Power Surge: Power Play Series Book 4

by Kennedy L. Mitchell

  “The case went cold, and the fucker is looking at years in prison. He wanted to take a deal but didn't know enough about who hired him to be of any use, so the AG threw the book at him.”

  I twist the towel around my raw hands until it's almost cutting off circulation to my fingertips.

  “You think it was Whit who sent the guy in Saudi Arabia? I've had my suspicions, but then again, Whit would want it to be more personal than an assassin. Unless they were hired to take her and deliver her to them.” My stomach knots tighter than the towel around my hand.

  “Not sure. Either way, it was a real threat, and many more where that came from. On top of those she’s accumulated on her own, there are many who hate this country and would love to kill off the first female president. Hell, any president would do, but she seems like an easy target to them.”

  “What’s your take on Smith?” I launch the empty bottle through the air; it sinks into the recycle bin with a quiet whoosh as it slides down the plastic bag. One of the deckhands notices my raised hand and tosses another. Damn, I love this place. Hopefully the feds unfreeze my accounts by the time the dues are required so I don’t have to give it up. “The vanishing act he pulled is concerning, even if he was off duty. You were, the other agents were too, but they sure as hell were there.”

  Tank scrubs at his bald head and leans back against the wooden railing. It complains under his heavy weight. He glares at the length of wood like it personally offended him. His ire slides to me when I don't restrain my barking laugh.

  “Your skinny ass wouldn't know what it's like,” he grumbles.

  “Um, fucker, I'm lean. Not skinny. Just because people don't mistake me for a fully armored tank doesn't mean I'm skinny.” I huff into the water bottle at his returning grin. I’ve missed this. The back-and-forth, the ease of conversation with my best friend. I was too far gone during my “depression episode,” as Tank likes to call it, to realize how badly I need him in my life. I need him and Randi as much as I need air for survival.

  “And I don't know what to think about Smith, honestly. He could've been off fucking one of the women hanging around the palace for all we know. I'm more concerned with the fact that either he screwed up or someone had a key to the president's suite.”

  “Or they could’ve picked it,” I muse. “That initial noise I heard could’ve been him picking the lock. We didn’t test it like the hall door since there was no way inside, or so we thought.”

  “No more assuming. This is the president of the United fucking States.”

  “I see what you're doing,” I say with a side-eye scowl. “Don't think I don't.”

  “What?” Zero innocence laces his tone.

  “That you keep referring to her as the president so I'll keep the two separated.”

  “If I don't, then you'll be boyfriend protective, which means volatile and emotional.”

  A mischievous grin tugs at my cheeks. “You say that like it would be a bad thing.”

  “If someone came after my Sarah, I'd burn the city down looking for the motherfucker and make him pay. So no, not a bad thing, Playboy. But not something we need to add to our plate of issues right now.”

  “It kills me that people don't know,” I admit. “That no one knows she's mine. Even that jackass squatting in the White House.”

  “Ah. So there's the rub that’s eating at you today. That's where all the extra energy came from. The ex is back in the picture.”

  “He's not back in anything,” I say through gritted teeth. “He's exploiting the situation with Taeler, using that as his in to freeload off Randi.”

  “Hmm.”

  “Hmm,” I mock. “What?”

  “Does she feel this way? About Ben freeloading, or does she see it as him being a caring father?”

  A dribble of water slips past my lips. Wiping it with the towel, I toss the nasty thing to the laundry bucket. “She never said he was a bad father, just left her when she needed him most. Then let his parents railroad her.” My anger simmers. She did everything she could with what she had, and no one gave her a chance. It's why she's doing things right by the people of this country now.

  Greed isn't in her vocabulary. Power isn't something she wants. Hell, I wouldn't even say acceptance or likability is something she strives for. Justice, state rights, and helping those who need it most are what drive Randi. And what makes her sexy as hell in my eyes.

  “It's been three days since he showed up and posted up next to your girl, and here you are doing shit about it.”

