Fatal Chaos

“I really don’t want you to say that. You have no reason to apologize to me or Scotty or anyone. You were asked to serve your country. No one can fault you for what’s happened since then.”

“Still... I hate that it’s been so stressful for you and Scotty, even if neither of you says much about it.”

Sam raised herself up on one elbow. “It’s only stressful for us because we can see what it’s doing to you.” She caressed his face, noting the dark circles and lines of exhaustion that were new in the last few months. His insomnia was always merciless but never more so than since he’d become vice president.

“What do you say we agree to take this situation one minute at a time and not get too far ahead of ourselves with what might happen?” she asked.

“I think that’s the only way we can do it.”

“So, no more speculation or talk of vice presidents or conversations with the DNC or anything other than contending with whatever is happening in that very minute?”

“I’ll put out the word that I don’t want to talk about it until or unless I absolutely have to.”

“Excellent.” She dropped her head to his chest and put her arm across his midsection.

“You should know, however, that it’s going to take a lot of distractions to keep my mind from wandering.”

Even though he couldn’t see her face, she rolled her eyes. “Your subtlety still sucks.”

“You just said I was getting better at it.” He moved quickly, taking her by surprise when he came down on top of her, perfectly positioned for further distraction.

“Nice move,” Sam said, gazing up at the gorgeous hazel eyes that always looked at her with love and affection and desire and a million other emotions that couldn’t be easily summarized in mere words.

“You liked that?”

She nodded, loving that he seemed so pleased with himself. “I like all your moves.”

“How about this one?” With one determined tug, he ripped the silk panties from her body and entered her in a single thrust that buried him to the hilt.

“That was a good one too,” she said when she had caught her breath.

He nuzzled her neck as he began to move. “Hold on to me, babe, and don’t let go. No matter what.”

She wrapped her arms and legs around him, wanting him as close as she could get him. “I’ll never let go.”

CHAPTER THREE (#u99104933-900c-57d2-b8bc-cf29aa606eb5)

THEY RETURNED TO the city on the Sunday of Labor Day weekend with a morose thirteen-year-old in full mourning for the end of summer vacation. “It’s so unfair,” Scotty said, “that vacation goes by so fast and the school year crawls.”

“I used to feel the same way,” Sam said. “The end of vacation was like torture.”

“It is torture!” Scotty agreed. “No more sleeping late or watching TV until midnight or going to the beach or baseball camp or anything fun for months.”

“I feel you, buddy,” Sam said.

“Samantha,” Nick said in the stern tone he saved for special occasions, “this might be a good opportunity to remind our son of the value of education and how important it is that he give eighth grade his full effort so he can use this year to prepare for high school.”

Sam and Scotty exchanged glances. “Nah,” they said together, cracking up and high-fiving.

“You two think you’re so funny,” Nick said.

“We are funny,” Scotty said, “and you’re no help whatsoever in this situation. Do you think I want to hear about high school when I have a whole year of eighth grade algebra to suffer through first?”

“He does make a good point,” Sam said, earning a glare from her husband. “One minute at a time, remember?”

“Yeah, yeah,” Nick said, recognizing defeat when it stared him in the face.

The Secret Service motorcade arrived at the Ninth Street checkpoint, where they were stopped for much longer than usual.

“What’s the delay, Brant?” Nick asked.

“Huge media swarm.”

And just that quickly they were reminded of what they were coming home to. It took the Secret Service ten minutes to clear a path for the motorcade to proceed onto Ninth Street. As they alighted from the car, shouts for comment about the upcoming hearings, the president’s son, whether Nick was preparing to be president and other things they couldn’t make out filled the air around them.

“Welcome home,” Nick said grimly as he eyed the massive gathering outside the gate. “The neighbors must be thrilled to have us back.”

Escorted by agents in front of and behind them, they went up the ramp outside their double townhouse to the front door manned by a new agent on Scotty’s detail.

“Mr. Vice President, Mrs. Cappuano, Scotty... Welcome home. Hope you had a nice vacation.”

“Thanks, Liam,” Nick said. “It was a great vacation.”

“That ended far too soon,” Scotty added. “One more day and then back to the grind.”

“What’s this I hear?” Skip Holland asked as he manipulated his electric wheelchair through the big living room to greet them. Sam’s dad and his wife, Celia, had come out to the beach for a day but had chosen not to stay for the whole time. Sam suspected that he hadn’t wanted to disrupt their good time with his medical needs, but he’d never say so. “Is someone unhappy to be heading back to school?”

“Unhappy is putting it mildly,” Sam said.

“School is a necessary evil,” Skip said bluntly.

“I’m surrounded by educational rebels,” Nick said, throwing up his hands.

Scotty laughed. “I definitely landed in the right family.”

His statement hit Sam square in the heart. She loved hearing him say things like that, especially when they had reason to wonder if he would someday resent the limitations he would experience as he grew older surrounded by Secret Service agents watching his every move. For now, he was as happy and well-adjusted as could be—except when the first day of school loomed.

Sam bent to kiss her dad’s forehead, one of the few places he still had sensation after being shot on the job three and a half years ago. “How you doing, Skippy?”

“Hanging in, baby girl. How was the rest of the vacation?”

“Fantastic, delightful and amazing,” Sam said. “I can’t wait to go back next year.”

“A whole year.” Scotty moaned as he flopped on the couch. “I’ll never make it.”

“Go get unpacked, Drama Queen,” Sam said to her son.

“Do I hafta?”