by Tal Bauer
“Maybe I’ll call in sick tomorrow.”
“It’s―” Something grabbed Ethan’s heart and squeezed. He looked down, picking at his bag of ice. “It’s gorgeous, actually,” he said softly. “It’s amazing, what they do. When everything is up, the whole place is transformed.” Memories flashed as he swallowed, his throat tight. “It’s probably my favorite time of the year there. I mean, it’s a beating, because there are so many visitors, and so many parties. We work all the time, but―” Ethan pressed his lips together. “But it’s great. It’s the best time of the year at the White House.”
He glanced up, finding Jack’s soft gaze on the monitor. “Sounds amazing. I can’t wait to experience it with you.”
Ethan smiled. He looked away.
“I can’t wait until Friday, either. It’s been too long.” Jack sighed again, dramatically. “Next year, I’ll just have to bring you with me if they schedule the G20 over Thanksgiving.”
Next year. Next Thanksgiving. Ethan’s smile grew until his cheeks ached, burned, no doubt flushed crimson with his combined joy and embarrassment.
“You’ve got the tree lighting this Friday night, right?” The National Christmas Tree, on the Ellipse near the White House, was decorated every year for Christmas, along with smaller trees for every state and territory. The president―and historically the first family―always lit the tree the first weekend in December. It was a fun, festive event, and past presidents had really gotten into the evening. Jack would be just as enthralled, feeding off the energy of the crowd.
“Yeah.” Jack nodded. “I’ll be there when your plane lands. Scott said he’s sending another agent to pick you up, since he needs almost everyone for the tree lighting. But you’re not going to be forgotten. He’ll bring you back here, and I’ll escape as soon as I can.”
“You should enjoy yourself. Have fun. It’s a great event.”
“I want to enjoy myself with you.” Jack’s eyes glittered. “I don’t want to miss a single moment that you’re here. And, do you really think I’ll be able to even string a sentence together once I know you’re home?”
Ethan chuckled. There was no talk about him joining Jack at the tree lighting. They’d decided long ago that they would keep their relationship far, far away from the public eye. No comments. No media. No public appearances. Maybe it was hiding. But it was their plan.
“Day after tomorrow.” Jack kept grinning, kept staring at Ethan as though he was something special. “I need a time machine. Need to speed up time. Thursday is just a waste. Let’s skip it. Go straight to Friday.”
Laughing, Ethan agreed and then watched Jack try to smother a yawn. “It’s late,” he said softly. “You should go to bed.”
“I am in bed.”
“You should get some sleep.” A smile played over Ethan’s lips. “Presidents need their beauty rest.”
Jack ran a hand through his hair, striking a pose as he lay on his side. “I’m gorgeous.”
“Yes. You are.”
That made Jack pause. He bit his lip, a flush rising on his cheekbones, and his gaze turned heated. “Friday.” One hand reached for the screen, a finger tracing over Ethan’s face on his laptop as he blew a kiss. “I love you, Ethan.”
Ethan had to fight through his clenched throat to speak. “Love you too.”
“Sleep well. Talk to you tomorrow.” His hand slowly drew back, hovering over the mousepad. Any moment, he’d end the call. Ethan stared at him, breathing fast through his mouth, trying to make the seconds stretch longer. Trying to keep the image of Jack in his eyes forever, as if they could stop time and never have to hang up.
And then the screen went dark.
The ice in his bag had completely melted and his hand and boxers were soaked. His untouched beer was warm. Ethan trudged to his tiny kitchen and dumped both in the sink. As he dried his hand, he stared at the three pictures of him and Jack he had on his fridge.
Day after tomorrow. And then he’d see Jack again.
In the morning, Agent Becker texted Ethan, telling him to meet at the jail for interrogations of the suspects. He headed across town sipping his coffee in the predawn darkness. He’d finally left early enough to dodge the reporters who liked to huddle outside his apartment complex and snap pictures of his morning commute.
Jack texted on the way, sending over a selfie from the Oval Office. Him at his desk, grinning like the Cheshire cat.
