“And maybe you should have, but that doesn’t make it okay for her to come in here and take what has clearly been a bad day out on you.”
Shaw mutters a curse, head hanging heavy with shame. “You’re right. I’m sorry, Morgan.”
The other agent shrugs. “It’s okay.”
I gesture to the armchairs in front of my desk. “Sit down and take a load off, Shaw. You too, Morgan.”
Within seconds, we’re all seated and staring at the ceiling. I’m thinking about how awful it’ll be to go back to the White House knowing there’s not even the slightest chance I’ll catch a glimpse of Cal’s broad shoulders or Beck’s bald head in the halls. I miss them so much it hurts, and today, for the few hours I spent with Isis and Imani, that ache was bearable. Now it’s back in full effect.
“What happened in your meeting that put you in such a bad mood?” I ask Shaw, hoping that hearing her problems will distract me from mine.
Of course, I’m not that lucky.
“I was formally reprimanded for taking the trip to Kentucky without clearing it with the higher-ups,” she mutters.
“Shit. I’m sorry.” The apology is genuine as is the worry that slices through me seconds later. “Is your job in jeopardy?”
I wouldn’t be able to live with myself if I were the reason for someone else losing their job. Especially if that someone is Agent Shaw. She’s been nothing but a source of support for me since taking over my security, and I would feel awful if her kindness was rewarded with a trip to the unemployment line.
“No.” She sinks further down into her seat. “At least not yet.”
“What does that mean?” Morgan asks, stealing the question straight from my mind.
Shaw blows out a harsh breath. “It means they’ve started outsourcing our jobs, Morgan. Can you believe that?” She laughs, but the sound is bitter and full of anger. “I work my ass off for twenty years to get here, and as soon as the world is used to the idea of a Black, female Secret Service agent, they decide to change the rules so any motherfucker who knows how to hold a gun can walk in off the street and guard the President of the United fucking States.”
I’m trying my best to follow her rant, but there aren’t enough details. I rest my elbows on the edge of the desk, squinting at Shaw like the context I need is going to appear in a bubble over her head.
“Elaborate, please.”
She rights herself in the chair, sitting up straight and linking her fingers together over her stomach. “Your husband has a new security detail. They carry our government-issued weapons and wear our fucking badges, but they are not Secret Service agents.”
“That doesn’t make any sense,” Morgan says. “We hold federal positions. Anyone tasked with guarding the President would have to go through the hiring requirements and training protocols.”
“Right, and according to Director Evans, they have.”
Sal Evans—the director of the Secret Service—has never struck me as a particularly honest man. His dark hair is always greasy and he has the kind of smile that warns you to never leave a drink unattended when he’s around.
“But you don’t believe him?”
Shaw stares at me for a long second, contemplating the question, then shakes her head. “No. I talked to the new heads of Aubrey’s detail, and I’ve only seen them once before: on the day Drake and Beckham were fired.”
Images of strange men rushing into the sitting hall and pinning Cal and Beck to the floor flash in my mind. My stomach turns when I remember the way light reflected off leather boots as they dug into skin and muscle, threatening to crack bone. I’d put that part out of my mind, forcing myself to forget the way the fibers of the carpet bit into my skin when I got on my knees and begged two strangers for the lives of the men I love.
Agent Shaw had been the one to lift me from the ground, and it was her team that came in and deescalated the situation Aubrey was content to let turn deadly. Shaw stayed with me, escorting me to my room, while Morgan and the rest of the team separated Beck and Cal from Aubrey and his henchmen.
“You’re sure it’s the same men?”
There’s a hint of desperation in my tone. I would give anything not to be in the same room with those men again, but if Shaw is right and Aubrey has hired them, then I won’t have a choice.
“I’m sure,” she says. “They even remembered me, thanked me for helping them ‘take out the trash’.”
Morgan visibly bristles. “What’d you say to that?”
“Nothing. I changed the subject, asked them how they managed to score the Presidential detail when I’ve never heard of them.”
I’ve always enjoyed Shaw’s bluntness and find myself releasing a small huff of amusement. “Did they tell you?”
“Of course not. They just spouted off some bullshit about me never hearing of them because I wasn’t on the short list for the President’s detail.”
