely considers a reasonable pinnacle in US politics. I mean, I’m the freaking vice president of the United States.
That’s good enough, right?
Yet here I am, hours before dawn, lying in bed and staring at the ceiling with Jordan peacefully sleeping next to me while terror knots my guts as I contemplate the day looming ahead of me.
I’m a fucking dumbass.
Why thehelldid I insist on running for POTUS?
If I hadn’t, I’d be two months away from returning to civilian life as a private citizen after Shae’s term ends on January 20th. I’d be able to move in with Leo and Jordan and live the rest of my life under my terms. Write a book or two, give a few paid speeches every year, be a guest lecturer at a university, appear at high-dollar rubber-chicken campaign events in exchange for a stipend.
So…
What the actualfuck?
I guess this proves Imustbe a masochist.
It’s not only today’s election heavily weighing on my soul. I can’t stop thinking about my sister’s face, watching tears roll down her cheeks less than two months ago at the funeral of her best friend, US Representative Grace Martin. Grace still held my old House seat.
Until she died alone in her DC apartment from a drug overdose.
At least, that’s what the official report says.
Except…
I know for a fact Jordan spent time with Grace earlier that evening not long before she died. He was cleared of any wrongdoing because she texted him several times after he left her apartment. The police verified Jordan wasn’t present when Grace died. They pulled the building’s CCTV video to confirm exactly when he left. They also triangulated Jordan’s cell phone’s location and used credit card receipts to determine exactly when he bought a coffee, definitively placing him nowhere near Grace’s building at her approximate time of death.
Jordan later admitted to me he secretly met with Grace several times at her request over the previous weeks, getting close to her to figure out the angle behind her and Stella’s latest attempt to cozy up to me.
While part of me jealously hates Jordan spentanytime alone with Grace Martin my rational brain knows he wasn’t screwing around with her. Because I trust him. And because I knew he hated her.
Plus, he’s gay.Duh.
He was only doing what he does best—using his innocent façade to the best advantage against someone who was, admittedly, a fucking pain in my ass.
Beyond the scant details Jordan shared with me, both he and Leo have remained steadfastly silent regarding Grace’s death. Meaning I can’t help but wonder if there’s more my irrationally loving and loyal men aren’t telling me.
Or can’t tell me.
Bringing me back to the subject of Stella’s crocodile tears at Grace’s funeral.
I hate to sound callous but I’ve known Stella all her life. The performance she put on that day could have earned her an Emmy. Also earned my suspicions at a time when I thought perhaps maybe I should soften my stance toward my little sister and extend her more compassion. Sitting next to her in the National Cathedral, I kept my arm draped around her shoulders like any caring big brother would.
