46. Graham
46
GRAHAM
T he crowd outside The Pierre is a motley crew. Colorful, diverse, the opposite of what I usually see on this side of town. When I notice a good number of them are holding posterboards, I wonder if this is why my father insisted on additional security tonight. But why so many, and why tonight? It’s a charity event for the fire department. Who’s mad about the fire department?
The driver’s voice crackles over the limo speaker. “Should I see if there’s a back entrance, Senator?”
“If you think there’s one you can get to.”
61 st Street is packed with even more people, making it impossible for the limo to make the turn.
“I’ll deal with it, Steve. You can let us out here.”
The first coherent phrase I hear as I cross the street to the hotel is, “There he is.”
The shouts begin. Signs wave and people scream. Curses are hurled my way, and each one feels like it’s being shot from a nail gun directly at my chest. I paste my smile on, the only defense I have in a crowd, and let my two private security guards push me through the jeering protestors .
My nerves jerk into high alert, pumping adrenaline as my body feels pressed, and the shouts get so loud I can’t make out the words. What I’m left with is the same feeling I had as a child when it felt like the entire school was ganging up on me. Hated. Alone. Helpless. It rattles me to my core. By the time we’re inside, I’m forced to excuse myself, making a beeline for the lobby bathroom to lock myself in a stall.
I sit on the toilet, put my face in my hands and hyperventilate. A few tears escape as the adrenaline finally fades and all that’s left is the shakes I can’t control. My phone starts to buzz once I’ve been here several minutes. Many other men have come and gone, but I’ve tried to keep quiet.
It’s likely my father wanting me to get my ass to the party. I have a speech to make and a judge I’m already very familiar with to meet. He went to college with my father, and his confirmation hearing is next week on the Hill.
I suppose I should have thought about exactly how unpopular his appointment would be in this city, but—as my colleagues in the senate these days love to gleefully say—elections have consequences. With a Republican finally back in the White House, the judicial appointments have been fast, furious and deeply conservative. This one is hardly the worst, and he’s more than qualified.
My father finds me the moment I step into the ballroom and claps a hand on my back as he leans in and whispers, “Don’t let them get to you. You’re doing good work.”
I tense at his touch and the smell of bourbon on his breath.
“When you get these people out hollering at you—you know you’re doing the Lord’s work,” he adds.
These people? Which people? The crowd at the entrance was mostly a blur, but it was colorful. A rainbow.
Queer people?
Would he really say that to me?
I scowl at him, and he takes a step away. “You know what I mean,” he says in a gruff voice. “Let’s get you a drink. Put some color back in those cheeks.”
Alcohol doesn’t help me calm down. Not on the inside. It helps my tongue move so my speech comes out smoothly, and my outsides seem to be working all right, but the dissociation is real. It’s so bad, that as the party winds down, I have one of my security detail check with the front desk to see about a room for the night. I refuse to leave the hotel and face the protestors again unless I absolutely have to.
When I get the text that there is a room, I slump with relief, excuse myself from the conversation I’m pretending to participate in, and make my way to the lobby.
As I book the suite, the young man taking my information gives me a scrutinizing look. He’s thin and pretty. Gay if I had to guess. I find myself glaring at him.
He smirks as he runs my card for incidentals. “Will it just be you, or will you be needing a second key?”
“Just me,” I say firmly.
“In that case, any guests only need to check in here. We’ll call up.”
“I won’t be having any guests.”
“Mmhmm.” He slides the room key across the counter. “Enjoy your stay, Senator.” And then he winks.
I swallow pure bile and duck my head as I walk toward the elevators. If I go back to the party, I don’t know what I’ll do or say. I need to be alone. I need to think.
I need time to process this latest nightmare I’ve found myself in because of the unfortunate fact that I’m better at denying and pretending than telling the truth.
I send my sister a text from the elevator letting her know I’ll be staying the night at the hotel.
She replies saying she saw the protests on the news.
It made the news?
