No Corner to Hide (The Max Masterson Series Book 2) (6 page)

CHAPTER 14

M

ax accepted a fluffy white towel and began wiping the sticky brown sludge from his exposed skin as the Secret Service ushered him toward his waiting helicopter, Marine One, the president’s Helo. He was in dire need of a bath

and fresh clothes, but the tiny sink and toilet would suffice until he returned to civilization. Clothes were hanging from a hook on the back of the door to the head. They were the right size, but they weren’t his clothes. They were golf clothes, and Max had never played the game.

“What the hell are these golf clothes doing in here?” Max yelled to nobody in particular, but expecting an immediate response. As he emerged from the cramped bathroom, a female voice came from the co-pilot’s seat. “Because your handlers are taking you on a golf outing, and I must say you look very pretty dressed in bright yellow, Mister President.” The sound of Rachel’s voice was melodious, and brought back his smile. She couldn’t resist the opportunity to tease him mercilessly. “Do you need me to carry your golf bag, Sir? I’m a good caddy, and I’ll wash and polish your balls after each shot.”

Max laughed. “I’m sure they got that covered, all except the ball polishing part…Come to think of it, the president’s girlfriend will henceforth be his designated ball polisher from this point on. Attend to it immediately, my able assistant!”

“Yes, Mr. President, should I alert the press?” Andrew was relieved to see Max back to normal, and wondered how long it would last. Rachel had that effect on him, and he played along.

“And may I suggest, Mr. President, that we also appoint this capable woman to act as your co-pilot in all future trips outside of Washington, as she is attracting a large contingent of voters who are keenly interested in your love life, sir?”

“You may have our legal staff prepare a presidential proclamation to that extent, Mr. Fox, while I spend a little alone time with our co-pilot…We need to do an in-flight check…or something…” He pulled her back into the tiny makeshift changing room and closed the door. Immediately she was in his arms, kissing him passionately and fumbling at his belt. “I’m going to initiate you into the milehigh club on every flight,” she whispered breathily in his ear. She pulled his golf shirt over his head. Max found a front zipper and pulled, pleasantly surprised that her flight suit concealed nothing more than his favorite Victoria’s Secret bra and panties.

The day had not gone anywhere close to plan, but Rachel’s presence had brought Max back from the serious thoughts that occupied him at the oil spill. He needed her desperately, and their passion could not wait. He couldn’t remember the last time they had been alone—if traveling with a full flight crew, security detail, and political aides could be considered alone. He groaned, not only from the intense pleasure of the moment, but also from the realization that the President of the United States can never be alone.

“We have got to keep meeting like this,” Max said as Rachel’s flight suit slid off her shoulders and slowly crumpled to the floor.

CHAPTER 15

A

ndrew Fox was to accompany Max on each of his forays away from the White House. He had assumed the essential role of keeping Max on task as he had attempted to do during the campaign. Minutes into the job, he realized that

his duties would be unlike any job he had held in the past. Max Masterson’s life was an eclectic combination of passion, exercise, and deep focus that allowed him to work and play with equal intensity.

As Max and Rachel were wrapped in passion in the makeshift changing room/bathroom, Andrew sat on the mall jump seat staring forward through the cockpit at the green rolling hills that stretched into infinity below. He tried to focus on the detailed notes on his iPad, and he tried to update the log of activities that had taken place, checking off each event and reviewing the details of the next one, ensuring that every detail was arranged. But he couldn’t get the thought out of his mind that the President of the United States was having sex no more than fifteen feet away. He shifted to the personal calendar, writing Find a girlfriend…quick!

He looked across the cabin at the two Secret Service agents assigned to the President. They seemed oblivious to the President’s activities. They sat stoically in the other jump seats, gazing out the windows at the view on the ground, occasionally scanning the horizon.
If I don’t get the hang of living in DC, it’s going to be a long time between dates,
he thought as the drone of the helicopter mercifully took the edge off his state of arousal. Andrew tried to focus on the day’s agenda, but his imagination was getting the best of him.
I’ve got to get a life, and soon.