  “I'm not doing shit about it,” I snap. “She asked for some time to handle the media storm that came after the incident in Saudi Arabia and to deal with that fucker, so I'm giving it to her.”

  “Really?”

  “Really what?”

  “When have you ever in your life done what you're told to do?”

  My lips part, ready to spew another round of comebacks, but nothing comes. Slumping back against the wooden bench, I rub a hand through my hair.

  “Never.”

  Chapter Fifteen

  Randi

  “I understand your words, Brad, I just don't agree with you,” I snap into the receiver at my lips. Thank fuck he can't see the look of absolute disgust and hate on my face right now. Not that I care too much about being diplomatic with this asshat, but I have to play nice or I’ll never get this bill pushed through the House.

  “The housing bill you're proposing doesn't make sense. Why would we spend half a billion dollars renovating housing that isn’t turning a profit?”

  The hard plastic slips in my sweaty palm at my tightening grip.

  “Those people living in government-provided housing deserve these renovations. Those houses and apartment buildings I listed for renovations are years behind in basic code compliance. They’re unsafe, and it’s time to do something about it.”

  “It's a drain on society,” he shoots back.

  Allowing my lids to flutter closed, I inhale deeply to keep from calling in a presidential favor to the CIA and ordering a hit on the moron I'm speaking with. How this asshat weaseled his way into the House majority seat, I'll never know.

  “Get it through the House, Brad,” I grit out, “or our next conversation will be very different.”

  Slamming the phone into the cradle, I shove the rolling chair away from the desk and stand to pace along the bay window.

  That call was one of many this morning. Every politician in this city wants to make a deal; nothing is cut and dry. They offer support, but only if it will benefit them in the long run. Who knew being president was simply a high-paying sales job with the added stress of running the country.

  A faint knock taps on the door.

  Without turning, I call out over my shoulder for the person to enter. Even as the door pushes open, I don’t turn to see who it is. I already know.

  Ben.

  Again.

  His constant, pestering presence is part of the stress overload problem I’m drowning in. Not that I mind him being here for Taeler or that I'm struggling with feelings toward him. Since he’s arrived, Ben has pressed the subject of us every chance he’s had me alone. For me, the chance of us getting back together closed in my mind, and heart, a very long time ago. At first it was annoying how he’s using Taeler’s pregnancy as a reason to be here, but now I’m fed up with the sideshow and ready for him to leave. Which he shows no signs of doing any time soon.

  I’m in desperate need of silence. Peace. Even if for a measly three minutes. Three minutes of nothing, and maybe a cigarette. And Trey, if he can keep his mouth shut. Or busy. Smiling into the bright August sun pouring through the windows, I imagine all the ways I could keep his mouth busy. His lips gliding up my inner thigh, my back pinned to the wall—

  “Hey, Rand,” Ben calls out behind me, stopping my dirty little daydream.

  “What do you need, Ben?” I grumble over my shoulder but keep my focus on the tourists lining the fence along the back lawn. At his silence, I tw
ist at the waist, searching the room for where he meandered. He’s standing on the seal in the middle of the room, his blue eyes latching on to mine.

  “When did our conversations have to have a purpose?” Dimples dot his cheeks as he offers an impish smile.

  “When you showed up unannounced and keep interrupting my workday to talk about the good old days.” The phone resting atop the desk shrills. “Listen, I have a call—”

  “Yeah, I know you have another important call to make or take. Listen, I stopped by to see if you wanted to have dinner with me tonight.”

  I freeze. “Dinner.”

  “Yeah, you do remember what that is, don’t you? Two people, real plates, and actual food at a table that's meant for dining on.”

  A corner of my lips twitches. “Smartass.” I don't have anything tonight, but I was also looking forward to doing just that—nothing. “I can't.”

  “Tomorrow, then?” My lips part, the rejection speech ready, but he cuts me off before a single word can slip out. “Just to talk, about Taeler. We need to have a real conversation about what we're going to do here. It's my grandbaby too in her belly, and I'm not walking away from that.”

