Now that my desk actually resembled something you might expect to find in the office of a federal agent and not a replica of what you might see in the dorm room of a college boy, I needed another menial task to occupy my time. Going to the gym was out. I was in way too much pain. Meaghan had obviously gotten called out on something because she wasn’t here, so I couldn’t look for any entertainment ideas there. I didn’t want to leave my office to go on a quest for another errand for fear of having to make awkward conversation with my peers. That left few options. I sat down in my chair and drummed my fingertips lightly on my blotter.
An idea occurred to me, but I wasn’t certain I’d be able to pull it off. Feeling a bit naughty, I glanced around, as though searching for someone who might intervene in what I was about to do. Biting my lower lip, I slowly eased my right arm out of its sling.
The process was time-consuming and borderline agonizing, but I was tired of having my arm strapped to my body, and frankly, I’d be much more likely to get things done if I could use my dominant hand.
The still-healing wound above my right shoulder protested the movement loudly and with extreme prejudice, and I had to clench my teeth to stifle a groan. Maybe because my arm hadn’t really moved from that position in days. Hopefully, the ache would ebb, if only slightly, the longer my arm was free. It was a working theory, at any rate.
I let out a relieved breath as I tested the range of motion available to me, pushing against the boundaries of discomfort just hard enough to be certain where they lay. I discovered, much to my pleasure, that I was able to rest my forearm against my desk and manipulate my computer mouse without any problem. That was huge, considering it took me almost forever to get anything accomplished using only my left hand.
I opened up the website for the online learning modules we were required to complete intermittently, loaded up the one about OPSEC, and leaned back in my chair. My eyes glazed over as the presentation played. I wished this were a module I could just test out of, but unfortunately, I had to sit through the entire thing. Then I had four others to complete. Damn, this was going to be a long day.
My work cell phone rang, cutting through the low drone of the presenter’s voice, and I blinked. Grateful for the interruption, I paused the video and glanced at the caller ID. It was a number out of DC but not one I recognized. That was never good.
“Ryan O’Connor,” I answered warily.
Jamie Dorchester’s irritated voice floated over the line. “What the hell did you do?”
I was relieved it was one of my friends and not some suit from headquarters, though her obvious irritation was much less reassuring. I played with my staple remover as I considered the question. I wanted to determine exactly what transgression she could possibly have known about before I admitted to offenses that were still a mystery. Perhaps it’d be better if I postponed answering until I had a better idea why she was annoyed.
“Hey, Jamie. What’s up?”
“Don’t you give me that innocent act. I’m not playing with you.”
“Nice to talk to you, too. How’s Jo?” Perhaps asking about her girlfriend would buy me some much-needed time.
Jamie would not be deterred. “What. Did. You. Do?”
“Um…I can honestly say I have no earthly idea what you’re talking about.”
“How about this: do you want to tell me why your girlfriend is in such a shitty fucking mood today? Does that ring any bells for you?”
“My what?”
Jamie snorted derisively. “Stop playing dumb when I know you aren’t. You know damn well there are no secrets in the Secret Service.”
I cringed. She had a point. And even though I’d basically had the same conversation with Meaghan less than twenty-four hours ago, I was still caught off guard. I hadn’t really thought about it specifically, but now that I was, I guess I would’ve said I hadn’t expected the rumors to have spread quite that quickly. Silly me.
“Oh.” That was all I could think of to say.
“Yeah. ‘Oh.’ And don’t think I don’t have a whole host of follow-up questions about that, by the way. Starting with ‘Was this going on during the last POTUS visit to New York?’ But now isn’t the time.”
“So, uh, how’d you find out?” I didn’t really care about the answer. I was just trying to stall her wrath for as long as I could.
“Well, let’s see,” she drawled, her tone pure sarcasm. “I was the one who had to replace Allison on the Hong Kong trip. How long do you think it took for somebody to tell me exactly why that was necessary?”
“Less than four seconds.”
“You’re close. Less than three.”
“Do I still win the prize?”
“You’re going to win my foot up your ass if you don’t answer my question. The day-shift whip is in a horrendous mood today, and dealing with her when she’s like this is next to impossible. So what’d you do to piss her off?”
I grinned despite Jamie’s ire. “Allison was whipping the shift today?” That meant she was sort of in charge, and it was a big deal. She hadn’t mentioned that to me. I was unbelievably proud of her.
“So not the point. And stop being dirty.”
“I wasn’t!”
“Sure you weren’t. And I’m the pope. Listen, the woman has been back here for less than two days, and she’s miserable. I don’t know what you did, but you fix it, and you fix it now. Flowers. Candy. Jewelry. Phone sex. I don’t care, and I don’t want to know. Just be quick about it. Because she’s almost done arguing with the boss, and my shift whip ordered me to get the briefing from her before she goes home. I’d rather eat broken glass than be anywhere near her with the mood she’s in.”
“That bad, huh?”
“Worse.”
“What makes you think Allison’s bad mood is my fault?”
