Chapter 3
CHAPTER 3
CHANCE
Present Day
If there was one thing I hated most in this world, it was having dinner with my parents. The two of them were difficult on their best days. Absolute menaces on their worst.
I had a feeling, since I had been summoned via email, text message, and a voicemail when I didn't answer my father's call, that this was going to be one of the more trying times.
I pulled into the excessively long driveway of our family home and parked my vehicle. Said vehicle was another point of contention for my parents. I still drove the car that they gave me when I was sixteen.
It has had a few modifications since then, obviously, because a car doesn’t last over a decade these days without having some work done. I considered it to still be in great shape.
And while they wanted me to trade it in for the next newest shiny model, I couldn't bring myself to do it. There were too many memories in that vehicle. Too many late-night conversations and stolen kisses.
As I approached the door, it opened, and I was greeted by a smiling face. Roberta, my parents' maid and housekeeper, was one of the few people who really knew me. She had a kind heart and always welcomed me home. She was one of the only reasons I enjoyed being here.
And even then, I still had to put up with watching her be degraded occasionally by my father, because she wasn't moving as fast as he wanted. It's kind of hard to do when you're approaching seventy-five, Dad.
I kept my comments to myself, though.
I swept Roberta into a big hug, spinning her around once before sitting her back down. I was careful since she had lost weight the older she'd gotten. Didn't want to break any bones or throw her off balance.
"It's good to see you, Mr. Sheppard," she said, with a wink.
I rolled my eyes playfully at her.
"You know to call me Chance. How is my favorite lady doing?"
I pressed a kiss to the top of her hand as she giggled as I hoped.
"Don't try flirting with me. I know I'm not what you want," she said, a cautious air to her voice.
We both knew if anyone overheard us, all hell would break loose. We didn't talk about my sexuality in this family. It was too much of a problem to openly speak of.
Occasionally, they would bring up marriage, and I would shoot them down very quickly by telling them there was only one person, or rather, one type of person I wanted to marry.
The truth of it was there was only one person, but they didn't need to know that. The less they understood about my personal life, the better.
"Come on in. Let's get you to the dining room. They’re already seated,” she said, patting me on the shoulder and leading me down the hall.
My parents' home was ostentatious. It had been since the moment they purchased it when my father won his senate seat all those years ago.
Since then, it has become sort of a mausoleum in my mind. It's stuck in a period of time that I never hoped it would turn to. If I had it my way, I would set the place on fire and then sweep away the ashes.
Ornate paintings and glossy floors did nothing to hide the darkness lurking everywhere.
The berating comments.
The snide looks.
The man who convinced me I would never be good enough yet somehow fostered a desire in me to attempt to do so anyway.
It was a fucked-up situation.
I knew it.
My therapist knew it.
I just couldn't seem to break free from it no matter how hard I tried.
When we reached the dining room, Roberta pressed a soft kiss to my cheek after waiting for me to bend over since I was so much taller than her. Then she shuffled towards the staff entrance to the kitchen.
Part of me longed to follow her. I could greet the chef and sample a few of the dishes, maybe hide and pretend I never showed up, yet still get the delicious food.
It wasn't an actual option, though. I had to be here. Otherwise, they would show up at my office and make a scene.
Not a real scene, but enough of one for people to know that something was wrong. Devlin Sheppard never came to my office. Neither did my mother.
Inside the dining room, I found them in the same spots they always were. My father at the head of the massive table, and my mother to his left.
I often wondered why he put her there. You would think your partner would go to your right, given the phrase ‘right hand man’ and everything. My father obviously did not find my mother to be on that level of importance, hence where she was seated.
And unfortunately, I was put there. I calmly walked over and sank into the seat at his right.
“About time you showed up,” he barked at me.
No ‘hello,’ or ‘how are you?’ Not even a ‘It's good to see you, son.’
That was it.
Devlin Sheppard’s way was to give you shit from the start.
“I'm here now, Dad,” I said, forcing away the bitterness in my tongue.
My mother eyed me, though she didn't say a word. I tilted my head slightly and said, "Hello, Mother."
She raised her glass up to toast me, then took a large sip. To be honest, it was more of a gulp, but she was a lady and ladies don't gulp. Yet another one of their teachings.
My father picked up a bell from beside his water glass and rang it twice. The doors in the back of the room burst open as staff rushed in with the first course of the meal.
It was always a performance, even when it was just us. It baffled me how the man had to be on at all times.
With my role, I understood needing to craft a perfect image. The political race I was in the midst of had shown me that every little detail of my life was fodder for the papers and the internet columnists. They all wanted a piece of the Sheppard name, whether it was good or bad. They needed it to print their sensational stories.
But in the privacy of my own home or behind locked doors where I knew things were safe, I wasn't the man I was in front of the cameras.
I couldn't be him.
He was a design crafted to make the people believe what they wanted so they’d vote for me.
The other me, the real me, was a down-to-earth guy who loved to laugh boisterously and had a good time being your average human on a weekend, watching TV and feasting on takeout.
I had never seen my parents eat takeout.
“I spoke to Marten today. He’s going to be stepping down to make way for the new advisor I'm bringing in.”
A plate was set in front of me, but I ignored it.
“You spoke with Marten about quitting? He's my assistant.”
He raised his hand as if to shoo me away. The server who was laying his plate down yelped and nearly dropped the tray before realizing the motion wasn't for him.
“Marten was good for his purpose, but he’s no longer necessary. We need a cohesive brand for this election to work, son. Trust me, I know what I'm talking about.”
I shook my head.
Of course, he knew what he was talking about. He had been a senator for ages. The only reason he stepped down was because of his heart attack.
A heart attack that I sometimes felt guilty for wishing had taken him.