36 hours till I kiss you again!!!!
Ethan couldn’t smother his smile, and he didn’t try.
At the jail, Becker met him with an arched eyebrow and a bemused expression. Ethan tried to ratchet back his radiating happiness. He was usually dour and closed off at the office, but Jack’s texts could make his whole world spin faster. And one like that, well.
“Des Moines PD picked up an accomplice of our perps last night. Female, nineteen years old. She was casing the crime scene in a Hyundai. PD followed her and pulled her over. She had twenty grand in counterfeit hundreds in her trunk and five pounds of marijuana. Serial numbers on the bills match the ones from the perps.” He passed over a folder. Inside were photocopies of the forged bills, front and back.
They badged inside, waving to the sheriffs in the bullpen as another escorted them to the interview rooms. The counterfeit bills were extremely high quality. Other than the repeating serial number, a UV detector would be the only way to catch that the hundreds weren’t actually hundreds. They’d stripped out the ink from five- and one-dollar bills, keeping the paper with the embedded security strips and foil holograms, before reprinting the bills to look like hundreds. It was a sophisticated setup, something seen more in organized crime rings, and not in a dumpy motel in the upper Midwest.
They stopped at the end of the hall. Two doors stood across from each other. “I’ll start with the girl.” Becker nodded to the other door. “The first guy is all set up in there for you to warm up. Remember, you’re not really here. No cameras, no records.”
He headed in, giving the sheriff at the door a tight smile before he settled down at the table bolted to the floor in the center of the interrogation room. The prisoner was already seated on the other side, the chain between his handcuffs locked to the steel table. Ethan dropped the prisoner’s file on the table and peeled out of his thick overcoat and scarf.
“Holy shit,” the prisoner breathed, as if he’d just won a prizefight. “God-fucking damn it. It’s you! You’re the president’s faggot!”
Ethan bit down on the inside of his lip as he draped his coat over the back of the metal folding chair. At the door, the sheriff’s eyes narrowed.
“Goddamn!” Cackling, the prisoner rocked in his chair, curled over with one fist over his mouth. “You’re a Goddamn faggot celebrity, you know that? Fucking everywhere. Every Goddamn magazine I see has your picture on it. Every-fucking-body around here talks about you.” He leaned forward, his fingers tapping against the table. “And now you’re here with me? My lucky fucking day.”
Ethan sat slowly, straightening his tie. Flipped open the folder. So much for being under the radar. “Aaron Curtis, from Sioux Falls, South Dakota. You made a name for yourself up there. Racked up quite a record. Managed to piss off just about everyone you met.”
Aaron grinned. Cracked teeth flashed, yellowed from meth.
“Worked your way out to Pine Ridge, bootlegging moonshine and running meth through the reservation until the Tribal Police drove you out. Did time in three different jails. You have quite the rap sheet, Mr. Curtis.”
“I must be some hot shit to get you in here to talk to me.” Aaron kept grinning like a crazed clown.
“How did you figure out how to counterfeit these bills? Where’d you get the materials to produce this kind of quality counterfeit? Those aren’t easy to come by.”
“Does the president know you’re talking to me? He know all about me?” Ethan stared as Aaron laughed himself silly.
“Your record is long but unimpressive. You’re a bully. A thug. Guys like
you don’t become master counterfeiters―”
“Master counterfeiter. I like it.”
Ethan kept going, ignoring the interruption. “They don’t build labs in their motel rooms from thin air. Everything you got, you got from someone. You’re just the small fish at the end of the line.”
Aaron’s eyes flashed. He tried to pound his chest, but the handcuff chain jerked. “I’m a big fucking deal, asshole.”
“You’re really not.”
“You’re here, aren’t you?” Aaron spread his hands and sniffed.
“I don’t need to be.” Ethan stood, grabbing his coat.
“Wait. All right, wait.”
Ethan sat. He leaned back, crossed his legs, and ran his tongue over his teeth. “Where did you get your materials from?”
