Commander in Chief

  “Patience, grasshopper,” he says, a smile touching his eyes before the somberness returns. “If all goes well, we’ll know soon enough.”

  “Oh, Matt, I hope this is it,” I say, wrapping my arms around him, pressing a kiss to his neck.

  I know how much he’s been looking forward to this, how every dead end has only doubled his resolution to keep his promise to his father.

  Later that weekend, I have my first official outing, and we’re heading to a summit. Matthew proposed a carbon tax for all carbon-emitting industries that have been polluting the very air we breathe for years. He says that their continuing to do so is not an option.

  He’s been discussing policy to me and in the meantime, I let my fingers wander along his abs, sliding along his hard stomach, to the thatch of hair underneath his belly button.

  “With India, however . . .” He trails off and one of his eyebrows rises ever so slowly as he glances down at me in total interest.

  I inch a bit closer and lean my head as I unzip him. He’s heavy and thick as I take him out. I curl my hands around the base of his shaft and lick the wetness at the tip, peering up to see him shut his eyes. I lick him more, and he exhales and opens his eyes, staring at me with an expression that is hot—completely raw—and the next instant his large hand is engulfing the back of my head, exerting pressure and urging me back down.

  40

  FBI NEWS

  Charlotte

  “Mr. President, the head of the FBI, Mr. Cox, wants to see you ASAP. They found him.”

  Matt’s gaze falls on Dale Coin like an axe, demanding more.

  “He’s got a presentation for you,” Coin adds.

  A mix of dread, fear, sorrow, and hope knot inside me as I realize what this means. “Oh my god,” I breathe. Coin is talking about President Law’s shooter.

  Matt’s eyes change; they fill with a fierce sparkling.

  “Let’s go.” On his feet, he marches down the hall with Dale and three other men, who are updating him on what’s going on.

  He pauses midway to the stairs, then cuts the distance back to me. He looks down at me, reading in my eyes how important it is to me. To the whole country. What it will mean to have justice shine.

  “Come with me,” he says.

  I exhale and nod in excitement, stepping beside him as we head to the Situation Room.

  Everyone watches as we enter. Matt’s gone from staring at the room to now staring at me in a completely intense manner. He stops only when everyone begins to greet him. He greets them back and tells me to sit down.

  They lower the lights—and then they’re out.

  The wall before us flashes, and an image of a man with a beard and light blond hair appears.

  “His name is Rupert Larson,” Cox says.

  Matt clenches his jaw. “Go on.”

  The pain in my heart becomes a sick and fiery gnawing as I listen intently.

  Matt stands and gets himself coffee, then he looks at the image, frowning very hard.

  “Age fifty-three now. Wanted for rape charges and drug abuse. Grew up in the system.”

  The muscle in the back of Matt’s jaw flexes relentlessly as sends me a look that tells me we need to fix that system.

  “Last seen in Georgia.”

  The images begin flicking on the wall, revealing the man with several different hairstyles and hair colors. We watch, silent. Sometimes Matt’s roiling dark eyes meet mine, and they look crisp and metallic, as cold as I feel.

  “Suffers from paranoia and delusions. Apparently he had some beef with President Law. At first addressed letters to him commending him on what a fine job he was doing. He claimed to be able to see the future—his murder. The letters stopped for years. We found one unsent letter detailing exactly how he would die. Three gunshots. He could only get two in before Secret Service caught him. He’s been running ever since.”

  Cox eyes him as Matt drains his coffee cup. He’s in control, but under the façade, I can feel the turmoil around him. He gives Cox a bleak, thick look, a look that could cause a lesser man to run and head for cover.

  “How can we be sure it’s him?” he asks. Voice cold.

  “The second unsent letter. A written confession—more like a gloating documentary. Signed.”

  The torment that flashes for a fraction of a second in Matt’s eyes stabs me in the chest.