  Red flashes across my vision as heat blasts through my veins with the rolling anger. “Really, Ben, really? You walked away from her when I was pregnant, so why the fuck can't you do that now?”

  He tosses both his hands in the air before lacing them behind his head. Features tight, he groans in frustration. “Hell, Rand, that was years ago. I'm a different person now. I helped raise her. My parents stepped in—”

  “Don't you dare bring up your parents.” My hands tighten into fists. “Not after what they did.”

  “Did?” He scoffs. “Did as in taking care of the baby you couldn't?”

  His honest words cut along the jagged scar etched in my heart, opening the old wound. The familiar agony leaks from the wound, infecting my entire being with self-loathing and inadequacy.

  “Did as in railroaded me, took my baby, and treated me like shit for even living.” Each word is difficult as war rages in my mind.

  “Fuck you’re dramatic,” he mumbles, but the words carry, making each one crystal clear. “Why can't we have a damn civilized conversation like we used to?”

  “Tomorrow night,” I relent. “I'll tell Tae to be there too because it's her baby. We won't make any decisions without her. And—”

  A quick knock at the door stops my next anger-filled rant. It’s swinging open before I can stop the person from entering.

  My breath whooshes from my lungs as a tense Blake strides through the room with purpose before stopping in front of the desk.

  “If you say we have a problem, I might toss myself onto the letter opener hidden in my desk drawer,” I say, my words signaling how weary I am.

  Blake seals his lips together and clears his throat. “There was an earthquake in Southern California moments ago.”

  My spine straightens as a shot of renewed energy flashes through me. “How bad?”

  “Bad.”

  It takes two long strides to reach my desk and slide into the chair. Snagging a pen, I jot down notes as he continues to detail the destruction.

  “One hundred casualties is the preliminary number,” he says, now beside me, eyes on the iPad glued to his hands. “The governor is calling in—”

  “The governor is on line one,” my secretary calls from her desk outside the still open door.

  “Thank you,” I yell back while watching the red blinking light on the massive multiline phone.

  “He'll issue a state of emergency momentarily and will seek federal funds.” His fingers fly over the screen. “I've asked several analysts and experts to email you initial estimates for the cost of recovery and rebuilding. You can't make the decision alone with how much federal funding they’ll be offered. Listen to him, get their inside details, but do not promise anything until we know what we can get approved.”

  “Listen,” I whisper to myself. “No promises. Got it.”

  “Be empathetic but not sympathetic. No emotions, just obtain numbers and the details of his plan going forward to help those affected.”

  “No emotion.” Nodding, I angle my head toward the door. “Ben, we'll talk tomorrow night. Blake, give me the room and please ask Janet to cancel my meeting with the deputy director of defense. Tell him I'll reschedule for tomorrow.” I grimace. “Well I’ll try to fit him in anywhere I can.”

  Both men exit the room, leaving me alone with the still ringing phone. Stealing my spine, I sit up straight and roll my shoulders back.

  Time to get to work.

  “Beethoven,” I plead the moment the office door slams shut behind me. “Please tell me someone here has a cigarette I can bum.”

  A few stifled amused coughs from the agents surrounding me pulse down the hall from where we stand outside the Oval Office. The desks in the neighboring offices and bullpens are empty, lights off except a soft yellow glow from the two desks stationed in the small adjoining room. Normally everyone stays until I'm done for the day, but today was hell for us all, so I sent them home a few hours ago.

  “It's Braxton,” the agent says.

  Ah, that's right. Knew it was something unique.

  An agent shifts in my periphery, one I somewhat recognize. Coarse, thin carpet grinds beneath the balls of my bare feet as I twist to face the approaching man.

  “Agent Wright,” I greet as I accept the cigarette tucked between the two fingers of his extended hand. “I've been meaning to talk to you, but things have been….”

  “It's okay, ma'am. You’re the President.” Our fingers graze, and his hand snaps back to his side, a flash of annoyance clouding his features.

