Power Surge: Power Play Series Book 4 Read online

  “Why the hell are you mad?” Taeler yells back. “I’m the one who’s pregnant, not you.”

  “I told you—” I cut myself off to take a deep, calming breath. Screaming at her will accomplish nothing. “I can't have this conversation with you right now, Taeler. You just told me you're pregnant in front of two strangers, in public, at a funeral.”

  I slide my phone from the inside pocket of my tailored suit jacket. After swiping the screen open, I press the number for my new chief of staff, Blake Jansen. The moment he picks up, I dive in. “We need an NDA sent to the fallen agent's parents right now. We need them to sign it immediately and get it back to us.” Taking a deep breath, I hold it in until it burns in my lungs. “I need a meeting with you and the press secretary the moment I get to the White House, ETA thirty minutes.” Hanging up, I toss the phone to the seat, then lean forward and massage my temples with my thumbs.

  “I'll get a doctor to come to the White House. You'll need to get on prenatal vitamins immediately.” Tears clog in my throat. “And I'm not mad, Taeler. I'm confused and really, really disappointed in you and this situation.”

  “Mom.” Her voice breaks. “You're embarrassed?”

  Dropping my hands, I turn in the seat to face her straight on. “No, I'm not embarrassed. This has nothing to do with me being president. It has to do with you and me, Taeler Lynn. I told you time and time again to use protection. I've told you to be smart so many times I've lost track. You know how hard being a single mom was for me and that I didn’t want that life, that struggle, for you.”

  “I didn't mean for this to happen,” she says she silently cries. “It was just once or twice. I didn't expect—”

  “I can't do this right now, Taeler.” I press the palm of one hand to my chest, trying to quell the building ache. Outside the dark-tinted window, the trees rush by as we drive back to the White House. Through the streams of water, I focus on the iconic building that grows larger in the window. My new home. A home I didn't anticipate and sure as hell don't deserve.

  My breathing turns erratic.

  The moment we're through the gates, I snatch my phone off the neighboring seat and type out a quick text to Trey.

  Me: Your presence is needed ASAP in the Oval Office.

  A response comes back almost immediately.

  Trey: You okay?

  Me: No.

  Trey: Randi, you can’t say shit like that. Are you safe?

  Me: Physically, yes. Emotionally, I’m about to detonate.

  Trey: Be there in thirty.

  I rest the phone on top of my lap and stare at the blank screen.

  Thirty minutes. I can hold it together for thirty more minutes.

  I think.

  Chapter Two

  Randi

  “We have options.”

  I monitor my press secretary as I wait for her to continue. Well, not my press secretary. She was Kyle's before he was forced to step down. When the change in command happened, she offered to stay on until I figured out whom else to hire for the role. Crazy enough, most of the staff had the same mindset. Which was fucking amazing, because I wasn't in a place where I could restaff the whole damn White House. Hell, it’s weeks later and I'm still not. With my lack of connections in this town, I might never be ready to staff.

  She skirts her nervous gaze from me to Blake, who’s perched on the edge of one of the two love seats in the Oval Office.

  “Just say it,” I urge on an exhausted sigh, peeking at the clock on the massive desk phone—the phone that could launch a nuclear war against the world with just a simple call—to gauge how much longer I have to put up with this bullshit before Trey arrives.

  “We could have it discreetly taken care of—”

  “No,” I say immediately. “That will not be our call. What are the other options?”

  “We keep her here, locked inside the White House until she delivers, then send the baby to a relative,” Blake replies.

  I snort and swivel in the high-backed leather chair to look out the massive glass windows. Rain continues to pound against the panes, the streets below resembling flowing rivers rather than asphalt lanes.

  “No, she won't be my prisoner,” I say over my shoulder.

  “We announce—”

  Three sharp raps at the door stop her cold. My new secretary’s ball of frizzy red hair pops through the door. “Madam President, Agent Benson is here to see you. He said you requested a meeting.”

