Southern Comfort - Fern Michaels [35]
One of these days he was going to get a goddamn tattoo and have his ears pierced. That would certainly make them look alive. Then he’d buy a motorcycle, a Ducati, and roar up to the governor’s mansion with his new hair plugs. The thought was so ludicrous, he laughed out loud.
He looked around at his spacious office, at the Jackson Pollock paintings on one entire wall, all thanks to his old man. The black-and-white photos were the photo ops that had been arranged by his father, important people with whom Tyler needed to be seen to further his father’s political ambitions. And every time he moved from one location to another, he had to lug the damn pictures and paintings so he could hang them up in case his father decided to pop in for a visit—something that as yet had never happened.
Each time he was reassigned, with more nominal authority but less operational control, his mother sent a decorator, and in twenty-four hours he had a suite befitting the son of the governor.
Tyler bit down on his lip. He wanted to cry, but big boys didn’t cry. That was what both his parents had instilled in him at an early age. He wasn’t sure he knew how to cry anymore. He’d shed so many tears in his early years, when they sent him away to all the different schools he’d attended. He couldn’t remember a night when he didn’t cry himself to sleep even into his late teens.
Damn, now he was tripping down memory lane again. It was happening too much of late. Tyler gave himself a mental shake, turned off his computer with a loud, “Screw you, Dad,” and grabbed his briefcase. He turned off the light, locked his door, and made his way out of the building to the parking lot.
He unlocked the door, climbed behind the wheel of his Porsche—another must-have according to his father—and just sat there. He wondered whether, if he was driving a Honda or a Taurus, anyone would invite him to join them after work. Probably not, since he was so far above them, he couldn’t relate to bellying up to the bar for a beer. Thanks again to the warning his father had instilled in him—do not fraternize with the help. He winced at the thought of wearing a baseball cap or blue jeans. He owned one pair of sneakers, which were fifteen years old, and a sweat suit of the same vintage. From the days when he pretended to be a running enthusiast.
The Porsche growled to life. Everything was about pretending. He was sick of it. Did his father and the people he worked with really think he didn’t know what was going on? He knew there was a task force investigating him, knew he’d be expelled, and expelled was the right word, from the DEA, and there wasn’t a damn thing his father could do about it. The media would be all over it like fleas on a dog. His fellow agents would open up, and he’d be a laughingstock. Mummy and Daddy might even have to leave the country. Such shame on the Tyler name. Maybe he should just go to the governor’s mansion and shoot them both. The thought so appalled him, he almost choked on his own saliva.
Forty minutes later, Tyler roared into his assigned parking spot at the town-house complex where he lived. He got out, locked the door, and was halfway to his front door when he heard his cell phone ringing. “Crap!” The word shot out of his mouth like a bullet. Damn, he’d tossed his cell phone into his briefcase before he left the office because he wasn’t expecting any late-evening calls on his work cell. He fumbled at the latch on the case with shaking hands. It was rare to get a call at that hour of the evening. Maybe it was his father, who would be pissed to the teeth if he didn’t answer. One, son or not, did not ignore the governor. Ever. His wrath was legendary, and . . . the governor never called back.
Inside his town house, which shrieked of being professionally