Misconduct

“You’re smiling,” my brother, Jay, observed, sitting opposite me in the back of the Range Rover.

I ignored him as I watched the pedestrians race by, mostly joggers and some students carrying backpacks, as Patrick, my driver, took us home.

I wasn’t smiling.

I was insulted, amused, and intrigued, picturing her beautiful and flushed face in my head.

Her blouse, buttoned up to the neck, her tight red skirt and those heels accentuating her shapely calves, and her proper little attitude were so different from what I remembered from last Mardi Gras.

But they definitely weren’t a disappointment, either.

She’d been tough and sexy, almost untouchable, last winter, and she’d fascinated the hell out of me. She’d had a mouth on her that had amused me and had gotten me hard, and then she’d stunned me when she’d just up and left, not the slightest bit interested in making it easy for me.

But unfortunately, I hadn’t been able to find her after the Mardi Gras ball.

She hadn’t been on the guest list, which meant she’d come with someone, and I hadn’t wanted to go poking around and start people talking, so I’d let it go.

But now here she was, my kid’s teacher, dangerous and forbidden, which only increased her allure, and she’d been just as hot tonight as she’d been on that balcony all those months ago—the difference being now I couldn’t fucking touch her.

I loosened my tie, my neck sweating even though the AC was on full blast, and I looked over at my son, sitting in the seat next to me with his head buried in his phone.

It was going to be a long fucking year.

“Well, get ready for a kick in the nuts.” My brother leaned back in his seat, tapping his phone with its stylus. “Mason Blackwell just got a two-million-dollar donation from the Earhart Fellowship. They’re officially backing him for representing their high moral fiber.”

Mason Blackwell. My only real opponent for the Senate.

“High moral fiber,” I repeated under my breath. “While I eat babies and bathe in blood, right?”

Jay chuckled, finally looking up. “They don’t say that,” he assured. “Not exactly anyway. They really don’t say anything. You’re a mystery,” he chirped, his eyes condescending.

We’d had this conversation, but the issue was never settled for him. He just kept digging, hoping to wear me down, but there was no fucking way I was letting the press into my personal life. It was his responsibility to spin the media and keep the focus on what was important.

“This is your job,” I reminded him, hardening my eyes so he knew I meant business.

But he shook his head at me and leaned forward. “Tyler.” He’d lowered his voice to a whisper for my son’s sake. “I can feed the papers whatever you want, but in front of the cameras you’d better start coming up with some answers. It’s the twenty-first century, and people—voters,” he clarified, “want to know everything.”

“Things that aren’t any of their business,” I shot back in a low voice, hearing Christian’s game noises continue undisturbed.

I had nothing violent or illegal to hide, but they were starting to prod about my kid—wondering where I’ve been in his life, and they were getting nosy about my past relationships. Shit that wasn’t anyone’s business.

But Jay wanted me to be an open book.

He pulled away, crashing back into his seat. “Kim Kardashian Instagrams her ass,” he gritted out. “This is the world we live in, God help us, and I promise you, a little pic of what you had for breakfast would go viral more than any of your speeches or commercials. Get social. Twitter, Facebook—”

“You’ve got people handling that shi—” I halted, glancing at my son and then back to Jay. “Stuff,” I corrected, not wanting to swear in front of Christian.

It had been a hard habit to break, and since Christian had always—always—lived with his mother, my language had never been something I worried about in private. Now I just had to remember that being around my son was like being at a public function or in front of the cameras.

Your true self isn’t always the person people should see.

I had a team of employees to handle my website and social media, so I wouldn’t have to. It was one of the first things I’d put in place last winter when I’d decided to start preparing to run for the Senate. I hadn’t officially announced my candidacy, and the campaign wouldn’t start for another six months, but we were already laying the groundwork and preparing.

My brother nodded. “Yeah, we have people handling your social media, but it would be nice if you added some personality here and there. Share fatherhood stories, funny anecdotes, selfies . . . whatever.” He waved me off. “People are addicted to that stuff. They’ll eat it up.”

I closed my eyes and leaned my head into my fingers, rubbing circles on my left temple. It was still more than a year until elections, and if I won, I’d be in for even more invasion into my privacy.

“I mean, look at him,” my brother snapped, and I opened my eyes to see him gesturing to my kid.

I turned my head and watched my son, phone turned sideways, held between both hands as his thumbs shot out like bullets, tapping the screen.

That was practically all he did twenty-four/seven, and I couldn’t remember the last time I’d seen his eyes. Every time I tried to spark up a conversation and ask what he was doing, he acted as if he’d barely heard me.

Jay was right. He was consumed. They all were.

