Power Surge: Power Play Series Book 4

by Kennedy L. Mitchell

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

  His nose scrunches in an uncharacteristic response from the normally bland man.

  “Agreed, not good. Okay, I'll keep brainstorming.” Careful to not wake my two friends, I drop the phone to my lap and lean back in the chair. Swiveling an inch one way and then the other, I purse my lips and hike both brows high in an expectant expression. “Did you need something, Agent Smith, or just wanted to chitchat?”

  There’s half a second of hesitation before he nods and steps deeper into the room. Hands clasped behind his back, he widens his stance. I give him a calculating once-over, taking in his “at ease” type stance.

  “SEALs,” I state. One of these times I’ll be right, damnit.

  “The door was locked.” I shift in the chair to see around him to the door at his back. “The balcony doors, ma'am,” he clarifies.

  “Oh, right.” I knew that. Clearing my throat, I twist the pen on the desk until it spins on its own. “I'm inclined to believe you, Cold One.” He shakes his head in what seems like exasperation at my nickname game. “You're right, that one doesn’t work either. You're a tough one.”

  “The doors, ma'am.”

  “Please drop the ‘ma'am’ bit.”

  “No.”

  “Fine, Monster it is, then.”

  His lip arches in a snarl as a growl rumbles through his chest. “Fine.”

  I beam at the small victory. “As I said, I believe you.” The unspoken “but” hangs between us.

  “I was unavailable.”

  Therein lies the reason for the suspicion now shadowing the agent. It wasn't until hours after the incident that they were able to locate Agent Smith. Not a trace of where he was during the altercation, and he still hasn’t presented T with an explanation for his disappearing act.

  “I was off duty, ma—” I cut a no-nonsense glare his way. “Randi.” The word rasps from his throat like it was painful to speak. “I was preoccupied and unaware of the situation.”

  “You're defending yourself like a guilty man,” I muse, going back to twisting in the chair as I consider him.

  “I am not.” He stops himself from saying more and inhales deep. A quick flash of pain breaks his normally stone features with a grimace before he settles his face back to looking bored with the conversation.

  “Are you okay?” Both palms seal to the top of the desk as I make to stand.

  “Fine.” Narrowing my eyes, I scan his chest, searching for what could be ailing him enough for him to wince like that with a simple breath. “Randi,” he snaps, breaking my attention from my visual inspection.

  The two on the couch jolt awake at Agent Smith’s loud voice. Trey sits up and blinks several times as he squints from me to Agent Smith and back again.

  “What’s going on?” Tank asks, sleep clogging his throat and making the words more of a croak. They have to be exhausted. All the guys, for that matter. It was a long night for everyone. Hell, I haven't even slept yet.

  As if the thought triggers the reminder of my lack of sleep to my body, I yawn wide, my jaw popping as it stretches to its max behind my palm.

  Three sets of eyes narrow at the action.

  “You need to sleep.” Trey grunts, standing and approaching the desk like he intends to take me to the bed whether I’m willing or not. “Have you even eaten?”

  “Yes,” I snip.

  “A donut.”

  I shoot a glare at Agent Smith for his less than helpful detail on said breakfast.

  “And orange juice,” I add like it made the sugary breakfast a bit healthier. “I thought about eating more, so there's that.”

  “Thinking about it and doing it are very different things,” Tank admonishes.

  “Will you three busy bees just get out of my office?” Falling into the chair, I yank my glasses off and toss them to the desk to massage my nose where the plastic was digging in. I've gotten so used to contacts that wearing glasses is a pain in the ass—or head, if you want to get literal.

  The contacts were a requirement of Kyle’s when we first hit the campaign trail, and now they’re just easier.

  Kyle.

  Those years at Harvard and the more recent ones with us despising each other, all the hateful words and actions between us, causes guilt to build within me. Pressing a hand to my belly, I attempt to ease the gnawing sensation those memories conjure.

  “What's wrong?”

  Hold the phone. Is that concern in Agent Smith's tone. Surely not. I must be hearing things.

