by Skylar Cross
Yet here I am.
Eating breakfast in the private little kitchen off to the side of the Oval Office.
I like it here. Almost nobody knows about this little room. One little window that looks out onto a sliver of the Rose Garden. One table, one chair, and a countertop with two cabinets full of dishes and eating utensils. Private and spare. Functional. Just like how I like to live my life.
Or used to live my life, I should say.
It took a while to adjust to the constant attention to every little move I make.
Sometimes I wonder if I made the right choice to accept the VP nomination. But I always come back to the same conclusion…if not me, then who?
I sip my coffee.
President Davis Mitchell surely didn’t expect to die. If he had known, he wouldn’t have picked me.
I’m only thirty-seven years old. A child in political circles. The boy king. I can’t count how many times ancient eyes have rolled when I walk into a room.
Nobody, least of all me, can believe the situation in which I find myself. Living in the White House since the real President and First Lady were killed by a car bomb right here in Washington, DC.
“Fuck,” I say out loud.
No, I can’t use that word anymore. Not even alone here in this kitchen. I have to remember that. I’m the leader of the free world. I need to act…and think…like a leader.
I sign off on the Daily Briefing. Still no news on Unit Ten. Twenty-one Special Ops soldiers vanished. Missing. Just plain gone. Good men, men with families. Twenty-one empty seats at kitchen tables. Kids asking “Where’s Daddy?” Wives…now maybe widows…just waiting...and hoping...and waiting some more.
Nobody is accepting responsibility, but I know Haranth in Angara is involved. Plus Solvane. If push comes to shove, I’m going to have to send in ground troops, a thought that sickens me. In the meantime, I have the Secretary of State going through diplomatic channels. Like that ever works with Haranth in Angara. And Solvane officially doesn’t exist.
I sip my coffee, then take a bite of my two boiled eggs on wheat toast, no butter.
As I bite into my toast, I look at the clock. Almost seven-thirty. I scarf down my breakfast, then take my coffee with me as I get up and go the door that leads into the Oval Office.
I take a deep breath as the second-hand ticks up to twelve.
I turn the knob and open the door.
And the day begins.
CHAPTER FIVE
Harrison
“Mr. President,” says Annalise Williams as I step into the Oval Office. “Good morning.”
“Good morning, Annalise,” I say.
She’s in a springy pastel yellow suit today. My Chief-of-Staff is a little hefty but curvy in all the right places. Much older than me. Heck, everyone around here is older than me.
But she has luscious dark skin, sultry black hair, big beautiful eyes, and thick sexy lips. If she were twenty years younger, not happily married with grown kids, and I wasn’t the President, I’d seduce her.
“Talk to me,” I say.
“Situation in Angara is on the uptick. Haranth has moved his forces.”
I sit down, careful to place my coffee on the special coaster I brought in so I don’t spill anything on the famous desk. I wish I could stay in my private kitchen instead of this showpiece office where I always feel on display. I take a pen and scribble some notes on a legal pad.
“Good,” I say. “Keep me informed.”
“Secretary of State Lewis is having dinner about right now with Angela Merkel in Berlin. She says she has a plan to locate Unit Ten. I’ll let you know how that goes.”
“Fine. Not holding my breath there.”
She shuffles some papers in her folder. “Yes, Mr. President.”
“Annalise.”
“Yes, Mr. President?”
“Annalise, call me Harry...please.”
She takes a breath, holds it for a beat, and lets it out. “Yes, Mr…sir…Harry.”
“Now, what about the Dreynauld matter?”
“We still haven’t located any sign of him. Good news is that Director Kinsey says he doesn’t think Dreynauld got away with anything that important.”
I nod. “Just make sure we get him alive.”
“Yes...Mr...Har-ry.”
I put my pen down and lean forward. “Annalise, I have to say something. I know it’s been a rough six months. We seem to be finally getting into a little semblance of normalcy, if there is such a thing after President Mitchell’s…well, you know.”
Annalise just nods.
“And,” I continue, “you have been amazing. You signed on to work for a different man. I am not President Mitchell. His choosing me was a great honor. But he and I differed on many issues. I hope you understand that I’m going to begin doing things in a way that maybe President Mitchell wouldn’t.”
Annalise is about to say something, then stops herself and puts on a forced smile.
We stay like that for a long moment.
“And?” she says.
“And nothing,” I say. “That’s it. I just wanted you to know…and to thank you.”
“Well, if that’s all, Mr. President.”
“Harry.”
Her nostrils flare and she sits up. “With all due respect, you just made a statement of what you’re going to do. I reserve the right to do so as well. I wish to call the Commander-in-Chief Mr. President and not by his first name. That’s how I’m going to do things.”
I smile. Gotta love her tenacity. “Of course, Annalise. Oh, there is one other thing.”
“Yes, Mr. President?”
“I want to talk with Valdovar…alone.”
Her eyes go super-wide then very narrow, shoulders tensing up. “Mr. President, that is absolutely impossible.”
I sip my coffee. “Then make it possible.”
“I…you…you just can’t—“
“Why not? He’s three miles away across the river. Nobody even knows we have him. The world thinks he’s dead.”