  This is his dad’s killer. The man who took Lawrence Hamilton’s life and who’s been free for all these years. I get mad just thinking about it. As mad as I know Matt is, deep inside. His voice shows no evidence of that torment, or that anger, though, even with that lethal glimmer in his eyes. His face is a mask of stone as he meets Cox dead in the eye.

  “You know what to do.”

  He leads me out of the Situation Room with a hand pressed to the small of my back, and when we’re finally in his bedroom, I wrap my arms around him in impulse—feeling him pull me to him just as fiercely.

  “Think they’ll get him?” I whisper.

  “They better,” he hisses, his eyes fully open to me now, his face etched in pain. I grab his face as he grabs mine, kissing each other as if our lives depend on it, his kiss tasting of pain and hope, sorrow and fulfillment.

  One hour after Matt was briefed, every law enforcement agent in the country has now been informed of the case—and everyone has a face, a photo, and a name of the suspect. He’s earned himself a top spot in the country’s most-wanted list and is considered extremely volatile and dangerous.

  Matt meets with his mother, and they talk for over an hour. He had the FBI retrieve the scarf from the evidence files, and he gives it to her. She cries for a long time after.

  It’s 2 a.m. by the time we retire for bed, Matty already asleep, and Jack, though he likes sleeping by Matty’s door to guard him, seems to sense something’s up. He pads into our room as we’re stripping for bed, and leaps onto bed with us and barks for Matt’s attention.

  I pull up the covers and slip into my side, and I stroke Jack’s ears as he lies down as Matt approaches. Matt drops his lean, muscular naked body on his side of the bed and strokes his hand down Jack’s muzzle, then moves his hand to cover mine. I raise my eyes to his, and he looks at me, and I feel the look everywhere. It says all the things he is not saying.

  “I’m sorry,” I breathe, uncurling my other hand to reveal that I’m holding his father’s pin. I just haven’t been able to stop holding it all day.

  “I’m sorry too,” he rasps. That’s all he says.

  I slip my hands around his neck, pressing a kiss to his throat as we cuddle, Jack settling with a long sigh in between our legs.

  Five hours later, Matt is awakened to the news that Larson’s been captured.

  The criminal’s face is on the front page of every newspaper across the country. America rejoices. Though it only reopens the wound, for the memory becomes fresh for Matthew and his mother. I head with him and little Matt to the cemetery, three dozen white roses in our hands that we set on President Law Hamilton’s grave.

  “Rest in peace, Dad,” Matt says, leaving his roses after I set down mine. He raps his knuckles to the headstone, and a tear slips out of the corner of my eye.

  Matt Jr. steps up, setting his right in between ours. “West in peace, Gwandpapa.”

  He raps his knuckles like his dad did, and I part laugh, part sob.

  Matt smiles over Matty’s action, his eyes full of love for his son as he rumples his hair, scoops him up, and we head back to the motorcade. Matt quiet but at peace. The only one who can’t hold back the tears for my husband is me.

  41

  IMMEASURABLY

  Charlotte

  This fall, the primaries for the main parties have begun with much pomp, and I’ve watched on television, curious about which final contenders among the multiple options will win the nomination this time. I know that Matthew’s grandfather came to have a chat with him about him running as a Democrat or Republican this time around.

  “I respe
ctfully declined,” he told the press when rumors of the meeting started making the rounds.

  I wonder today when he’ll announce his intention to run for reelection.

  “Why do they all want to be Dad?”

  “Hmm?”

  I glance at Matthew Jr., the most adorable two-year-old you could ever know, with a head of dark hair, a toothy grin¸ and a Dennis-the-Menace attitude.

  “They all want to be pwesident.” He frowns menacingly.

  “Yes, because the president gets to make the important calls,” I tell him as we walk outside in the gardens.

  “I want my dad to be pwesident,” he states simply.

  “Yes, he is the pwesident.”

  “I don’t want to leave home.” His voice cracks, and I stroke the top of his head. Has he overheard someone talk?

  “Home is where we are all together, no matter where that is,” I assure him.

