THE CONGRESSMAN'S SON – ACT II, PART III

PART III: THE WATCHERS

TAYLOR REED RESIDENCE
Fairfax, Virginia

The town car didn’t brake so much as glide. Tires barely whispered against the asphalt before the rear door swung open. Two sets of hands shoved him forward, his knees buckling as the humid night air slapped his face.

Taylor hit the curb hard, vision swimming, a coarse wool cloth still draped over his head. By the time he clawed it off, the taillights were already disappearing down the quiet suburban street.

He blinked into the glow of a porch light, chest heaving. There it was. His townhouse. Red brick, white trim, the flag he never remembered to take in still hanging limp by the door. For a moment he thought it was a hallucination—a trick of the drugs still running through his system. But the numbers stenciled above the garage were his.

They’d dumped him at his own front door like he was nothing.

He tried to stand, legs unsteady, fingers grasping for the railing. He managed to pull himself up the steps and to the front door. He reached in his pocket not sure if his keys would be there or not. They were. With a shaky hand, he unlocked the deadbolt, grasped the handle and pushed the door open.

Everything seemed too quiet inside. The layout was familiar, almost painfully so. A basic U-shaped plan: the dining room and kitchen on one side, flowing into the laundry room, which led into his office, then the living space, and back toward the foyer. Directly ahead, the staircase rose to the second floor, its banister gleaming faintly in the porch light spilling across the threshold.

As he stepped inside, something felt off. His pulse quickened as he moved into the living room. A lamp in the back of the space clicked on, the sudden glow cutting across the dark. Carter Vance sat in his recliner, calm, composed, waiting.

Taylor’s voice came out harsh. “Why the hell are you in my condo?”

Carter didn’t flinch. “It’s rude to keep people waiting.”

“I’m not fucking around,” Taylor snapped.

“Also something I don’t do,” Carter replied evenly. His tone carried the steel of a man who had spent his entire adult life in politics without ever being elected, the kind who built reputations and destroyed them with equal efficiency. Cold, exact, a reputation on the Hill as the knife hidden in plain sight.

Carter Vance didn’t waste time, didn’t bluff, and never showed up without purpose. He grew up in Scranton, Pennsylvania, the eldest of three in a house where order mattered more than affection. At West Point he learned to turn that discipline into a way of life, graduating in the top of his class before serving five years as an Army officer. When he left the service he traded a rifle for strategy, applying battlefield precision to politics. Over the next decade he engineered victories for four congressmen and two senators, building a reputation for ruthless timing and merciless opposition research. By the time he crossed paths with Alexander Blake, Carter had already been branded the knife hidden in plain sight—a man who never sought the spotlight but ensured his principals were untouchable. The résumé was impressive, but what mattered more was the reputation: relentless, calculating, and feared by every staffer who knew his name.

Taylor’s voice cut back in, sharper now. “You still haven’t given me a reason not to call the cops,” he said.

Carter leaned forward, eyes flat. “I know exactly what you’re doing,” he said. “You’re trying to blow a whistle. And there are already people moving to shut you up.”

Taylor didn’t answer, curiosity knotting in his chest. Carter seemed to sense it and started filling the silence for him. “You don’t have to spell it out. I can see it. You were privy to something. Something classified. You think going to the press makes you safe. It doesn’t. It just paints a target on your back.”

Taylor finally managed to speak. “How do you even know all this?”

Carter’s mouth curled, not quite a smile. “Because there isn’t much that goes on in this town I don’t know about. Take Claire Monroe. Your boss, the National Security Advisor everyone thinks has it all together. What you probably don’t know is she’s married to Angela Monroe, Legislative Director for Bryant Aubrey, senior senator from New Jersey. Claire’s got a wild case of somnambulism—talks in her sleep. With her photographic memory, she tends to repeat everything she did that day. Angela listens, then shares it with Kevin Marsden—her side project. She thinks no one knows.” Carter leaned in closer, his voice low and steady. “But like I said, I know everything.”

Taylor swallowed, trying to mask the unease tightening his chest. “What are you saying?”

Carter’s expression shifted into a wry smile. “Let’s just say, this time next year, I’ll be able to say, I know what you did last summer.” He let the words hang, sharp as a blade, before leaning back into the chair.

Taylor forced his voice steady. “What do you want from me?”

Carter’s reply was smooth, deliberate. “Simple. When the hearings come, you’re going to be our star witness. And in exchange, I’ll make sure you walk out with a nice piece of paper that says you won’t spend your better years behind bars.”

Taylor hesitated, voice tight. “Can I think about it?”

Carter’s smile didn’t reach his eyes. “Sure, you can do that. Take all the time you want. But if you take too long, I’m gonna have to issue a subpoena. And those pesky things—well, you know how Congress loves a good dog and pony show.”

