I wish the third was.
With the party nowin full swing, I stand in the wings off-stage, leaning against the wall, my hands crossed over my chest and a smile on my face. Shae looks radiant tonight, and she’s damn well earned this.
Poor Chris, I don’t envy him at all in this moment. He’s uncomfortable being in the spotlight like this, and I see how he always looks for me, catches my eye, his every look saying he’d rather be upstairs andprivately celebrating this. At least his brother, sister-in-law, and nieces and nephew get to be here for this and share this with us.
While we have a large, private suite awaiting us upstairs, just as Elliot and his team have one on the same floor, what I haven’t told them is I won’t be joining them. Not yet.
I have someplace to go first. I’m now the chief of staff to President-Elect Samuels,and as of tomorrow morning my life will devolve into an insanity that will make me long for a return to the sheer lunacy of a presidential campaign.
Once Shae’s given her victory speech, before the party really kicks off, I tip my head when Chris catches my gaze. I turn and walk out into the service corridor and he follows me a moment later.
“I’ll be up later,” I tell him as I glance at my personalphone. I’m awaiting a reply to a text I sent a few minutes ago. “I need to go someplace first,” I add.
He scowls as he formulates a safe question. He’s as aware of the Secret Service agents as I am—maybe more. I’m more worried about others who are coming and going, the countless staff.
We’re too visible here, so we can’t risk anything anyone can overhear, or catch sight of.
And that’s the wayI want it.
“Where?” he finally asks.
“Errand.” I smile. “Or do I need permission?”
“Asshole,” he breathes.
I’ll pay for that snark later, I know it.
And I’ll enjoy it, too.
“You deserve to be upstairs tonight,” he softly says. “Iwantyou there.”
“I will be. Later. It’ll take you that long to get rid of everyone, anyway.” I smile. “But, thanks toyou, buddy, I have just been giventheworstfucking job in Washington. And I need to start doing that job, rightnow. By tomorrow, I won’t be able to dothisthing.”
It needs to be under the radar. Starting tomorrow morning, I’ll be dragging a gaggle of reporters around behind me everywhere I go, or at least sparking speculation about anyone I happen to be seen talking to.
He finally nods. “Okay.” He pulls me in for a hug, and I knowno one can hear the way he breathes, “I love you,” in my ear.
“I know.” I’m smirking as I step back, and I know from the lopsided squint he gives me that the snarky comment in response to his heartfelt statement is good for at least another five strokes later.
Yay.
I turn and head down the corridor.
When an agent falls in with me, I drop my voice. “I need to free-range tonight for a few hours,then I’ll come back here. It’s for work. I’ll give you the address where I’m going, in case you need it. Private residence, close friend.”
He lets out a grumble that indicates he’s not happy, but since I’m not the candidate or the first spouse, and I’m covered more by the blanket of their detail than I am a dedicated detail of my own, he knows he can’t stop me from doing it.
“Do you have anETA for your return, sir?”
“By five a.m., I’m sure. Unless you want to send a car for me?”
Another unhappy grumble. “Let me have the address, please. And yes, we’ll send you a car. Text me about thirty minutes before, sir.”
“Thanks.” I get his cell number and give him the address, which he types into his phone, and then he hails me an actual cab. Before I get in, I pat my pocket to make sureI have my keys with me. It’s a cold, rainy November night here in DC, where they’re used to less than ideal November days. The dreary weather in this region didn’t dampen voter turnout. Early voting saw record numbers, fortunately, and that helped us a lot.
By the time I’ve finished the brief pit stop I’ve asked the driver to make, and I’m back in the cab and on my way to my destination, my personalcell rings.
Thiscall I answer, when I’ve sent nearly every other call that’s hit my personal cell tonight to voice mail. “What time will you be home?” I ask without preamble. I know she signed off the air from their election night coverage about twenty minutes ago. They’ll bring in the scrubs for the cleanup operation now that Fullmer’s conceded. It’s not exciting anymore, and the East Coastis heading to bed with the winner determined.