Aaron looked sideways, toward the sheriff. He grinned down at the table and then steeled his expression before he looked up. “I got a question first,” he said, his eyes earnest, his voice serious. He leaned in.
Ethan frowned.
Aaron’s fingers tapped the cold steel. “Did you turn the president gay, or did he already like sucking cock before you fucked him in the ass?”
Lightning fast, Ethan reached for Aaron, grabbing him and tangling his fingers in his mullet before slamming him face-first into the steel table. Bones crunched, and as Ethan jumped to his feet, Aaron wheeled back, blood pouring from his nose.
“Motherfucker!” Aaron bellowed. “I’ll fucking kill you!” He tried to leap up, but the sheriff was suddenly there, and his fist slammed into Aaron’s stomach, doubling him over. “Jesus, you’re clumsy,” the sheriff grunted. He nodded Ethan toward the door.
“Clumsy motherfucker,” the sheriff said. “Falling all over the place.”
“I didn’t fucking fall!” Aaron stood, the sound of a wad of spit forming in the back of his throat.
The sheriff grabbed the back of his neck and shoved him down on the table. Aaron’s cheek smashed against the cold steel. “You fell again, you clumsy asshole. And was that a threat I heard? Threatening a federal agent is five years in a federal pen added on to your sentence. Want to see how many more years we can add?”
“That fucker―”
“You tripped. And you didn’t make a threat.”
Ethan shut the door as Aaron spewed. His heart was racing, galloping out of his chest, and his hands shook. That was stupid. That was epically fucking stupid. God, he couldn’t let assholes get under his skin like that. All someone had to do was insult Jack a little bit and Ethan would lose control. If he kept that up, he’d be tanking Jack’s presidency even further in no time at all.
He shouldered his way into the observation room beside Becker’s interrogation. The two-way mirror revealed a flustered Becker flipping through a thin folder and a bored, sour-faced woman. Her file had said she was nineteen and her name was Doreen Watts. She was a teenager, but years on the street and the results of a long line of track marks on her arms had aged her.
He watched for a few minutes and then headed into Becker’s interrogation. Not like he was any kind of expert on questioning, especially after his amazing performance with Aaron, but he had more mileage than Becker. As long as he kept his cool.
Becker glared as he entered.
“Oh my God.” Doreen sat forward, her mouth falling open. She’d been chewing at her nails, bored, but perked up. “You’re him.”
Jesus. Ethan exhaled. Stared at her. Blinked.
Doreen grinned. “You’re the president’s boyfriend.” She bit her lip. “I read every article about you two.”
Becker rolled his eyes.
“It’s the modern love story!” Doreen snapped at Becker. “Fucking Cinderella!”
Ethan arched his eyebrows. Doreen spun toward him, her chin propped in her palm as she gazed at him. She had crazy eyes.
“You working with these clowns?”
She squinted, but said nothing. That’s a yes.
“What’s the source for your materials? Aaron isn’t a master counterfeiter. He’s nothing. How’d you guys figure out how to turn these bills out so well?”
Her gaze darkened as her smile faded. Her teeth dragged over her lip and she looked down, then away.
Interesting. She was the link. She had the information.
“You work with us, we’ll work with you.” Ethan gestured to himself and Becker, then to her. Becker had shut up and was watching him with something other than disdain, for once.
Doreen looked up, smiling again. It didn’t reach her eyes, though. “Listen, sugar butt. I love your Cinderella story. But I’m never gonna snitch on Mother.”
4
Ethan almost vibrated out of his skin as he parked his sedan at Des Moines’s airport. A light snow was falling from the gray sky, just enough to coat the sidewalks but not delay any flights. He wrapped his scarf tighter around his neck, shoved his hands into his black wool overcoat, and headed for the gate.
A gaggle of reporters camped at the entrance, snapping pictures of him striding toward the security checkpoint. Shouted questions bombarded him all around, and angry-looking National Guardsmen kept the reporters back. Ethan flashed his badge and made his way through security as fast as possible, escaping down the terminal and leaving behind the madness of the media.
