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I told Henry to expect this. He’s idling on Constitution, waiting for my signal.
“Right here.”
Thursday, when Brennan was meeting with a congressional group in the Roosevelt Room, I slipped out of the White House and came to the Mall on my own to find this name. Now, my fingers trace the carved black granite letters. Alexander Walker.
Near the end of the war, Brennan’s father, a medic, left on his third deployment a month after Brennan was born. He was shot down on a medevac mission six months later. Brennan’s mother remarried when he was five, and when he was sixteen, she gave him the letters his father had written to him—one every day—from the day Brennan was born until the day Alexander died.
Brennan lays his hand over mine, over his father’s name, and then leans into the memorial, his forehead pressed to the summer-warm stone. His breath fogs the glossy surface as he speaks, whispering words that belong to them alone.
He’s brought me into this moment between him and his father.
I move without thinking and run my fingers down his sweaty back. Brennan’s muscles are taut as a strung bow, and his shoulder trembles beneath my touch.
When he’s done, Brennan lifts my hand to his lips, kissing my palm where his father’s name touched my skin.
Beside us, Sheridan is as still as the Three Soldiers. The lights curve around him, accentuating the hollows of his face.
He turns away, giving us privacy we don’t deserve. He’s textbook careful, though, keeping his sight angles perfect. Damn it, he really is a good agent.
What’s Henry thinking, watching what just happened from the SUV?
Pure adrenaline fuels me for the rest of the run. We go up Constitution under Henry’s overwatch, turn on Fifteenth and then again on Madison, past the Smithsonians and toward the Capitol.
I can’t tear my gaze away from Brennan.
His eyes slide to mine. Lock. The world fades, the lights like unfocused glitter, the sounds of traffic and our feet on the pavement like far-off rain. There is nothing but him and me.
Sheridan coughs. The world returns in a rush.
We turn on Third at Union Square and then on Jefferson and head back to the Washington Monument.
Brennan starts asking Sheridan questions: where is he from, how long has he been in the Service, what did he do before? Sheridan is polite and professional, not the starstruck young man he is with me and Henry. He gets Brennan laughing quickly.
Score one for the rookie. Well done, Sheridan. Get on the boss’s good side by making his lover laugh.
Henry waits for us back at the turnout, and we jog right to the SUV and pile in. He’s got the air conditioning on max and cold bottles of water ready. There are towels in Sheridan’s seat, and he passes one to Brennan and one to me as Henry swings up Seventeenth and glides us right back through the E Street barricade while he waves at Mike.
He parks in the same dark spot in the East Wing parking lot. He gives Sheridan a hard look, and then they both climb out of the vehicle. The overhead lights stay off when the doors open, and Brennan and I are left alone in the darkness.
Brennan drops his forehead to my shoulder. His exhale brushes over my bicep, and his fingers trace a path up the center of my quad. “How did you know?”
“Secret Service. We know everything.” I kiss the top of his head. “I know you. Or, at least, I’m trying to.”
He cradles my face in his hands and looks me in the eyes. His thumbs paint circles on my temples. His skin is cold from the air conditioning, but he’s still hot from the run. “I…” Whatever he’s about to say escapes on a sigh.
I close my eyes—
His touch vanishes as the SUV door opens. Henry stands in the open door, his back to us. “I’m sorry, Mr. President. There’s an alert over the radio. You’re needed in the Situation Room.”
“Shit.” Brennan slides out of the back of the SUV. Our eyes meet, and hold, hold, and it seems like he’s about to say something—
Henry shuts the rear door, whisper quiet, and then guides Brennan to where Sheridan waits at the entrance to the East Wing. All three disappear into the White House.
My hands reach for the empty air left behind in Brennan’s wake, trying to hold on to the memory of his touch. Brennan’s warmth is a fading echo, and the leather seats shift and settle in his absence. I can still smell him, the clean, sharp scent of his soap and deodorant layered with the sweat from our run.
Merde, I want to bury my face in his chest, kiss my way up his neck, slide my fingers into his hair. Push reality away and revel in this man and the discoveries we’re unearthing.
But he’s gone, and I’m alone.