  But my son’s words follow me throughout the day. I think about what it would be like to start fresh. A part of me finds it relieving, to be able to have a bit more privacy, but a part of me is not ready to leave here yet—and I’m certain that my husband is too motivated, too dedicated, and too passionate about his job to be ready to leave.

  Plus, this house has been our home for three years.

  I know the chief usher so well, I’ve hosted birthday parties for him and went to his son’s christening. I know that he handles over a hundred employees, looks out for Matt’s and my schedules, runs everything efficiently, and is the head of the household staff and in charge of all the daily operations. Tom makes sure our lives run smoothly, and they do.

  I’m fond of the chef, who is just like Jessa was when I grew up, loving to make us our favorite cakes and dinners when we have special occasions. Who somehow knows when Matt has had a rough day and makes a particularly tasty dish to bring a smile to his face. And who indulges me in all my kids’ luncheons.

  I’m fond of Lola and all her stressing about the news and dealing with the relentless press.

  Even the Secret Service. All-seeing, all-knowing, tight-lipped, never sharing the information, always not only protecting us physically, but ensuring that our private lives are as private as they possibly can be.

  Every room I stand in has meaning. Has a story. Has presence.

  The presidency is not just a political agenda, or standing strong against opponents. It’s about keeping us together, proud and safe. Taken care of and motivated. It’s not only about protecting our rights and freedom, it’s about providing examples and inspiration—that is what made America what it is today. I cannot imagine anyone doing a better job than my Matthew Hamilton.

  That night after we have dinner in the Old Family Dining Room, Matt Jr. asks his father why he’s letting all those men run for president.

  “Because it’s their right; it’s one of the most sacred of our rights, in this country. Our freedom,” he explains as we retire to the Yellow Oval.

  Matt Jr. frowns in confusion as he listens, then simply declares, “I want you to be pwesident.”

  Matt laughs, dragging a hand over his face as Matty heads off to run and play with his toys, Jack trailing behind him.

  “I’ll put him to bed,” his nanny, Anna, tells me as she rushes after him.

  Matt looks at me then, pouring himself an after-dinner drink and bringing me one as well. “I’ve been thinking about it. For years, it seems.” He looks at me as he takes the seat across from mine. “I’ve been obsessively counting.” He looks into his glass, then at me. “How many days I’ve been able to be here for you, how many days I haven’t. It’s a tough call,” he admits, with a wry, sad smile. “The day Matt was born—”

  “There was no way I would have let you stay with me,” I quickly interject.

  He seems amused but refrains from smiling. “That’s not the only time. On your twenty-fifth birthday—”

  “The airport was closed due to the blizzard. How were you supposed to land? All that was not in your control,” I assure him.

  He exhales, then looks at me curiously, calculatingly, laughing softly. “Charlotte, listen to me.”

  “I’m listening and you’re not making sense.”

  “Baby,” he says, more sternly now. “We need to discuss how you feel about me running. And I need you to be honest with me, honest in ways my mother never was with my father.” He’s completely somber now, looking at me between drawn eyebrows.

  My chest sort of hurts that he even has to ask. I have never wanted him to feel worried about neglecting us; the truth is, he always goes above and beyond. “Were you considering not running?”

  “I won’t run if it’s an issue with my family. You know I love being here, Charlotte. I’m driven to do what I do.” He gives me a smile that sends my pulse wild. “But I love you two more than anything.”

  I’m so in love with this man sometimes it hurts just because.

  I know that Matt has never wanted to miss out on some important things that he’s unfortunately sometimes had to miss out on. I know he’s tried harder than any man ever would to make me and our son feel loved, supported, and protected.

  “We’ve both come a long way,” I say as we both sit here, looking at each other for a while—and I’m realizing at this moment just how much we’ve both slowly fought our wars to make this work. “I never thought I could live this life, come to these heights with you—and yet here I am. Not doing too shabby.” I grin, and he laughs softly, his eyes sparkling. “And you . . . you have to know that you’ve proven more than capable of being both a president and the best husband and father we could ask for,” I add, not bothering to hide the admiration in my voice.

