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For many reasons.
But mostly because I’d fucked up any chance I had at being a brother to Brody when I’d betrayed him twelve years ago.
Despair lurched through me as I remembered that night, and I quickly shoved open the door. I needed that damn drink. I hurried to the alarm panel in the front hallway and was already punching in my code when I realized it hadn’t sounded.
Fuck, I’d forgotten to set it. That was what week after week of eighteen-hour days got you.
A shitty memory, a refrigerator with a couple of Chinese takeout cartons and a bottle of ketchup in it, and a house that relied on others like a gardener and housekeeper to take care of it so the press wouldn’t start writing articles speculating your body was rotting away inside because the grass was more than ankle high.
I returned to the front door and locked it, then went straight for the small bar in my living room. The only light I turned on was the one above the bar. I searched out the whiskey and grabbed a glass before heading to my favorite leather chair. It was ridiculous that I had such an ornate living room setup when all I did was sit in the single chair which was pointed at the flat screen TV on the wall. But I’d let Virginia do the decorating, and my only condition had been that the furniture had to be masculine.
She hadn’t liked that, of course, since she’d fully expected to share the house with me someday, at least for as long as it took to buy something bigger and fancier.
She hadn’t liked a lot of things.
But the game changer had been the day I’d done the unthinkable and stood before God and much of America and denounced my father’s stance on gay marriage, the very thing that had made him a household name and catapulted him, and me by extension, to the forefront of the right-wing movement. Virginia had been certain it was some kind of joke or temporary act of rebellion, but when she’d placed the blame on Brody, saying he’d somehow used the devil to influence me, I’d kicked her ass to the curb, not caring one whit about what the press would say about it.
I dropped down into the chair, but didn’t bother with the TV. I got enough of the news during my daily briefings with my campaign manager, Preston Bell. He wanted to make sure I had answers to any and every controversy that cropped up. The man was a slave to talking points, while I had no problem with veering off topic if the situation called for it. I’d told Preston that from the beginning when he’d approached me with an offer to run my newly founded campaign. I’d been a joke at the time, so it wasn’t like I’d had a lot of offers. Democrats had been suspicious of my switch in positions, and I’d become a pariah within even the most liberal of Republican circles. Preston had claimed the whole thing would be his crowning glory in a long-running career of getting people into office. But I’d suspected the truth…the man liked what I stood for. Because, despite all the things I did to drive him crazy, he never balked when it came to making it clear to voters what I stood for. He never tried to have me compromise in order to save face with one group of voters at the sacrifice of another. Simply put, he let me show people who I really was, which was all I’d ever wanted.
And since I was leading in the polls, I must have gotten something right.
I downed the whiskey in one shot and then filled the glass with two fingers of the amber liquid. I wasn’t a big drinker, but tonight I was happy enough to get shit-faced. Not enough that I wouldn’t be able to get up at five in the morning for my usual run and then head to the office, but enough that I didn’t have to worry about looking bleary-eyed on camera, since I’d told Preston not to schedule me for any interviews.
After just a few sips, the alcohol began to warm my insides, and I set the glass down on the table next to the chair. I had a bad habit of falling asleep in the chair and was determined not to tonight. I forced myself to my feet, grabbed the glass and headed towards the kitchen. Ida, my housekeeper, was kind enough to cook for me a couple times a week and would stash the food in the freezer. She only worked part-time, so I didn’t get her home-cooked meals every night, but they usually got me through a few days out of the week. Take-out took care of the rest…or I simply didn’t eat. Most nights I was too tired to care, anyway.
