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  The President's Bitch

  by Andy King

  The President's Bitch

  Cheri: When all is said and done, history may not be kind to me. I can’t worry about that. Even if I’m wrong, I can only be me. If I can’t, why be anything?

  _______

  Jack: I’ve never met another woman like her. Taking care of her isn’t just a job, it’s my sacred duty—forever.

  _______

  When Cherilyn Barnes is suddenly shoved into the Presidency, many are bitter and irate. She's too young, and who knows what her race is? Secret Service Agent Jack Runyon is not impressed either. Until he meets her face-to-face.

  North Korea is lobbing missiles at Hawaii. The President’s Cabinet is plotting against her. Cheri is down to Jack and a handful of allies. Will Cheri’s torrid romance with Jack doom her? The U.S. Army is marching on Washington. Can she keep her office?

  It's every President's worst nightmare. An ultimatum: step down or die.

  There are no good solutions, only impossible ones.

  DEDICATION

  For all those patiently waiting:

  Sometimes lightning strikes, sometimes it strikes twice.

  It can happen. Believe. Love will not be denied.

  1

  Cheri

  “Ma’am?”

  I hear someone cough. The glow from the tall windows tells me it’s the middle of the night. Rubbing my eyes, I roll over and look at my alarm clock. 2:59 a.m.

  There’s a muted tone warbling, a signal that a Secret Service agent is going to open the door. I slept right through it.

  I croak a “Yes?” It comes out as “mppphh.”

  “It’s Secretary of Defense MacElvain, ma’am. He’s on the phone, says it’s urgent.”

  It’s always urgent, I think but don’t say. Comes with the job. I dig more sand out of my eyes, haul my legs over the side of the bed and wave at the shadowy figure by the door. “Thanks. I’ll be out in a minute.”

  I grope at the nightstand and knock my glasses on the floor. My hand darts up to the lamp. I’m mainly awake now. Standing up, I stifle a groan—this job makes you old, quick—then bend down, scoop up my glasses and slide on a matching set of sweats. One of the perks of being President is the wardrobe; can’t have the leader of the free world unmatched. I roll my eyes with a fleeting smile to myself.

  A pair of Nikes completes the outfit, and I’m out the door. Snatching the phone from the agent, I note that he’s a tall one. Not just tall—massive, like a linebacker. Good looking, too.

  There’s no time for that. “Yeah, Nick.”

  “Madame President, it’s North Korea. They’ve lobbed another missile in the direction of Hawaii. The vectors aren’t precise. It’s wobbling, but it might get close.”

  “Woodshed warmed up?” I start walking fast, and sense two agents trailing me by five paces.

  “Oui, ma chéri.”

  “Careful, Nick. I don’t speak French, but I know enough, and you know I pronounce it ‘Sherry.’ I’ll be there in a couple.” I thumb the phone off and hand it to an agent.

  Nick MacElvain’s a pain in the ass, an inheritance that can’t be helped. Stu appointed him Secretary of Defense before I took over, a purely political move. Stu needed southern votes and Nick had them.

  Tall and imposing, Central Casting’s version of an ambassador, MacElvain is from the other party. Stu hoped that if he stocked his Cabinet with a few members from the opposition, he could break the partisan gridlock that’s paralyzed Washington for decades, and reverse the country’s polarization, to an extent.

  There’s a saying: “keep your friends close and your enemies closer.” Stu told me that Sun Tzu said it, but I think it might actually be from The Godfather. Stu was right about keeping Nick and the others close, though. Lincoln followed that line of thinking, too; and you probably can’t go wrong taking after Old Abe.

  It’s my hope that it will help me get stuff done. There’s another year before I have to start sucking up to get re-elected. I plan to make the most of it. Just got to keep one eye on the snakes. I blow out a big breath, poofing up my bangs.

  Our footsteps are soft as ghosts’ at this hour, the carpets like country club esplanades, shamelessly posh. Around corners you can hear the mansion’s phantoms frolic, rattling in the vacuum-sealed air.

  Sometimes I pad around the place when I can’t sleep. The nightmare of not getting to the phone in time to prevent a nuclear war has haunted my dreams more than once, my sedative milk and cookies with the graveyard shift. I’m struck by the contrast between the museum-like stillness at night and the daytime chaos, a thousand heels clattering on marble floors.

  In the elevator I can’t help thinking out loud about North Korea, and mutter, “Li better get his act together and tell that fat little piece of dung to cut it out. I don’t want to have to turn his country into a parking lot.”

  I catch the shorter of the two agents hiding a laugh by pretending to stifle a yawn, and glare at him. Then I grin. “Just kidding.”

  The elevator doors whoosh open. I’m greeted by what I assume is the only available Undersecretary of State.

  “Get Li on the phone,” I bark, meaning the President of the People's Republic of China.

  “But he doesn’t speak English, ma’am. We’ll have to call an interpreter.”

  “He speaks perfectly good English when he wants to. It’s three in the afternoon over there. He’ll have someone around who speaks English. Get him on the phone!”

