Commander in Chief
Page 2

Mean, evil little butterflies are flapping in the very core of me.
I inhale and stare at my lap, at my reddened, freezing fingers.
It’s bone-chillingly cold outside, but when Matt is called up, and his baritone voice comes on suddenly over the microphone, it warms me like a bowl of my favorite soup. Like liquid fire in my veins. Like a blanket around my heart.
I lift my head. He’s standing on the platform. Calm and towering in a black gabardine and a perfect suit and red tie, his sable hair blowing in the wind, his expression somber as he places his hand on the Bible, the other hand raised.
“I, Matthew Hamilton, do solemnly swear that I will faithfully execute the Office of President of the United States, and will to the best of my ability, preserve, protect and defend the Constitution of the United States.”
“Congratulations, Mr. President,” the presenter says.
My head spins.
Holy.
FUCK.
Matt is now president of the United States.
The cheers erupt like a wave crashing upon us. People stand. Everyone claps and revels in the euphoria, the country welcoming their new commander in chief.
My body jerks from the sound of the twenty-one guns exploding—one after the other.
Trumpets blare.
The crowd waves small U.S. flags side to side.
People are crying.
The music of the orchestra plays, louder and louder across the U.S. Capitol and National Mall.
All while Matt salutes his crowd. His smile the most dazzling thing I’ve ever seen. His gaze sweeping across the hundreds of thousands of people here. People who’ve loved him for decades, since he was their president’s son. And now he’s simply their president.
The youngest, hottest president in the world.
The people in the crowd below keep waving their small flags.
Once the gun salute is over, the presenter leans in to say, “It is my deep pleasure to present the forty-sixth president of the United States, Matthew Hamilton.”
He steps up to the microphone. Hands braced on the stand, he leans into the mic, and his voice rings out, powerful and deep. Just the sound of it affects me intensely. Causing both a pang of nostalgia and a surge of excitement in me.
“Thank you. Fellow citizens . . . Vice President Frederickson,” he greets. “I stand with you today, humbled and in awe of the true change we can set forth in this country when we as a collective contribute to putting it in motion.” Claps interrupt him and he pauses. “Citizens, I am thankful for the opportunity.” He nods somberly, glancing one way, then the other, his powerful shoulders straining the fabric of his gabardine.
“In our country, we fight for truth and justice.” Pause. “We fight for freedom, for what’s right.” Pause. “We fight for it, and we die for it—and if we’re lucky, we die having those on our side . . .” Pause.
“These aren’t times to stand back and hope for the best. These are the times where we make it the best. Giving back to our country. Putting the best pieces of ourselves out there. America was formed on the principle of freedom, has embraced the promise of unity, peace, justice, and truth. It is only by preserving and honoring who we are that we can do justice to the very core of what we stand for. And what we will continue to stand for. A beacon to other countries across the globe. The land of the free. The home of the brave. Let’s fulfill our full potential, and ensure our enjoyment of that which our ancestors have so fiercely fought for, not just for ourselves, but for our generations to come. You wanted a leader to take you into this new era with courage. With conviction. And with an eye for getting things done. Citizens.” Pause. “I will NOT. LET YOU DOWN.”
A roar goes out across the crowd. HAMILTON is the name they call. HAMILTON is the man of the hour. The year. Their lifetime. He smiles at that warm welcome, and he closes with a deep, gruff, “God bless you. And God bless the United States of America.”
A warm glow flows through me and a ball full of spikes sort of gets stuck in the middle of my throat.
They play the national anthem, and as the chorus of the singing citizens rings across the U.S. Capitol and households around the world, I’m placing my hand on my heart and attempting to get the words of the anthem out—but that doesn’t help to ease this deep, unaccustomed pain in my chest. This is simply such a monumental day for me. Not only as a citizen; as a person this day is directly proportionate to the depth of my feelings for the new president. And the depth is endless,
fathomless,
eternal.
This is what he wanted. This is what we wanted. What the whole country did. It’s the first day of the changes that are about to come—and I’m burning with the wish to have just one tiny moment to talk to Matt. Tell him how proud of him I am. How much it hurts to not have him, but how safe I feel knowing he’ll be fighting for our interests.
I sit there among the crowd, my eyes stinging as emotion wells in my chest. We finish the anthem.
“Hey, come on, let’s go get you pretty for the inaugural ball,” Kayla says, slipping her arm around mine as she tugs me away.
I stand, but resist a little. My legs feel leaden, as if I don’t want to go in this direction—but instead, I want to go in the direction where he’s saying goodbye to those around him and heading up the platform to leave the grounds.
I watch Matthew stop at the top of the blue-carpeted stairs.
Matt cants his head back to the crowd and sweeps it with one powerful gaze.
I hold my breath, then shake my head.
He’s not looking for you, Charlotte; you can start breathing now.
I sigh and rub my temples, shaking my head as we wait for the motorcade parade down Pennsylvania Avenue. “I’m not sure that I should go.”
“Come on.” Kayla nudges me, her expression questioning. “We came back just in time for inauguration because you wanted to be here. You cannot turn down an invite to the inaugural ball.”
I keep my eyes on Matthew.
Matthew
Hamilton.
My love.
I remember the sounds he makes when he makes love, the way his breath hitches, the way his eyes cloud. I remember the taste of his sweat as he drives inside me, the way I kiss and lick him and want more, want him, anything he can give.
Intimate moments.
Moments between a man and a woman.
Moments that seem so long ago but at the same time, I can never forget, because we had them. I cling to those moments because I never want to forget them. When I see the man—the president—I want to remember what his chest feels like under his tie and suit, all that power rippling in his muscles. I want to remember the size of him, when he’s joined to me, as big as the name he now wears, and I want to remember what it felt like to have him come inside me. I never want to forget the sound of his voice in the dark, when nobody is watching, and how tender it sounds.
I don’t want to forget that for a little while, Matt Hamilton—forty-sixth president of the United States—was mine.
I head back to my apartment to shower and blow-dry my hair and prep for tonight.
I spent the last two months in Europe. It was freezing cold and we spent more time at the hotel than touring, but it didn’t matter. I wasn’t in the United States, the country I love, close to the man I love, simply because I needed to heal.
I didn’t want to be tempted to call. I was afraid if I stayed, I’d see him in every headline; that the very air in D.C. would smell of him. That I’d bump into him or simply have too many memories everywhere I went to be able to breathe right. Europe was good. It centered me, and yet I was anxious to come back home. I couldn’t bring myself not to be home by the time Matt had his Inauguration Day.
I told Kayla I fell in love with him while campaigning. I didn’t give her more details. She pressed, but I didn’t budge. I understand now that when you’re as high-profile a person as Matt is, you cannot trust even those you’re supposed to trust. Not with everything. I’m afraid one drunken night she’d spill the beans of the affair. So I kept it to myself and nursed it quietly in my heart, even as Kayla kept telling me that it was a crush and I’d get over it in Paris, the city of love.
I didn’t.
My heart hurts right now no matter how much I will it to stay strong.