Forty-Five

EVERETT

The Governor’s Executive Mansion was built in 1813 in Richmond, Virginia. It’s a Federal Style monstrosity, garish by most accounts, but chock full of historical significance: Presidents and diplomats have dined over plates of Brunswick stew and peach cobbler, dignitaries have conducted important state business, and the state of West Virginia was even created here during a meeting with Abraham Lincoln and Governor Francis Pierpont during the Civil War.

In my opinion, maybe the most notable thing to ever happen in the Executive Mansion was Dalton getting plastered off a rare bottle of Susumaniello wine when we were sixteen and losing his virginity to the French Ambassador’s daughter, who was later quite offended to learn he fucked her after chugging an Italian wine—but I’m no historian, obviously.

As I stroll through the cavernous, air-conditioned event tent currently occupying the north side of the property, my hand is wrapped around a crystal old fashioned glass with two fingers of bourbon. The vertical, straight-line cuts press into my skin —a vance cut, I’m certain. My father made me memorize the patterns on spirit glasses when I was fifteen, insisting I know the fine distinctions in the different styles. Dignitaries would appreciate it, he said. Monarchs, perhaps.

So far, the only thing it’s gotten me is a sideways glance from my girlfriend.

Cora is at a roundtable decorated with a butter yellow linen tablecloth and an elaborate hydrangea arrangement in the center. Her pastel blue dress has flower patterns in the fabric, and if I stare long enough, I can find the outlines of her nipple piercings through the bodice. Otherwise, she’s modest and campaign-approved, even sporting a silky blue headband in her dark hair and pearls in her ears. She matches my pastel blue tie perfectly—so perfectly, in fact, my mother air-kissed her when we arrived at the mansion this morning.

Now, I slide into the white wooden folding chair next to her, relax, and sip my drink.

“Bourbon?” Cora says, tilting her head closer before she asks, “Are you okay?”

“I’ll save you the trouble of going over there,” I reply, ticking my chin in the direction of the spread of tea cakes and fruit and little crustless sandwiches on the opposite side of the tent. “They’re using a crystal punch bowl, not the cauldron you’ve surely misplaced.”

“I mean it,” she continues, placing her hand on my thigh. “Are you okay? I know this isn’t….”

“Felix is here,” I comment. “I’m sure you saw.”

“He came over and said hello earlier,” she replies before muttering, “ Prick .”

“We wanted him to be here.”

Cora scoffs. “I still hate him.”

“And I love you. And I’m excited. To be honest, even if I didn’t love you—even if I were sort of lukewarm on you and pretending to like you so I could get into your amazing pussy—”

“You are so fucking weird.”

“—I would still be excited.” I kiss her lips. “All that said, I do love you.”

Cora’s hand rises from my thigh and goes to my cheek. “You’re the biggest surprise of my life,” she whispers.

“Funny. I always knew it would happen like this.”

“Like this ?”

“Not like this this,” I admit. “I didn’t think the first time I’d solicit you would be in a hospital—”

“You’re seriously the fucking weirdest.”

“—but you, me, and the shit we’re about to stir? Yeah. I knew.” I wink before I take her hand, kiss the palm, and place it back on her lap. “Eyes on me,” I say before I stand and push in my chair.

Beverly is at the front of the tent, clutching her tablet as usual and waiting for me. “Are you ready?” she asks when I’m close.

“Sure am.”

She pats my shoulder, firm and reassuring. “Good luck, Everett.”

I step onto the tent’s makeshift stage—an elevated wooden platform with two flags on either side: the US flag and the Virginia state flag. There’s a screen centered between them: twelve feet with the state seal projected on it. The seal is an image of Virtue standing over a collapsed man with the state motto emblazoned on the bottom: Sic semper tyrannis . Thus always to tyrants.

The microphone squeaks when I remove it from the stand in the center of the stage, drawing attention. From here, I can see the hundred twenty, maybe thirty people who came to this luncheon. Most of them are members of my parents’ circles, but I also recognize reputable members of state society and even DC politics—including Felix.

A lot can be said about Warren E. Logan, but one thing is for certain: The guy has connections coming out of his butt.

