True North (Compass series Book 4) (33 page)

“Come on, don’t be like that. I’ve been going out of my mind worrying about you, about the baby, since I found out there was a live shooter. I tried to get through to your office, to your cell, to anyone, and I couldn’t. I was so fucking scared. Scared that I’d lose you. That I’d never get a chance to tell you that I want you. All of you. I love you and I want to be with you. I need—”

She puts a tired hand up and shakes her head. “You had me until need, Slade. The only thing you need me for is something I don’t want to be needed for. It’s taken me a long time to get here, but I finally feel like I deserve more than what I was built for. My parents raised me to be a political conquest, but I’m a person with my own needs and wants and I don’t feel like that’s too much to ask for.”

“Press—” I know she’s a person. A beautifully complicated person with so many facets it’s dizzying. So complex I’ll never learn everything about her, but I want to try. Someone should and I’ve got a head start.

“No. You’ve always wanted me for what I could do for you. That’s what everyone wants me for and I’m so tired of it. I don’t want to feel like I can only be half a person on any given day. And I don’t want to ask you to be someone you’re embarrassed to be. I hear what you’re saying, but I’ve got no guarantee that you won’t wake up in a few days and realize what you thought was love and devotion was actually just adrenaline and infatuation. All the baby stuff being delivered to my door has been nice, but running up your credit card bill isn’t a stand-in for commitment. I can’t…” She rests her hand on the lower part of her stomach where she’s not even starting to show yet, but I bet the baby’s heart is beating. I bet it’s already taking shape inside her, and I want, more than ever, to be there for the both of them. “
We
can’t afford that. You’ve let me down too many times for me to take a panic-induced promise seriously. As much as I’d like to, I can’t.”

My stomach lurches because this is the part that isn’t easy. What if she’s right? Some of the certainty I’d managed to gather during the past several hours drains away and my resolve falters. She must detect it, that slight shift from staunch to irresolute, because her eyes glitter with tears, the moisture gathering at her lashes before she can blink them away. She tosses her head, her hair whirling around her shoulder before it falls down her back.

“That’s exactly what I’m talking about. I’ve got to go. And please don’t come to the club on Wednesdays. For a while longer, at least. I want it to keep being a safe place.”

Her words are jagged and tearing, ripping up my insides. I make her feel unsafe? Shame and guilt crawl hot around the shreds. I don’t know that anything has ever made me feel so bad. For all the sickening anxiety that’s gripped me for years and years—
Why do I want this? Why am I this way? Why do I want to hurt and humiliate the person I love?
—this is what reaches deep and truly slays me.

Because I’ve started to come around. Had a little epiphany, if you will. It doesn’t make me a bad person for wanting these things. What made me a bad person was the way I went about getting them. And I knew it. With every wave of nausea, with every pinprick of my conscience, I knew it was wrong. But I’ve found a way to do it right and I’m so grateful. There’s an immense amount of relief and even pride in knowing I’m doing it right. But if Pressly doesn’t feel safe around me—

Her soft voice interrupts my panicked fretting. “Not because of that.”

I blink my gaze to hers, and her face is softer as she shakes her head, the sun making a halo out of her hair. “I didn’t mean it like that. I don’t worry about you hurting me physically. You wouldn’t. You’re good that way. And I wouldn’t worry about you going too far during a scene. Swear. But in here…” She rubs where her heart is, the lilac silk crushed under her fingers. “In here it hurts to see you, and I need a break. So if you could give some space, I’d appreciate it.”

“Yeah, of course.” I want to reach for her, tell her I want all of her, tell her I could be that man if she could hold out a little while.
I’m working on it, Press. I need you to be patient with me.
But she shouldn’t have to wait. I wish I could press pause on her, keep her just the way she is until I’m ready for her, until I’ve earned the privilege of having her. But there’s no reason she shouldn’t keep growing because I’m a stunted person who’s got a lot of work to do. She should be free and happy, and if someone else is able to give her that right this very second, then I should let her go.

“Thanks,” she mutters and walks past me, not even brushing my arm, but holding her arms across her chest so she won’t. All I get is a whisper of her smell and the sound of a stifled sniff that stabs right through me.

*

A week later,
I’m sitting behind my desk, elbows on either side of the blotter, feet flat on the floor, head in my hands. I should feel like a big man—the bill I’ve been pitching around town looks like it’s going to pass. Thanks in part to Senator Johnson. That should make me feel like a million bucks too, that I’ve managed to get people who are usually so far on the other side of the divide we can’t even see each other, never mind shake hands over a deal. To get something good done for once in this godforsaken hellhole of indecision and stalemates. I fucking hate DC sometimes.

I should be proud because we’re going to house hundreds of veterans and, if this works, hopefully thousands more. If that’s successful and convinces people that Housing First actually works and is less expensive than how we’re doing things now, potentially tens of thousands of civilians too. I should be proud, but I’m not. I’m fucking ashamed of myself.

Why didn’t I ask Press to marry me? Toss her over my shoulder and bring her home? Why didn’t I tell her it doesn’t matter what she likes in bed, that I want us to be a family again and make a bigger one? I’ll have to work on keeping my temper in check because I’ve heard children are miserable little shits who press every one of your buttons, but I’d do it. And I’d be glad to. Someone that Press and I made? Together? I’ve never had a soft spot for babies, but now that’s what I dream about.