“Valdovar is a criminal, an enemy of the state. We couldn’t allow the press to even get a whiff that the President would visit a known terrorist…nor that you personally knew him.”
“Annalise, I know about Solvane. I know that you know about Solvane. You’re right that Valdovar is an enemy of the state, but I only knew him as my opponent in Afghanistan. He worked for Solvane. He knows Solvane. He knows how Solvane works. I need to look into his eyes. I need to ask him something. And there is nothing unusual about the President of the United States visiting the Pentagon.”
“Yes, there is. The President rarely visits the Pentagon.”
“Well, this one does.”
“But if the press even suspects—“
“Fuck the press. Sorry. I mean, I don’t care about the press. If they can’t figure out that I’m not your typical elected President, then that’s their problem.”
She laughs. “Oh, they’ve figured that out already.” I let that slide. “What is it you want to ask Valdovar?”
“About Unit Ten.”
“Mr. President, as your Chief-of-Staff, it is my responsibility to—”
“To what? Babysit me? Annalise, Valdovar isn’t talking. Nobody is ever going to be able to get him to talk. But maybe I can. It’s worth a try. Twenty-one men’s lives hang in the balance.”
Her nostrils flare. “You think you can do just about anything, don’t you?”
“Annalise, set it up for this afternoon, please.”
“Fine.”
“Do you have anything else for me?”
“Don’t forget about the Concert for ALS Research at the Lincoln Center tonight at eight. You have a meet-and-greet with Bono and Paul McCartney before the show at seven-forty-five so we’ll leave here at seven-thirty.”
“Fine. That’s it?”
“Yes.” She gets up to go. “Oh wait, no. One more thing. Speaker Boylan is waiting to see you.”
Shit. “God, no. Tell h
im I’m busy.”
She smirks and turns to the door. “Fine.”
Once she opens the door, Speaker of the House Al Boylan bursts through it and past her as she’s muttering something under her breath.
“I need to talk to you,” says the old prick in his holier-than-thou tone.
“What, did you have a glass to the door?” I say as I catch a nauseating whiff of Scotch and stale cigarettes.
“Look, young man, you don’t tell me you can’t see me. I’ve been in Washington for forty years.”
“Really? Hadn’t noticed.”
I casually take another sip of my coffee.
“I’ve earned the right to go where I want!” he says. “I’m certainly not going to let some whipper-snapper who’s barely out of diapers to push me around. Word is you’re going to veto my spending bill.”
I laugh. “Your spending bill? You’re actually taking credit for that piece of pork fat? It’s nothing but subsidies for all your cronies. I don’t play that game, Al.”
He squints, trying to look tough. He can’t quite pull it off with his large belly and Just-for-Men hair color.
“You will not veto that bill,” he stammers, a little pod of spittle forming at the corner of his mouth.
“Better be careful,” I say. “You’re going to be frothing soon.”
“Huh?”
I grab the thick blue folder containing the spending bill from the corner of my desk and drop it directly in front of him.
Looking directly into his eyes, I say, “Take it back to the House and start over or I promise you I’ll veto it.”
He’s about to say something, holds back, then swipes the folder so it goes crashing onto the carpet sending papers flying everywhere. Then he turns and storms out.
“Oh, and that’s mature,” I say, but he ignores me and keeps going.
I pick up the papers with the help of my new secretary, Claire, who seems much too nervous around me. Once we’re done, I sit in my chair alone and stare out at the Washington Monument.
I try picturing Valdovar in his cell and how I’m going to play this.
I need to think, but my brain is clogged. I need to clear it.
I take the burner phone that Chase, the head of the Secret Service, gave to me. I flip it open, go to “Contacts” and stare at the number of the burner phone at the other end. I go to “Messaging,” type four words, and allow my thumb to hover over the SEND button.
Some people meditate to clear their brains. Doesn’t work for me. Others drink or do drugs. I don’t like either; they dull my senses too much.
So what do I do to clear my head? Something I haven’t been able to do much of since inheriting this life: fuck hot girls. Helps me to function. Always has.
It was easy when I was in the service. There was always one around ready to impale herself on a man in uniform.
Now, it’s practically impossible. Regardless of what one would believe, not even the President can sneak hot girls into The White House for afternoon romps. Kennedy got away with it, but he was the last one. Since Clinton, the leader of the free world isn’t allowed to have a sexual thought. Even if he’s young, single, and horny.
So I had Chase set something up for me. He’s like me; he gets it. We served together once, both part of a rescue mission in the South China Sea. When I became President, I immediately requested him to run the Secret Service.
Now he sets up very secret trips to a fetish club run by a mysterious woman who thinks I’m a lobbyist.
Ha!
I get a flash of that beautiful girl I met last night. Her lips around my cock. Ramming her throat. God, she was gorgeous. Who was she?
I need to see her again.
I need to fuck her.
Normally, when I’m done with a girl, I’m done. But when we had to leave, I told Chase we didn’t finish. And that she was the most gorgeous girl I had ever seen. He stayed behind and somehow got a burner phone into her hands.