  I nod, offering a weak smile, letting her know she was right to interrupt the meeting. When I hired her last week—the one I had as VP lasted all of two days in the new higher stress role—I laid out a few ground rules. Trey and Taeler always being priority no matter what I was doing or who I was meeting with was the most important rule for her to remember.

  Curling my fingers, I motion for her to let him in. Mumbles of discontent come from Blake and the press secretary at my decision to allow an agent into our meeting. Not that I give a rat’s ass.

  “Agent Benson, perfect timing.” I swivel to face the middle of the room. Palms to the edge of the desk, I give a hard push, shooting the chair’s rolling wheels backward a foot. My stiff joints protest as I stand from the ass-conforming seat. Light-headedness sparkles in the back of my mind for the second time today, making the room sway. Fingertips pressed to the polished surface, I lean my weight onto them to center me and keep from tipping over. The episode doesn’t last long, but even that blip doesn’t slip past Trey, who narrows his honey brown eyes my way.

  I take him in as he strides across the room before coming to a stop beside the mahogany desk. Dark gray slacks drape over his lean hips and muscular thighs, highlighting the strength hidden beneath with each of his steps. The plain baby blue dress shirt is unbuttoned at the top, offering a glimpse of naturally smooth tan skin beneath.

  Every cell, every muscle, demands I collapse into his strong, comforting arms. But I can’t. Not yet.

  “Continue,” I say after swallowing down the building emotions. “What do we announce?” Shifting my focus back to the press secretary, I raise both brows expectantly.

  “We announce the pregnancy.” Trey's shoulders tense, and a painful grimace mars his handsome face. The faint laugh lines I love so much are now hidden behind deep stress-filled wrinkles. “That way we can get ahead of the media before it’s escalated. We give them the story we want them to run with. If we don’t, who knows what they’ll create on their own.”

  “Madam President?” Trey hisses like the two words cause him physical pain. The muscle along his narrow jaw twitches. “Who's pregnant?” Hurt and anger swirl behind his searching eyes.

  Well, shit. Way to go, Randi. Didn't even think he'd assume I was the one pregnant. Well, us pregnant.

  Oh hell.

  I'm a moron. And president of the United States.

  Fucking hell. This will not end well for anyone.

  “Taeler,” I blurt. My right hand slides across the desk, inching its way toward him. “That’s who’s pregnant, with Grem’s baby. I found out today, about an hour ago.”

  “What?” Shock registers across his face while his entire body relaxes, releasing the shoulders that were stationed by his ears.

  A pang of hurt pulses through me, eradicating the other swirling emotions. Not sure why the idea of him being relieved that I’m not the one pregnant hurts so badly, but it does. I'll have to figure that out later. One issue at a time, or I’ll end up being a multi-episode on Jerry Springer.

  “The media will have a field day with this information if we don’t guide them,” Blake says, drawing my attention back to the issue at hand. “They'll drag her through the mud, both of you. We already have a difficult time getting the media and voters to see you as presidential. And now your daughter, who's living in the White House is unwed and pregnant. Fuck, they’ll just assume she plans to park a double-wide on the front fucking lawn.” He twirls a pen between his fingers. “They'll call her a trailer trash whore just like her mom. It
won't be good.”

  An angry grunt rumbles from where Trey stands with a straight back, hands fisted at his side.

  Leaning forward, I press all my weight onto the desk and drop my head. “Noted. What about the NDAs? Did you get those out like I requested?”

  Blake huffs like it’s a ridiculous question. “Yes, an agent hand delivered them moments ago. I requested he wait until both were signed before heading back to the White House.”

  My head bobs at the somewhat good news. Then a conversation from the limo comes to mind. “Taeler had an agent run out and purchase the pregnancy test. Will that be an issue?”

  At his silence, I raise my head. Blake rubs a pale hand along his square jaw, the scratch of his palm against his stubble audible from several feet away.

  “All agents sign NDAs when hired,” Trey adds.