I’m as bad as my grandmother, speculating on whose nose and whose eyes the kid will have when, in reality, babies all look the same: like bobble-headed smoosh-faced old men. And yet, I get a twinge of sadness that my parents will never get to meet this kid. They loved Press, and she loved them back. But at this point, I don’t even know if I’ll ever be allowed to see the baby. Press was fucking ripshit with me.

I sent her a playmat one of the women in my office swears by, a gift card for a prenatal massage at a place that was voted Best in the District three years running by
Capital Mom Magazine
, and some black and white flashcards that are supposed to be good visual stimulation—something about high contrast? I don’t know. The last time I studied anything this hard it was for the bar. Who knew babies were so complicated?

I still haven’t heard from Pressly, and I’m doing my very best to not drive over to her apartment, knock on her door, and get down on my knees. I’ll give her space as I promised I would in the notes I’ve sent. This is her ruling to hand down, her judgment to make. If she wanted to see me—if she didn’t hate me—she’d call. Or write me another one of those letters on her stationery. But it’s been nothing but radio silence and I have to assume she’s just done. I’ve finally fucked up enough that she doesn’t believe in me anymore.

And yet Johnson… He’d called my office this morning and said we had his vote. Plus McGinty and Isaacs, two others who’d still been on the yellow part of the board. I don’t know if Press changed her mind and went to bat for me—or rather, for this bill. I’d almost rather she hadn’t. Then it might prove to her something I haven’t been able to. That I don’t want her for political purposes. How better to demonstrate that than passing a bill with her being on the other side of it? But it’s not like her to be spiteful. If anything, she’d have been neutral and told the senator exactly what he needed to know to make an informed decision. Because she’s smart and good at her job.

But I need to stop obsessing over her. Let it go because she doesn’t want me. And I can’t honestly say I blame her. If I can’t have Press, though, I at least want to chalk something up in the win column. Have to, otherwise what am I doing here?

I press the button for my intercom, and Jenny answers, her voice the peculiar sound of chipper mixed with exhaustion. It’s a common enough tone around DC, especially when there’s something high stakes going on. For some reason, it makes me smile to hear it. She’s gotten really invested in this, worked harder than I’ve ever seen her work, and I’m grateful for her help.

“Yes, sir?”

“Get me a phone list, Jenny.”

“Taking one last run at the yellows?”

“Exactly.”

“Want me to grab you one of those kale and Brussel sprout salads you’ve been liking before you get started?”

I’m oddly touched that she remembered. Now that there’s actually a way to please me and not just get an earful every day, she seems inclined to figure out how to make me happy. This is way better.

“Yes, thank you. And something incredibly caffeinated.”

“On it. I’ll be in your office with everything in twenty.”

That gives me twenty more minutes to get my talking points in order to facedown the holdouts. Or twenty minutes to ruminate over Pressly and how things went so horribly wrong and if…nope, fixing it feels beyond my abilities. Perhaps figuring out how best to get blitzed when I get home, in a way that won’t leave me with too bad of a hangover so I can still get in to work tomorrow morning. Maybe I’ll sleep here.

I sign off with Jenny and pull out a clean notepad to scribble strategy on. It’s going to be a long night. And an even longer week. What I wouldn’t do to bury myself in Press and forget about all this for a few hours. But that’s an even more futile dream than getting the last four senators I need on my side.

‡

I
t’s another week
filled with a lot of pacing, a lot of yelling, and yeah, a lot of drinking. On Wednesday night, I itch to go to the club, can practically feel the flogger or the crop in my hand, can almost hear Pressly’s giggles that dissolve into moans while I work her into a frenzy. But what I actually have is a half-empty bottle of gin that I’ve started squeezing limes through the top of because I’m too fucking lazy and heartbroken to deal with the glasses sitting in my sink and I don’t have any tonic anyhow. Holy fuck am I a mess.

And yet somehow, despite all that, on Friday the bill passes. Possibly the most major piece of legislation I’ve been involved with over my whole career and one of the most progressive, a bill that everyone said would fail because it’s too much. Now it’s on its way to becoming law. And I did that. With a shit ton of other people’s help, obviously, and I’ve done my best to make sure they know it, but this program has been my baby. It’s a success. I’m a success.

It doesn’t feel that way, though.

Over the weekend and into Monday night, I celebrate the same way I sulk: in a bottle. Vodka this time because I’m all out of gin. The victory should have made me happy. In front of the cameras, I plaster on a professional, gracious face of triumph. Inside I should be setting off fireworks that spell out “Eat that, fuckers,” but instead I feel dark and empty.

I miss Pressly. I miss seeing her and smelling her and touching her. I miss sitting across the table from her at a restaurant and stripping her down to nothing. I miss her animated conversation about her job and her silly, exuberant singing. I miss the feel of her body against mine when we fuck, yeah, but I miss the soft press of her against me when we lie in bed.

The ache inside doesn’t feel like I’m missing a single piece. If that were it, I might have a chance in hell of filling it. It’s like I only have the nuts and she’s got all the bolts and without her, I fall apart. Life feels hollow without her.

My phone rings, and I ignore it. I’m so sloshed I wouldn’t be good for anyone right now. After a few rings, the call goes to voicemail, but it’s only a minute before it’s ringing again.