Power Surge: Power Play Series Book 4

by Kennedy L. Mitchell

  “Can I?” I say on a huffed breath. Sure, I'm being a dick, but you know what? So is he. Tank's sitting there completely unaware of what he’s wanting me to share. Asking me to shed the multiple layers of grief, fear, and other emotions even I haven’t been able to identify that I've carried the past few weeks. Right, like I’m just going to open up and spill my pussy-ass guts right here in the SUV moments before I visit my girlfriend—who, bonus, is now the leader of the free country. Yeah, he's the one being the dick, not me.

  “You've been busy,” I say, no doubt adding insult to injury based on Tank’s pain-laced expression like I just backhanded him.

  “True, I’ll give you that,” he grits out. “Pierce's international travel has been significant while you’ve been out on medical, but shit's hit the fan over in the Middle East. He goes where she sends him, and as team lead of his alpha protection team, I had to go too. It's my damn job, your job too once you come back. So don’t fucking deflect that shit back on me. You haven’t responded to a single call or text, so even if I was stateside, it wouldn’t have mattered.”

  “Yeah, I know, man,” I reluctantly grumble. “That was a dick shot.”

  He dips his chin in acknowledgment, immediately accepting my apology. Because he’s the best damn friend a guy could ask for, and I’m an asshole.

  “So tell me what's going on. The same as before?”

  Before meaning the way heat and close quarters could trigger a panic attack stemming from my multiple deployments in the Middle East with the army.

  “Different,” I rasp. Clearing my throat, I swipe my clammy palms down my dark-wash jeans. “I just… can't. Not yet, Davis.”

  At his silence, I dare a glance at my friend only to find him carefully considering me. “Fine, I get that. Don’t like it, but I get it. You have to be ready, which is why I’m guessing the agency shrink hasn’t cleared you yet.” He dips his head with a knowing expression. “But soon. And I want to see you at the club tomorrow morning. Your ass is out of shape.”

  My brows jump up my forehead. “How do you know I haven't been going?” The depth of care and devotion this man has for our friendship—for me—is incredible.

  “I'm on the VP's detail, remember? He goes every morning we're stateside, and I haven't seen you there once. He'll be there tomorrow around five o’clock, and I expect to see you there too. You hear me, Benson? You've got to get back to life. Your medical leave ends next month, and I need you 100 percent.”

  Scrubbing a hand down my face, I offer a reluctant nod. “Yeah, sure. Tomorrow.” Without glancing across the center console, I yank the chrome handle, opening the door without his interference. “It'll take me time, but I’ll get back to normal soon.”

  At least that’s what I'm telling myself.

  “Trey, we don't have the luxury of time.”

  I pause and turn to cast a cautious glance over my shoulder. “What do you mean? What’s going on that you’re not telling me?” For the first time in weeks, intrigue slips in, pulling all my attention back to Tank.

  “Sucks, don’t it?”

  I narrow my brows with a “don’t fuck with me” expression.

  “War, Benson. Like that Russian warned us in Hawaii, war is approaching, and it's up to our girl to prevent it from going down. To prevent thousands of our boys and girls from putting their lives on the fucking line for a conflict that’s based off the greed and lies of others.”

  “Shit. Fucking Birmingham.”

  “Exactly.”

  With that heavy-loaded conversation in the forefront of my mind, I wave a goodbye and slam the door behind me. Taking a moment to process the information Tank revealed, I regard the brightly lit building in front of me. Dread drops like a ten-ton lead weight in my gut while the mounting anticipation at seeing her makes me jittery. It takes a minute to wrangle all the erratic emotions and shove them down deep, leaving me deceptively calm.

  Inhaling a deep calming breath, I slowly release it through pursed lips and start toward the four agents guarding the entrance to the White House.

