Page 27 of Integrated (Mistress & Master of Restraint #11)
“Sir, may we see your identification please?” A stoic man in black bars my entrance to Misery Castle, with his fellow clones spread across the portico. I notice at least five agents lurking in the shadows.
Roarke and I already went through four separate checkpoints on the three-mile stretch of Whittenhower Estates’ winding driveway. If it weren’t for my need to speak to Marcus, both to apologize and investigate what he did to infuriate Katya, I may have thrown a fit for being delayed.
Every time Kent Preston graces us with his presence, we have to go through these inconveniencing checkpoints. It was tolerable when Kent was a low-level politician, because no one gave a shit if someone sniped his ass.
Kent and Katherine would come and go from Whittenhower Estates as they pleased, without an entourage of men in black with mirrored shades and handguns hidden on their person.
After Kent began campaigning as the Vice-Presidential nominee, it kept Katie and her mother, Priscilla, from the house, leaving us to play our wicked games without fear of hurting the decent Whittenhower women. Priscilla took Martha Harris, Kristal’s mother, as her companion on the campaign trail, and Whitney and Prissy were left behind to be raised by the eldest Daniel, alongside the rest of the Whittenhower grandchildren.
With the campaign came extra benefits that were an annoyance for us crime-bending citizens– every time Kent came home, he had two Secret Service Agents in his wake, and we scrambled to look like normal human beings, hiding our despicable ways behind closed doors.
Six weeks ago, Kent’s running mate won the election as the newest President of the United States, and with that win, Kent became our future Vice President.
Since that fateful November day, which Ma?tre du Jeu had a heavy hand in the success, Kent Preston and his bodyguards take over Misery Castle like an invading country.
We were all secretly glad Kent and Katie only came home on major holidays, because this inconvenience is beyond a pain in the ass. Priscilla is staying for good this time around, now that nearly two years of campaigning is finished. Katie will be in Washington and won’t need her mother’s support. Other than once in a great while, Misery Castle should be without the eyes and ears of higher government.
This agent obviously knows who I am after the dozen checkpoints before. Agent Pain in my Ass has been the same man who stood sentry at the front door for the past seven months of visits.
“Dr. Ezra Zeitler,” is announced as I pluck my ID from my wallet for the fifth time this evening. “I’m here to see my adoptive father, Marcus Zeitler. As of early this morning, I was still a resident of this estate.”
Attempt as I might, I try not to sound too impatient, but the secret service agent gets a hair up his ass anyway. The agent continually eyes his clipboard and my ID, as if anything changed in the course of a half hour.
“I thought Kent only traveled with two agents,” is conversationally said, as I try to milk an answer as to why I’ve seen at least twenty of them lurking in the shadows. “What’s up with the added security?”
Ignoring me, the take no shit agent points behind me. “Who’s he?”
“Roarke Walden, also a resident of Whittenhower Estates until early this morning. Also visiting Marcus Zeitler.” Lips curl into an innocent smile, as if I don’t plan on a committing a homicide against my adoptive father, should he have trespassed against my wife.
If it’s the last act I do as Katya’s husband, I’ll defend her against her bullies.
The Vice President of the United States and his gaggle of Secret Service Agents be damned, Marcus and I will get this shit sorted out once and for all.
“What business will you be conducting this evening?” The agent hands me back my license, then takes Roarke’s. He performs that eyeball routine between the ID, Roarke’s profile, and the clipboard again. Then hands Roarke back his ID. “No simple visitations are allowed while our vice president is in residence. Only actual business is allowed.”
“ I live here ,” is muttered from stunned lips. “Why I want to see my own father is my business.”
“ Lived here, Dr. Zeitler. Sir–”
“I’m not here for Kent. I won’t even go near him or anyone with a Preston or Whittenhower pedigree. You can escort me to my father’s suite, and we’ll be great.”
James Bond presses a button on his watch, then quietly murmurs near his wrist, “Dr. Zeitler needs an escort to the third floor to the Zeitler/Regal suite. He’s accompanied by his personal assistant, Roarke Walden. No detours.”
I fail to notice the intense staring contest I engage with the agent until Roarke clasps my shoulder to squeeze a warning.
“So… do all the residents of Whittenhower Estates need an escort to go potty?” Roarke teases to lighten the tension that’s settled between the three of us.
“Yes,” is the only response we get in reply, the man sounding mind-numbingly bored.
“Well, alrighty then,” Roarke drawls out, chuckling to himself. “I feel like I’m in Mission Impossible or some shit. Seriously, what’s up with all the agents? The castle is crawling with them.”
No response– we just get stared at like we’re inconveniencing the man instead of the other way around.
“Well, this is fun. Fun times.” Roarke grumbles to himself while producing a tablet out of thin air. Within seconds, he’s playing Farmville something or other, smiling like a junkie.
If the man isn’t eating, sleeping, shitting, or fucking, Roarke is hooked to a device that plays video games. After all, Roarke is the one who taught every resident at Shadow Haven how to play, buying every console on the market. At Shadow Haven, he dwells in a basement apartment, simply because there is no light or sound interrupting his addiction. He’s bitched for the past seven months about his accommodations in Misery Castle. The basement is a mix of a frat house, Game Stop, and a man cave– it’s no wonder Roarke is a forty-year-old bachelor who pays for sex.
“It’s only a three-mile commute, but it takes two hours to get home.” I snidely state, just making non-polite conversation. “I hope exiting is quicker than entering, but isn’t that always the case with frigid women?”
The agent doesn’t even blink, but Roarke snorts at me.
“Gentleman, please follow me.” Another black suit appears out of nowhere, materializing like a freaking ghost.
“About time. I have to take a piss.” Roarke grumbles as he snaps the cover shut on his tablet. “They’ll probably want to hold my dick for me, then make me piss on a test strip to see if I’m taking any illegal substances. Ez, be forewarned, if you ever want to visit Misery Castle again while Kent is on the premises, you’re going alone. This is total bullshit.”
Roarke goes on a tirade, and I notice our escorting agent isn’t as stuck up as the front door guard. He smirks at Roarke, trying not to engage in conversation, as he escorts us to Marc’s suite. Yeah, this agent is a bro, something I am very much not .