  “I'll never get to apologize,” I say, closing my eyes. “To Kyle. Yes, he was awful, terrible to me more times than not, but still there's something about that door being closed.”

  “What door?” Trey asks.

  “Resolution. Closure on that destructive relationship.”

  “You need protein.”

  My lashes stick together as I fight to open my lids. Blinking away the blur, I gape at Agent Smith. And I'm not the only one. Trey and T both wear dumbfounded expressions.

  “Um, okay?” I say, not really knowing what other words to use.

  “It's scientifically proven that a proper diet, filled with lean proteins and healthy vegetables, helps regulate moods.” My confusion shifts to annoyance. “Not moods in the way you're thinking. Moods as in guilt, depression, anxiety, and overall despondent thoughts. It helps fuel the body physically and mentally.”

  “Isn't that what Jack Daniel’s is for?” I smirk. Okay, I can't be frustrated at the guy now that he explained himself. He didn't mean to offend me by hinting that I'm in a piss-poor mood. Even though he's right. “I'll think about it.”

  “Seriously?” Trey complains. I swivel my chair an inch to the right so I can face him. “That's exactly what I just said. You need to eat.”

  “This isn't a competition, Trouble.” Trey rolls his eyes and sits back on the couch while running a hand through his hair. “Plus, he's not just bossing me around—”

  “You like me bossy.” A playful smirk pulls at his lips, a sexy gleam shining in his eyes as he looks up through dark lashes.

  “Do not start that, you two,” Tank groans.

  “He gave scientific proof.” I shrug and sit up enough to tuck a foot beneath my backside. At least I was able to change into different clothes the minute we stepped onto the plane. Nothing beats a baggy set of sweatpants and oversized T-shirt for comfort. “You can't doubt science.”

  “There are so many flaws in that statement.” Tank shakes his head, but the barely covered laughter in his voice warms a piece of my heart.

  “But I will concede to the fact that I need to sleep.” Stretching my arms high above my head, I work out the tightness from my shoulders. “Being almost assassinated takes a lot out of a girl. That reminds me, I need to thank and apologize to that agent. Who was he? The one I almost shot?”

  “Wright, I think. I’d like to know how he got on that balcony,” Trey says, arms stretched out along the back of the couch, looking sexy as hell. And if his growing smile means anything, he knows I'm totally checking him out. Which who wouldn't? He's sexy as hell no matter what he's wearing or doing, and we kind of left each other hanging earlier. If a woman could have blue balls, I'd definitely have them.

  “Blue ovaries?” I muse.

  “I don't even want to fucking know.” Tank barks out a laugh.

  “What's blue?” Agent Smith questions, casting a curious look between the three of us.

  I attempt to chew on one of my broken acrylic tips, my lips spreading wide as I smile around the nail.

  “Is he new? I guess they're all new to me since the previous beta team didn't move with you guys.”

  “We've known most of them for a while, all good guys. There are a few new ones on the team, however.” Tank clears his throat like he's just stopped himself short of saying more.

  “What,” I say. Not a question.

  “A few didn't want
to stay on the beta team when the presidential seat shifted to you.”

  I lift my chin in defiance. “Because of my background, or because I don't have a dick?”

  Agent Smith coughs into the fist against his lips.

  “Does it matter?” Tank responds.

  “No, I guess not. Good riddance, then. Their loss, if you ask me. I'm fucking fun.” Twirling in the chair, I watch the room slowly spin. “Minus almost shooting one of them. I'll apologize later. Right now I just need a nap.” The edge of the desk digs into my palm as I stop my turning. Flipping through the files spread across the top, I stack them and push the pile forward a few inches. “I'm nowhere near caught up, but I'm at a place where I can take a twenty-minute break.”

  As long as nothing else happens.

  Just as I think it, those words barely through my overactive mind, my cell phone vibrates on the desk.

  All our eyes fall on the moving phone. A whimpering groan passes my lips as I bang my forehead against the top of the desk. Keeping my forehead sealed to the hard wood, I blindly reach for the still ringing cell phone and pull it to my ear.

  “What, Blake?”

  “We have a problem.”