“Afternoon,” I begin, speaking into the microphone and sliding my hand into the pocket of my suit to take on a casual stance. “For those of you who don’t know me, I’m Everett, Governor Logan’s son, and I’m excited to welcome you all to this luncheon for Warren E. Logan for Senate: A Voice for Virginia’s Values.”

A burst of applause fills the tent, and my father, seated at the front table with my mother, the lieutenant governor and his family, and Cora, is beaming like he just paid the college tuitions of every public-school student in the state (which he would never do, for the record).

“Most of you don’t know this about me, but I’m an avid photographer,” I begin. “Landscapes, mostly, but I do take the occasional portrait.”

Cora’s expression is placid and comforting, but a few chairs over, my father is clenching his jaw—perhaps from just now learning I’m an avid photographer, but perhaps from trepidation over the last time I made a speech. I smile at him, hoping to ease him.

It works.

It works as well as it did when I called him after the dinner from hell at the Cunningham and told him Cora and I were ready to cooperate for the sake of his campaign—and the assurance that he wouldn’t release the alley video.

“When my father was finishing his first term as governor, it was an interesting time—to say the least,” I continue. “As you know, Virginia prevents governors from holding consecutive terms, which meant my father would have to move out of the mansion and do something else with his time.”

“Work on his swing!” my grandfather shouts from the next table and gets quite a few laughs even though he’s not remotely close to being funny.

“I photographed my father that day in his office,” I go on. “He was staring out the window and didn’t know I was there, and right then, I realized: This man would be lost without politics.

“I look at that picture a lot. I think about my father and how he would do anything for this state—maybe even our country. That’s love, isn’t it? Giving up everything for someone you care about.” I look my father dead in the eyes. “Dad, I’m happy you’ve found something to love.”

The applause drowns out the sarcasm. The disdain. The hatred. It drowns out the hours I also spent staring out this mansion’s windows, pleading to the universe for an escape.

“Ladies and gentlemen, please give a round of applause for Governor Warren E. Logan, future Virginia State Senator,” I finish before gesturing to my father, inviting him onstage.

My father pulls me into a hug. For the first time in decades, I hug him back, holding his head close to mine while he whispers, “Good boy. You did well, Everett.”

When I return to my seat, Cora gives me a nod. I nod back.

Showtime.

Onstage, my father comes to life like a dragon unfurling its wings after lumbering out of its cave. His face is bright, and his speech is chock full of platitudes I can recite like my life depended on it but never will again. I examine the distinct lines of his face, wondering if he sees himself in me. I memorize his cadence and the motions of his hands. I note his gentle simper and the way his hair bobs. I take it all down, knowing full well that this is it—this is the last time I’m ever going to see this man.

When he’s done, my father steps back from the microphone and motions at the tech guy.

That’s what he calls him— the tech guy . I heard it with my own ears earlier this morning when my father whisper-hissed at Beverly, “ Make sure that deadbeat tech guy plays my video at the right time .”

I, on the other hand, know the tech guy’s name is Pete. Pete is a twenty-nine-year-old college dropout who has done tech support for my father for the last eleven years. My father never bothered to learn his name, but I know Pete.

Pete smokes weed, Pete is petty, and Pete likes money.

Loves it, actually.

My father’s smile beams, perfectly white and broad enough to save ships on a stormy sea at night. His campaign video starts playing on the twelve-foot screen behind him, crisp in high definition with the sound of trumpet-fueled, patriotic stock music blaring over the tent’s speakers.

My father’s beaming smile lasts for all of eight seconds. It quickly melts into shock—and then horror—when his only son’s pierced cock appears onscreen.

My dick looks good .

And the footage of Cora and me fucking is magnificent in this size.

Our bodies are larger than life, every inch of our skin is on display, and we’re just so damn feral . Nothing is off the table— nothing. Hell, I actually forgot there was a section of this video where I get my first rim job, but I’m not fazed in the slightest. I’m obsessed with this, actually.

Plus, we’re both so viciously attractive. Everyone in the tent should be thanking us for giving this shit up for free.

And speaking of money, the countless hundred-dollar bills fluttering around as we flip each other over—her on top, then me, then her again—are a cinematic masterpiece.

