Power Surge: Power Play Series Book 4 Page 4

  Smooth palms brush along my jaw as he cups my cheeks, his thumbs beneath my jaw, holding me still and putting me completely at his mercy. Honey brown eyes search mine as a smile plays at the corner of his lips.

  “We'll figure it out, Randi. We always do. You focus on running this country and taking care of your daughter. She needs you now more than ever. Let me and your new alpha team handle all your protection, including that fuckface Whit. Let us take that stress from you, okay?”

  “But—”

  Soft lips slam against my own, cutting off my next words—hell, my next thought. I slide a tentative hand up his chest, clasping the back of his neck. The strain of the day seeps away with the way he consumes me, with every demanding swipe of his tongue against my own. Within the passing of a few seconds, nothing matters except him and me.

  I whimper in disappointment at the pounding against the office door that forces him to end our moment. Hands gripping my lean waist, he helps me off the desk and doesn’t let go until I'm steady on my heels.

  “Tonight,” I blurt. “I need to see you tonight. I miss you. I need us, Trouble.” It takes every ounce of courage to expel those words. I don't want to be this needy and desperate for him, but at some point in our relationship, I've come to depend on his strength and unwavering support. I’ve felt lost without his daily presence the past several weeks.

  Trey's confident smile goes shy. After clearing his throat, he shakes his head. “You know I would, but it's too risky. We both know what the media would say, what the people would say if they found out I was sneaking into the White House to sleep with the president.”

  “Figure out a way.” I hang my head. “I'm drowning in this stress pool, and you're my unicorn float.”

  He tips his head back and lets out a full, boisterous laugh. The sadness that had begun to seep in with his certain departure lifts, and a smile spreads across my dry lips.

  “You and your damn unicorns. The obsession is getting worse, Mess. What’s next? Federal funding for genetic testing and DNA mutation in hopes of building a unicorn army?”

  “Not a bad idea, Trouble. I’ll look into it.”

  He smirks. “I'm sure the citizens of this country will love to know what their tax dollars are going toward.”

  Smiling, I straighten my shirt and swipe under my eyes once more. “Maybe I'll give everyone a Lisa Frank unicorn eraser or something as a thank you.”

  “What is this, a third grade Valentine’s Day party?”

  “You'd be surprised at all the shit I want to buy now that I can.” Pausing on my way to the door, I glance over my shoulder. “Do you think they still sell Trapper Keepers? I always wanted one of those.”

  “What time, Mess?” he says on a resigned laugh.

  Facing the closed white door, I give him a victorious smile. “I should be done around ten.”

  “I'll make it eleven, then.”

  Confused, I turn, my brows dipped.

  Trey runs a hand down the front of his dress shirt, smoothing out the wrinkles I caused. “You and Taeler need to talk before I stop by. You two will be fine once you have a chance to discuss what this means to both of you and hash out a plan. Do you even know what she wants?”

  My long dark hair swipes along my back as I shake my head. No, I haven’t a clue, because I was too wrapped up in my own emotions earlier to ask.

  Great, I already suck at this supportive grandparent thing.

  The door rattles with another demanding knock. Twisting around, I fist the doorknob and yank it open, frustration clearly written across my face.

  “What?” I snap before I register Sam’s blazing green eyes staring back at me.

  He blinks, completely unfazed by my outburst. His attention shifts over my shoulder, where Trey now stands based off the tension radiating at my back.

  “We need to talk,” Sam states, sliding his narrowed eyes back to me. “There’s been an incident.”

  The sharp edge of the door digs into my forehead as I press it against the wood. “You can’t be serious. What else can go wrong today?”

  “Birmingham is dead.”

  Chapter Three

  Trey

  The hard plastic bubble indents a fraction as I stab a finger into the button indicating the floor to the condo. Shoulder against the metal wall, I stabilize myself for the jostle that will come as the elevator starts its ascent. The mechanics whir to life, shooting me upward.

