He frowned, confused.
“My leg,” I said. “Me getting shot. It made some people happy.”
“Who?”
“Commenters, on the internet.” He frowned deeper, not understanding, and I sighed. “It’s nothing. Morons sitting in their mom’s basement. They post... you know. Mean stuff.” I shrugged and looked at the floor. I hadn’t been looking for sympathy. “It’s no big deal.”
“Mean stuff?”
I shrugged again. “Death threats.”
He took a step towards me. “Death threats? People send you death threats?”
“They’re not serious. The Secret Service look into anything that’s a viable threat to my life. Most of them are just... you know. Wishing that I’d die in horrible ways.” I looked up at him and tried to smile. “You can relax, they’re just idiots. They’re not dangerous.”
And then I saw his expression and realized he wasn’t worried: he was angry. “What do they say?” he asked, his voice a low, dangerous growl.
No one had ever really talked to me about it before. The Secret Service were only interested in investigating the viable threats, not the other 99% that were simple outpourings of hate. And no one had ever seemed interested in how it affected me. “Just... you know... I hope you fucking die,” I told him. “Or, when we went on the trip to Africa, it was I hope you get gang-raped and get AIDS and die. Or—”
His hand gripped my arm. I could feel the tension in him—he was almost shaking in rage. When I looked up into his eyes, it was as if he wanted to kill every single one of them. “You... shouldn’t read that stuff,” he said tightly. He was having to force each word out past his anger.
I swallowed. “I know. But it’s like picking at a scab, y’know? Sometimes, I can’t help myself.” I searched his face in wonder. No one had ever looked so... indignant about it. It was as if he honestly believed I didn’t deserve it, as if I shouldn’t just accept that it came with the territory. I felt this tight knot of emotion rise up inside and I wasn’t sure how to deal with it. So I looked away.
After a few seconds, he said “You should be exercising that leg. It’ll help. Didn’t they give you exercises to do?”
I nodded, glad of the change of subject. “Yeah, but…” I bit my lip guiltily.
“I was the same. Never seemed to get around to it. But you should do it.”
“You were hurt?”
He tapped the right side of his chest. “Got hit by some shrapnel just here. The doctors kept telling me to exercise it as it healed, but that just reminded me of it, so I kept finding excuses.”
He looked at me and I nodded. That sounded familiar.
“Wish I had, though,” he said. “Would have got my strength back a lot sooner. C’mon: what are you supposed to do?”
“Calf raises,” I said. And I showed him, going up on my toes and then slowly back down again. I had to hang onto the back of a chair for support but, like everything else in the White House, the chair was an antique and wobbly as hell. I lurched sideways.
“Here,” he said, slipping off his jacket and offering his shoulder. “Hang onto me.”
I swallowed. On the outside, he was still all crisp white shirt and professionalism, but the sunlight from the windows was streaming through the thin fabric and silhouetting the body beneath. I could see the dark ink of the tattoos on his arms and the shadows between each ridge of his abs. The bad underneath the good. As he turned to toss his jacket on the bed, I could see one more tattoo, small and circular, right between his shoulder blades. I squinted, but I couldn’t make out what it was.
He turned back to me and I put a hand on his shoulder. I’d touched him before, in the park and in the car, but I’d never held onto him like this. It was like grabbing hold of a sun-warmed cliff, solid and infinitely strong: I knew that, even if I lifted my feet off the ground and dangled, he wouldn’t move an inch.
I rose slowly up onto my toes. Our eyes were locked on each other and, as I rose, our faces came closer and closer. His gaze tracked me all the way up... and down. Three. I’ll do three.
On the second one I found myself moving slower. And... was it my imagination, or had we drawn closer together? Up... and down.
On the third one I knew it wasn’t my imagination. Our bodies were definitely closer, the tips of my breasts almost brushing his chest as I rose higher and higher. I was going so slowly, now, that I was barely moving. When I reached the top of the exercise, our lips were only inches apart….
There was a loud knock at the door.