Somewhere over South Alabama, Max strapped himself into his seat, and Rachel took the co-pilot’s seat once again.. He focused on his surroundings, and was astounded at the amount of gear that had been packed inside, still leaving room for four comfortable passenger seats and two drop seats for his Secret Service contingent. It reminded him of how close to death he had come before he became president. Their seaplane, piloted by Rachel, had almost been knocked from the sky by an assassin’s mortar round. The dum dum bullet had missed the control cables by inches. He wondered if another attack would just bounce off the armored shell, or whether there was some kind of technical gadgetry that would save them.

He looked at the golf clothes with disdain, and pondered what other surprises the day held in store for him.
The next stop for Max was nine holes of golf with the Governor of Alabama, and then back to the White House for briefings that would go into the night. The other members of the transition team were busy vetting candidates for key governmental positions, and the incoming president was required to make final approval of his cabinet and agency heads. None would be retained from the Blythe administration. Least of all, the Director of Homeland Security.

uuu

The press contingent in Alabama was not the same as the one at the oil spill. They were more of a skeleton crew assigned to get video clips of Max and the Governor, a photo opportunity that politicians crave to show their constituents that they are important. With this president came the unprecedented chance for members of any political party to boost their popularity and poll ratings. He had run as an Independent, and they could gain votes by being seen with the winner.

Andrew was convinced that the golf idea was a bad one. It had not occurred to him that the president of the United States was not an avid golfer. He had just assumed that every president played golf. He heard Max’s dismay when he changed into the golf clothes that had been arranged for the scheduled appearance, and he took careful mental note that Max would not be doing this again.
He’s not your typical politician
, he reminded himself.

u

CHAPTER 16

F

rom the start, the golf appearance took on the characteristics of the typical train wreck. Max exited Marine One in his brand new golf clothes: bright yellow, his least-favorite color. He looked clearly uncomfortable, and upon shaking the governor’s

outstretched hand, he was turned toward the cameras to stand next to the large, red-faced man. The governor beamed, his white teeth making quite a contrast to his shiny face. It appeared to Max that the man had been waiting in the bright sun all day to get that sunburn, and he took an immediate dislike to this loud stranger who was ostentatiously feeding off of his popularity.

“I don’t do golf,” Max announced, the first words spoken after the cameramen had paused in their efforts to preserve the moment for posterity. The governor, taking his comment as a joke, laughed heartily.

“Don’t worry, Mr. President, I brought along a good friend of mine, golf legend Henry “Shank” Mulligan, to be here today, and he can teach you a few tips before we tee off. Come on up here Shank, Ol’ Buddy, and meet our new president.” Mulligan, fresh off a full security scan from the advance team of Secret Service agents that preceded the arrival of Marine One, was allowed to approach. He was trim and tanned and looked like the prototypical pro golfer: dressed in clothes that bore his label, with his logo emblazoned on his hat and both sleeves. Max briefly imagined that he was probably wearing underwear that bore his logo, too.

“Mr. President, it’s a pleasure to meet you. I would have voted for you, but I was in Australia for the Open.”
“I don’t do golf,” Max repeated.
Andrew cringed, and stepped into the awkward moment. “Shank, I’m Andrew Fox, the president’s Chief of Staff. I didn’t realize this,” he said in a low voice, “but Max doesn’t play the game, and I was wondering if you could take him around behind the clubhouse somewhere and maybe show him a few things before we tee off. I know you probably get paid thousands of dollars to do this, but believe me, if you make Max look good in front of the cameras, you will receive a letter of gratitude signed by the President of the United States worthy of hanging on your wall and an accompanying digital image that you can use in all of your marketing efforts. Come on, Shank, do it for America.”
“I’d be proud to,” said Shank. He sized up his high profile student, standing awkwardly in his fresh-out-of-the-box golf clothes. It was evident that he had no interest in the game. Max saw the media event as an opportunity to appear like an ass for the second time of his first day in front of the cameras.
Looking at Andrew with scorn, he leaned in his direction and whispered, “From now on, you will let me know when you plan to have me do something that makes me want to waterboard you. Do you have any more surprises for me today?”
“No sir, just a speech in front of—”
“No speeches. Make a plausible excuse, like the President had to take his Chief of Staff to the emergency room with internal injuries sustained in a golfing accident,” Max said in a hiss.
Andrew took a few steps backward, and held his computer bag

NO CORNER TO HIDE
in front of his face. “If you spent a few seconds with me each day, this wouldn’t happen.”