  Chapter Four

  Randi

  “I mean, what the actual hell,” I mumble under my breath as I tread down a long hall that will take me to the residence side of the White House. The perk of working and residing in the same location lost its glamor after day three of living here. Besides the funeral, I can't remember the last time I left this fancy prison. It’s partly because I don’t have to leave the grounds for a commute to the office, and the other part is the more intense security now that I’m president. Protecting me is the number one concern for everyone nowadays—which is a good thing, it really is, but it's not my guys, my trusted team, following me around. No, they had to stay with the VP, my friend Sam Pierce.

  Lucky bastard.

  There has to be a way to influence the director of the Secret Service to switch the teams out. And I will find a way… soon.

  But right now that’s the least of my concerns. Because holy fuck, Kyle is dead.

  Really dead. With suicide as the cause of death.

  Everyone else is taking the coroner’s report at face value, just accepting that Kyle would take his own life, but to me, something feels off about that. Though the evidence collected was all conclusive to him strangling himself with a priceless piece of art—even the tie that was used as the noose was one of his apparently. Yet something nags in the back of my mind, something that keeps tickling every so often, making me question the validity of that conclusion.

  Okay, sure, Kyle deliberated putting a bullet in his head that awful morning when I forced him to step down from the presidency, but he was drunk and cornered then. He was different after he resigned. He had hope because he knew he had options, since he held the information we need to end the corrupt scandal he left behind. Up until yesterday he held all the cards. A power he was exploiting, demanding amnesty in exchange for the names needed to stop whatever those men have set in motion.

  I would ask Sam where they were in meeting his demands—maybe they denied Kyle and that’s why he killed himself—but I’ve learned the hard way not to mention Kyle in front of Sam. It was a fucking horse pill for Sam to swallow when his boss, the attorney general, considered Kyle's demands, stating it was the lesser of the two evils. It's true, but the thought of him getting off scot-free for all his transgressions prickled at me too. But justice isn't always black and white, and if Kyle's information could help me stop the rising conflicts in the Middle East—conflicts that his scandal created—I'd take it no matter what he asked me to give up.

  But now what will we do? What options do I have in finding the names and identities of the guilty?

  It’s a mess. All of it. The entire country and our Middle East relations. Most of the country is in an uproar at the still high gas prices while the others are furious that a woman is leading the country. Sure, they were okay with a woman in the secondary role, but the primary? Oh hell no. The news channels debate daily if I'll drive our country deeper into trouble or just not do anything at all.

  Good to know they have such little faith in me.

  Not that I have much more than they do. About every other minute, I wonder if I should've taken the out when I had it and stepped down when Kyle did. But there’s no doubt in my mind that Shawn Whit, the sociopath best friend of the recently departed Kyle Birmingham, would’ve figured out a way to swoop in and fill one of the vacant roles. I might be unprepared and uneducated in most things politics, but at least I'm not a sociopath.

  Hey, looky there, that’s one positive I can focus on.

  “Not driven to murder for fun. Go me.”

  The stoic agent beside me shoots me the side-eye.

  Shrugging, I hold my hands out to my side. “What? I see it as a positive.”

  He turns his laser focus back down the hallway, completely dismissing my ramblings.

  Damn, I miss T and Trey. Hell, all the guys. Soon I'll get them back. I just needed these few weeks to get my feet under me and
understand what power I hold over urging the director to change my alpha team.

  Right now, I have to fix what I fractured earlier in my callousness.

  Pausing in front of Taeler's room, I rap two knuckles against the solid wood door and swallow down the uncertainty rolling in my gut. A million thoughts cross my mind as I wait for the door to open.

  It cracks an inch, revealing puffy red eyes staring blankly into mine. Leaning against the door’s edge, Taeler widens the gap and tilts her head inside the room. She turns to stalk toward the unmade bed without waiting to see if I follow.

  I cast a worried glance at the agent to my left, then to the one stationed on my right. “Wish me luck?” No answer. “Rough crowd tonight,” I grumble.

  Mental note: getting my old alpha team back has officially moved up to number one priority for tomorrow. If I'm going to make it through the next two and a half years without cracking under the unrelenting pressure, I need the agents with personality who understand my quirky humor.