Kian
We flew apart, but not fast enough. The door opened wide and standing there, staring at us, was a woman I’d only ever seen in photos. Her hair was smooth, glossy black with only a hint of silver. Her face was barely lined, her gray jacket and suit pants immaculate.
Roberta Matthews. The First Lady.
She took in the scene in a split second and I saw her lips purse in disapproval. “It’s time for your meeting with Senator Giggs,” she told Emily. Then she turned to me. “Perhaps you’d like to accompany her, Mr. O’Harra.” She stressed the Mister and I got the message loud and clear: I was the hired help and I needed to keep my hands the hell off her daughter.
I grabbed my jacket and pulled it on while Emily checked herself in her dresser mirror. What had just happened—or nearly happened—hung in the air, but there was no way we could talk about it with her mother standing right there in the doorway. When we walked past Roberta and down the hallway, she didn’t follow... but I could feel her gaze burning into the back of my neck the whole way.
In theory, we could now talk. But whatever moment we’d been having had passed and now it was awkward. Had I really nearly kissed her? I hadn’t meant for anything to happen, when I told her to hold onto me. But, dammit, those soft pink lips had just looked so good... suddenly, it had been the only thing in my head.
What the hell am I doing? I’d been in her room all of ten minutes and already I was losing control. But I couldn’t help it: this girl had gotten right under my skin.
“So who’s Giggs?” I asked to break the silence. There were getting to be a lot of silences, whenever we were alone. The quiet seemed to press in on us, pushing us together, unless we said something to defuse it.
Emily shrugged. “Just a senator. Kind of an ass, actually. But…” She trailed off, distracted. She was glancing around, checking the shadows.
I realized that even in the White House, she didn’t feel completely safe. She was slowing down the further we got from her bedroom. I’d seen similar things with buddies who’d returned from combat with PTSD: scared to leave their apartments, they’d turned into near-hermits, not living, just existing. I didn’t want that to be her future.
I wasn’t going to let that be her future.
I put a gentle hand on her arm. It wasn’t meant to be a sexual touch, just a brush of my fingertips on her forearm to reassure her I was there. And it worked: I felt some of the tension in her body ease. But at the same time, the contact was addictive. I wanted to grip her arm tight, pull her face-to-face with me and—
“But what?” I asked, trying to keep my voice level. “What were you going to say?”
She picked up the pace a little and focused on the conversation again. “But there’s a good chance Giggs is going to be President, one day. That’s why my mom gets me to say hi whenever he comes by the White House.”
I blinked. She’d said it so matter-of-factly, like it was normal. “You mean... wait, she’s setting you up to…?”
“It’s not like that,” she said unconvincingly. “She’s not meaning I should marry him. I mean... not necessarily.”
I stopped in my tracks and just gaped at her.
“What?” she asked, looking back at me with genuine confusion.
“So you’re just going to wind up with some guy your mom picks out for you... and then, what, you form a dynasty?”
“No! I’m just... you know.” She sighed in frustration. “I’m the Preside
nt’s daughter. There are things that are expected of me.”
I started walking again and we fell silent. I was fuming, remembering now how much I hated this whole system. Hadn’t she given up enough for her father? The constant press intrusion, being hated and threatened by those bastards on the internet and now this? She was so determined to do her part, to make everyone else happy: didn’t she deserve to be happy herself?
It wasn’t just that, though. Much as I wanted to pretend I was just concerned for her, something much more powerful was fueling my anger: I didn’t want to think of her snuggling up to Senator Giggs. Or any senator. Or anyone else at all.
We reached the library and Emily turned and gave me a quick smile. “OK, this is it.”
She opened the door and started to step through. I followed... and she suddenly stopped and turned in surprise as she heard me behind her. “Oh! Um... you can wait outside.”
We stared at one another. She flushed and I stood there feeling like a klutz. I’d forgotten, for a second, what I was. Of course she wouldn’t want me there for a private meeting. But was that because it would be inappropriate... or because things were going to get romantic? I glanced over her shoulder and caught a glimpse of Senator Giggs: forties and in good shape, with dark hair... irritatingly good-looking.