“Do you have to be on that thing all the time?” I prodded, unable to hide the aggravation in my voice.

I knew he heard me, because I saw the minute eye roll he barely tried to hide.

“Christian,” I snipped, reaching over and grabbing the phone out of his hands in an attempt to get his attention.

Or maybe just a reaction.

His jaw clenched, and he let out a sigh, barely tolerating me.

He’d been ignoring me ever since his mother and stepfather had left the country on their research trip a week ago and he’d moved in with me.

“Okay,” he challenged, dropping his hands to his lap and looking at me with disdain. “What do you want to talk about?”

I cocked an eyebrow, taken aback a little. I’d expected him to argue—or maybe ignore me as usual—but had I wanted to talk?

I’d been trying to talk to him, connect with him, for years, but now I realized that I didn’t know what I was going to say.

And he knew it. He knew I didn’t know what the hell I was doing.

He breathed out a laugh and gave me a condescending look. “Gimme a break,” he grumbled. “We barely resemble estranged brothers, much less father and son. Don’t start something we both know you won’t finish.”

Then he reached out for his phone, but I hardened my expression and pulled my hand away.

“I need my phone back,” he shot out, tension crossing his face. “Ms. Bradbury, or whatever her name is, lent me her battery, and I have to bring it back tomorrow.”

“Too bad,” I barked, stuffing his phone in my pocket and turning my burning eyes to my brother. “You know, that’s really the problem here. Role models like teachers who enable children to continue to disconnect from the world.”

“Well, you would know,” Christian bit out at my side. “You disconnect all the time, and you don’t need technology to do it.”

I tipped my chin down, tightening my jaw. Jesus Christ.

If I weren’t so fucking pissed, I might’ve laughed.

I remembered getting in my father’s face time and again when I was younger. Christian looked exactly like me, but even if he didn’t, there would be no doubt he was my kid. I’d been just as defiant at that age.

“Your energies belong elsewhere,” Jay pointed out, trying to reel my focus back in, “and your time is sparse,” he reminded me.

My energies belong elsewhere. My time is sparse.

Meaning my brother didn’t think fighting a losing battle with my kid was a good use of my time.

I looked over at Christian, watching him stare at nothing out his window and finding my chest tightening.

My shit relationship with my kid was my own fault. It had been no surprise when he’d fought his mother and me about staying here for the year instead of going with her to Africa.

He needed time. Of course, it was time I didn’t have, but even when I did try, he shut me out.

I knew I wouldn’t win any fatherhood awards, but I had supported him his entire life and I’d always treated him well. I’d taken care of his wants and needs, and maybe I’d never pushed hard enough and maybe I’d never put him as a top priority, but I’d had no idea it was going to be this hard to bond with him later on. I didn’t exactly get along with my father all the time, either, but I respected him.

Christian couldn’t respect me any less than he already did.

And it was getting harder and harder to ignore the voice in my head that said it was too late.

The car turned up Prytania Street, dipping along one of many of the broken, potholed roads of New Orleans.

I turned my eyes out the window as well, the conversation in the car having gone silent.

I took in the evening bustle of the city, with its array of boutiques, shops, and intimate restaurants. Out of every neighborhood in the city—the Quarter, the Marigny, the Central Business District, the Warehouse District, Midtown, Uptown—it was the Garden District that captivated me the most.

Nestled between St. Charles Avenue and Magazine Street, Prytania had some of the best architecture in a neighborhood adorned with vibrant colors, flowers, and foliage, and the best restaurants located in buildings that probably wouldn’t pass any health-code inspections. The wealthy and pristine blended effortlessly with the chipped and aged, and that was called character. You couldn’t buy it, and you couldn’t describe it.

But it was the same thing that made a house a home.

The nineteenth-century mansions loomed on both sides, protected behind their wrought-iron gates and massive live oaks lining the street. Gas flames flickered in lanterns hanging outside front doors, and cyclists cruised past with either backpacks strapped to their backs—probably students—or instruments secured to their bodies—street performers.

Lightning flashed outside, energizing the life on the streets, and then thunder cracked, reminding me that it was hurricane season. We’d be getting a lot of rain in the coming weeks.

We drove up the long street, entering the quieter and even more picturesque section, and then slowed to turn into my driveway, taking us deeper into the veil of trees, behind which sat my home.

The old Victorian, surrounded by a generous plot of land, was three stories tall and featured a pool and a guesthouse on the grounds. Even though it had been in desperate need of renovations when I’d bought it ten years ago, I hadn’t doubted my purchase for a moment. The beauty of the home was in the quiet, isolated feel of its position even though I was in the heart of the city.

