Page 29 of The Illusion of Power (Passion and Politics #1)

BECK

I wake with sweat dripping down my back, and the late dinner Cal and I shared when we arrived in Atlanta last night making its way up my throat.

It’s been months since I’ve dreamed of Diana and Cameron, our unborn son, longer still since their deaths were the topic of my unconscious musings.

Normally, I’m able to keep all thoughts of them locked away and my focus on my work, but exhaustion and the mental imprint of the beginning of recurring grief has rendered me weak.

Susceptible to subconscious torture that’s left me sick to my stomach.

Turning over onto my back, I squeeze my eyes shut and fight against the heavy weight pressing down on my chest, against the hot, sticky swell of nausea in my gut. I inhale slowly, taking four counts to fill my lungs and then holding for another four before taking the same amount of time to exhale.

It doesn’t help.

Nothing ever really does. Nothing except for Cal’s calming presence and the heat of his skin. The soft press of his lips against my sweaty forehead and the reassurance that I’m not alone anymore. Except I am alone right now because I wouldn’t let him stay with me last night.

He’d offered. He even promised to sleep on the couch to minimize the chances of us being tempted to do anything that might be overheard by the people sleeping on either side of the thin walls.

I knew he meant it, that he’d be here with me, but I still denied him because I thought I would be okay, because I hoped that even if I wasn’t, I’d be able to deal with it on my own.

I’m swimming in the regret of that decision when a short, quiet knock sounds out against my door.

I lay still, straining my ears to be sure that it wasn’t just my imagination, and the knock sounds again, followed by the long, dull beep of the lock disengaging.

The door opens and closes with a soft thud, and I listen to his near-silent footsteps as he crosses the room, pausing to shed his clothes and hang them in the closet next to the ones I’ll put on when I’m ready to face the day.

The mattress sags under the weight of his knee as he hovers above me, silently commanding me to move over to make room for his slightly larger form.

I shift until he has enough space to settle comfortably, and he slips underneath the covers, pulling me into him.

I rest my head over his heart and sigh my relief into his bare chest.

“You’re only supposed to use the key for emergencies.”

Cal presses a kiss to the top of my head. “This is an emergency.”

I want to argue with him, but I can’t because he isn’t wrong. While there might not be any looming threat of physical harm, the scent of my emotional crisis is permeating the room, and Cal has sniffed me out, marking me as the emergent situation in need of his immediate attention.

“I’m sorry I didn’t let you stay,” I mutter, regret twisting itself into the words.

“Hush, love,” Cal whispers, running a soothing hand over my side. “Try to rest.”

But I can’t rest because I’m guilty and sad and sick about losing my wife and son, about what my grief for them has brought me and what it might cost me if I can’t find a way to let it go.

It feels wrong to think those words today of all days, but today isn’t just the anniversary of Diana and Cameron’s death, it also marks Cal and I’s beginning.

Six years ago to the day, I visited my wife and son’s graves.

I laid down flowers for Diana and secured five white balloons to Cameron’s headstone, and later on that same day, I made love to my best friend for the first time, creating a convergence of life-altering grief and the most affirming love that I sometimes struggle to believe I deserve.

Tears crowd my eyes but refuse to fall, so I choke on the lump they create in my throat instead. “I still miss them so much,” I croak. “I still love them so much, but I love you too, Drake. I love you too .”

“I know, Beckham,” Cal murmurs, his assurance providing a peace that rushes over me in a sudden wave. “I’ve always known.”

We lay in silence until the sun comes up and it’s time for our morning run.

Cal eases out of the bed first, making his way over to the closet to dress again while I head to the bathroom to complete my morning hygiene routine.

When I emerge, he’s sitting on the edge of the freshly made bed with his phone to his ear.

Judging by his clipped tone and the responses that consist of ‘yes, sir’ or ‘no sir’, I’m assuming he’s speaking to Hicks.

As I get dressed, I keep an ear out for any indicators that our morning plans will be disrupted and let out a sigh of relief when Cal hangs up and there’s no look of resignation on his face.

“All good?” I ask, strapping my phone into the band on my arm.

Cal pushes to his feet and nods. “Yep. Hicks was letting me know Selene requested us to drive her to the rally this afternoon. Apparently, Aubrey is going ahead of her.”