Jack had texted him that morning, a selfie he’d taken in bed right as he woke up. Tomorrow, I wake up with you next to me. <3
He never knew how to respond to Jack’s effortlessly loving texts. He was more used to men sending him dick pics and stats, not countdowns until they saw each other again and joyous smiles. But he loved it, every single bit, and he’d sent back a pic of his packed duffel with a thumbs-up. He’d been packed for days.
His natural gruffness kept people away from him as he sat outside a coffee shop at a bistro table across from his gate while he waited. A man he recognized from every one of his flights showed up at the gate within three minutes, his eyes flicking to Ethan once and then away. He stayed at Ethan’s right, ninety degrees off, inside twenty yards. Smiling, Ethan stared down at his coffee cup. Same guy, every flight, back and forth from Des Moines to DC.
He knew a fellow federal agent when he saw one. Seemed he had a shadow.
Forty-five minutes later, they were boarding. Ethan got on first, since he was flying armed, and the mystery man followed not long after. The rest of the flight filed in, ignoring Ethan for the most part. He was up in first class, next to the window. Jack had paid to upgrade all his tickets from coach to first class, unbeknownst to Ethan at the time. He certainly couldn’t afford weekly first-class flights. But Jack had paid for the upgrades, and it was almost like they were splitting the cost.
He sent Jack a selfie of him on the plane. [soon!]
As they were taxiing to the runway, his cell buzzed. A reply from Jack: a long line of Xs and Os and a dozen smiley faces.
Washington DC
Twenty thousand people had been granted tickets through the National Tree’s Holiday Lottery, and they swelled into President’s Park on the Ellipse, just south of the White House. The National Tree lived on the Ellipse, and for the past month, had been spruced and trimmed by the Park Service and decked out to the nines. It was ready for its big moment.
Each year, the president was supposed to pick a theme for the National Tree, and for the surrounding fifty-six smaller trees. Themes were usually decided in February, and an army of engineers worked all year long to bring that theme to life. Jack had initially decided to go with a “’Twas the Night Before Christmas” theme.
But then, Madigan had struck. The nation, and the world, had reeled. Shock had gripped everyone, the very real threat of a nuclear attack striking their homeland oh-so-narrowly averted.
Too many had been lost to terror and to war, for decades. Too many deaths and shattered lives. Jack had experienced all of that horror, all of that fear, the devastation when someone he loved had been ripped away by terror and evil in the world, and he wasn’t going to let a single other p
erson feel the way he’d felt. Not if he could do something about it.
He’d started three months ago, building support for an international coalition to strike against the Caliphate in the Near East. Russia’s return and President Puchkov’s offer had surprised him, but Puchkov’s proposal to combine their military forces in the operation was solid. He was making an honest offer for an alliance, a partnership between their nations that could change the world.
He and Puchkov would be at the UN next week, presenting to the world their proposed resolution for combat operations. If everything went right, by the end of the year, he and President Puchkov would be leading the fight to clear the world of darkness and terror.
It was another in the long line of actions and causes he’d thrown himself into over the years, a way to honor and memorialize his wife’s death and her sacrifice in the war. Something he could do to help the world.
Action was one way to honor the fallen. Memorials and memories were another. After Madigan, Jack had ordered a change in theme for the National Tree. Gone was the cute children’s story.
Instead, the tree had been outfitted with a white LED for every life that had been lost to terror attacks around the world for that year. On the smaller surrounding trees, red, white, and blue lights twinkled for every member of the armed forces lost over the past two decades, broken out by state and territory. And, stretching under the snow on the South Lawn, long lines of ghostly lights twinkled for the civilian lives lost in the tumult of the wars and occupations.
It was an odd evening, a celebration that had historically been festive and full of fun made heavier, more solemn, at times. Jack listened to the singers perform a mix of Christmas songs and memorials that had people dancing one moment and wiping away tears the next. The stage was outfitted with red, white and blue, and gold and green, and snow still blanketed the park and the White House. His breath fogged in front of his face, but the night was clear and crisp. The crowd blazed with life and energy.