My life would be much more peaceful without his meddling.
“Who are we bringing in if Marten is out? He understands everything I need. He's been the best support.”
Mom coughed into her hand, then drank another sip of her wine before sitting it down. She broke and finally spoke up. “Marten is not who we want pictured beside you.”
I leaned back in my seat, my hunger gone.
“He's not? What's wrong with him? Is it because he's not a rich white man with an Ivy League degree?”
My parents shared a look telling me that, yes, it absolutely was that. Though they wouldn’t say that aloud with staff around.
I cursed softly under my breath. While I could overstep, I could go above Dad's head and keep Marten, it would be hard to deal with the backlash. He would just find something else to take away from me.
And I was really fucking tired of him interfering.
He hadn't messed with my personal life in a while. And I feared that's where he would hit next.
“Can't Marten become a personal assistant and this other person simply be my political advisor? Why does it have to be either/or?”
My mother hummed, which was as close as she would get to saying she was hearing my words. Now that she had said her part, my dad had lots to say.
“Why do you want to keep him? What is so special? He could be replaced a million times over. This new hire is going to be a wonderful advisor for you. I have it on good authority that he’s perfectly trained from well-bred stock.”
I held up my hand. “Wait a minute. Did you just say well-bred stock? He's not a horse, Father.”
I knew I struck a chord by calling him father. Not because he didn't like it, but because he knew I meant business when I used that term.
He straightened his tie, then took another bite of his soup. How the man could stand to eat with the discussion we were having was anyone's guess.
“I want to keep Marten on staff,” I said slowly. “You don't have to pay him. I'll do it myself.”
“From what? Your trust fund? That’s foolish of you.”
I shook my head.
“Not when it’s someone that’s this vital to me. He literally coordinates my entire life schedule. Without him, I won't know how to do anything.”
Was I exaggerating a bit to get my point across?
Yes.
Did I care that I had to lie to my parents to keep the one person who kind of helped keep me sane every day around?
Not one bit.
My father sighed as he dug into his food more. He didn't speak for a long while, so I took a few sips of the soup as well. No need to waste perfectly good food.
Plus, the chef would be upset with me later if he found out that I wasn't eating properly. He was a mother hen as much as Roberta was.
“There is some merit to keeping a personal assistant, I guess,” he said once the first course was taken away and the second brought out. “We can leave him for a temporary basis, but he is not to stand close enough to be photographed with you. Send him home or to the car or whatever. Your campaign is about to ramp up. We do not need any kind of distractions.”
I nodded once as I bit my tongue hard enough to taste blood.
I wanted to tell him exactly what I thought of his plans. Needed to, really.
But at the same time, part of me longed for that validation I never got from him. I wanted him to tell me he was proud of me. For some reason, I had equated earning the senate seats that he had as to being the thing to do that.
I would go for mayor and then work my way up through there.
Hell, I even considered the presidency as an option at one point because if I could surpass him and bring a legacy to the Sheppard name, well, then surely he had to believe in me, right? He had to be proud.
Why I wanted a man who has failed so supremely at nearly everything I cared for was troubling.
My idea of happiness was a loving marriage, a home filled with happiness. It was being healthy and taking care of yourself and your loved ones.
My father had done none of that.
His heart attack was a direct result of his excessive eating habits and lack of physical exercise. He cheated on my mother relentlessly through the years, even going so far as to bring the mistresses into our family home in front of her.
Happiness wasn't something that was found in our home unless you counted me with the staff because that was who my real family was. I would pick them over my mother and father any day of the week.
My parents moved on to talking about different events that were coming up. While my mother threw out a word here or there, it was mostly my father doing all the talking. I was convinced that he loved to hear his own voice because the man could monologue with the best of them.
It was also how I knew he was the villain.
Good guys didn't give speeches that long unless they were on stage and being philanthropic. But my father could go on and on and on about whatever he chose to say. So long as it highlighted how amazing and wonderful he was.
I could remember when I graduated college, it took me far longer than necessary thanks to a few speed bumps along the way. When it came time at the party to congratulate me for a job well done, my father spent five minutes of his six-minute speech talking about the Sheppard family legacy and how he had contributed to it.
That other minute was to basically say “thanks son and hope you live well.”
If that didn't tell you about how I was raised, then nothing else would.
Before desserts could come out, I asked Dad one more thing circling back to the conversation we'd had before.
“Dad, can we discuss this new person more? Do you happen to have a resume for him? I'd really like to speak with him before he starts.”
Dad pulled out a folder from the briefcase he had seated beside him. I should have known the man was prepared. The man just wanted to wait me out so he could hear me ask for it.
Pompous asshole.
He pulled out a single sheet of paper and handed it to me. The information there was just as I suspected: a young conservative man from a small town worked his way up.
A young conservative man from a rich family with all the accolades he could possibly have, and an Ivy League degree was what I found on the paper. Even his extracurriculars were all things that would likely help him win an election as well.
It made sense given that when you were under this type of microscope, you were up for speculation as well as the people you surrounded yourself with. It's why my friends weren't really my friends.
They were acquaintances who had passed the checks from my father, and with whom I was allowed to be seen with in public.
My real friends were the people I met with behind closed doors. The ones who knew who I really was.
Just thinking about them had a smile blooming. I kept it tame since being too happy in this house would rile my father even more.
I'd have to text the guys to get together soon. It had been far too long since we'd hung out. One in particular who rarely got together with the group, but I often saw alone came to mind.
Tank was everything I'd ever wanted but wasn't allowed to have.
He was big and gruff and took no shit from anyone. I admired him with everything I had.
I loved him, but we would never get to be together.
What a fucked-up life I lived.