  Once inside the room, I quietly shut the door behind me and lean against it, keeping my fidgeting fingers tucked behind my back.

  Lungs filled with a deep encouraging breath, I launch into my planned apology.

  “I know I didn't handle your news well.” Taeler snorts, her back to me as she crawls into the king-size bed. “And I'm sorry,” I continue. “I won’t make excuses because none of them make this”—I shift a hand between the two of us—“any better.”

  “Yeah, you were kind of a bitch,” Taeler says, her face downturned as she picks at a loose string on the embroidered cream duvet cover that came with the house.

  “I'll take that,” I reply, sucking in a breath. Daring a step, then another, I slowly approach the bed. “I should've put you first instead of thinking about the perception it will give, but that was just one reason, one of the many reasons why… why this is a difficult announcement for me.”

  “And you think it's easy for me?” Taeler seethes. She fists the thick fabric covering the bed and narrows an emotional glare up through her lashes. “I'm fucking pregnant, Mom. I'm still in college, Grem is… gone, and bonus, my mom now sees me as a problem instead of simply the beloved daughter I was just yesterday. I think this is all just as difficult for me to process, don't you?”

  I swallow hard. “You’re right. It is, and all I was thinking about earlier was myself. I'm terrified my enemies, who are numerous nowadays, will use this news to their advantage. I'm worried about how the media will react for your sake, not mine. They're vicious in their efforts to make us look like the white trash they believe we are, and believe me, with my past, I’ve given them a lot of ammunition to pick through. And I'm scared you'll live the life I did, always struggling and a step behind everyone else despite the effort you’re putting into life.”

  The struggling ancient air conditioning vibrates in the vents as it pumps cold circulated air into the bedroom. The low hum is the only noise as the tense silence stretches.

  “I'm scared,” she finally admits. Her shoulders round, and her head droops.

  “I know. Believe me, if anyone can say they understand, it’s me.” Stretching across the duvet, I take her hand and interlace our fingers. “But we'll get through this, together, just like everything else.” My throat dries, making each word hurt. “Now, Taeler, I have to ask you something, and it's a decision you get to make and you only.” I clear my throat, fighting with the way to word this next question.

  “Yes, Mom. I want to keep it. I want to keep this baby. His baby.”

  A heavy exhale whips through my pursed lips. “Okay. Decision one down. Now on to next steps. I thought about it earlier, and I don’t want you leaving the White House for the initial checkup. Call it paranoia or straight-up helicopter parenting, but I don’t feel it’s safe just yet. I'll have someone schedule an ob-gyn to come here tomorrow to check on you.” I pause, the hard acrylic tip they’ve started to make me wear chipping beneath my gnawing teeth. “I have a full day tomorrow and the next—well, for the foreseeable future, actually.” I offer her a small smile. “But I'll make time for the appointment. Promise.”

  “Mom—” Her voice cracks. “I'm sorry I disappointed you. I didn't—”

  “No, sweetie. Come here.” A soft tug on her hand and she’s in my arms. My fingers interlaced behind her back, I rest a cheek on the crown of her head. “I shouldn't have said that. I know for a fact Chad's parents are excited to have a piece of their son preserved in the form of a baby who’s half him. We have to stick together like we always have. We’re survivors, you and me. We get through shit no matter how tough the road looks. Right?”

  My head moves up and down as she nods beneath me. Pulling from my tight grasp, Taeler wipes at her weeping eyes and reaches toward the tissue box on the nightstand.

  “You get some sleep, Tae. Today was a lot to process for anyone. Tomorrow we'll tackle the next steps.” A tentative smile pulls at her trembling lips. Tilting forward, I press my lips to her forehead. The bed dips as I push off the mattress. At the door, I look back over my shoulder. “Good night, Taeler. Everything will be fine. Don't worry about a thing.”

  The wide grin she sprouts brings about one of my own. But once I’m outside the door, it immediately falls as the full force of what’s on my plate comes slamming back to mind.

  “I need a cigarette.” Both agents shake their heads. “Does that mean you don't have any or that I can't?”