“I’ll only be ten minutes or so,” said Emily apologetically.
I nodded and stepped back. She closed the door.
Dammit, what was wrong with me? I knew I couldn’t be with her. It wasn’t just her mom, her dad and Miller because, frankly, screw them. It wasn’t even the massive gulf between us in money and power. If they were the only things stopping me, I would have already picked her right up off her feet, rammed her against a wall and kissed the hell out of her.
The problem was me. I wouldn’t—couldn’t—let myself get close to someone again. That only left sex: and that didn’t feel right, with Emily. She deserved more than that.
I couldn’t be with her. So what right did I have to get angry over who she saw?
I realized I’d started to pace. I forced myself to stand still outside the library door, facing away from it with my hands behind my back.
What if she has a boyfriend? I’d never considered that. My stomach lurched. I liked her and I was pretty sure she liked me but she must know as well as I did that we could never work, and that left her available. Even if she was just being polite and flirting with Giggs a little to please her mom, she might have some guy she really did like. What if I had to drive them places? My hands formed into fists. What if they expected me to sit in the front seat while, in the back seat, they giggled and kissed and—
Behind me, in the library, I heard a faint sound. My mind went into overdrive. Had that been Emily’s high-heeled shoe, knocking against the carpet? Was she just crossing her legs or—
Was Giggs on top of her, with her stretched out on the leather couch, heels kicking the floor in ecstasy? Everyone knew what these senators were like, drunk on power and into kinky sex... fucking the President’s daughter in the White House library would be right up their alley. And power was an aphrodisiac... Giggs was good-looking. So what if he was kind of an ass: maybe she was into arrogant assholes? Maybe she was lying there, skirt pulled up around her hips, panties pushed aside, biting her lip to keep from screaming, her body quaking with pleasure as he plunged into her again and again—
Emily opened the door and I had to stumble aside to let her through. She took one look at my face and asked, “What’s eating you?”
I coughed. “Nothing, ma’am.” I cast a suspicious look through the doorway. Giggs was standing there looking longingly at Emily but neither of them had any clothes askew. I relaxed... a little. Then I remembered that this was just my first morning. This is going to be unbearable.
We started walking back towards the residence. After a dozen paces, I couldn’t take it anymore: I had to know if she was seeing someone. “This event tonight, the reception... you’re sure you want to go?”
I saw her face pale at the mention of it, but she nodded. “I figure the longer I leave it before I try again, the worse it’ll be.” She looked up at me. “Right?”
I nodded. “Right.” Once again, I was thrown by how brave she was. It wasn’t just the fear itself she was struggling against: she must know that, after what had happened at her last public appearance, the press would be out in force and salivating at the thought of another scene. They wanted her to freak out again. No other PTSD sufferer had to put up with that.
I left it another few paces so that it didn’t sound too obvious and then threw in, “Will you be attending on your own, ma’am?” There. Nice and subtle.
She shook her head. “No. My dad will be there. My mom’s got a separate event on.”
Dammit. “I meant…”—I tried to sound nonchalant, but I’m not good at nonchalant—”is there anybody special that you’ll be—that you might want to—”
She stopped and spun around to face me. “Are you trying to ask if I’ve got a boyfriend?” she asked incredulously.
We stared at each other. I almost dropped the whole thing, feeling like a street urchin who’s been caught trying to chat up the princess. But... her eyes didn’t look horrified or embarrassed. There was something else there, something I didn’t understand.
The hell with it. “I need to know for... security purposes. Ma’am.” And I straightened up and looked her right in the eye.
“Am I interrupting something?”
Shit. We both spun to face the voice.
Kerrigan. The Vice President. I’d seen him on TV but he looked even younger in real life. And, like Senator Giggs, he was annoyingly good-looking. He didn’t look to be in bad shape, either: he still carried some of the muscle from his Army days.