Taylor stood there, unsure of anything—but one thing was certain. He wasn’t about to go down for something he had vehemently opposed. Whatever Carter’s game was, Taylor knew he’d have to find his own way out—and soon.

PARC WEST APARTMENTS — SPENCER’S APARTMENTReston, Virginia

The train ride out had been long enough to clear most of the noise from his head. By the time Adrian crossed the quiet street toward Spencer’s building, the neighborhood was still and heavy with summer air.

That’s when he noticed it—a black sedan idling at the curb across from the apartments. No lights, windows tinted. He gave it a glance, thought nothing of it. People waited in cars all the time. Maybe an Uber, maybe someone too tired to move.

He climbed the stairs two at a time, already half-smiling at the thought of Spencer inside.

By the time the door swung open and he was met with a grin and the smell of garlic and butter, the car had slipped from his mind.

But it wouldn’t stay gone.

Spencer was already waiting at the door, grin wide, a wooden spoon in hand. He leaned in and kissed Adrian quick and easy, then held the spoon up like an offering. “Taste this,” he said, the steam carrying tomato and herbs. “Minestrone. Tell me if it needs more salt.”

Adrian tasted, then smirked. “It already tastes like a salt lick.”

They traded lighthearted banter as they moved toward the table, the apartment warm with the smell of simmering soup and fresh bread. Dinner was easy, laughter folded between sips and stories of their day. Spencer talked about his office, a new project, a run along the river. Adrian offered his own pieces, careful to leave most of it vague, citing the catchall of privileged White House secrets. What he didn’t admit was how much he was already tangled in them. He knew some secrets, sure—but not how deep they ran. Soon enough, he would. And that would prove to be the most damning thing that ever happened to him, even if he wasn’t directly a part of it.

After dinner, they drifted toward the bedroom, the mood light and easy. What started as a few lingering kisses at the door became something heavier, more urgent. Shirts came off between laughter, touches grew hungrier, and the heat between them built until the rest of the night blurred into skin, sweat, and breathless whispers. The details didn’t matter so much as the way Adrian let himself forget—if only for a little while—everything waiting outside that room.

The next morning, his phone buzzed on the nightstand. A text from Blake lit the screen: Our spot. Adrian, still loose-limbed from the night before, felt a surge of hunger all over again. He had never been more eager to get to Blake as soon as humanly possible.

Spencer stirred beside him, blinking awake. “You want to grab breakfast?” he asked, voice rough with sleep.

Adrian shook his head. “I’ve got to get to the White House, but I’ll take a shower first.”

Spencer sighed, smiling faintly. “One of these days, I’m gonna get you to have breakfast with me.”

Adrian leaned down for a quick kiss before slipping into the shower. By the time he was dressed and heading out, the morning sun had turned the pavement hot. On the walk to the train station, he spotted the same black sedan parked across the street. 

The car was still idling, and Adrian muttered to himself, “They really don’t care about gas prices.” He still didn’t think much of it, but this time he mentally noted the numbers on the license plate—4747. 

THE ST. ALBAN HOTELBethesda, Maryland

Adrian crossed the street, glancing both ways out of habit. A row of black sedans lined the curb beside the hotel, glossy and indistinguishable, their windows reflecting the morning light. He stepped into the shaded awning of the St. Alban, pulse already quickened. Blake’s text—Our spot—had been enough to pull him through the morning, each stop on the Red Line nothing more than another hurdle between them.

Inside, the lobby was all polished marble and quiet money. No campaign chaos, no interns, no staffers—just the low hum of air conditioning and the steady tick of a grandfather clock against the far wall. The kind of place built for discretion.

He knew the room number without asking. Blake always made it easy that way, like he was daring him to come. When Adrian reached the door, he paused only long enough to straighten his collar before knocking once.

The door opened almost immediately. Blake stood there shirtless, the familiar weight of command softened only by the faint smile tugging at the corner of his mouth.

“Right on time,” Blake said, stepping back to let him in. The room smelled of coffee and cedar, a fresh press still steaming on the table. Adrian slipped inside, every nerve ending alive, knowing exactly why he was here and how little time they had to waste.

Blake unfastened his belt with deliberate ease, the leather sliding free in one smooth motion. "Undress," he said, voice low but commanding. Adrian obeyed, making short work of buttons and fabric, his pulse spiking as he shed each layer under Blake’s gaze.

Blake moved to the bed and sat back against the headboard, casual in his dominance. He crooked a finger, summoning Adrian closer. “Suck my cock,” he ordered, the words steady, leaving no room for question. Blake’s pants were still on, and Adrian knelt to remove them, accepting the act as a sign of submission he craved. His hands worked the fabric down, every movement deliberate, every breath charged with need. Blake’s size surprised him every time, the weight and length of it still enough to make Adrian’s pulse race as he brought him free. He wrapped his hand around the base, steadying the weight, and lowered his mouth over the head.