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“Why did you give her a gun?” Tank chastises.

“I didn't. I was getting to that part before Mess here fell over the edge of sanity. I fought that bastard for the gun. It got loose. I'd like to point out, again, that I instructed her to get to the bathroom and seal herself in, but she didn't.”

All humor dies as T sweeps his angry gaze toward me.

“I didn't do it on purpose. I fell, my feet tangled in the sheet, and then I couldn't move. Sorry, this was my first assassination attempt. I'll do better next time.”

Both men growl their discontent.

“I had him in a choke hold. He was subdued. That's when Barney Fife here grabbed the gun and aimed it toward us.”

“There was another man coming through the balcony doors,” I cry, jabbing a finger in the direction of the bedroom. “I was protecting you, and I saved your life, you ungrateful ass.”

Trey holds up both hands palms out. “Baby, you almost shot another agent.”

Everything silences. The stomping of heavy feet, loud masculine voices, and arguing shouts pour through the cracks in the door.

“Huh?” It's not the smartest thing to say next, but well, after tonight, I'm truly at a loss for words.

Trey relaxes a bit, lowering his hands to hook both thumbs on the edge of the towel secured around his hips.

“Somehow one of the beta agents got around to the balcony. That's who you saw and who you tried to shoot.”

“There was another—”

“Another agent came in after hearing the commotion in the suite.” He chews on his lip like he’s debating telling me more.

“But that first guy, the one who you fought with. I killed—”

“One of the agents shot him after I’d dropped to the ground. The only thing you shot, Mess, was your bed.”

Relief and embarrassment wash over me, relaxing some of the tightness in my chest.

“The bed was—”

“Nowhere near either of us, yeah, I know. It's safe to say we need to work on your aim.”

“The agents outside her door—” T starts.

Trey launches a folded towel at his friend cutting him off, causing the towel to loosen a bit and slide lower, showing off more of that sexy V of muscles. “Not now.” His gaze searches the tile like it holds all the answers for tonight’s shit show before snapping to T. “Those balcony doors were locked. Smith checked them. That means—”

“Either he made a mistake or…” T trails off.

“He had a key,” we all say in unison.

* * *

Don’t get me wrong. Air Force Two was great—way better than flying commercial—but Air Force One is immeasurable to any other experience I've ever had. Everything has a use, yet it's comfortable and classy as hell.

For some reason, things are more relaxed here. Like now, the office door is wide open, allowing me to watch the agents and other personnel as they walk by. It's nice. Maybe it’s the fact that we’re high above all the issues plaguing our country and threats against me that make everyone seem more relaxed. Whatever the difference is in this small flying city, I wish I had this more casual feel at the White House too.

Across the small office, my two boys nap side by side on the leather couch. Trey's head rests on T's wide shoulder, and T’s head is tipped all the way back, mouth open slightly, snoring. It’s too adorable of a moment to not capture and maybe use as blackmail at a later date. Snagging my cell from the desk, I swipe open the screen and take several shots. Grinning at the set of pictures, I pull up Sarah's number and forward them all to her with a heart emoji.

I miss that woman desperately. Yes, the workouts were great, but it was nice having a female friend I could count on, someone I trusted with my secrets and knew she’d go to the grave with them.

As I type out my “I miss you” text to Sarah, the weight of someone's stare draws my attention from the screen to the doorway now filled with Agent Smith.

“Monster?” I say, my tone questioning as I test the nickname. “How about that as a nickname going forward?”