Page 3 of Indiscretion

Had I not been here, it would have been a phone call from the Watch Team in the SitRoom, or a knock on the outer bedroom door from a very reluctant Secret Service agent, that awakened them.

Such is my job as body man to the president of the United States—what basically occupies my entire fucking life now.

It’s okay.

It’s not like I had anything else productive going on today.

The whole reason I’m here right now when I had the day off is because lying in my fucking bed, alone, sucks balls.

And lying there wide awake, staring at the ceiling while hating myself and wondering how the hell I managed to end up here in the first place, is starting to etch deep and destructive grooves into my soul, even though it’s only been two weeks since I lost Jordan.

* * * *

Other than the National Security Advisor being rolled out of bed by his staff, no one outside of NatSec, the military, or Intel has been summoned. It’s only a matter of time before the news leaks and we’ll have press crawling up our asscracks.

We’re almost to the West Wing when Kev glances back at me. “Anyone call Plumber yet? I want him here for this. He needs to be looped in.”

“No, sir. Not that I’m aware of.” Outside the residence I always use protocols, even if we’re alone and they tell me we can drop them. They might all be my friends, but old habits die hard and I refuse to get sloppy.

Kev stops walking, meaning I almost plow into him. He arches an eyebrow at me. “You should go wake him up.”

I grumble but, since Kev doesn’t know what happened, I don’t argue with him. Not the time for my private life to be up for discussion. “I’ll go wake up Plumber, sir.”

Kev smirks. “Good man.”

I pivot on my heel while they continue on with Secret Service agents shadowing them. I take out my work phone and call ahead to Elliot’s detail to warn them I’m inbound to retrieve him.

They won’t wake him up, though. Lucky me, I get that chore.

There was a time when I lived for it.

This morning, however, it leaves me feeling sad and borderline resentful.

Scratch that.

It leaves me feelingcompletelyresentful.

It’s only two-and-a-half miles by car. At this time of morning on a Sunday, with a motorcycle escort and running lights, we arrive in just under seven minutes.

That’s barely enough time for me to try to draw my emotions tight within me and lock them down. We’ve spent maybe fifteen minutes together, total, over the past two weeks.

Part of that’s my fault.

A large part of that.

Okay, it’s totally my fault. Happy?

Earlier in the week I offered to go over to his residence today to “hang out” with him, but Elliot never gave me a clear answer one way or the other.

Normally, that’s the opening for me to decide for him after playing twenty questions with him, which is usually what he wants me to do. It’s part of the dance that’s made up the bulk of our relationship dynamic throughout the years, even from the beginning.

Right now, I don’t have the emotional strength to engage in that charade with him.

Once there, I let myself in with my key as the agent standing watch on the front porch silently nods in greeting. I worked with the guy on The Shift before my life shifted. Once upon a time, that likely could’ve been me standing there today. In the past, it has been me.

Vice President Elliot Gerald Woodley never has household staff inside during nights or on the weekends while he’s home, unless he has to host a dignitary, or head of state, or is holding some sort of event or performing a photo op. So there’s no one inside to see me lock the front door behind me before I reset the alarm and head upstairs and down the hall to the master bedroom. The door’s closed but I know he’s asleep and alone.

I open it. Without preamble, I switch on the overhead light and head for his closet. “Get up.Now.Portia and Prophet need you in the SitRoom.” Today’s situation doesn’t warrant me awaking him so rudely, but…