  We swing into the Situation Room, also known as the Woodshed, packed full of agency deputies and aides. A throng of ethnicities and gender, they’re the folks who make things run. I march to my chair, thankful they’re there, their bosses still cozy in bed. “Bureaucrats,” I grumble under my breath.

  I’m just a country girl, really. Never mind the Harvard Law degree and all the other bullshit. Raised in the hills of Western Pennsylvania, I’ve been a plain-speaker my entire not quite forty-four years. I’ve been poor and I’ve been rich, but I’ve always been blunt.

  There’s a huge digital map on the wall, zeroed in on the Pacific, the Korean Peninsula in the upper left and Hawaii in the lower right. I assume the green line taking an elliptical path from the former toward the latter is the missile in question.

  “How long ‘til it hits?”

  A uniformed man, ComPacFlt, the admiral in charge of the Pacific Fleet, says, “Twenty seconds.”

  “Looks like it’s gonna fall short.”

  “We estimate two hundred miles west-southwest of the islands.”

  “Zoom in, please. Any ships near there?”

  “Many,” a man with sleeves rolled up, tie pulled down says. He’s Josh Jefferson, National Security Deputy Director. I acted politically and accepted Stu’s National Security Advisor like I did with Nick MacElvain. Josh c
ame along with the package. I couldn’t have been luckier, having him on the team.

  All eyes are on the giant screen. The satellite picture is grainy but clear. The green track stops short of its target. Nothing happens.

  “We got lucky,” the admiral says.

  “Sooner or later, we won’t. Ideas?”

  I drill each of the thirty women and men in the room with my eyes, slowly, one at a time. Someone coughs. No one speaks.

  “All right. I want a two-page, double-spaced proposal from each of you within three hours. Somebody’s got to have an idea. Send them to Carmel, and she’ll assign ‘em to analysts.”

  I look over at ComPacFlt. “I want to know about damage and loss of life, if any.”

  He looks puzzled.

  I roll a finger. “Ships in the area?”

  His eyes go up to a corner of the room. “Yes, sir.”

  Sir or ma’am, it makes no difference to me. I know that he’s already moved on, and thinks I’m being soft, considering non-military matters right now. I give him a cold stare.

  “In the meantime, I’ll be speaking to our favorite Chinese president.” I stand up. “Thank you, everybody.” I stalk out of the room, now with three agents in tow. They seem to multiply whenever anything interesting happens.

  Actually, I’m thankful. I can’t confide in them because of the circumstances, but just having them around eases the loneliness a little. It’s one of the strangest stories, how all of this happened. Even a thriller novelist wouldn’t have dreamed it up, I think.

  Life was rolling along. I was a mayor, then a whirlwind of luck dropped out of the sky. A scandal swept the capital and I was drafted by my party to run for Governor. Once in office, I found that I liked the responsibility. I was really doing something with my life.

  Morrie said, “Why not keep going?” So I did.

  I was just starting to work on getting re-elected to a second term in the Senate when I got The Call. The man favored to win the next presidential election wanted me to be his Vice-President. I was perfect, he said.

  There was no question why. I’m a mutt, about as multiracial as you can get. Black and Cuban on my dad’s side, my mom’s family is Russian Jews. Stu Johnson saw me as his big minority draw. And a girl, too! Our party wanted the White House back and I was able to reel in some fat voting blocs, Pennsylvania, New York, and the grand prize—Ohio. My late husband Morrie’s family was from Wooster, and we’d put down roots there twenty years before.

  Not to put too fine a point on it, but I’m good at the game of political wheeling and dealing. When I say I’m going to do something, it gets done. Campaigning, I pictured myself haggling with the House and Senate, shoulder hitched, a haughty glare, my nose in the air, backing them into a corner so fast it’d make their heads spin.

  Stu and I stormed the country for months, working the crowds with his tough talk and New England polish, and my biting wit and mildly exotic looks. We didn’t win a majority because of a third party challenge and we only won by two electorals. No one suspected the worst would happen. Moisture forms in my lashes remembering it, but I’ve become expert at holding back tears.

  Inauguration night in the limo I was fixing Morrie’s tie. He looked like such a statesman, patrician and handsome, he should’ve been VP. Then we got out.

  The universe changed in seconds. There was only twenty feet of open space, but the asshole was a world-class shooter. A mile and a half out from a helicopter, he had to be.

  I didn’t even hear the gun.

  As Morrie and I followed Stu and his wife through a sea of lights and laughter, my life was hit by a freight train.

  Morrie clutched my hand, too tight. I shot a glance at him. He had a hole in his neck, gushing blood. I gashed my face with my nails and screamed.

  A dozen agents swept us up and carried us inside. I can still feel their vice-like grip on my ankles and wrists.

  It was too late.

  Stu had taken a bullet to the brain. The snowy-white carpet was soaked deep red, the air filled with the stench of copper. He was dead before he hit the ground.

  We sped to the hospital, my moans clashing with sirens. People said things, but I could only hear myself wailing, “Morrie,” over and over.

