Deserve by C.C. Snow

would have wanted a sit-down meal at a
linen-covered table, but Maggie was perfectly happy to eat out of a take-out
box, sitting on a hard bench in the middle of Manhattan.
    Yesterday, for the first time in a long time, I felt young
and unburdened by life’s bullshit. My heart already feels lighter thinking
about spending another day with her.
    Now if I could only ignore the errant surges of lust.
    God, she had looked so pretty when she spoke about becoming
a pediatrician, her entire being lit up by enthusiasm and optimism.
    All traces of my smile disappear as I see the security gates
appear on the horizon. Someone must have been on the lookout for me because the
gates swing open as soon as I pull up. The moment I am on my father’s grounds,
my mood takes a sharp nosedive. I drive past well-manicured lawns and hedges to
arrive at the grand entrance of the house.
    By anyone else’s standards, it should be called a mansion,
but that label would not sit well with voters. Therefore it has been dubbed a
country home by the Senator’s PR team. There are twenty bedrooms, each with its
own bathroom, a study, a recreation room, an indoor gym, a swimming pool, a
dining room large enough to seat up to fifty people, a huge modern kitchen, an
extensive wine cellar, staff quarters, etcetera, etcetera.
    It’s a fucking mansion.
    I spent a large portion of my childhood in this place, but I
hate it here. As an only child, the vast emptiness only emphasized my
loneliness and I could never think of it as home. My home was my mother and
when she died, I felt adrift. Then I met the Jacksons and they anchored me.
    Shaking off my unpleasant thoughts, I get out of my car. The
house door is already open and Bleeker , the Senator’s
perfectly proper butler, is standing stiffly at attention.
    Paul Kenner, the butler my dad employed while I was growing
up, moved to Arizona years ago. As a child, Kenner was always something of a
fascination for a bored and curious child. I trailed after him as he performed
his duties and I always waited for him to shoo me away like all adults did, but
he never seemed to mind me being underfoot. I always felt he had a soft spot
for me. Maybe it was out of pity for the poor little rich boy, but it didn’t
matter. He made things a bit more bearable.
    Since Kenner left, the Senator has hired a few other butlers
and Bleeker has been with him for a year. His
unfamiliar face only underscores how much I don’t belong here.
    “Good evening, Mr. Rowan.”
    “Hello, Bleeker .”
    “Senator Rowan and Mrs. Rowan are waiting in the drawing
room.” There is an implied reproach in his statement.
    I timed my arrival as close to dinnertime as possible. In
the Senator’s world, a civilized guest would arrive early enough to share a
cocktail before the main meal.
    Like I give a flying
fuck.
    “Thanks. I’ll find my own way,” I tell him and walk through
the foyer, which has been designed to give the viewer the impression of
tasteful opulence. Nothing is garish, but everything is expensive.
    I walk through the double doors of the large drawing room.
My father is sitting in a leather chair, a glass of his customary bourbon in
one hand, fingers tapping impatiently on the armrest.
    Cael jokes that my father’s face
should be in the dictionary under the word “politician.” I have to agree.
George Rowan has just the right amount of grey in his hair to appear wise, but
not old. He is fit and healthy. His face projects warmth and integrity. Little
do his constituents know that underneath the façade is a ruthless man who would
do whatever it takes to retain his power.
    My eyes move to the other figure in the room and immediately
my gut tightens in disgust.
    Gail stands at the window, dressed in a silky black dress,
holding a glass of white wine in her hand. No doubt she chose the dramatic dark
gown to set off her blonde hair and pale skin. A daughter of a governor and the
granddaughter of a mayor, Gail is born and bred for the