To me.
“Sorry,” I say. “What?”
My chief of staff bites back her obvious irritation that I wasn’t paying attention. “The sit-down with the MSNBC film crew tomorrow evening. You and the First Spouse. Are you still okay with doing that in light of what happened yesterday? We can reschedule, if you’d prefer.”
Jordan’s left eyebrow arches and he stands motionless, watching, looking for any cue from me to let him be the one to kill it so I don’t have to take the PR hit.
It was scheduled a couple of weeks ago, if I recall correctly. “How long is it, again?”
“No more than thirty minutes. Up in the residence. A fluff piece about life in the White House now that you’re out and married, all of that. Part of a series they’re doing interviewing and highlighting past First Families and how things have changed over the decades.”
“No, don’t cancel it. We’ll hold it downstairs, not up in the residence.” I have my reasons for that, the first being that the Executive Residence is my only true refuge, aside from Camp David. If it’s a special to highlight holiday decorations, or the architecture, or the building’s history, that’s different because I’m not the owner of this residence. Or if Leo was at full strength and able to fully hold his own, I’d let it happen up there.
But if they want to poke at us because my hubby’s a clutz, and no doubt there will be mention made of that, they can interview us downstairs in the public area.
“Preferably not in here or anywhere in the West Wing,” I add. “Under the circumstances I prefer to not have anyone upstairs unless they have a legit reason to be there. Don’t want to worry about candid shots of Leo limping around hitting the wires with FNB snarking about the matching First Gimps, or bullshit like that. Plus if Leo needs to leave early he can retreat to the residence and I can finish the interview. Besides, this interview isn’t technically work-related. I’d rather film it next door instead of over here.” Unlike some previous presidents, I try to separate my work and personal lives.
I mean, the public aspects of my life, obviously. Not counting things like fucking Jordan.
Shut up.
Leo and I have had more than our share of serious health issues. Just because we’re public figures doesn’t mean the public has a right to know every little secret about our bodies or what we’ve endured.
“Set it up in the Library,” Casey-Marie orders and points at one of the staffers. The staffer nods and take notes. “It’s cozy enough in there to feel intimate,” Casey-Marie adds. “Unlike the Red Room or Green Room, we won’t need to plan for color adjustments. Fox and FNB will be pissy enough as it is about the exclusive. We don’t hand them a freebie to take potshots about Mr. Cruz looking excessively red-faced or green in the gills.”
“Yes, ma’am,” the staffer says as a soft wave of laughter circles the room.
This meeting feels like it’s dragging but I know that’s due more to me and my preoccupation than the meeting itself. Unfortunately, not a good preoccupation, like I’d hoped. Not because I’m eager to get to the “fucking Jordan over my desk” part of my morning.
But because now that my mind’s on Belyaevskin it tenaciously refuses to move on to other subjects.
Even subjects as wonderful as fucking Jordan.
See? I can focus on work when I try hard.
After Casey-Marie dismisses everyone she waits until it’s only her, me, and Jordan in the Oval and the doors have all been closed.
“Where’s your head at today, Mister President? And why’s Jordan subby today? Spill it.”
Jordan’s cheeks go adorably pink but he defers to me.
“The second part is, no offense, private,” I say. “As for the first part…” I point at the sofas and we all sit. “This obviously doesn’t leave this room.” I read them in on what I know about the Russian.
Casey-Marie lets out a low whistle when I finish. “That’s sus as fuck.”
“No shit,” I say. “Both of you, without letting Leo catch wind of this, obviously, start beating your respective bushes for any potential info. Anyone with ties to the Family bragging about a new angel donor, new religious PAC being started, that kind of thing. I don’t like the way my Spidey senses are tingling.” Jordan slowly nods. “What?” I ask.
“You won’t like this.”
“Say it anyway.”
“I’ll focus on Stellis,” he says. “No, I have no direct information at this time, but we should definitively rule them in or out, if possible. I think I remember there being a Russian connection in Ellis’ orbit. I’ll go back through my memory banks and see if I can figure that part out.” By that he probably means secret notes he’s kept that aren’t part of public record.
“Thanks.”
“I’ll see what George can dig up,” Casey-Marie says. “He’s working on developing deep connections of his own. I’ll also touch base with Benchley Evans. That old dog still has a lot of tricks in him, as well as intel.”
“Good idea.” I stand, and they both stand with me as a matter of habit and protocol even though we’re alone in here.