  “Right, but that doesn't mean he wasn't caught on camera, or the cashier didn’t notice his suit and guns and drew conclusions. That’s not even factoring in the other customers in the store at the time of the purchase,” Blake states. Leaning back against the couch, he groans. “I'll send someone to clean up that mess too.”

  Tears pool in the corners of my eyes, threatening to fall and expose the emotional mess I’m holding inside. Twisting fast, I perch on the rounded edge of the presidential desk to hide my face by putting my back to the room.

  “Great.” I clear the lump of tears clogging my throat to make the words audible. “I'll let you know what plan of action I decide on later. As of now, we're done here. You two can go. Agent Benson, you stay. We have more to discuss.”

  There’s a shuffling noise behind me as soft footsteps grow closer. A single hot tear escapes. I fight the urge to wipe it away until I know the room is clear.

  Trey steps in front of me in his expensive custom suit, blocking out the back lawn I was so focused on. “They're gone,” he murmurs as he swipes the lone tear away with the pad of his thumb.

  That’s the breaking point. The softness in his touch, the concern in his voice. Pitching forward, I press my forehead to his sternum and release the firm clamp I had been holding on my sorrow and grief.

  Muscular arms immediately swallow me up, wrapping around my trembling shoulders and cocooning me in unrelenting support and comfort.

  “Shh, baby,” he whispers into my hair. A hiccup escapes between sobs. “Come on, please. Please don't cry. You’re killing me.” The long calming strokes of his fingers up and down my curved spine have the opposite effect of his words as fresh tears stream down my cheeks and drip off my jaw and chin. Fisting the front of his shirt, I tug him closer.

  This festering buildup of emotions and smothering stress began collecting the moment my hand rested on that Bible and I repeated the vows to serve this country. Since that moment, every flicker of anger, every blip of sadness or unease, and the mounting pressure have been shoved into a deep chasm somewhere in my chest.

  Until today. Because he’s here. Holding me. Protecting me. Letting me grieve openly and supporting me through it all.

  Knowing Grem—the man whose name I could never remember—died protecting my daughter was the tipping of the scales that pushed me over into the madness my pent-up emotions have brewed. Add in the fact that he died also protecting their unborn child makes the guilt unbearable.

  The tears burn as they pour from my eyes. My breathing turns ragged as the backlog of unshed tears fight to escape.

  Pregnant.

  Taeler’s pregnant.

  I should be happy about a grandchild, but I’m not, not at all. And I can't help the way I feel about the situation—the churning anger, fear, and disappointment. I wish I was excited, but too many negative memories surround those two words: the way her father reacted to them, the backlash from the community and his parents, and then, of course, the struggle I fought against every fucking day to keep from repeating the cycle I was destined to fall into by being a single teen mother.

  It will be different for her, yes, but I know all too well the struggle that all single mothers face. A part of me resents her recklessness of not using protection. And a much larger portion hates me for resenting her.

  For what seems like hours, Trey holds me close, whispering calming and supportive words as I cleanse out that emotional chasm, clearing it of the backlog in the presence of the one person I trust enough to break in front of.

  Trey won't judge me, won't see this as a weakness. Which is another reason I’ve missed him the past few weeks. Sure, I’ve missed his sexy body, mischievous smirk, and arrogant personality, but I’ve also missed my friend. The phone calls and texts can’t offer the same connection as him being here, standing in front of me, holding me tight.

  “You're upset about the pregnancy,” he says when the tears slow and my breathing normalizes.

  The cotton material of his dress shirt moves with my forehead as I nod.

  “That's okay, Randi. Today you said goodbye to Grem, and now this news was tossed into the mess. It’s okay to be at emotional capacity. But know this, Mess. Are you listening?”

  Again I nod.

  “How you feel right now is okay.” I swallow back my disagreeing response. “What you went through all those years ago as a teen mother left a scar that no one understands but you. I can’t even imagine the types of emotions this news brings to the surface, but it won't be like that for Tae. Know why?”

  I shake my head.

  “Come on, baby, look at me.”

