Misconduct(15)

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 f*cking 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 f*cking 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.”