by Andy King
Holding her tighter, I kiss her forehead. She looks up at me and gives me an adorable little smile.
Whatever I did, I need to do it again and again. I would do anything to see her smile like that.
Resting my jaw in her soft hair, I think that I could stay here, just holding her. Forever.
6
Cheri
We’re lazing in a gentle breeze of indolence. If we don’t get moving it’s going to be hard to cover our tracks. The joke I made about the cleaning crew was just a joke. I can raise an army, but around here my power only extends so far.
Another question floats into my slap-happy mind. I know that Jack is younger than me, but his skin is so flawless, I can’t tell by how much. I skimmed his record like I do with all detail agents, but I just don’t remember. I’m afraid of the answer, but I have to ask. If he says less than thirty, I’ll die of embarrassment.
“We need to get going, but I have a question.”
“Mmmm?” He looks around.
“I’m not very good at beating around the bush, so I’ll just come out and say it. How old are you?”
He smiles at me, so lovingly I want to hug him for a week. “Thirty-five. Old enough to know better.”
OK, he looks younger than his age. More importantly, he’s smart, and doesn’t return the question. Oh hell, he probably knows I’m eight years older.
I put that aside. One more question, then we really have to get going. “Earlier, you were very formal. Even kind of cold. So how long have you felt this way?”
“I’ve been at the White House for a month. From the first day.”
So he’s good at playing a part, and I’m not concerned about my abilities. We might be able to pull this off.
“I’ve thought about it, and I can do my job,” he says.
“Your job.” I visualize how difficult it will actually be.
He pokes his nose into my hair and inhales. I love the fact that he’s so intimate. I snuggle into him. He reaches up and tucks a strand of hair behind my ear. I could get used to this, how physical he is, that he always wants to touch me. It’s different, but so natural. We need to talk about that, though. I love it, but only in private. How can I be with him and still carry on the duties and protocols of my office? His superiors in the Secret Service are never going to go along with it.
He seems to read my mind. “It’s not going to be easy. We’ve got a lot to think about.” He lifts me off him, sets me on the sofa and stands up.
My thoughts are dissonant, out of place. I’m still caught up in skin on skin, how his felt on mine. Hot and smooth, with muscle and sinew rippling. I want him again.
I sigh. We have to get moving and see if we need to do damage control. Jack finds his pants, puts them on and adjusts his shirt and tie. I’m only missing my undies and shoes. In two minutes we’re put together, a little rumpled and disheveled, but ready.
There’s a discreet knock on the door. Talk about timing.
“Cher?” It’s Carmel, thank God.
Jack assumes his stance against the wall, hands together, still as a statue. I pull the door open.
Carmel steps in, looking around. She probably suspects, but her face doesn’t show it. When I took the reins as Governor years ago—it seems like a century now—I knew that I needed her. We’re on the same wavelength and have a rare shorthand. A glance, an eyebrow, a tug of the lips, says paragraphs.
“You’re late again,” she says to me. Her eyes drift over to Jack.
“We need the room, Agent Runyon,” I say.
He nods, steps out and shuts the door behind him.
I face Carmel, her lean form perfect in a Collenzioni suit. She lowers her chin so her eyes look up at me through eyelashes.
I throw my hands out. “I had to.”
She moves close and puts her hands on my shoulders, the corners of her mouth up, a twinkle in her eye. “I’m so glad you did.”
I can’t keep my jaw from dropping.
“It’s not like this hasn’t happened in the White House before,” she says. “This is different, though. Cher, with everything you’ve been through, you deserve some fun.”
“I think it might be more than fun,” I say in a small voice.
She steps back and grins wide. “Good for you.”
“Really? Even though he’s, uh—”
“Younger?”
“Well no, I was going to say Secret Service, but yeah, that, too.”
She points and smiles. “Cougar.”
“Cougar? Isn’t that kind of dated?”
“Guess there’s always desperado.” She smirks, then bustles over to my desk.
I grit my teeth. There has to be at least one really big stain, probably a few.