“Gee, I don’t know,” Jamie said dryly. “Maybe the fact that she’s been nothing short of even-keeled the entire time I’ve worked with her and has never once spoken a sharp word to anyone, and all of a sudden she’s behaving like a perfect—”
“Watch it.” I could appreciate that Allison’s current disposition upset her, but I wasn’t about to stand idly by while anyone called her names.
“Anyway. My point is, you’re the difference. You’re what’s new in Allison’s life. It makes sense that she’s angry because of you.”
I mulled over what Jamie had just told me. True, our conversation this morning hadn’t gone as well as I’d have hoped, but I didn’t think it’d gone horribly enough to have made her as angry as she sounded. Certainly not angry enough to get into an argument with her boss. Which meant the situation with him was likely more serious than she’d let on the night before. Allison hadn’t wanted to give up any information on the subject, but maybe I could get something out of Jamie. The trick would be doing it without her realizing I was fishing. Not an easy task.
“So, you think she’s arguing with the boss because of me?”
“No,” Jamie said, sounding a little contrite. “Probably not completely because of you. They’ve been arguing for a while now. But it started when she left Hong Kong to come home to be with you.”
“Wait. The boss she’s fighting with now was in Hong Kong?”
“Yeah. He was the second supe on the trip.”
“Oh.”
“Yeah. So you see why I need you to fix this.”
I wasn’t sure how to do that or even what the problem was exactly, but I didn’t tell her that. “Which boss?”
“Huh?”
“Which boss is she arguing with?”
“Oh. Beau Byers.”
“Hmmm. The name sounds familiar, but I can’t picture him.”
“He’s pretty new, considering. Been here about a year, I guess. Came from LA. He’s okay.”
“Squared away?”
“Yeah. He knows his stuff.”
“But…?” I knew her well enough to realize there was something she wasn’t saying.
She didn�
��t answer me right away. A low hum escaped her as she considered my question. “I don’t know, but something about him rubs me the wrong way.”
Interesting. I wondered whether Allison would be able to articulate exactly what it was about Byers that bothered her better than Jamie had. I didn’t have much of a chance to pursue the topic any further, however. Just as I’d opened my mouth to follow up, Jamie said, “Hang on.”
I heard some sort of scraping, which led me to believe she’d pressed the receiver against her shoulder or her chest. I couldn’t hear what the other person was saying, but I did hear her slightly muffled response of, “No problem. I’ll be right there.” Then her voice grew louder. “Sweetheart. I’m sorry. I have to go. The whip’s ready to give me my briefing now.”
Her address tickled me. She’d never called me that before, and I didn’t expect her to have very many reasons to have a change of heart now. Only one I could think of. “Sweetheart, huh? Allison’s standing right there, isn’t she?”
“You got it.”
“Nice! Is she whipping you?”
“Absolutely. I have to go. Do you remember what you promised?”
I laughed. It had to be driving her crazy that she couldn’t retort or scold me. “I’m on it,” I told her. “But if she’s leaving anyway, does it really matter?”
“Good. I love you, Jo.”
“Is she actually buying that?”
But I never got an answer because Jamie hung up on me. I really had to get the women in my life to quit doing that.
CHAPTER SEVEN
As soon as I stopped grinning about Jamie’s predicament, I eased myself into the backrest so the chair was leaning a bit and tipped my head up to stare at the ceiling. I rested my elbows on the armrests and tapped the edge of my shoe against the underside of my desk as I mulled over everything I’d just learned.
While I was pretty sure Allison wasn’t happy with me at the moment, judging by our phone call earlier, I didn’t think her bad mood was entirely my fault. I also didn’t hold any illusions that I’d be able to completely negate whatever was going on with her boss. No matter what I did, her day wouldn’t suddenly become all unicorns and rainbows. But I was reasonably certain I could do some minimal damage control. I just needed to figure out the best way without accidentally jumping up and down on her obviously already raw nerves.
Jamie was clearly being facetious when she’d brought it up, but I still considered, then discarded the ideas of flowers, chocolates, and jewelry. They’d take too long, and I was more of an instant-gratification kind of girl. I also dismissed phone sex, but that was mostly because I was sitting in my office. Also because I doubted she’d go for it in her current state. But I filed it in the back of my mind for another time.
I retrieved my personal phone from the holster on my left hip and regarded the dark screen for a long moment. Text or call, text or call? Hmmm. I did want to hear her voice, but if she was still on the White House grounds, she might prefer to keep our conversation a little more private.
Are you still mad at me?
I texted her after a long moment of deliberation and an even longer moment of intentional stalling to give her time to finish briefing Jamie.
What do you think I’m mad at you for?
For stealing your heart.
I smiled at my own joke and laid the phone down on my desk next to my mouse as I waited for her reply. Seconds dragged on into minutes, and I tried to ignore the heaviness in my chest as I restarted the OPSEC module as a sort of distraction. I was only half paying attention to it, and my eyes flickered over to my phone more often than I would’ve liked as my nerves sizzled waiting for Allison’s reply.
I’d just about dozed off because that stupid module was so unbelievably dull when the buzzing of my phone against the wood of my desk dragged me back to awareness. I fumbled for it and cursed as pain speared several key body parts. Hastily, I opened Allison’s message. It was a picture of a bottle. I frowned at it for a few seconds before firing off a reply.