  Exhaustion grips me, making my legs feel loose and unstable. The venture out into the real world for the service and to see Randi took nearly every reserve of energy I had. Even though I’m bored as hell on medical leave, I can't imagine getting through a twelve-hour shift like this. Not that I’m anywhere close to being in any shape to return to duty.

  The elevator slows its ascent before coming to a smooth halt. Listing forward, I force myself into motion as the doors open with a silent whoosh. Taking a right, I fumble for my keys as my heavy footsteps pound down the empty hall.

  Damnit to hell, I fucking hate this. My weakness is pathetic. I shake my head, a few thick locks of hair sliding in front of my eyes. Even with the agency-issued physical training, the recovery is slower than I expected. It was a simple through-and-through shoulder wound, but somehow I know it’s not the physical wound that’s keeping my healing stagnant. Other aspects of those chaotic twelve hours have stuck with me, things I just can't seem to move past.

  What those are, hell if I know. Not that I’m telling my appointed therapist the agency requires me to see weekly. But there’s something in there, something that’s building, making me moody, angry, despondent, and fucking tired. But today, seeing Randi and holding her in my arms, lifted a layer of that heaviness that’s slowly suffocating me.

  At the door, I slip my key into the deadbolt and twist, but it doesn’t move. Confused, I narrow my eyes at the deadbolt before shifting my annoyance to the gold number hanging in the middle of the door.

  “Fuck,” I grumble and drop my hand, taking the nonworking key with it.

  This isn’t my condo anymore. It was, up until about a week ago when I sold it to Jessica Hawthorne.

  Careful to not make a noise and attract Jessica to the front door, I turn and retreat the few steps back down the hallway toward the elevator.

  Damnit, I really need to snap out of it. Get over this anger and resentment festering deep in my wounded soul. From challenging my parents on their perverted hobbies, to Taeler going missing, then confronting a drunken Birmingham before getting shot by the fucker, then Randi being sworn in while I was in surgery.

  It's a lot to let go of when you're not really sure where to start. Top it off that my stronghold, the key to helping me work through it all, is locked up tight in that white prison. Earlier I couldn't even stick around while they talked about Birmingham’s death. Like a useless accessory, I was shoved out of the room the moment details were discussed.

  Now here I am back home—well, almost. I hit the button for the third floor and cringe as the elevator begins its decent.

  Randi doesn’t know about all this yet, and I’ll keep it that way until I can figure out how to unfreeze the money stored in my trust. Mother might not have been able to cut me off from the money herself, but the FBI can. One mention of those funds being secured by my father at the Boardroom, where the trafficking of young girls was taking place, was enough evidence for a judge to freeze all assets.

  So now on top of figuring out this emotional turmoil shit and healing, I’m fucking broke. Good thing I found roommates willing to help out with this new, much cheaper mortgage.

  At the third floor, I exit the elevator. Door after door is crammed along the long hall, a visual display of how tiny these condos are on this level compared to the ones on the higher floors. Before I insert the key into the deadbolt, the door swings open, familiar bushy gray eyebrows and tired eyes greeting me.

  “Master Trey,” Gerard says as he opens the door wider, waving me into the tiny condo.

 
A huff brushes past my lips as I step around him. “I've told you over and over to stop it with that shit. Especially here, now.” Rubbing my forehead, I sigh deeply and continue the couple steps to the living room. “That was one of the conditions for you and Beth staying here, remember? Well, that and her cookies.”

  That and I need the minimal amount they’ve offered to help me pay for the condo. There’s also the guilt factor. It eats at my gut knowing I’m the reason they lost their jobs, that I’m the reason my family estate is now empty and for sale.

  “Right, sorry. Old habits. How was the service and burial for your friend?”

  “What you'd expect, I guess.” Yep, not allowing those emotions an outlet either. No, that grief will stay stuffed deep down like all my other issues. “I would’ve been back sooner, but I was summoned to the White House.”

  An almost smile tweaks at the corners of his wrinkled lips. “And how is the president?”