She pretends not to notice and straightens some papers. “Like I said, you’re running late. Let’s try to salvage the rest of the day.”
My heart goes soft, like the warm honey and butter spread Gramps used to make. I am so lucky to have Carmel in my life. I pick up my glasses, make a face at the smudges and slide them on.
She points at a pile of paper. “You’ve got to deal with the missile. That’s first. The analysts have finished and Cabinet memos are starting to come in.”
“Besides the official analysis, what do you hear?”
“It’s everywhere, Cher. Traditional media, social media, online political forums, beltway gossip.” She waves vaguely. “People are worried, not just about the missile.”
My eyebrows go down. I stare at her.
“With this kind of cluster, there’s chatter saying you might call out the National Guard.”
My hand shoots to my mouth. “Martial law? Ridiculous.”
“You and I know that, but the tin foil hat crowd doesn’t know it.”
“I’ve got to think about that. How much time do I have?”
“I can buy you another half hour, but that’s all.”
“We’re going to have to put off all non-essentials.”
I’m talking about ceremonial and private appointments I might have, including my personal trainer. Even though I look young, I try to exercise every day. Sure, I had a workout with Jack, but it’s not the same.
“Better call MacElvain, stroke him, but remind him who’s boss,” she says.
I agree. If I don’t, who knows what he’ll be up to?
Her eyes flick to mine again. “And your mother wants ten minutes.”
My shoulders fall. I sigh. My relationship with Mom is complicated. Born a nice Jewish girl, she fell in lust with a musician—my father—and was disowned by her family for not marrying a nice Jewish boy. After Dad died, we wound up living with Gramps, much to her dismay. She carried on trying to find a man who would support her in the style in which she wanted to become accustomed: rural poor didn’t suit her a bit. Two husbands later, she has a small alimony income stream. That’s good, because she hates work.
From when I was a tot, she urged me to marry a nice Jewish boy, which I did. Her jealousy, and resentment over her lack of success, compounded with mine, has made for a strained co-dependency. On one hand, she loves me and she’s happy for me, but on the other… I don’t want to think about it. She carries on with great stage presence, with a bounce not found in most women in their sixties. She’s bratty, and freely admits it. But when it comes right down to it, Mom always wants something.
What can I do? She’s my mother. “Anything else?”
“Josh called. I think you should give him a few minutes.”
I lift an eyebrow.
“It’s just a feeling.”
Josh Jefferson has never let me down and never wastes my time. If he wants a few minutes, it’s in my best interest.
“OK, Nick first, then Josh, then Mom, and then we’ll see where we’re at. Oh, see if you can get all of the analyst materials to Josh so he can translate for me.” I’m sure that Carmel will spend the next twenty minutes sorting and rearranging my priorities wisely.
She heads for the door, then tu
rns around. “I mean it, Cher. Good for you.” She grins again. “I’ll put MacElvain through.” She tosses her hair and walks out.
My phone flashes. I pick it up.
It’s a struggle to get Mac to come to the point. He’s always bringing up unnecessary details, trying to distract me. Again he starts up with the Middle East.
After sixty seconds I interrupt. “Has anything changed in the last day, Nick? The answer is ‘no.’ I would’ve heard if it did. North Korea is the subject and we’re waiting for Li. Without being too crass, what do you want?”
“We’re pulling an aircraft carrier east of the Philippines.”
“You consulted with Bobby.” Admiral Bobby Heller is one of my fans. I understand his biggest problem—an aging fleet stretched too far—and I’m marshalling congressional votes to do something about it.
“Yes, he’s on board. The idea is to give Li some cover, open up the South China Sea. Give him a little incentive to bag the votes to step on the NKs.”
I’m well aware that Li has to answer to his central committee, but I’m surprised that Nick MacElvain is making it easy for me to exercise my decision. There’s something in it for him.
“Thanks for reaching out to Bobby, Nick. Anything else on your mind?”
“Troop allocations for your…idea.”
“Tell me how much we need. Coordinate with ComPacFlt and PaCom.”