We get to the part where my girlfriend works the head of her strap-on into my ass and launches into the most impeccable pegging I’ve ever witnessed—like genuinely impressive. I mean, shit she’s talented. Then the power finally goes off, casting the tent in this eerie glow because everyone has their phones out, illuminating their faces like rich, insufferable jack-o-lanterns.

My father stumbles back to the center of the stage, fresh from having berated Pete to stop the video. Took a few minutes, but Pete—sorry, the tech guy —eventually figured out how to pull a plug out of an outlet.

My father wraps his hands around the microphone, surveying the pandemonium in the tent until his eyes lock on mine.

I wonder if I should feel weird about voluntarily letting over a hundred people watch me get fucked out of my mind, but I’m really at ease…

…Especially since my father has no idea what Essie posted on his website a few minutes ago.

My father’s eyes narrow steadily, millimeter by millimeter, and shit —I almost forgot I have a part to play.

I rise abruptly, knocking over my chair in the process, and make a beeline for the tent’s exit in the direction of the mansion. Everyone is watching me. People are photographing me, filming me—and I pretend I care. I cover my face, walking as fast as I can, knowing my father is likely a step or two behind.

When he catches up to me in the North Ballroom, his hand clasps my shoulder.

Deep breath.

“Why would you do this to me?” I question when I turn around.

My father’s brow tightens. “Everett, what are you talking about?”

“How?” I demand before I shove his hand off and layer the most betrayed expression I can muster. “How could you show that video of me to all these people? I’m your son .”

His jaw lowers before he stammers, “Why the hell would I play that depraved shit for anyone?”

“I did what you asked. I dropped out of the race like you forced me to—”

“Why would I want you to drop out? I told you not—”

“ All I have to do is leak a video of the two of you, and your political career is done. Try me, Everett. I’ll send one to every major news outlet in the country. Hell, maybe I’ll put it on my own goddamn website . ”

My father flinches before he whirls around to the source of the sound—the sound of him threatening to leak some video of me—and he sees Cora standing in front of the small crowd assembling on the fringes of the room.

Cora scrubs ahead in the video she recorded when she left her phone behind at the Cunningham.

“ I always knew you were a pathetic, half of a man. Degrading yourself. Getting on your knees for her. Letting her spit in your face. I don’t know how you ever thought you’d get elected to office with that lurking in your kompromat.”

“Stop,” my father warns, advancing toward Cora, who takes a step back into the crowd. “Stop playing that, you stupid wh —”

I grab my father by the back of his collar and yank him away from Cora, sending him stumbling until he rotates to face me. Gripping his shirt, I rear back my arm—

—and he cowers.

He crumples beneath me, arms over his head, waiting for me to hurt him. His body heaves with a bracing inhale, and he remains hunched over, hiding, trying to make his large body smaller. He stays like that—contorted and pathetic—and nobody speaks. We all just stare.

Finally, I snicker. “I’d never hit you,” I whisper before I release his collar, sending him sprawling with an assist from gravity. “I’m a pacifist. Usually.”

My father rights himself as quickly as he can, but it’s too late. He’s never going to regain his dignity—not after today. I know he sees himself in me for once: heinous, duplicitous, and manipulative by all accounts. He made me—and I’m his undoing.

I close the space between us and put my hand on his shoulder. My words are hushed, just for us: “What’s going to offend your voter base more: Your son getting railed in the ass, or you leaking the video?”

His eyes narrow over frantic, overblown pupils. “You’ve ruined your life for this—our lives—”

“No, I’ll be just fine,” I whisper to him, speaking right into his ear. “I’m her good boy now.”

It’s the last thing I say to my father before I turn my back on him and go to where Cora is standing. I want to kiss her and thank her for today, but in order for this to work, I have to stay on script. So, for the last time, I hold back the base instincts that yearn to pull this woman into my arms and tell her—and everyone—how much I love her.

I do the second-best thing.

With so many phones and eyes on me, I clear my throat and say, “Conservation of the Shenandoah Valley is at risk, so please contact your local representative and ask for increased funding—”

“Everett!” Cora chides, pulling on my arm and leading me to the door. “ Not the time .”