  “Randi,” I correct. An almost insecure feeling churns my gut at the simple mention of her title. It’s not that I’m jealous, that I’m sure of. It’s that I’m… lost, not really knowing where I stand with her now and where our relationship falls in the hierarchy of her priorities. Fuck, I sound like a pining girl. “She's okay. Today was difficult for her.”

  “For all of you. He was a part of your team too at one point,” Gerard says as he dangles a highball glass with two fingers of dark liquid between us.

  My mouth waters at the sight. This right here is the new normal, the new and less improved Trey Benson. Drinking too much to deflect and hide the pain, not sleeping enough because of the drinking and self-wallowing, overanalyzing everything, and—bonus—random bouts of pure rage.

  “Yeah, he was a good kid” is all I say before taking a deep swallow of the burning liquid to chase back the lump of emotions clogging my throat. “Do you know why my mother would’ve been there? I swore I saw her tucked and injected face in the crowd.”

  “Probably did see her,” Gerard says at my back. “From what I understand, they were friends.”

  I jerk to a halt to spin around. “What?” I ask, utterly shocked. “Why didn’t I know about this?”

  The wrinkles marking his forehead deepen as he furrows his brow. “I don’t know much about the how or why, but Mrs. Benson was acquainted with the young man’s parents somehow. They stopped by the estate once or twice several years back.”

  At the sight of my deep leather recliner, one of the pieces of furniture I couldn’t part with despite it crowding the entire living room, I yank the ends of my dress shirt from my belt with my free hand before toeing off one Ferragamo, then the other.

  Somewhat more comfortable, I drop down into the cushions. Immediately the soft leather molds around my ass and back. A distant memory of my girl curled in my arms, the two of us acting like we didn't have a worry in the world, assaults me, taking me back to that moment. I can almost smell her cherry vanilla shampoo and feel the chill of her always cold hand seeping through my dress shirt. That day there were no stressors, no obligations or worries. It only lasted all of a few hours before the world came crashing back down around us, but those few hours I cherish even more now. Little did we know what lay ahead for her and how much of an impact it would have on us.

  Swirling the ice and liquid around the thin glass sides, I observe the small waves. I should text Tank, tell him about my suspicions regarding the ongoing mole investigation. With my concerns at Camp David last fall and now the new information brought to light today, there's no doubt Grem was Mother's inside man.

  Why? Guess we'll never know.

  Tipping the glass up, I finish the drink in a single swallow.

  But if I text Tank, that will open up the flood of questions I know will follow. I'm not ready to confront him. I don’t have it in me to convince him I’m not slipping down a very dangerous path.

  Without a doubt, Randi will take notice of my issues too when she’s not consumed with grief and confusion. Which makes tonight a precarious situation I'll need to carefully navigate through. If I can even get past the side gate entrance unnoticed. Sure, I could always go through the front gates like a normal visitor, get the pass waiting at the guard tower like I did today, but being there at night is a different scenario entirely. No, going through the front gate isn’t an option; it’ll raise too many questions. And attract the media, which neither she nor I need right now. The reporters waiting outside the building and the constant calls asking for a statement about my father’s arrest have finally died down, and I want to keep it that way. I have to figure out a plan to get inside the gates without drawing attention.

  “You need to talk to someone,” Gerard says from where he hovers.

  Peeking one eye open, I take in the concern written across his face.

  “Like who? That shrink I’m assigned to is a damn fool.” Shutting my eyelid once again, I shift in the seat to find a more comfortable position. “Plus, I am. Tonight. Things will be better once I see her.”

  “You saw her today, yet here you are drinking and sleeping the day away, again.”

  “That was different,” I protest.

  “You need to get better, Trey. To get past this.”

  “I know, and I will.” I sigh. “I just need to see her for longer than ten minutes without her upset about something I can't fucking fix.” I curl my fingers into a tight fist. Heat washes along my skin, making a warm flush build beneath my undershirt. “I just need to get back to work.”

  “You'll end up shooting someone.”

  “If they deserve it, that’s what guns are for.”