He pauses, probably rankled that I’m telling him how to do his job. I’m writing quickly.
“You haven’t considered other requisitions?” he asks.
I’m not sure where he’s going with this, and lay down my pen. “Like what, Nick?”
“Uh, never mind, I’ll call PaCom.”
He goes all congenial and lapses into chitchat. I don’t have time, and ease him off the phone. Filing the episode in the back of my mind I consider an idea I’ve been mulling over. I’m thinking of polling the rest of the Cabinet and the Joint Chiefs, one at a time, to make sure I have their support. Nothing formal, just an invitation to have coffee, one on one. News of the meetings would get out and there would be speculation, but it would put Mac and his cadre on notice.
The problem with that is it would seem like I’m insecure. To the paranoid, it might seem like I’m planning something. I’ll keep thinking about it. The phone flashes again—Josh.
We take care of business quickly. His boss, National Security Advisor Laemmle, prefers to play golf and hobnob with congress. I don’t discourage Laemmle from indulging in his preferred distractions. He’s in MacElvain’s group of overgrown fraternity brothers.
A dark, compact, muscular man, Josh runs the department and gets the work done. No fraternities for him. He stormed through NYU on the GI bill and got his doctorate on a full scholarship at Yale before signing on with the NSA years ago.
In fifteen minutes I’ve learned more about the state of the world than I would from Nick in a year, including hotpots in Africa and South America. To no one’s surprise, Sudan and Colombia are in play. Josh conveys the state of danger in the top ten flashpoints in a sentence or two each. I thank him and hang up. Now for the low point of my day. I mentally prepare myself for my call with Mom.
While waiting, I flash back to my idea of meeting with the Joint Chiefs. A picture of Marine Commandant Tom Shelby comes to mind. Tall, black and grizzled, he’s the toughest-looking serviceman I’ve met. When he was a teen he fought off twenty Viet Cong, killing most of them, while dragging a wounded comrade ten miles through the jungle to safety. He had a building collapse on him in Lebanon, lost a foot to a landmine in Bosnia, and a finger in Somalia. He’s my closest ally on the Joint Chiefs. And he reminds me of Gramps.
I surprised Shelby by accepting an invitation to go hunting with him last fall. Guess he’d heard that I grew up in the hills, occasionally shooting my supper, and wanted check me out. When I showed up with Gramps’ old Winchester 88, I could see that he approved, and when I told him a story of tracking and killing a wolf who was ruining a local deer herd, I made a friend for life. We agreed that patience is the most underrated virtue.
My reverie is interrupted by the phone.
“Cherilyn!” my mother brays across the line.
I roll my eyes. Here we go. “Sorry I haven’t been able to call, Mom.”
“Oh, that’s OK, honey. You’re the leader of the free world. I’m just a poor old woman, pining away in the wilds.”
Crap. The guilt card so soon? Just as I thought, she wants something.
“What can I do for you, Mom?”
“Me? Oh, nothing, I’m fine. No, I’m thinking of you. It’s been almost a year. You need a man in your life, baby.”
If she only knew. “I’m a little busy, Mom.” There isn’t enough money in the world to convince me to introduce her to Jack—make that inflict her on Jack.
“Oh, of course. But don’t you meet wealthy men, billionaires, all the time? You must.”
Sure, and they’re all sleazebags and assholes who want to screw me, one way or another. I’m glad there’s a year before I have to get serious about the next election. Billionaires will be buzzing around like flies on shit. I make a shorthand note for Carm.
“Do you need something, Mom? I’ve got to run.”
“Well…there’s this stunning black Tahari sheath dress I saw at Bloomingdale’s, in Willow Grove?”
My mother looks pretty good for a woman in her mid-sixties. She manages to get in all the workouts I miss, and could pull off a little black sheath dress, no sweat.
I stifle a sigh. “I’ll ask Carmel to send a few hundred.”
“Oh Cherilyn, thank you. I knew I could count on you.”
She can’t see my smirk over the phone. “The billionaires will love it.”