  I lightly pound my forehead against the desk again. “We really have to stop meeting like this.” I let out a dry chuckle at my joke, which sourpuss Blake doesn't return. “If this is about the pregnancy thing, it will have to wait—”

  “Worse.”

  “Natural disaster?”

  “No—”

  “Taeler's sick.”

  “Madam—”

  “I'm dying!” I gasp. “I have had these strange dreams—”

  “Randi,” he shouts, stopping my rambling. “Fucking hell. It's none of that.”

  “Why didn't you say so?”

  “I'm getting too old for this,” Blake grumbles. “It's your ex, Taeler's father.”

  “What about Ben?” Leaning back, I meet Trey's intense stare.

  “He's here.”

  “He's here,” I say on a pushed breath. Fire blasts behind Trey's stare. His hands tighten their grip on the armrest. “As in, in DC sightseeing?” I grimace. It's a false hope, but it's worth a shot.

  “No, Randi, he's here. In the White House. Waiting for you.”

  Chapter Fourteen

  Trey

  A fiery burn scorches through my bare shoulders and back as they stretch and flex with each pull of the oars through the still water. Sweat slicks along both temples, dripping down my jaw before splattering to the boat. The push and pull of the heavy oars over and over provides a soothing cadence as I glide along the water.

  Out here, everything makes sense. Nothing matters except for you, the boat, and the water. The oars go in, you pull back, and the boat glides. Every single fucking time. The guaranteed repetitive outcome so unlike my everyday life.

  Up ahead, the docks come into view again.

  Just like the few other times I’ve glided past the docks, Tank, Pierce, and several beta agents are all watching. Probably wondering if I'll venture in this time.

  Maybe.

  It would be a good idea to head in before I cramp up and become stranded out here. But the chaos that will greet me, the issues I’ll have to face, prevent me from stopping, offering my body the rest it desperately needs. The moment my foot connects with the worn boards on that dock, every issue I’m able to avoid out here will return like a damn sucker punch to the balls.

  With a grunt, I throw my weight into the oars, rowing faster in hopes it’ll keep reality away for a few more minutes. But even the trembling muscles and heaving lungs can’t keep it at bay for long. Between the even strokes, slivers of the thoughts weighing on my mind slip through.

  Dad’s upcoming plea hearing.

  Near assassination of my girlfriend.

  An agent missing during the entire incident.

  A world on the edge of war with her as the one to keep the balance.

  And, of course, the icing on the shit cake, that motherfucker Ben Hopkins.

  My lungs burn, each breath like sharp glass gouging my dry throat. A grunt of pain slips past my cracked lips as both thighs, weaker than normal after sitting on my ass for weeks, spasm in exhaustion. The left oar skims off the top, jerking from my hand and nearly taking me over into the water.

  I bellow at the top of my lungs, letting loose the frustration and stress as I slam both oars to the scull, tucking them out of the water. A breeze of my own making whips along my neck and back, cooling not only my skin but my boiling temper too. A slow current drags against the scull, reducing the momentum until slowing to a halt several feet from the dock I’ve been avoiding.

  “You are a dumbass,” Tank shouts from the dock.

  A genuine smile spreads up my cheeks despite my ragged breathing. Shifting in the custom-fitted seat, I press the side of one hand to my forehead, blocking the rising sun's blinding rays. Pierce stretches along the dock, talking to someone I don't recognize, while Tank leans against a support post, eyes only on me. Large drops of sweat drip over my eyebrows and eyelids, preventing me from making out the other people strolling along the wood planks.

  Fighting through the pain, I grip the oars once again to pull toward the dock. A deckhand holds the boat for me to stand the moment I pull alongside. I wince at the tightness already stiffening my muscles. Almost the same time I realize there’s no way I’m getting out of this thing without help, a large dark hand dangles in front of my face. Without thinking twice, I smack my hand into his and grip. Tank hauls me up and out with ease.

  “Solve all the world’s problems out there?” Tank asks once I’m somewhat steady on my feet.

  Snagging a club-provided clean towel from the stack closest to us, I swipe it across my sweat-slick face and dripping hair. “Hardly. Who's that?” I ask, nodding toward Pierce and the man he’s talking to.