  “I'm more worried about you hurting someone who doesn't.”

  “I wouldn't do that. I wouldn't hurt an innocent person.”

  “You are right now.”

  A deep line forms between my brows as I give up on my nap and open both eyes. “I don't understand what you’re implying.”

  “You, Trey. You can’t continue to beat yourself up about things that were out of your control. Your parents made their own choices and are now facing those consequences. Those were their own actions, not yours. You were shot protecting the vice president, doing your job. Then come to find out one of the fatalities in Paris was a young man who you knew, who you trained. You have to let all this go and move on. None of it was your fault.”

  “Whatever,” I grumble. Not the most mature response, but he's digging deeper than I want to dive at the moment—or ever. “I'm taking a nap.”

  After setting an alarm, I toss the phone to the side table and press the button on the inside armrest to raise the leg rest. “Everything will work out just fine. I’ll see her tonight, talk things through, and be back to normal in no time. No need to worry,” I mumble, already halfway asleep.

  “Thanks for picking me up, man,” I say while focused on the phone in my hand to avoid eye contact with Tank. Since the moment I woke up a couple hours ago, I’ve used the time to catch up on current affairs in case Randi wants to discuss anything. In my major news website searching, there wasn’t one mention of Birmingham’s death. Either the media doesn't know yet or someone slapped every news channel and paper with an injunction to keep the information from being released.

  “It's fine,” Tank says from the driver’s seat.

  The government-issued jet-black Suburban coasts down the empty streets. For the first time in our friendship, the silence is tense with unspoken words. The awkwardness eats at my resolve to not talk to him, knowing I'm the cause. But still here I sit, not offering any explanation to my absence in his life since I was released from the hospital or why I'm strung tighter than a damn hair trigger.

  At the White House’s fortified wrought iron gate, Tank rolls down the window as a marine approaches, readying to offer both our IDs.

  The young kid takes the IDs while casting a suspicious scan inside the SUV. “Are you both expected?”

  Tank hooks a thumb in my direction. “He is. The president wants to talk with him about the incident.�
�� We all know what incident he's talking about. Everyone does. My chest tightens, making it hard to inhale deep.

  Fuck, what the hell is wrong with me?

  The guard hands the IDs back and motions us forward. Again the silence in the cab feels heavy as we wait the eternity it takes for the gates to swing open wide enough for the Suburban to slip through unscathed.

  Without any indication from me, Tank turns the wheel, taking us toward the residence side of the White House with the side entrance that's less visible.

  Flexing my fingers, I attempt to loosen my tense muscles when the SUV comes to an abrupt halt. I snap forward. The seat belt engages, catching me before my nose collides with the dash.

  “What the hell?” I grunt. Groaning, I sit back while rubbing at my chest. A new ache throbs from the still healing wound in my shoulder. “What the fuck is wrong with you, man?”

  “Exactly, you idiot.” Knowing full well where this conversation is headed, I reach for the door handle readying for a swift exodus. “Oh hell no,” Tank yells as he lunges across the SUV, smacking my hand away with one of his large mitt-like hands. “You’re not going anywhere, Playboy.”

  “Fuck,” I grunt as he bats my hand away at my second escape attempt. “Damnit, Tank. Let me out of this damn thing, now.”

  “Not on your life,” he states. “Tell me what the fuck is going on with you.”

  “Nothing's ‘going on with me,’” I mock, using air quotes. His eyes narrow as steam seems to billow from his ears. “What the fuck is going on with you?”

  Still radiating with tension, Tank props his back against the driver side door, keeping a watchful gaze in my direction in case I try a third jailbreak.

  “Talk. To. Me. I haven’t seen you since the hospital, and then the first text in weeks, after all of mine have gone unread, is for a damn ride to help you sneak in to see your girlfriend?” He shakes his head. Averting his eyes, he looks out the front windshield. Rubbing a hand over his bald head, he exhales. “Whatever’s going on, we’ll figure it out. You can talk to me, Trey.”