Might not be such a favorable opinion if the public learns he shares a bed with the First Couple, though.
Crossing the room again, I catch sight of Chris’ eyes barely cracked open as he stares at me. He lets out a soft warning grumble.
“Sorry, boss,” I whisper, knowing he can probably hear me and, if he can’t, he can read my lips, even in that light. “NatSec.”
Another soft grumble before his eyes close again.
I round the bed and lay my right hand on Kev’s shoulder, my left retrieving his glasses from the nightstand, ready to pass them to him.
If it was Shae lying there, I would gently shake her.
I never shake Kev.
We’ve discovered he has PTSD from the shooting, even though he hasn’t sought help for that. Chris warned me about it two months after the shooting.
Instead, I gently squeeze his shoulder while rubbing with my thumb. “Prophet,” I softly say. “Watch Team needs you and Portia downstairs in the SitRoom.”
His eyes pop open and he’s already holding out his hand for his glasses as he sits up, now wide awake. He’s naked, I’m pretty sure. The covers puddle around his waist, exposing the scars along his abdomen from the shooting and resulting surgery that saved his life.
This sudden awareness of his despite how heavily he sleeps always amazes me. It’s rare that a civvie who’s never had military or first responder training can awaken this quickly. His years as a journalist prepped him for certain situations the way Chris’ years in the Secret Service prepared him. Mine, too.
“What happened?” Kev asks as he seats his glasses on his face.
“The Stupid Leader played target practice with a Global Hawk drone. Brass needs to brief her. NSA’s inbound now.”
Stupid Leaderis our private nickname for the current little fucker running North Korea. He’s been a massive pain in Shae’s ass to the point the public should be glad Kev is Shae’s chief of staff. He alone has kept her from declaring war on the little fucker.
Andthelittle fuckeris also another commonly used private nickname of ours for the guy.
I put the mug of coffee I’ve already prepared the way Kev likes in his hand.
“Fuck. There goes our Sunday.” Kev takes a sip and turns while I reach for Shae’s mug. “Wakey-wakey, sweetheart. Duty calls.” He tugs the comforter down from her face, to her shoulders.
“Nooo,” she groans, trying to pull the comforter back up.
I see Chris’ arm move under the comforter and then Shae lets out a painedyipas she jumps.
“Ow! Motherfucker!” She shoots a glare at him over her shoulder.
His eyes are closed but the corners of his mouth have quirked up in an evil smile. “Keep talking, sweetheart,” he rumbles. “I’ll gladly add more cane strokes to tonight’s total that you’ll owe me.”
“Goddammit.” She finally sits up, holding the sheet around her as she reaches for the mug of coffee. “This is so goddamned unfair,” she mutters. “It’s fucking Sunday.”
Now that both of them are sitting up and talking, I step away from the bed. “I’ll wait out there.”
“Thanks, Leo,” Kev says. “Give us ten. Please let them know we’re on the way.”
“Yes, sir. Thank you.”
I’m turning to leave when Kev switches on his nightstand lamp, bringing another groan of protest from Shae. I let myself out and use the phone in the private living room to tell the SitRoom that Portia and Prophet will be downstairs shortly. Then I head to the private kitchen to refill my travel mug with coffee, which I left in there when I prepared theirs.
The bedroom door opens eight minutes later. Kev and Shae emerge looking wide awake. They’re both dressed in jeans. She’s wearing a collared, short-sleeved knit shirt with the presidential seal emblazoned on the left chest. Kev’s wearing a button-down and a tie.
“Good morning, Madam President, Mr. Markos.”
“Good morning, Leo,” she says, our daily charade beginning.
I fall into step with them as we head for the stairs, Secret Service falling in behind us, and I give Shae and Kev what little info I have.
