“Sorry, ma’am,” I mutter.
I can’t help it. She’s older than me, and she’s a Domme. It’s instinctive.
But that makes her smirk so I try to suck in a breath and shove down my growing panic.
“Your two goobers were apparently so eager to get freaky that they ripped their clothes off each other on the way up the stairs and left them where they fell. The stairwell light at the townhouse is burned out. Later, post-spanking and fucking and whatever-ing, Leo wasn’t paying attention on his way down the stairs. He tripped and fell. Blacked out for a sec—”
“Leoblackedout?”
She glares.
“Sorry, ma’am.”
“He smacked his stubborn noggin’, wrenched his back, and fucked up his knee. Jordan panicked but Leo came to before the boy could scream for the detail. Leo made Jordan call George, who in turn called Kev. George and Kev quickly arrived in short order, and they helped Jordan get Leo vertical, dressed, and cleaned up their freaking portadungeon gear. They’re telling Secret Service about it any minute now. That way, the timeline looks right. They’ll likely transport Leo to Walter Reed to check him out, X-ray his knee, and run through a concussion protocol with him.
“The official story that will be told to the detail, and what I’ll have Angie put out in a prepared statement, is that George, Kev, Leo, and Jordan were shooting the shit, playing cards, and having some beers, and they noticed the stairwell bulb was burned out. They’ll say Leo volunteered to change the bulb, he lost his balance, and fell off the ladder.Don’tfreak out, all right?”
I blink as I stare at her. “My husband fell off a ladder, they’re going to say he was drunk, it’ll be the lead story on all the news crawlers in about fifteen minutes, and you’re telling menotto freakout?”
“Well, it could be worse.” She smiles. “At least it’s not your body man who’ll be down for the count for a couple of weeks or longer. And it’s not a scandal Ily will castrate the three of you over.”
Well, thank god for that, I suppose. “I—” A knock on the outer door interrupts me. “What?” I yell.
Stephen Lyman, the head of my protective detail, opens the door. He definitely looks less than happy to deliver this news. He steps inside and closes the door behind him. “Mister President, I need to speak with you, please.” He glances at Casey-Marie.
“Just say it,” I snap. “You can say anything in front of her.”
Hell, she already knows.
He takes a deep breath. “Please stay calm, sir. Mr. Cruz is fine, but—”
“What happened?” I glare at Casey-Marie, who’s smirking as we both stand.
He tells me nearly the identical story Casey-Marie just told me—the official version, natch—and I force myself to remember I’m supposedly hearing all this for the first time.
“But is Leo okay?” I ask when he finishes.
“He’s alert and talking and extremely unhappy that the paramedics insist he be strapped to a backboard and transported in an ambulance instead of in a regular vehicle. But just to be safe, they’re treating it as if he’s got a concussion. Mr. Markos, Governor Forrester, and Mr. Walsh say they believe Mr. Cruz blacked out for a couple of seconds when he fell. We’re transporting him to Walter Reed because Mr. Cruz refuses to, in his words, tie up a civvie hospital when he’s obviously not dying.”
“I want to leave.Now.”
“Yes, sir. We’re preparing the motorcade. We’ll be ready to leave in five.”
“Thank you. I’ll be right there.”
“Thank you, Mister President.” He departs, closing the door.
Once we’re alone again, Casey-Marie hands me her personal cell phone. “It’s already ringing.”
I snatch it from her and anxiously wait.
Leo answers. “Hello?”
“What. The. Actual. Fuck?”
“Oh, hi there, pet. Have I got a funny story to tell you—”
“Goddammit, Leo! Are you all right?”