And now I’m staring at the number.
Yes, I need to think, I need release. But there’s something more.
There was something special about that one. Those big eyes. Those fantastic lips. That tight little body in those jeans.
God, I need to see her again.
Should I?
My thumb circles the Send button like it’s stalking its prey.
But I take a deep breath and flip the phone shut.
CHAPTER SIX
Terissa
Who is the man in the mask?
I hate to say it, but that’s the thought most prevalent in my mind as I walk into the Jefferson Hotel. I should be focused on what I’m going to say to Dreynauld, but I keep getting flashes of that amazing thick cock in my mouth.
This is ridiculous.
The burner phone is in my purse. I should throw it away here. Right now.
But I just walk into the lobby and head toward the elevators.
As I pass the bar¸ I see a talking head show on the big-screen television. They’re discussing President Pierce’s press conference from yesterday regarding the tense situation in Angara.
As I press the button and wait for the elevator, I watch the sound-bite replay of the President in the White House Press Room.
I have to admit, he’s the most attractive President we’ve ever had. Deep bluish-green eyes under wavy black hair, a powerful square forehead, and dark brows. A strong nose over a serious mouth that sometimes breaks into a panty-melting smile when he looks directly into the camera. Chiseled chin over a muscular neck leading down to broad shoulders.
Every time there’s a press conference…and he likes giving them…every woman in America stops what she’s doing to watch.
The steely determination is strong in his eyes as he says in his gravelly masculine voice, “We are a proud nation. The United States of America will not give in to terrorism nor threats. We will bring our brave warriors home.”
The screen cuts to the two commentators, one Democrat and one Republican, who argue over what he said. Morons.
I get in the elevator and the doors close. I’m alone.
On your knees.
The masked man’s voice comes back to me in a rush. Warm heat spreads between my legs.
Not now, Terissa!
Why am I thinking about this now? What just triggered this?
Wait, I know that voice. I replay it in my head.
On your knees.
Shit, I know that voice! But I can’t quite place it.
I shake it off as the elevator reaches the fifth floor and the doors open.
I turn right, following the signs to Room 575. I knock.
I see someone check the peephole, then the door opens on its chain.
“Yes?” says a female voice.
“I’m here to talk about your brother, John,” I say.
This is a code phrase Judith gave to me via Senator Fremont. It means nothing, just in case anyone is listening. In Washington, people are listening and recording everywhere.
“John is dead,” says the female voice, throwing a response code phrase back at me.
“We have some information about his will that you might find enlightening. Please let me come in.”
There is a long pause, then the door shuts. I hear the bolt swing back and then the door opens. I step inside.
The door shuts and I am faced with the man I saw in the pictures, although he looks much more frazzled. He quickly locks and bolts the door again.
“Did anyone see you?” says Edouard Dreynauld. I’m about to answer but he interrupts me. “Of course, you can’t tell. You wouldn’t even know. Stupid of me to even ask.” His hands are trembling and his face is covered in sweat.
“Mr. Dreynauld,” I say, extending my hand. “I’m Terissa Ivers.”
“Don’t say my name out loud! Shit, now I have to change hotels. Fuck.”
He’s shaking so much that he drops the black device in his hand. I reach down to pick it up, but he gets there before me.
“Is that a voice changer?” I say.
“Yes.”
That explains the female voice I heard. “Okay, why don’t we sit down?”
“Fine.”
He’s practically in tears as we head over to the small round table by the window of the Edwardian-style room. The carpet is lavender with elaborate flowers woven into it.
He sits, placing his face in his hands. His right leg taps on the floor.
“Are you all right?” I say.
“No, I’m not all right! I’m about to die. I’m going to die. I don’t want to die!”
“Mr. Drey…sir, I’m here to help. We’re not going to let that happen.”
“You don’t know! You don’t know what’s at stake here! You don’t know these people! I’m nothing to them! They’ll kill me without even thinking about it!”
I lean forward, reach out and place a hand on his. The effect is stunning. He seems to freeze-frame in place.
“It’s going to be okay,” I say.
An eternity passes, then he nods.
I remove my hand and he moves again, returning to life.
“Thank you,” he says. “Thank you. I mean, I could have just pretended I didn’t see what I saw. I could just keep my mouth shut. Plenty of people at Langley just keep their mouths shut when they see shit. But I have to let someone know about this…I just have to!”
I nod, tilting my head as if to tell him to go on. I don’t want to interrupt his flow. He might shut down at any moment.
“I was in my cubicle at CIA Headquarters in Langley. Underground. Way underground. Working on a program commissioned by the Director. The program is…God, how do I say this?…illegal.”
I nod.
He grabs a tissue and blows his nose.
“I didn’t want to do anything illegal,” he says. “I’m not that guy. But when I saw the challenge of creating this program, I just couldn’t help myself. It was so exciting. I needed to do it! So I did. And I was testing it by hacking into someone’s computer, a higher up. A very higher-up.”
I nod. He blows his nose again.
“And what I found is that this higher-up person is involved in something very bad. Very very bad.”
“Do you have the files you saw?”