Bars, restaurants, and shops sat only a short distance away, but inside the house, you wouldn’t know it.

The home was surrounded by an acre of land with the lushest grass and foliage I’d ever seen, as well as a few old oaks that created a canopy around the edges, hiding the house and allowing me the privacy I enjoyed.

And even though my son and I were barely on speaking terms, I knew he loved it here as well.

His mother and her husband lived in the more sedate Uptown area, not far from here in distance—only a matter of blocks—but worlds apart in terms of liveliness and culture.

After pulling into the carport, my driver got out to open our doors, but Christian swung his door open first and bolted out, obviously still angry that he’d lost his phone.

I hadn’t planned on keeping it, but since he’d chosen to be disrespectful, I might, after all.

His mother had said that I needed to earn his love, and that may be true—he had no reason to like me, and I knew that—but I wouldn’t coddle him, either. He’d show his elders respect, because it was good manners. If I tried to get his love first, he might never take me seriously.

Or he might not, either way. I really had no idea what I was doing.

I watched Christian barrel into the house by the side door, and I waved off Patrick when he tried to open my door. Picking up the papers I’d collected when I’d visited all of Christian’s teachers, I handed them to my brother.

“His syllabi,” I explained. “Find them online and download them to my phone, and then enter the important dates on my calendar as well as all of the teachers’ contact information,” I told him.

He nodded once. “Consider it done,” he said, flipping through the papers.

My brother was my campaign manager, having left his position at my company to handle my political interests full-time last spring. He also tried to do anything that made my life easier.

“Is this her?” he asked, stopping on one set of papers. “Easton Bradbury?”

Her? And then I remembered that Christian had mentioned her name about the phone battery.

Jay slipped the papers into his briefcase and started typing quickly on his phone.

“What are you doing?” I asked.

“Googling her,” he said matter-of-factly.

I breathed out a quiet laugh I was sure he didn’t hear. Thank goodness for my brother and his tech savviness. He researched everything and everyone, and I was better for it. But I didn’t require his interference when it came to my son.

I moved to get out but stopped when he spoke up.

“Twenty-three years old, summa cum laude from Loyola University—”

“I don’t care.” I cut him off, stepping out of the car.

But the truth was, I kind of did care. I liked my memory of her and hadn’t enjoyed a woman nearly as much since our night together, and we’d only talked. Her mystery made the attraction more fun, and I didn’t want that ruined.

Easton was a woman I’d wanted in my bed, but Ms. Bradbury was off-limits.

The lines were there, clear as day, and not to be breached. For the sake of my son and my career.

“How’s my week looking?” I changed the subject as I entered the large kitchen through the side door.

“You’re booked solid Monday through Wednesday between the office and meetings.” He slammed the door behind him and followed me through the kitchen and down the hallway, past the living room and media room.

“But Thursday and Friday are calm,” he went on, “and I confirmed your dinner this weekend with Miss McAuliffe. If you’re still up for it,” he added.

“Of course I am.” I pulled off my tie, entering my den and slipping off my jacket.

Tessa McAuliffe was uncomplicated and low-maintenance. She was beautiful, discreet, and good in bed, and while my brother had encouraged me to form a steady relationship with her—or anyone—to help my campaign, I simply wouldn’t be pushed into changing my life for a vote.

Getting into the Senate was important to me, but while I enjoyed Tessa’s company for what it was, I didn’t love her and didn’t have the time to try.

And surprisingly, she never gave the impression she wasn’t okay with that.

She was a producer and anchor for a local morning show, and from day one, there were never any misconceptions about what was expected from either of us. On occasion we met for dinner and then ended the evening in a hotel room. That was it.

Afterward, I’d call on her again when I felt the need. Or she’d call me. It never went beyond that.

I briefly contemplated seeking a serious relationship when I’d first started campaigning. Most voters wanted to see candidates representing good family values in their own homes—spouse and children—but I had been focused on work, and I refused to force my private life.

My son, my unmarried status, my thoughts about what it would be like to possibly have more children someday—once I’d proven I could parent the child I already had, of course—were private matters and no one else’s business. Why the hell did it matter when it came to my ability to serve?

“The kid ate dinner, right?” I asked him, rounding my desk and turning on my computer.

He unbuttoned his jacket and tossed his briefcase onto one of the two chairs on the other side of my desk.

“Yeah.” He nodded. “I had Patrick take him to Lebanon Café before the open house.”

