Power Switch: Power Play Series Book 3

by Mitchell, Kennedy L.

  What’s left of the bourbon and beer mixes in my gut, making me consider throwing up just to have some relief. I have no valid excuses for not making it to her place last night when I promised I would. I got drunk, and by the end of the night, when I could finally leave without Mother or Jessica making a scene, it was late and I was done.

  But as much as I want to blame Jessica for starting the bourbon trend halfway through the night, she wasn’t the one who kept going back to the bar. No, they weren't the ones who tried to dull their misery with one more sip, one more glass.

  That was all me.

  Now I understand how Randi suffered that night in Chile just wanting to get so drunk that the world and all its troubles faded away. That’s what I wanted last night, what I needed to survive the entire party without strangling those bottom-feeding asshat aristocrats.

  Years have passed since I’ve been on this scene, yet nothing has changed. Everyone wants something, and no one thinks about anything other than their own ambitions. Every breath, every laugh and word were a struggle knowing this is the life I’ve sealed myself to for the unseen future. All for Randi. And even though last night was a beating—more like an MMA fight—I don’t regret any of it.

  I strain to swallow down the rising emotions, but my cotton mouth prevents it. Fuck, I love her. I miss her desperately, like she’s the air I need to survive, and it's only been twelve hours since I last laid eyes on her.

  I shouldn’t have let last night get that far. Should’ve turned Jessica down when she offered me my favorite bourbon. But I didn’t, and now here I am alone, hungover and pining for the only woman I’ve ever truly loved.

  Scrubbing a hand down my face, I slap my cheek a couple times to get my head in the game. Going into the party last night, we both knew what this arrangement would require. Our plan to keep Mother on Randi's side while I played along with the engagement shit made sense at the time. But now I'm not so sure. Everyone is getting what they want except me. Because all I want is Randi. Us together. Never apart, from now until the end of either of us.

  But I can't. She can't. This is a delicate power game we’re playing with Mother and half of the city. And Randi ending up in a smear campaign because of me isn’t an option. So maybe not showing up on her doorstep at four in the morning was a better idea than I’m giving myself credit for. Unlike during the campaign, so much more is on the table now, so much to lose if anyone finds out about us and our grand plan to make it through the next three years and then be together.

  A thump at the front door drags me out of my depressing thoughts. Pulling the hand away from my face, I squint a single eye at the open bedroom door, wishing I had X-ray vision to see who's waking me up at… shit, what time is it?

  With another cranky groan, I smack the bed blindly, searching for the phone I know I pitched haphazardly onto the comforter after texting Randi the two words that shredded my heart.

  Fuck, am I catching her dramatics?

  Squinting at the phone in my hand, I scan the time, then drop it back to the rumpled sheets. Who the hell is pounding on my door at nine in the morning on my day off? Someone who wants a good Bobbiting, that’s who.

  Yep, Randi is 100 percent rubbing off on me. For the first time this morning, I manage a smile.

  The beating against the front door turns into an impatient jackhammering.

  Grumbling a string of undecipherable curse words, I stretch my tight arms high above my head, letting the stiffness slowly ease from my shoulders. Bare feet on the floor, I arch my back, making it pop in several places and creak in others, ignoring the person now using what sounds like a battering ram against my condo door. Not bothering with clothes, I shuffle through the living room, my annoyance and the throbbing in my head increasing with every step.

  Face pressed against the cool metal door, I peer through the peephole, blinking a few times to clear my foggy vision. Annoyed dark eyes stare back at me like he can see through the door right into me.

  “Motherfucker,” I grumble as I snap the deadbolt free and yank the door open, not caring if there’s anyone in the hallway who could see me in my birthday suit. “What the ever-loving hell do you want, Tank?” Tank—real name David Washington—is my best friend and team lead, and Randi’s only other friend in this town. He leads the alpha secret service team assigned to protect Madam VP ever since the campaign trail.

  “Put that thing away,” he grunts, avoiding looking at my naked junk. Ignoring my smirk and enticing swivel of my hips, he shoves the door open enough for him to step past without touching me and slips into the condo. After securing the door, I follow as he marches through the living room and turns into the kitchen.

  “Good morning to you too,” I mutter. “I feel like shit, man, so tell me what you’re doing here and get out. I need my beauty sleep.”

  “You’re already pretty, Playboy. All the girls tell you that. But you do look a little worse for the wear this morning.”

  “Tank,” I whine.

  His upper lip twitches in a sneer at my pouting. “You really have no clue?”

  “For my endless supply of bacon the housekeeper keeps on hand just for you?”

  “You’re tossing around jokes while your girl's on the lip of a boiling fucking pot?” Tank lets out an incredulous huff. “Knew you didn't deserve her.”

  In two steps, I'm in his personal space, our faces inches apart. “What the hell are you talking about?”

  “Unless you want me to whip mine out to fucking compare, get that limp-ass dick away from me.” He steps back with a snarl. “Go get some fucking pants on, Playboy. Shit happened last night while you were playing the perfect politician.”

  “What—”

  “Clothes,” he thunders. “I don't want to see that shit.” A smirk pulls at his lips. “Makes me feel bad for Randi knowing that's what she’s settling for.”