  “It's no excuse.” Waving the unlit cigarette, I motion for everyone to follow me. “There isn't an easy way to say this, so I'll just say it. I'm sorry for almost shooting you.” I grimace as we take a sharp corner, heading for the stairs.

  “I saw your aim. I was in no danger of being shot.” I silently mouth his words, mocking him, highly annoyed that everyone now knows I can’t shoot worth shit. “But apology accepted.”

  We continue to march in unison down hallway after hallway toward the kitchen. At least they know I won’t try to trash up the place by lighting up on the front lawn. My nude Prada heels dangle from one hand as I fiddle the cancer stick between two fingers of the other.

  “Can I ask something?” an agent from the very back of the entourage asks.

  “Ponder,” Bert says. Wait, it is Bert, right? “I said no.”

  “He can ask. We're all friends here, right?”

  The stark silence is the answer to that question. Fine. I didn't want them as friends anyway. I have enough friends—said no one ever.

  “What's your question, Ponder?”

  “Why was he in your room that night?”

  At the kitchen door, I slow my steps before pausing and turn to face him.

  Head tilted to the side, I narrow my gaze at Agent Ponder. “How the hell would I know why he was in my room? You think I invited him to, what, play fucking Scrabble?”

  The four agents wear the same confused expression before snapping back to attention, their only focus on something, or someone, behind me. Shoulders tense, hands at the ready, but none of the four make a move for the guns at their sides.

  A spicy citrus scent envelops my senses. Wearing a wide smile, I spin to face Trey. Kitchen door open, he leans against the doorframe, having appeared out of nowhere.

  “I think Ponder means me, Madam President,” Trey says. All warmth falls from his features as he shifts to survey the agents at my back. “To answer your question, Agent Ponder, it’s none of your fucking business. What the president here does in her private life should not be questioned by an agent. Your responsibility as an agent is to keep her safe, not gossip like a fucking teenage girl about shit you see. Do you understand?”

  At Ponder’s lack of response, I shift to glance over my shoulder. Instead of
pleading for forgiveness and peeing himself, like I would if Trey's fierce anger and direct reprimand were targeted at me, Ponder’s eyes are narrowed, his pale cheeks flushed in what appears to be more restrained fury than embarrassment.

  Trey moves quickly, stepping around me and stopping directly in front of Agent Ponder’s face.

  “I said do you understand, Agent Ponder? You're 100 percent disposable. I'll have you ripped from the beta team to protecting the first fucking dog if you don't mind your own damn business from here on out.”

  “Um, Trey… I mean Agent Benson,” I whisper with a light tap to his back. “I don't have a dog, so there isn't a first dog for him to protect.”

  “It's a damn metaphor, Randi,” he snarls in Agent Ponder’s face.

  “Oh, right. Good one. Continue. But just so you know”—I hook a thumb over my shoulder—“while you two measure those manly bits, I'm stepping inside the kitchen to have a quick smoke and possibly two whole minutes alone without knowing if the world is falling apart. Cool? Cool.” I shoot both thumbs up in the air and disappear through the door.

  Trey’s voice booms through the gap as it slowly closes behind me. The cool plaster is solid against my back as I lean against the wall. It gives a small rattle at the back of my head smacking against it. The clatter of my overpriced shoes hitting the floor when I release them echoes through the otherwise peaceful quiet of the empty kitchen. Silk glides effortlessly against my back, slipping from the confines of my cropped black suit pants as I shimmy down the wall. Cold hard tile greets my tailbone.

  Forearms wrapped around bent knees, I attempt to shut out the world. Eyes squeezed shut, I struggle to clear my mind, to prevent the issues of the day from stealing these few moments of serenity. To my right comes a soft squeak of hinges combined with a waft of cool air brushing a few wayward strands of dark hair across my face. Tucking them behind an ear, I peel my lids open to find a sexy-as-hell agent hovering close, concern lining his pinched features.