  This time I shake my head in more of a panic than disagreement. No way in hell am I letting his perfect face see me like this. Drips of snot flow from the tip of my nose. No doubt my eyes are red and swollen. Oh, and can’t forget the black streak marks lining my cheeks from the running mascara and eyeliner. Like hell I’ll let him see me like this. I might be the president, but I'm still a woman who doesn’t want her hot boyfriend to see her looking like shit.

  Except he doesn't give me a choice. At his retreating step, I whimper, hating him a little and missing the way his hold blocked out reality just for a little while. Desperate to hide my face, I tuck the tip of my chin to my chest. Fine. Asshole. Blindly I stretch a hand behind me, smacking against the desk in search of the tissue box I know I’ve seen. A stiff cardboard box taps my pinkie. Tracing the box upward, I yank several soft tissues free. Only when I'm fairly certain snot and tears are gone do I dare a peek at the still waiting Trey.

  “Um, yeah, so you were saying?” I say, ignoring the fact that I spent five minutes attempting to make myself presentable for him.

  His fuller lower lip slides from where it’s snagged between his teeth as his signature smirk tugs at the corners. The same mischievous smirk that won me over during the campaign. The smirk that gets him into and out of anything and everything. It's confident, mischievous. It's wholly Trey Benson.

  A pulse of relief eases through me at the sight of him standing in front of me, finally, after way too many days, weeks apart.

  “I asked, do you know why pregnancy and being a single mom will be different for Taeler?”

  “Because she's not fifteen with the only life skill in her arsenal being how to stock shelves at Food Lion?”

  His mouth pops open and then shuts. Head slightly tilted, he considers me for a second before speaking. “Your first job was stocking shelves at a grocery store?”

  I lift a single slim shoulder. “Yeah. It was the only business that would hire a minor and wasn’t shady as hell. The store owner paid me in cash until I was legal and could be processed through payroll.” Sticking to this diverting topic, I hitch my chin in his direction. “Everyone’s first job was awful as hell. It’s character building. What was yours?”

  Pink flush sprouts along his cheekbones. After running a hand through his long dark hair, he shoves both hands into the pockets of his slacks and avoids my questioning stare.

  “Oh, right,” I say on a soft laugh. “You never had the typical first job hell, did you?”

  “I worked,” he says, half poutin
g, half defensive.

  “Oh really, Mr. Richie Rich? Then do tell. I’m all ears here.”

  “My job was to get good grades and focus on sports,” Trey says with a sheepish shrug.

  “That's what all rich kids say.” I snort. But the mention of his childhood reminds me of seeing Celia this afternoon and the evidence I now have identifying Grem as the mole who’s evaded us. “Oh, and speaking of your childhood—”

  A light knock at the door cuts me off. Swiveling on the desk, I watch the door, waiting for it to swing open, but it never does. Glancing over my shoulder, I shoot Trey a questioning look.

  “Mess.” He chuckles, raising a fist to his mouth, hiding his smile. “You have to tell her it's okay to come in.”

  “Oh, right. I forget that part.” Shifting to face the door, I remember our earlier conversation and swivel back around to face Trey once again. “Did you make your point from earlier?”

  “What point?”

  “You said it will be different with Tae because….”

  “Because, Mess, she has you.”

  I sink my teeth into my lower lip to keep the trembling to a minimum. Why the hell does he have to go and say sweet shit like that?

  “But I don't know how to support her like she’ll need and do this.” I sweep both hands out, indicating the historic office. “And what if I'm bad at being a grandparent? What if she's bad at being a mom? And most importantly—” I inhale deep to quell the nerves churning my stomach. “—what if this ends badly? What if this is what Shawn uses against me?”

  Both our heads turn at the next knock on the door, this one more forceful.

  Trey steps close, placing his hips between my spread knees. The hem of my black pencil skirt slides higher up my thighs, drawing Trey's gaze.

  That's another thing I’ve missed since I was sworn in.

  Zero, and I mean zero—not even hand stuff—sex time. Between his recovery, him handling his parents’ shit show, and not having any excuse to come to the White House, we haven't had a single moment alone together until now.