Patrick was a fan of falafels and Christian seemed to love anything with hummus. It was the second time in the past week they’d eaten dinner together. I reminded myself to make sure I was home for supper tomorrow night, though. With the fucking impromptu meeting with my father earlier, I’d had Patrick drop Christian off at the open house, telling him I had a city planner’s meeting instead of that I was being grilled by my father.

At thirty-five, I still answered to him, and while as a son I hated it, I could appreciate it as a father. My dad had been a good parent. I only wished the apple hadn’t fallen so far from the tree.

“All right, let’s get to work.”

I poured myself a drink at the small bar against the wall, and Jay and I spent the next two hours condensing a list of meetings to be set up with the who’s who of political influence in the city. Unfortunately, campaigns fed off donations, and I’d insisted early on using my own money, because I hated asking anyone for anything.

After events and meetings were added to the calendar, I let Jay go home, and I stayed up refining my speech for the Knights of Columbus on Wednesday.

I rubbed the fine stubble on my jaw, wondering if Christian would like to come with me to one of these events. I couldn’t imagine he’d find it interesting, but it might be a way for him to see what I did and to spend time together.

I shook my head, standing up and switching off my lamp.

I wanted too many things.

That was the problem. Too many goals and not enough time.

I’d been an arrogant and irresponsible twenty-year-old when Christian was born. I’d wanted what I’d wanted, and I’d blown off consequences, even after he was born. Now I knew the price of my actions, and it was a matter of having to choose. I knew I couldn’t have everything I wanted, but I still didn’t like making choices.

Leaving the room, I headed upstairs for my bedroom, but stopped, seeing the glow of a lamp coming out of Christian’s cracked door down the hall.

Walking down to his room, I pushed the door open and saw him passed out on his stomach, fully clothed on top of the covers.

I went over and gazed down at him, feeling the same tightening in my chest that I’d felt in the car.

He looked so peaceful, his chest rising and falling in calm, even breaths with his head turned to one side. The two ever-present creases between his eyes were gone, and his black hair had gotten rumpled, now covering his forehead and sitting close to his eyes. I remembered seeing him once as a baby, looking almost exactly the same.

But back then he’d smiled all the time. Now he was always angry.

I sat down on the edge of his bed, pulling a spare blanket up over him.

Staring down, I felt my shoulders relax as I rested my elbows on my knees. “I know this is awkward,” I told him, whispering. “It’s different for both of us, but I want you here.”

He shifted, twisting his head away toward the wall, still sleeping. I reached out to touch him but stopped short and got up instead, leaving the room.

I shook my head as I tore off my clothes and made my way to my bedroom.

Why was it so much easier to be with him when he didn’t know I was there?

I headed a multimillion-dollar corporation. I’d traveled in every hemisphere and climbed a volcano when I was eighteen. I had some of the most intimidating people eating out of the palm of my fucking hand, so why was I afraid of my own kid? I stepped into my bedroom, tossing my shirt and tie onto a chair and slipping off the rest of my clothes.

All of the hardwood surfaces in the room—from the floors to the furniture—shined with the soft glow of the bedside table lamp, and I walked across the ornate area rug, running my hand through my hair and trying to figure out what to do with him.

His mother, despite her animosity toward me, was a good parent, and Christian got along with her. She was strict and provided routine, and that’s what I needed to do for Christian.

And that not only included him but me as well. I needed to be home for meals. Or at least more meals. And I needed to be consistent. Checking his homework, attending his sports games, and staying on top of where he was and what he was doing.

I’d asked for this, after all. I’d fought him and his mother to keep him in the country this year.

I climbed into the shower, rolling my neck under the hot spray of the dual showerheads and letting it relax the tense muscles in my shoulders and back.

Easton.

I should Google her. She was a fucking mystery, and she was teaching my kid.

I grabbed the bar of soap and ran it over my chest and arms, thinking about how she’d behaved six months ago compared to tonight. Different but very much the same. In control, sexy, but with a distance I couldn’t put my finger on. It was almost as if she were a reflection in a mirror. There but not really real.

Almost as if she were still wearing that mask.

I should’ve kissed her that night. I should’ve looked down into those blue eyes and watched her lose control when I shut her up and made her melt like I wanted to.

What I wouldn’t give to strip off those prim clothes I’d seen tonight, pin her to the bed, and . . .

I sucked in a breath, slamming my hand into the marble wall to support myself.

Shit.

I swallowed, gasping for breath as I smoothed my wet hand over the top of my head.

Looking down, I saw the stretched skin of my cock, begging for release as it pulsed and throbbed.

Slamming the knob to the left, I breathed hard under the sudden rush of cold water, clenching my teeth in frustration.

Easton Bradbury was off-limits.

And don’t forget it.