  He died on the operating table, his spine shattered. By then I was Commander-in-Chief.

  The Chief Justice was corralled and I was given the oath while still in shock. Try as I might, I can’t remember it, only Morrie gripping my hand and trying to mouth, “I love you.”

  It’s been nearly a year now. A year of hidden tears and unimaginable pain, worse than when Dad died. The world doesn’t stop, though. The first female President of the United States, I’ve slowly learned on the job. I’m determined to do this right.

  My escorts and I sweep into my office, the President’s Study. More useful than the Oval Office, it has all the good stuff—the latest in technology and a great suite of attached rooms for staff. They just took down the Christmas tree and swept up the New Year’s Eve confetti a week ago.

  My Chief of Staff, and best friend from college, Carmel Monroe, has papers spread across my mahogany desk. She knows exactly how I like things, subjects tiled in an array from top left to bottom right for speed reading.

  She straightens up to her majestic five feet eleven, about six two in heels, jet black hair flowing over her shoulders. I put my hand over my mouth to hide a giggle. At five three in my tennies, I feel like her kid or something.

  “Li?”

  “One of his flunkies is holding. Gotta tell ya, Cher, sooner or later you’re going to have to stop messin’ around with Park.”

  “Yup. They’re testing me ‘cause I’m a girl, but this is it. Line Two?”

  Carmel nods and waves her hands at the agents in a shooing gesture, demanding that they leave the room. The big one, the one who woke me up, looks mad.

  “It’s OK,” I call to him. Since I’ve never seen him before, I assume that he’s new and he’s following the script. Not that I blame him. The Service has been rightly protective of me since that night. Did he just growl? I can’t worry about it.

  The call with President Li goes as expected. We dance around the subject, tossing niceties like a flower girl sprinkling rose petals at a wedding. You’d never know we were the heads of state in charge of the biggest armies and nuclear arsenals in the world. When I figure that Li has dilly-dallied enough, I ask his interpreter to translate my next sentences word for word, slowly and clearly.

  “North Korea has gone too far. I’m not going to waste ground troops on this. If China doesn’t immediately persuade North Korea to cease and desist, forever, I will bomb Pyongyang back to the Stone Age. I am not bluffing.”

  There’s a sharp intake of breath on the other end of the line. The interpreter says something to Li. I stare at my translator, a round, older fellow who I’ve been told to trust implicitly. We wait.

  Li’s person says, “The President understands your frustration, Madame President. He politely requests that you do not take abrupt action. China will attempt to reason with our neighbor.”

  My man tilts his head, eyebrows up. It’s accurate enough.

  “I’m sorry,” I say. “I can’t risk another missile. The next one might actually hit its target. I’m convening my Cabinet. Please give the President my sincerest regards. Thank you.” I reach over and disconnect the call.

  My rudeness was intentional. Li fully understands that when I said I’m convening my Cabinet, it’s the first step toward military action. Punching the call off underscores my resolve. I really am done screwing around.

  Many Presidents would have a room full of advisors present for a phone call like that. Maybe I’m young and impetuous, but I don’t see the point. And I don’t want to see waving hands while I’m listening and talking. Leaving open the question of what type of bombing I have in mind is also intentional. It may cause some perspiration in that room in Beijing. Good.

  It might be hard for others to believe t
hat at heart I’m a quiet person. Curling up with a good book and a cup of tea is my favorite pastime. But put me in a room with the Senate and House leadership and I might throw a tantrum, maybe even a coffee cup. Slimy foreign dictators? I love to outflank them, then drop two tons of U.S. military-industrial threat on ‘em. You could say I have a passion for the game.

  I read people well, and I’ve put together a great team. Valuing honesty over blind consensus, I want people to explain why they disagree with me. Carmel’s all too happy to oblige.

  Dismissing the interpreter with a head wave, I look up at Carm, the corners of my mouth in the slightest smile. Her shoulders twitch. She stifles a laugh. We’ve known each other since college at SUNY Buffalo, and we get each other.

  Our paths forked when we left the cold and frozen tundra. Morrie was a visiting lecturer during my first year at Harvard. We were married within months. Carmel went through boyfriend after boyfriend while studying law at Georgetown. She graduated Cum Laude and is the smartest person I’ve ever met, except for with men—she’s been married three times. Sometimes I feel like a St. Bernard materializing with a keg of brandy in a snowstorm: Cheri to the rescue. I loan her my shoulder to cry on and eventually we move on.

  Carmel’s ridiculously long finger slides my notepad away for the typist. “Make the calls?”

  “Please.” There’s just enough time to change into work clothes while she cooks up a cabinet meeting.

  In my quarters I’m thankful for attendants. At first I considered them a bother, but found that they really save time. It’s helpful that I look young for my age. I’ve got kind of a moon face and bronze skin. My thick, wavy hair can’t be tamed. We trim it often, with bangs to hide worry lines. Having a couple of older professional women handing me clothes and cosmetics shoots me back out the door in twenty. It’s Showtime.

  The big agent dogs my steps as I scurry to the Cabinet Room.