What’s that?
Some wine to go with all the cheese.
I burst out laughing and shook my head.
But did it make you smile?
I can neither confirm nor deny.
I’ll take that as a yes.
I didn’t say that.
Doesn’t matter. It’s what I choose to believe.
After a long pause, I received a cryptic answer.
No.
No, what? That’s not what I choose to believe? Or no, you didn’t smile?
No. I’m not mad at you for stealing my heart.
Oh. Well, that’s good.
I mean, I made out pretty good in that deal. I ended up with yours.
Speaking of hearts, mine did its best pinball impersonation between my ribs as I read that, and I didn’t even try to stop the grin from breaking out across my lips. A flirty, smart-ass retort came immediately to mind, but my thumbs hovered over the keyboard as I recalled my conversation with Meaghan about how I was never serious about anything. Maybe it was time for me to give that a try.
So if you’re not mad at me for that, what are you mad at me for?
The pause that followed felt longer than an Easter Sunday church service. I twirled my hair around my finger and succeeded in creating several knots as I waited.
Mad isn’t the word I’d use.
What word would you use?
This really isn’t a text type of conversation.
My chest felt suddenly hollow, and her words reverberated dully against the insides of the newly created chasm.
Ah. So, can I be all adult about this and call you?
I’m still at the House. I’ll touch base with you later.
I let out a shaky breath as I glanced at the clock and noted it was quickly approaching the time I needed to leave so I wouldn’t be late meeting Rory.
Okay. I’m headed out to meet Rory at the cemetery. I’ll be out of pocket for a little while.
Have a good visit.
Thanks. Safe trip home.
I tried not to fret over what Allison was upset about as I hastily packed up my desk and hightailed it out of the office. And thoughts of her receded altogether as soon as I hit the street, only to be replaced by the gut-twisting anxiety that was my new constant companion any time I was out in public. Apparently, it was impossible for me to fear her wrath and fear for my life at the same time.
The razor wire of unease that’d wound its way around my insides pulled tight with a sharp snap, and I suddenly had a hard time forcing the breath in and out of my lungs. It kept catching on something, and the short, shallow pants I was forced to take were making me dizzy. Despite the cooler temperatures, sweat broke out on my upper lip and my brow, and a droplet lazily made its way down the nape of my neck and under the collar of my shirt to trail down my back. My eyes darted restlessly, trying to land everywhere and size up everyone in a single glance.
My muscles were as hard and rigid as if they’d been carved of marble the entire trip. I was only able to relax once I reached the cemetery, and even then only slightly. I was finally able to take a slightly deeper breath as I started winding my way through the grave markers, and that was simply because there were fewer places for someone to hide out there, less chances for someone to catch me off guard. I forced my hands out of the fists I finally realized they’d been locked in and inspected the deep, crescent-shaped indents in my palms. They weren’t bleeding, but they ached something fierce. I shook my hands a little and rubbed them together to try to alleviate the sting as I shifted my attention to the reason for my visit.
My oldest sister Reagan had been four when Rory and I had been born, and she’d been not quite seven when she’d died. It’d been one of those freak accidents that happens so often in life and can be attributed neither to rhyme nor to reason. She and my dad had been driving to the store to pick up some groceries when they’d hit a patch of black ice. My father had lost control of the vehicle, and they’d slammed i
nto a telephone pole, which’d then collapsed on top of the car, effectively crushing both of them and killing them instantly.
The simultaneous loss of her husband and her firstborn child had devastated my mother. Rory and I had been about two and a half when Reagan and my father had passed and left my mother with the burden of rambunctious twins to take care of. When she’d talked about it in subsequent years, I’d seen a fleeting hollowness in her eyes that always made me wonder if she’d have at least contemplated completely giving up on life after that if not for the responsibility Rory and I had presented.
Of course, my stepfather, Ben, was no stranger to tragedy. About a year or so before Rory and I were born, he’d lost his first wife to cancer. He’d not-so-offhandedly mentioned numerous times in the years that followed that if it hadn’t been for his two best friends literally making him move in with them and more or less forcing him to be a part of their family, he didn’t know what he would’ve done. So, the loss of my dad and Reagan—Ben’s oldest friend and his goddaughter—had hit Ben pretty hard as well.
I don’t remember my dad at all. The only things I know about him are what Ben and my mom have told me. But judging by the way they talk about him—by the matching twinkles in their eyes and the genuine smiles on their faces—they both loved him very much. I’ve also gathered he was something of a smart-ass, and I’m never sure how to feel when they point out with wistful expressions that I am, indeed, my father’s daughter.
I don’t remember my sister, Reagan, either, but I do have several pictures of her. My favorite one—which is actually hanging in a position of honor in my bedroom—is a candid, black-and-white shot that shows Reagan, Rory, and me diligently constructing sandcastles at the beach. Or, more accurately, it shows Reagan showing Rory how to build sandcastles and me preparing to knock them down. At least that’s what I’ve been led to believe. To this day, I think I was framed.
Worthy of Trust and Confidence Page 7