Max sprung forward and grabbed the iPad with both hands. He lowered it slowly, bringing his face within inches of his young advisor.

“You didn’t know I hate golf? You picked out this polyester clown outfit? When have you EVER seen me in the presence of balls of any kind? I can forgive you for thinking that I might want to, say, kick a soccer ball, or even shoot a hockey puck or spike a volleyball, but
GOLF
? I don’t do golf…” He let go of the computer bag and walked over to his golf instructor, who was busily texting to two unsuspecting women at the same time.

“Come on, let’s get this over with. But before we do, I think it would be better if I picked out some of your signature clothes from the pro shop…You know, for marketing and branding, that sort of thing,” Max schmoozed.

They began walking toward the clubhouse. “You know, Mr. President, I was thinking the same thing,” replied Mulligan. “By the way, who picked out that outfit?”

While Max was changing into more tasteful golf attire, Andrew scrambled to rearrange the day’s itinerary. The logistics of moving from one public appearance to another had become monumental, and the security team had already been deployed at the next stop, Montgomery, Alabama, where Andrew had arranged for Max to speak to the NAACP at a monument for Dr. Martin Luther King.
I even wrote the speech myself
,” he thought with regret.

When Max emerged with Mulligan at his side, he was wearing more subtle and tasteful golf clothes, adorned on both sleeves with the Shank logo, a snowy Egret in flight with a golf ball on its back. The logo also appeared on his golf hat and his newly acquired golf sunglasses, in addition to his golf underwear, which Shank threw in for good measure.

“Now the key to golfing for pleasure,” Shank began, “is not your score, or how many strokes you take, it’s how you look in front of the cameras.” They practiced looking good for the next twenty minutes while the press was sequestered out of sight, preparing for the photo opportunity that would be broadcast worldwide by dinnertime.

Max’s first two shots hooked into the woods that lined the first tee. Making a slight adjustment, the ball shanked right over a manicured mound that concealed the eighth hole. Within seconds, two Secret Service agents came running, stopping at the top of the mound to determine the source of the shot.

“He sunk it. He got a hole in one,” they radioed. “You’re shittin’ me,” Max and Mulligan said in unison. That evening, as the broadcast of Max’s golf outing ran nonstop with a voice-over of the day’s events, Shank Mulligan was interviewed.

“No, he really is a terrible golfer,” he explained.
“But he really looks good in my golf clothes.”

u

CHAPTER 17

T

wo helicopters left Alabama in a rush. One held the President of the United States and half of his Secret Service contingent, while Rachel co-piloted the remainder to Tallahassee Airport, where Air Force One sat waiting to transport Max back to

Washington. Max gave his pilot special orders to head to a favorite location in Florida as soon as he took off his golf shoes. He pitched them out the window somewhere over Pensacola Bay. It would be the last time he wore golf attire.

“Andrew, radio ahead and have them supply me with a surf ski and snorkeling gear, and I want you to find something for Secret Service to paddle, too. I don’t want any power boats on the river. They make too much noise.”

“What’s our itinerary, Mr. President? I’ll alert the press,” Andrew replied, still shaken from the oil spill fiasco and the golf fiasco. He didn’t want to make any more mistakes on his first official day on the job.

“I have had about as much press as I can stand for one day. This is for me, not that enormous entourage. You are not to broadcast my whereabouts to the press, or anyone else, do you understand? Make them think that I’m in Tallahassee. Tell you what…have someone dress up in those awful golf clothes and rush him aboard the plane. At a distance, they’ll think he’s me,” he chuckled. “A part of each of my days as President will be spent out of the public eye, and it is your job to help me accomplish that goal. Pulling a Max is as important to me as anything you can do for me. Oh, and by the way, I’m not doing this in my underwear. Get me a bathing suit.” Andrew made a mental note to have snorkeling gear and swim trunks stowed on any trips abroad.