I’m tempted to turn it on when I get into the room to see if this judge is worse than I know about, but I stop myself. Just let yourself fucking think, Graham.
I take off all my clothes except my t-shirt and underwear before lying down on the bed. My phone remains in my hand, and I try to let go of it but can’t.
It knows where he is.
I close my eyes and see his face. Dark, angry eyes and sun-marked skin. Those perfect lips. Get the fuck away from me.
I can’t help but smile. Not because it’s funny or I’m happy. But because I deserved his hatred. I deserved the indifference, too.
I run my hand over my stomach, down my abs, then further. My palm comes to rest over the stainless steel cage locking and hiding away my cock. I’ve tried different devices over the months since I lost Silas, and this is the best by far. I’ve had it on for at least three weeks, taking it off only briefly when I shower and then putting it back on before I’m too tempted by something as mundane as my own touch. I don’t deserve it. I deserve pain and torment. Need and dissatisfaction.
My entire groin throbs with the vision of Silas fresh in my mind and a memory of his hands on my legs, holding me deep inside him—his voice— give me everything .
I groan, stroking my balls and letting myself suffer the pure indignity of not being able to get hard. It feels good. Blindingly. Painfully. My eyes roll back as my ass clenches on nothing.
Forcefully, I yank my hand back, driving it through my hair as I writhe. I end up on my side, unlocking my phone to see where he is. I blink rapidly as the map of his location zooms out and out and out to find him on the west coast of Florida.
A wave of panic rises, but I knock it back, reminding myself that’s where his aunt lives. He’s not gone, he’s only visiting. He’ll be back. And to me that means it’s not over.
Since we never said goodbye, it’s never felt over. I miss him with every breath.
Meanwhile, my father is trying to arrange another marriage for me. Sounds ridiculous, but I couldn’t be more serious. What’s worse is I haven’t said a word to stop him. He’s probably still in the ballroom mining for potentials. Like I summoned him, my phone buzzes in my hand.
“Sorry, Dad. I had way too much to drink.” I intentionally slur my words for effect and stuff half my face into the pillow.
“You got a room?”
“Uh-huh.”
“I wish you’d splash some water on your face and get back down here. It’s boring without you and people are asking where you went.”
“Meaning what?” I ask, too sharply.
“You better be alone, Graham. There are too many eyes here.”
“Jesus.” I flop onto my back and fight the urge to yell. “You want to send someone up to watch me sleep?”
“Fine, fine, I’ll deal with this myself. But I expect you by my side in the Hamptons next week. We have a lot of ground to cover, and you know I don’t like mingling by myself.”
Because a vacation can’t just be a vacation anymore. Or were they ever? “Maybe you can stop pouring liquor down my throat.”
“I’ve gotta do something to loosen you up. All right, good night. I have more hands to shake.” He hangs up on me.
My evolving relationship with my father has been an odd side effect of the scandal that never quite was. Yes, he’s still tracking me, but it feels more overprotective than oppressive. And yes, he still puts massive demands on my time and is the brains behind every political maneuver I make, but it feels more like we’re in a partnership. This wingman thing? That started a few months ago when there were strippers at a party, and he and I both couldn’t stop laughing.
Him because he was embarrassed and me because he was embarrassed. It was probably the last time I laughed, and again—a lot of alcohol was involved. And just way more boobs than any man should have to look at during a birthday party for a hedge fund manager.
We don’t fight anymore. We bicker but don’t argue. Maybe I’ve stopped resisting? Maybe I don’t care. But there’s also a tacit acknowledgement that we need each other to be successful. He may overstep, but the second my hackles rise, he backs off. I can’t even hate him. He saved my ass with Avery. If we hadn’t settled the divorce before that video came out, I don’t know what would have happened. That was all Dad.
The guilt over hurting Avery and Silas however—that’s all mine to manage. It’s also my job to pretend I’m fine with it. A lying liar who lies.
Three more years in the senate is a very long time, and I don’t know how much longer I can keep living like this.