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Walker meets me in the Oval with a grin. Something inside me tenses, holds, and doesn’t release.
“Good morning, Mr. President.”
“Agent Theriot, good morning.”
He looks good for having had so little sleep. I don’t. After trips like this, I look like Dracula’s been woken up too early. But he’s bright-eyed and alert, looking sharp in a navy suit and fuchsia tie. A bold choice, but he pulls it off. I yanked the tie I’m wearing off the floor of my apartment this morning, and it looks limp and flat.
“How is your team? Are they signing their resignation letters and preparing to fall on their swords?”
Walker leads me to the sofas. He sits first, and I…
I sit beside him.
Not on the other sofa, on the other side of the coffee table.
I’m closer to him, suddenly, much closer, than our usual huddles on our separate couches. If he put his hand on the cushion between us, his thumb could brush my leg.
Even to myself, I have no way to explain what I’m doing. Or why.
Walker’s eyes widen, but he angles toward me. Carefully. Every move he makes is deliberate. He crosses one leg over the other, and both hands wrap around his knee. His knuckles are bone white, clasped tight.
“I think they may survive,” I tell him. “It was touch and go for a few of them. I gave them light duty over at the Eisenhower today. As an added benefit, they won’t risk running into you in the halls.”
His hidden smile emerges. “I have something for Agent Roberts.”
There’s a paper bag on the carpet, next to the empty space on the sofa where I should be sitting. Walker tugs it over and hands it to me.
Inside is a container of protein powder with an image of a body builder on the label. He’s taped a handwritten note to the top—on presidential stationery no less.
Agent Roberts,
Better luck next time.
Best, Brennan Walker
“Mr. President.” Now I’m smiling. “Are you seriously shit-talking someone who is supposed to take a bullet for you?”
“Maybe a little.” He holds up his fingers, pinched together. “But come on. Even I could see he was outmatched. He was asking for that trouncing.”
This is the kind of thing that will live in infamy in the Secret Service. If someone gets video of Roberts receiving this—and I’ll make sure of that—it will be trotted out at morning briefings and advance team stand-ups anytime Roberts takes the lead for the next four years. It will play behind him every time he’s promoted, and he’ll have to tell the story again and again and again.
It’s a gesture Walker didn’t need to make, and it will create incalculable goodwill on my team. It’s a kindness where none was required or even expected.
“Thank you. This will mean a lot to everyone.”
“You’ll have to describe his reaction to me.”
“I’ll do better. I’ll record it for you.”
He laughs, and I get it. I get how this man captivated millions. Right now, I want to sit back and forget the world, spend the rest of the day laughing with him.
The thought catches me off guard.
I can smell Walker’s cologne. Cedar, bergamot, and amber. It’s dizzying.
His laughter fades, and we stare at each other.
His pulse flutters above the starched collar of his shirt. Morning sunlight winks through the ballistic windows, distorted as if the rays are traveling underwater to reach him. His breathing is even, each inhale and exhale exactly three seconds. Too controlled, especially for a man who is squeezing the blood from his fingers. Those brilliant bleu clair eyes are guarded, ringed with something I can’t put my finger on.
