Chapter Twenty-Five
Shae clinching the official party nomination means she is now officially under full Secret Service protection. That kicks our detail into full-blown territory and puts dozens—or more—of eyes on us at any given time. Good luck with sneaking in any playtime in her Senate office, or anywhere else that isn’t behind a locked bedroom door.
And even then, it’llbe tough.
There’s no rest, though. The three of us and Leo fly out of Memphis as soon as we can leave the convention Sunday night. Our other staffers will leave early in the morning to make their way back to DC. By two a.m. we’re home at the townhouse in DC, where we’re so exhausted that we collapse without playing or sex or anything.
Monday morning, I’m at the campaign offices with Chris whileShae and her protective detail have already been making the rounds of morning TV shows in DC. Leo’s with her, though, so I’m not worried. I had a ton of shit to do today, calls to return, e-mails to send, and I needed to be in the office. I don’t have the luxury of sleeping late, and neither does Shae. We need to keep running, relentless, and drive Fullmer into the ground with our persistence.We need him chasing us and unable to catch up, a grueling, cross-country campaign appearance schedule he can’t hope to match at his age.
We don’t ignore flyover states, either. With Elliot’s help, we hit every state at least once, and focus on more than just the swing states. Shae can multi-task like a motherfucker, too. It’s not uncommon for her to make a campaign stop in the morning and appearon the floor for a Senate vote in the afternoon.
We paint Fullmer as ancient, out-of-touch, and unable to keep up with the vigorous demands of the office. If Shae can run him into the ground like this, it’s only a lucky stroke Fullmer hasn’t been tasked with more stressful crises in his first term.
The special agent now in charge of organizing our detail is here, too, meeting with Chris aboutlogistics for the campaign office, the townhouse, and our staff. The lead agent’s name is John, and he’s a guy Chris is friends with and used to work with. It’s not just John—he has two other agents with him, and Chris knows them, of course.
“When do we choose our official code names?” I ask. We didn’t have code names before because we had a minimal detail.
“Oh, they’ve already been selected,”John tells us. He wears a smile I can’t interpret.
Chris’ smart-assed smirk makes me struggle to keep my erection at bay. “So whatareour code names?” Chris asks.
John grins. “Hellloooo, Princess.”
I don’t even bother to disguise my cackle as Chris’ eyes widen. “No.” He sounds torn between shock and horror.
The other two agents giggle.
Actually fuckinggiggle.
Chris looks at them, thenback to John. “Comeon. Tell me you’re fucking with me!”
John smiles and shrugs. “WHCA ran it by Portia, and she green-lit it.”
“Portia?”
“The Merchant of Venice,” I say, knowing I’m literally risking my ass later. “One of her favorite plays.” I know my girl. The time I spend with her not in campaign mode isn’t just spent fucking. I wanted to get to learn her, inside and out.
Because I loveher.
Chris firmly shakes his head. “I amnotspending the next four to eight years known asPrincess.”
“Well, it was either that, orPumpkin,” John says. “We all agreed it’s easier for us to keep a straight face overPrincessthan it isPumpkin.”
Chrisliterallyface-palms. “Weget to pick our own code names,” Chris says.
“Not this time, sir. You’ve been overruled by the candidate.”
I knowa certain senator who will go to sleep tonight with a very red and sore ass.
John’s smile widens. “I suggest you take it up with your wife,sir.” The man is loving thehellout of this.
I’d be lying if I said it didn’t amuse me, too.
Chris’ hand still covers his face. “What’shiscode name?” he hooks his other thumb in my general direction.
“Prophet.”
I laugh out loud, and I’m pretty sureI can guess with reasonable certainty the identity of a second person who will go to bed tonight with a very sore ass.