I can tell that she’s angling for another invitation to visit, but I’m not ready. The only time I had her at the White House, she nearly caused an international incident when she came on hot and heavy to an ambassador. Had his wife not been present, he might have taken Mom up on it. It was a disaster all the way around. Careful planning will be required around Mom’s next stayover.
Tapping a text to Carmel for a sandwich, I let Mom ramble for a few minutes. It’s mid-afternoon and the sky is dark. A storm is coming in.
“Now I really have to fly, Mom.”
“OK. Love you, baby.”
“Love you, too.”
I hang up, energized, physically powerful. I guess sex does that to you. Since I wouldn’t know, I chalk it up to my lovemaking with Jack, and start scheming on how to do it again.
7
Cheri
Bored with the litter on my desk, I walk out to Carm’s office. My eyes pop wide. I stop short. Jack is huddling with her, whispering and grinning. He’s in her space. They’re too close.
She sees me and steps away from him. He turns around and his mouth opens. I twirl on a toe and stalk back to my office, slamming the door as hard as I can. What the hell?
There’s a knock. “Go away!” I shout.
The muffled voice is Carmel’s. “Cher, c’mon.”
I march to my desk, plop down in my chair, my head propped in my hands. A tear rests itself at the corner of my eye. I saw what I saw. I should have known better than to let him get close to me. He’s too good to be true and he was too good at sex to not be a player.
Reaching for an analyst’s report, I try to pull myself together. If I don’t, all the whispers I’ve heard since I’ve been in office will come to pass. “She’s too young. Her hormones will get in the way.” And the worst one, the one I fear might actually be true: “She’s just a woman who fell into the job accidentally. She’ll fail.”
My back goes stiff. I will prove those assholes wrong if it’s the last thing I do.
Then I close my eyes. I have to tell on myself. The job is too damn big for me to do it all on my own. And what am I going to do, throw away a couple of decades of friendship and the best support I have?
I tap my foot, stewing. Then I get up,
fists clenched, and throw open the door. Jack’s not around, another agent standing at attention nearby.
“You can come in, but I don’t want to talk about it,” I say.
Carm follows me in. She takes a deep breath, struggling to accept my demand. But she’s a professional and keeps her mouth shut.
“Now we’ve got the big stuff out of the way, what’s next?” I ask. “And where’s my sandwich?”
She goes out to her office, picks up a tray and marches back in. Depositing it on my desk, she looks me in the eye. “I’ll respect your wish, but you’re wrong. That’s all I’m going to say.” Before I can reply, she reels off several items, including a swim team that needs a medal and the ambassador I blew off earlier.
“If he doesn’t mind talking while I eat, send him in. I never got to my writing, and I need to read the analysts’ memos.” My shoulders relax and my tone softens. “Sorry, Carm. I’m not mad at you. My door’s open.”
She leaves, still none too happy. Realizing I’m starved, I start in on my sandwich. Sex is hungry business.
The ambassador comes and goes, empty-handed. I’m not in the habit of shelling out aid to countries that violate human rights, and tell him to go nag Congress. I start reading and taking notes, writing my own thoughts in the margins. Two hours fly by.
Carmel knocks on my doorframe. “What can I get you?”
I can see that she’s completely over my huffy attitude. So am I. Standing up, I say, “Let’s walk.”
It’s one of my favorite pastimes, to walk around the White House with Carmel, passing tidbits back and forth. I’ve had more good ideas from our strolling bull sessions than just about any other input. We set out at a fast clip, a couple of Secret Service agents in tow. Jack’s nowhere to be seen. That’s fine with me. I decide that I’m not mad at him, just puzzled.
“So tell me what was going on,” I say to Carm.
She leans in, cupping her hand, and whispers, “He’s in love with you.”
I almost stop, startled, but manage to keep pace. “He told you that?”
“No, silly. Remember, I know men.”
She’s had three husbands, so I guess she does. I need to see this for the opportunity it is, and listen to her. A faint smile flits across my face. I’m acting like Jack, possessive and jealous. I was never that way with Morrie. Wonder what that’s about?
