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ChapterTwenty-Six
Reese
Then
The drive north is quiet, no sound but the hum of the tires on the pavement as I pull farther away from Washington. My mind unfurls in the headlights and follows the curves of the road.
I have no idea what to say. No idea how to do this.
Doubts creep in with the darkness. Who do I think I am to ask Brennan to risk everything?
What will he think of me showing up on his doorstep in the middle of the night?
What will he say to me after I told him he was a mistake?
It’s too late.
I can’t trust you with my heart again.
I’ve had some time to think, and you’re right. It’s not worth it.
You’re not worth it.
It would serve me right if he’s moved on. It would serve me right to be dealt the same agony that I inflicted on him. To want, to crave, to love, only to be met with cold dismissal.
Camp David is nestled in Catoctin Mountain Park in northern Maryland, just south of the Pennsylvania state line. It’s a US Navy facility, and it’s the one place the president goes where the Service doesn’t take the lead. The Marines are responsible for securing the grounds. We bring a minimal detachment of agents for travel back and forth, and if it’s a nonworking weekend and the president is there purely for relaxation, agents can bring their families up.
The Marine guards aren’t expecting any visitors after dark, and when I take the turnoff to Camp David, I’m stopped immediately by the outer patrol. I flash my badge. “I have to brief POTUS in the morning. Something came up. I’ll crash in one of the cabins tonight so I’m here first thing.”
The sergeant nods once. “Understood, sir. My men will escort you onto the grounds.”
Anyone else would be turned around and driven back to the highway, but I’m the special agent in charge of the presidential protection detail. I’m trusted.
I’m abusing that trust. Hell, what else is new? At this point, badging my way into Camp David has to be somewhere near the bottom of my list of transgressions.
My tires crunch over the leaf-strewn drive as I pull up to Aspen, the president’s cabin. We call it a cabin, but it’s a log mansion. The forest runs right up to the walls, surrounding the president in pristine woodlands and solitude. Narrow paths wind into the trees, where the rest of the cabins are nestled in quiet groves and creek-lined copses.
I park. No one else is here. He’s all alone.
Wouldn’t it be hilarious if he were entertaining a new lover? If I had broken the seal, but now he’s moved on, found someone into yoga and not dangerous enough to destroy him?
It’s so quiet I can hear myself breathing.
Ironically, the president never locks his doors. Or he’s never supposed to. If we need to get to him, we can’t be slowed down.
Which means there’s nothing stopping me from walking in.
Except myself. Merde, I’m terrified. More than I’ve ever been. I’ve faced down men and women set on murdering the president, but opening this door…
I stop thinking and do it. I stride into Aspen and shut the door behind me.
I walk into an open living room beneath an exposed-beam ceiling. One wall is made of glass and overlooks the pool. Right now, silver shimmers in the water, like Brennan’s pulled the moon down from the sky. A stone fireplace runs from floor to ceiling against another wall. In it, a fire burns low.
Brennan stands on the hearth. He’s holding a glass of whiskey, and when he sees me, his fingers tighten around the cut crystal until his hand shakes.
It hurts to look at him, especially with the flickering light from the fire playing over his face.Then my gaze tracks to the hollows beneath his eyes and the tightness of the skin across his cheekbone and jaw. His sweater is looser, and his jeans hang lower on his hips. He hasn’t been eating. Or sleeping, it seems.
Coals shift. Embers settle in the grate.
