Page 64 of Enemy of My Enemy
Everyone applauded. Jack singled out Pete and Brandt for their unflinching stand with the press, and Ethan singled out Barbara and Jennifer for their superhero-esque execution of preparations. Jack toasted the chief usher and the executive chef, and they all posed for an official picture, and a much less official selfie with Jennifer’s selfie stick. Jack demanded a silly faces picture, and the office devolved into giggles while they finished their champagne.
Thirty minutes until Sergey’s arrival. Jack clapped his hands together. “Let’s get this dinner started!”
A state dinner didn’t begin with the evening dinner. The official beginning was the motorcade of the visiting head of state arriving at the North Entrance and the formal ceremony greeting his arrival. The Marine Band played and the press snapped photos as Jack and Sergey warmly embraced, grasping hands and then pulling each other in for a backslapping hug. Ethan was formally introduced to Sergey after that as the First Gentleman and Jack’s partner. He’d never actually met the man, just eyeball-fucked him in Prague when he’d thought Sergey was a threat to Jack and then listened to his voice on the phone for months after. He stiffly held out his hand with a tight smile.
Sergey pulled him in for a hug, too.
A Marine Corps color guard greeted Sergey outside the White House, holding both the American and Russian flags while “The President’s Own” Marine Band played a zippy Russian classic. Sergey grinned and mimed conducting the band while Jack laughed. The almost-frigid spring weather was unseasonably gloomy; the dreary gray light made the North Lawn seem sodden, almost desolate. Patches of snow had melted away and winter-dormant limp grass poked through in patches. Bare tree branches scratched over the grounds, almost skeletally frail. It was not the stunning backdrop to a state dinner that would glisten from the magazine spread.
Jack led Sergey and his small entourage up to the Residence and to the Yellow Room overlooking the Truman Balcony. Hors d’oeuvres and champagne flowed, and a select group of Jack’s invitees mingled with the Russian delegation.
Slipping out of the Yellow Room and to the hallway of the Residence, Jack huddled with Sergey in private, Ethan at his side. “We had your luggage brought up through the basement. You’re sleeping in the Lincoln bedroom.” Jack winked.
World leaders never stayed in the Residence anymore. Not for over a hundred years. They stayed down the street at Blair House. Scott had had a mild heart attack when Jack told him his intentions to have Sergey stay with them in the Residence. He’d turned to Ethan, slack-jawed, as if Ethan could talk sense into his lover.
Ethan had shrugged and grinned.
Sergey, who on a good day was lean and pale, seemed to have aged since Ethan had seen him in Prague the year before. His skin was almost sallow, his cheeks hollowed out, and dark bags seemed permanently etched beneath his eyes. But he smiled at Jack’s words and his whole face lit up.
“Excellent, Jack. Thank you. This will be fun, no? We will drink vodka all night long. I have three bottles in my suitcase.”
Jack’s eyes went wide.
Sergey laughed. “I joke, I joke. But I have a question for you. Might I ask you to arrange a second bedroom? I have my senior aide with me, and I would like for him to stay close.” Sergey gestured to a young thirty-something man with blond hair and ice-blue eyes who had followed him from the Yellow Room and stayed at a polite distance, but who was obviously watching them. He stood tall with a military bearing, and his dark suit fit him like a second skin. “Please, meet Sasha Andreyev. My new senior aide.”
Sasha seemed incredibly uncomfortable shaking Jack and Ethan’s hands, almost painfully shy in the face of the president of the United States. He stepped back, shadowing Sergey’s shoulder as soon as his introduction was complete.
Ethan shared a look with Scott, hovering over Jack’s shoulder, and Daniels, over his own. Sasha moved like a bodyguard, like a man dedicated to Sergey, and not like an officious aide. Scott’s pulse leaped at his throat. Ethan could practically see his stomach curdle. Another potential—though admittedly unlikely—threat to observe.
He smothered his grin with a sip of his wine. Some days, he was glad he wasn’t in the Secret Service any longer.
“Of course we can set up a second room. The Queen’s Room is right across the hall. Does that work for you both?”
Sergey snapped a joke to Sasha in fast, low Russian, and Sasha finally managed to chuckle. He ducked his head and nodded. “Da. Yes. Thank you, Mr. President.”
Sergey squeezed his shoulder once and smiled at the younger man.
Ethan shared a long look with Jack and took another sip of his wine.
Jack got the signal that everything was ready downstairs. He officially, and with his characteristic fanfare, asked Sergey to join him for dinner. The guests upstairs headed down a separate way while Jack, Ethan, and Sergey waited at the top of the Grand Staircase. Jack took Ethan’s hand and laced their fingers together, squeezing once before he looped his arm through Ethan’s.
They both heard Sergey’s deep “Aww” as his phone snapped a picture behind them.
When “Hail to the Chief” played, Ethan kissed Jack on the lips before they took their first steps together down the stairs, arm in arm. Sergey followed behind, single—he’d left both his ex-wives back in Russia, he said.
Thunderous applause nearly drowned out the music. At the base, all three stopped and listened while both the American and Russian national anthems played. Jack and Ethan placed their hands over their hearts for the national anthem, and when Jack took a deep, steadying breath in the middle of the song, Ethan rested his hand on the small of Jack’s back.
The last time the national anthem had been played live for Jack was at Ethan’s funeral in Arlington.
Sergey looked proud, and yet sad, when the Russian anthem played.
The receiving line, as always, took forever, and Scott, Daniels, and their details were like cats on steroids, obsessively watching and checking everyone who approached Jack, Ethan, and Sergey.
“Relax,” Ethan breathed into Scott’s ear. “You’ve got your constipated face on.”
Scott sent him a murderous scowl and coughed into his fist, trying to smother his laughter. “Fuck you,” he whispered back.
Every guest got a photo with the trio, and at the end, Sergey stepped between Jack and Ethan and wrapped his arms around their shoulders and beamed into the camera. Jack laughed, Ethan’s jaw dropped, and the photographer instantly said he had the front-page picture for the morning news.