I coughed. “No sir, Mr. Vice-President.” Had he heard what we’d been talking about? Could he see what had been going on? What was with this place, anyway, with everyone creeping around and walking in on people? Everyone was sneaky and silent, here—I felt like a bull in a roomful of prowling cats.
“Was there something you wanted?” asked Emily. I blinked at her, surprised: I’d never seen her be anything but polite to anyone, but she sounded downright cold.
“I just wanted to say thank you to Mr. O’Harra,” said Kerrigan, slapping me on the back. “You did a great thing, in the park. I can see that, even if no one else around here can. You have my complete confidence.”
I swallowed. It was the first wholly positive thing anyone but Emily had said to me. After Miller and the President and the First Lady, it should have been a welcome relief but... something felt off about it. He was saying all the right words but there was something missing, some human warmth that just wasn’t there. “Thank you, sir,” I said.
“We should be going,” Emily told him—if anything, her voice managed to ice up another few degrees. She was walking almost before she’d finished speaking and I had to move fast to catch up. Kerrigan didn’t complain, but I could feel him watching us as we left.
When we’d turned the next corner and were out of his sight, she glanced across at me... and suddenly, all that tension between us was back, the air thick with it. And now, studying her expression, I saw what that look in her eyes was: she wasn’t horrified I’d asked, she was... bitter. “If you want to know if I’ve got a boyfriend,” she asked, “why don’t you just turn on a TV? My whole private life is public property.”
“I don’t watch that stuff,” I said truthfully. We came to a stop outside her bedroom door. “And I don’t think it should be.”
Her expression slowly softened. “No,” she said. “I don’t have a boyfriend.”
Relief. But now we were into another of those loaded silences. She walked into her bedroom and I followed, which only made it worse. Now we were alone again, in private…my hands tingled with the need to just grab her shoulders and spin her around to face me and—
Don’t let it happen. DO NOT let it happen. “Why were you so frosty w
ith the VP?” I asked to break the silence.
She shook her head. “I hate him.” Then she turned to me... and hesitated. I frowned: I’d expected her to just say he’s a douche or something, but this felt like something more. Then she bit her lip and I got it: this is the first time she’s told anyone about it. She’d chosen me to trust and that felt really good.
She took a deep breath. “He’s trying to turn the country into a police state.”
“The Guardian Act?” I hadn’t really been following it. I don’t have a lot of time for politics. “It’s just some extra security: military guys to back up the police. Police state’s a little strong.”
She shook her head and sighed. “This is the problem. It sounds harmless. By the time anyone sees what he’s really doing, it’ll be too late. It’s not going to be just a handful of extra guys on patrol whenever there’s a big football game on. We’re talking about a huge military presence, permanently, right across the US. Tens of thousands of soldiers.”
I frowned. “C’mon, he wants that many but he won’t get that many. The Army couldn’t spare—”
She huffed. “When Kerrigan talks about the military, he doesn’t mean the armed forces. He means private military contractors: his own private military contractors, from his old company!”
“Rexortech?” My stomach twisted. Some private military contractors were great—ex-military guys who’d done their time and then moved into the private sector. But I’d run into Rexortech’s people a few times in Iraq and they were very, very different: little more than thugs with guns. Rexortech were known for taking almost anyone who applied, stuffing them into a uniform and handing them a rifle. And the results, at least in my experience, had been about what you’d expect: I’d heard reports of unlawful killings, corruption, even rapes and connections with human traffickers. The idea of those guys on US streets, with authority over citizens, made me want to throw up.
I stood there, my face probably turning a nasty shade of green, while she laid out the rest: the facial recognition cameras and the legal changes in the bill that would allow unlimited detention and interrogation of “suspects.” It would take billions of dollars in manpower, surveillance tech and computers... and of course Rexortech would be the lead contractor. When he quit office, Kerrigan could return to being CEO... and he’d immediately be one of the richest men on the planet.
Saving Liberty (Kissing #6) Page 7