  “Hell if I know or care. Not my problem anymore. You went twenty minutes longer out there today and cut several seconds off your time. Want to tell me why?”

  “I regret ever suggesting you be the one to help me get back in shape.” Unable to continue supporting my own weight, I collapse onto a wooden bench and lean forward. The white terrycloth twists between my rotating hands. “Damn, I'm glad we don't work until tomorrow. I’ll be worthless in a few.”

  “Tell me what’s going through that head of yours. This is part of the deal, Playboy. I agreed to help you physically and mentally. Talking this through is part of the latter.”

  The soft threads of the towel push against my closed lids as I rest my head in my hands.

  “It's nothing. It's everything. Hell, I don't know.” Something cold presses to my thigh. I peek over the towel to see a glistening water bottle offered by one of the helpers. Nodding in thanks, I twist the cap and chug half the bottle before tightening it back on. “I hesitated.” Now my heart thundering against my ribs is for a whole different reason than exertion. I zero my focus on the head of a rusty nail securing a plank to avoid Tank's penetrating scrutiny. “I almost let my relationship with her overpower my training.”

  “You were shot. It's natural to hesitate after—”

  I shake my head, droplets of sweat raining down around the dry wooden bench and over the bare skin of my shoulders. “You don't understand what I'm saying.”

  “Then speak clearly, dumbass.”

  My chest rattles with a soft chuckle. “I almost killed him,” I whisper, daring a glance at my best friend. “He threatened her, my girl. She was fucking terrified because of him. My arm was around his neck, securing him.” I let my vision unfocus as I stare out over the water. “All it would've taken was one twist, one flex, and the man responsible would be dead. A part of me knew I shouldn't because he would be worth more to us alive than dead, and still I wanted to murder the motherfucker. I wanted him to die slowly at my hand.”

  A board creaks, signaling someone's approach. Shaking out of the memory-filled daze, I lean forward to see the length of the dock. The man P
ierce had been talking to passes without a single glance, his dress shoes clicking as he vanishes down another walkway.

  “But you didn't,” Tank mutters under his breath. “You knew what needed to be done and fought it.”

  “Is it bad to admit I want to punch that fucker Ponder for taking my kill?”

  Tank's dark eyes meet mine. “I've been meaning to ask you about that. I read your official report on the incident and his.” He shifts, crossing both arms over his chest. “It didn't seem like you or the president were in mortal harm, so why did he? Why did he shoot?”

  “That’s your job to figure out, not mine. What did his report say?”

  “That night, he was stationed outside her door along with three other agents. He thought he heard something and went to investigate with another agent. When he got back, the two agents stationed outside her suite were dead, one shot to the head each. Hell, those guys didn’t even have time to draw their weapons. He was checking them when he heard Randi and went inside to investigate. The other agent who’d broken off from Ponder investigated the room next door to the president’s. That’s when he noticed that balcony door ajar. He put two and two together and scaled the wall to gain access to her balcony—”

  “Scaled? That was a three-story drop and at least ten feet between the two balconies.”

  Tank nods, sunlight reflecting off his bald head. “Seems Wright does some shit called bouldering in his off time. That’s when he entered, saw you struggling with the guy. Back to Ponder’s report. He thought you were injured because you dropped to the floor, heard a gunshot, and that’s why he fired.”

  “Little did he know it was Randi who I was hiding from, and who fired the first shot.” The rough scruff along my jaw scrapes my sensitive palms. “We need to teach her how to shoot. Not arm her, obviously, but how to aim at the very least so she can protect herself if necessary.”

  “Let’s hope it’s not necessary ever again.”

  The plastic bottle crinkles in my hand, drawing my attention and triggering a memory of another time her life was in danger. “Not that it would’ve done much good when she was being poisoned by that fucker Whit.” I press the hard edge against my lips and drain the last of the water. “What happened with tying Whit to that dumbass in the motorcade service department? Last I heard, they were trying to find a money trail, but of course, fucking Whit was too damn smart to leave evidence.”