  “Both,” the agent on the right says. “It’s not safe to leave the confines of the White House, ma’am. Especially for a smoke break.” His disdain and condescending tone rake at my nerves.

  Asshat.

  “The latter,” says the other.

  I whip my head to the left and smile at the somewhat familiar agent.

  “Good thing I wasn't planning to pitch a plastic lawn chair on the front lawn and light up. Do you have a pack on you?” He glances to the surly agent instead of responding. “Hey, it’s a simple question: Do you, or do you not?”

  He grimaces and nods.

  “Great. Follow me.”

  “Thanks, boys.”

  Beneath the rumbling exhaust vent, Trey’s deep voice is barely audible. After another deep inhale of the cancerous smoke, I twist my lips upward, sending the gray cloud up the vent hood.

  “Don't even start,” I say when Trey stops at my side. Smiling, I focus on the burning ember of cigarette number two. “It's been a day.” I snort. “Hell, it's been a life.” Shifting to press my hip against the stove's edge, I angle my body toward him.

  “It's been a life.” His hand dives into the front pocket of his jeans before withdrawing a pack of Ultralights. “Figured we both could use this small escape, but it seems you beat me to it. How'd you manage that?” He hitches his chin to the lit cigarette between my fingers.

  “Ted had a pack.”

  “Tom,” says a voice somewhere from the other side of the refrigerator.

  “Right, Tom, sorry.” I shrug and take another inhale as Trey pulls his own from the pack and lights the end with my lighter that was resting atop the counter. “Side note, I apologized to Taeler.” The soft filter rolls along the outer seam of my lower lip as I stare unfocused at the industrial-size iron grill top. “I told her everything would be okay, that we'd figure it out and get through it.”

  “Good.”

  The undercurrent of annoyance doesn’t slip by me. “Is it?” I shake my head in an attempt to pull my volleying thoughts together. “I'm not sure it will. I'm not sure about anything anymore.”

  For several minutes, we burn one after another in silence, both of us seeming to be lost in thought. The instant I finish one, I light another, now tugging cigarettes from Trey's pack instead of bumming off Ted.

  The rough wheel of the lighter indents into the pad of my thumb as I roll the flint to spark the flame needed to light my next casualty.

  “So, Birmingham’s dead,” he says, letting the heavy words hang between us.

  “I
know. It’s crazy. And I don’t…. Actually”—I press my thumb and forefinger to my forehead—“can we just… not right now? I need a break from all that.”

  Trey nods, continuing to stare into the shadows, only lifting and lowering his hand to take a drag.

  With a sigh, I consider the man standing beside me.

  His typically styled and sculpted dark hair is disheveled, like he needs a haircut and is too distracted to care about his appearance. Dark stubble sprinkles along his jaw and down his neck. Purple circles and paler than normal skin signal the exhaustion he's attempting to hide.

  Lips sealed tightly together, I bump his shoulder to gain his attention. “What's going on with you, Trouble?”

  “Nothing.” With a soft shake of his head, displacing a few loose locks of his lengthy dark hair, he offers a strained smile. “All good. Smart thinking, by the way, to use the vent hood for an indoor smoke break.”

  I narrow my eyes at the clear deviation from my original probing question. “Yeah, thanks. I had to get creative since it's apparently not very presidential to sneak out back for a smoke like a rebellious teenager.” I force a smile, desperate to lighten the strange mood between us. I nod to the opened pack he brought, now lying on the stove. “That was half gone.”

  He coughs, covering his mouth with a tightly fisted hand. “Off the wagon again. What can I say? It's been a stressful few weeks.”

  “Tell me about it,” I say as I blow a lungful of smoke up the vent.

  Again that fake, forced smile pulls at his lips.

  Tossing my hands in the air, I release an exaggerated sigh. “Okay, what the actual fuck, Trey.”

  He startles, almost dropping the cigarette dangling from his fingers to the white tile floor. “What?”

  “Exactly,” I hiss.