  “I don’t want you to ever feel like I’m putting you and Matty in second place,” he says, scrutinizing my face closely, as if searching for the answer. “If for any reason it’s crossed your mind, I want you to know that I will choose you both and end it right here.”

  “No! You can’t!” I protest.

  I shift forward, scowling at him as I set my glass aside, mirroring his position.

  I inhale passionately, then exhale and scowl at him. “Although I am just one citizen among millions, I have had the honor of knowing firsthand what you bring to the table. Integrity. Honesty.”

  I try not to get emotional, but suddenly putting into context all that he has done for nearly four years makes it difficult.

  “I know in my heart of hearts that no other candidate will offer this, bring this . . . or not quite like you. You are of us. All of us. I have you forever, but as a citizen I’d have you as president for just four more years. Make them count. My heart is yours and my vote is yours. Don’t deny me all you have to give, or four more years of having this . . . honor . . . of being by your side while you’re doing what you were meant to do.” I add, “Please.”

  He smiles when I end up breathless after my pleas.

  He slowly sets his glass aside and comes to his feet. He begins walking around the table, then pulls me to my feet as he clenches his jaw, grabs me by the back of the head, and kisses me. Long and with tongue. “Thank you. I love you. You know that,” he hisses, fierce, his forehead against mine, his eyes holding mine deliciously captive.

  “Yes,” I say, my toes curling the way they do every time he looks at me like that. “But I’m still unsure of how much. Immeasurably, you’ve said. What is that, even?”

  His eyes trace every inch of my face. “It means there’s no metric system, no measurement, there’s no beginning to it, and no end.”

  I am completely breathless, and he smiles, noticing that I’m panting, and kisses me again, long and slow. “That’s how much,” he rasps against my mouth, patting my butt.

  We head to the Lincoln Bedroom, where he dials a number through the White House secure lines.

  “Carlisle.” He speaks the name and looking at me with a smile, clicks the button to put the call on speaker. “I need you and Hessler.”

  “I told my heart condition to fuck off.
That I wasn’t going to die anytime soon because I was fucking waiting for this call.” I can hear the grin in Carlisle’s voice, and Matt and I smile at each other.

  “It’s done then,” I tell Matt when he hangs up. I feel giddy. “There’s no way anyone stands a chance.”

  He shrugs and gets ready for bed, unbuttoning his shirt. “You never know. Better men have lost.”

  “Yes, but great countries are led by the greatest people—and there aren’t many quite like you,” I say as I pluck off my diamond earrings.

  When I slide naked under the covers with him, I nearly gasp as the warmth of his flesh touches mine.

  “Are you ready to hit the trail, wife?” he asks, leaning over me, gazing down at me as he brushes my red hair behind my face.

  “Maybe.” I grin, then decide to tease him with my favorite slogan from his last campaign. Born for this. “Then again, maybe I was born for it.”

  “No, baby,” he’s quick to assure. “You were born for me.” And his mouth swallows any protest I might have uttered. Which, in fact, would have been none.

  42

  IT’S ON

  Matt

  I’m on a roll, and it’s not even 10 a.m.

  After my daily briefing, hearing what everyone is doing around the world, and making a few calls, I’m in the press room.

  I’m ripping it. The pride, anticipation, and adrenaline coursing through my veins already, my intention, desire, and determination to keep my seat and continue serving fueling my every word.

  “I must admit”—I look at everyone in the press room—“being president is a tough job. Sleepless nights, tough calls, even looking at your faces every day,” I say, mocking the press a bit over their complete obsession with me and my wife. “Man. It’s not a job to be taken lightly.” I whistle, shaking my head as they laugh. “I’ve known that since my father took office. It took a toll on our family. I’ve tried to let it take the least possible toll on mine. Because, you see . . .”