A quiet hum of acknowledgment is all I have to offer in response until we’re outside, fully stretched and away from anyone who might care to listen to our conversation. Cal’s pace is even, his features tight with concentration that doesn’t break when I speak.

“You do a shit job of hiding how happy the thought of being around her makes you.”

Just a day ago, I was struggling with the idea of Cal’s feelings for Selene.

In some ways, I still am, but I’ve also resigned myself to the fact that nothing I say or do will change his mind about her.

I’d be lying if I said I didn’t completely understand the appeal.

Selene is a beautiful, broken thing, and Cal is a fixer.

A nurturer by nature. He wants to help, to heal, and to pour his love into someone, watching it transform them.

I just hate that he keeps choosing to direct that love in the direction of people who aren’t truly available to receive it.

Selene.

Me.

It’s a cruel fate, and he deserves so much more.

A full minute goes by without a response from Cal. Nothing but the pounding of our shoes on the pavement, our synchronized breathing, and the soft sounds of a rapidly awakening city greet my observation.

“It’s not a good look for us to be taking requests from her,” I huff, grimacing when we round a corner and Cal hits a sprint. He’s smirking when I’m finally able to match his stride, and I bump him with my shoulder.

“Asshole.”

“Not my fault you can’t keep up,” he quips.

“Yeah, whatever, old man.”

We pause at a crosswalk, jogging in place while we wait for the signal to cross safely. Cal squints against the sunlight bouncing off the tall glass buildings around us, shielding his eyes with one hand.

“Hicks gave the order. I accepted it. It’s as simple as that.”

“But it isn’t simple. Nothing about this is simple.” At the first flash of the ‘walk’ signal, we take off, crossing the street and turning left towards a stretch of office buildings, coffee shops, and cafes.

“He’s our supervisor, Beck. What was I supposed to do? Tell him no?”

We both know insubordination is more my thing, so I’d never expect it from Cal.

What I do expect is for him to have a little fucking perspective on this situation.

“No, but you could have asked if someone else could do it. You could have told him we were hoping for a chance to build a rapport with Aubrey.”

“ You want to spend time with Aubrey Taylor?”

I frown, knowing that being around the man is the last thing I actually want to do. “I want to guard a President, Cal. Aubrey is the candidate; getting on his detail should be our primary focus.”

He cuts an eye at me, trying to decipher my mood. “Is this about the trajectory of our careers or about putting some distance between Selene and me because I already told you, you don’t have to worry. I can keep my feelings in check.”

“The two things aren’t mutually exclusive. Your feelings for Selene could be the end of both of our careers.”

“Beck, you know I would never?—”

Normally, I’d be soothed by a Callan Drake promise because I’ve only ever known him to be a man of his word, but today, I can’t even let him finish the thought.

“You can’t control everything, Cal. You can’t even keep the hearts out of your eyes when you look at her, and don’t even get me started on how you look when you have occasion to touch her.”

My agitation is apparent, evident in the rising volume of my voice, and Cal slows down, wrapping his fingers around my bicep to force me to do the same.

We come to a reluctant stop in the middle of the busiest stretch of sidewalk, and people move around us, tossing questioning glances in our direction as they do.

Cal pulls me to the side, his chest heaving as he studies me with concerned eyes. “What’s this really about, love?”

I squeeze my eyes shut at the term of endearment, pinning him with a hard stare when I open them again. “Don’t. Not now.”

He recoils at the rejection, and a wave of shame washes over me. I hate hurting him. Hate putting that dejected look on his face. Hate the way he steals his features and crosses his arms, closing himself off to me, even though it’s what I deserve.

“Sorry,” he says, his eyes on any and everything but my face.

“No, I’m sorry.”

We both take a beat to compose ourselves.

“It doesn’t change anything with us,” Cal murmurs quietly. “I still…”

He trails off, bringing a searching gaze to my face, and I nod. “I know. This isn’t jealousy, Cal. This is a concern for my partner, for my best friend.”

“Concern, you seem more adamant about expressing today than yesterday.” He tilts his head to the side. “Why?”

It was never my intention to bring this conversation to him in this way. I wanted our morning to be calm and quiet, free from my anxieties about all the shit in this world I can’t do a thing to change. That ship has sailed, though, so I have no choice but to tell Cal what I heard.