  Middle finger in the air, I spin and stride to the bedroom. The dresser shakes at the force of me opening one drawer after another in search of a clean pair of workout shorts. Not wanting to waste a second, I tug the Dryfit shorts on as I walk back into the living room, pausing at the edge of the kitchen. Tank's head is buried in the fridge, searching for the bacon, no doubt.

  “Bottom drawer.”

  The clatter of the plastic drawers opening and closing fills the kitchen. Knowing this conversation won't start until the bacon is cooking, I search under a cabinet and snag the first frying pan my fingers touch. I toss it onto the stove, the banging metal making me instantly regret that choice.

  “Start talking. What the hell could she have gotten herself into in the past twelve hours?” Stretching above the microwave, I snag a bottle of aspirin from the cabinet and pop four of the small white pills into my mouth. Dipping my head beneath the kitchen faucet, I suck several mouthfuls of cold tap water down, soothing my dry mouth and throat while swallowing the much-needed medicine.

  “You know as well as I do that girl attracts the trouble,” he says, cutting his dark eyes to me. “Present company included.”

  “Ha ha,” I mock. Instead of watching him destroy the sealed bacon package with his bare hands, sending the uncooked meat flying around the kitchen, I lean over the counter, pull open a drawer, and feel around for a spare buck knife. “Here,” I mumble, getting his attention before tossing it to him. “You've got jokes for someone who's eating forbidden food in front of the man who has your wife's number on speed dial.”

  Tank’s shoulders stiffen. I can't hold back a chuckle at his clear fear of his wife. Not that I blame him. That woman is a badass. Anyone smart would be more than a little terrified of her.

  “You wouldn't,” he says, voice tight.

  “Then talk, big guy, and my lips are sealed.”

  When he shoots me a glare over the sizzling pan, I motion like I'm zipping my lips, then toss the imaginary key over my shoulder for emphasis.

  He just shakes his head before turning his full attention to the cooking bacon. “I have no idea what that
woman sees in you.”

  I waggle both brows and point to my crotch. “You did earlier.”

  “Poor girl.”

  “Fuck off. Stop stalling. Tell me what's going on.” I massage my temples, thinking good thoughts that the medicine will kick in soon. The savory aroma of the cooking bacon churns my already sour stomach while also smelling fucking delicious. “I want to puke and eat at the same time. I'm getting too old for this shit.”

  “Did you mix or something?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Amateur.”

  “Don't I know it.” With a less-than-dignified groan, I press my forehead against the cold marble counter. “Are you ever going to fill me in on what happened last night?”

  Just to be an ass, he waits a few more beats before saying, “Did you know the Department of Justice is snooping around?”

  My neck almost pops with whiplash as I bolt straight up. “What?”

  He nods while nudging the bacon around the popping grease with a spatula. “I don't know what they want. All I know is the associate attorney general blindsided us while leaving last night. And I don't think Randi has a clue as to what he wants to talk about, because she looked just as shocked as I did.”

  His dark eyes flick to mine, a grimace pinching his features. I know that look. He’s holding something back.

  “What are you not telling me?”

  “Listen, I'm not gay or anything, but… Playboy, that man, the AAG, is one sexy-ass motherfucker.”

  “What?” I shout, immediately regretting it. I slam my hands against both sides of my head to keep it from exploding.

  His massive shoulders rise and fall in a shrug. “All I'm saying is her shock might not be from his title. Just a feeling I got.”

  “Shit,” I exclaim, leaning forward and pressing my elbows to the counter.

  Silence falls between us as I process everything he’s dumped on me. One part bothers me the most.

  “Sexier than me?” I question. I know I should be worried about why the AAG is snooping around more than his looks, but I’m not.

  Spatula in the air, he leans against the corner of the counter and motions for me to stand. No idea why, but I do without question.

  He twirls the spatula. I follow the movement, holding on to the counter for support as the room spins with me.

  “Neither of you is my type, but I'd say you have a run for your money with the AAG. Add in the fact that he's an attorney, like her, and he has a few more points on his side.”

  “But she loves me,” I state. “I think.” My jaw drops as a scene from last night flashes through my still somewhat fuzzy memory. “Shit.” I sink back onto the stool and stare at the white marble. “She wanted to tell me something last night. That's why I said I'd come over.”

  “You didn't go over last night,” Tank states.

  “I know. I didn't want to go over that late and drunk. I forgot she had something to tell me.” With a curse, I shove off the stool to pace the expansive kitchen. “Fuck, this is worse than I thought when I first woke up. I thought I'd just disappointed her by not showing up when I said I would, but now she probably thinks I'm avoiding her or didn't want to hear what she had to say. Or—”

  “Get your head out of your ass, Benson. This is bigger than that. Did you hear me? The associate attorney general demanded a meeting with her. Today. Something big is about to drop, and we have no fucking clue what that entails.”

  “Her meeting with the Russians?”

  “Maybe.”

  “Maybe it has something to do with Birmingham.”

  “Possible. But why approach her if that’s the case?”

  “Shit.”

  “My thoughts exactly, which is why I'm here so damn early on our day off getting ready to eat through my stress with two pounds of bacon.”

  I arch a brow. “There's another pound in the freezer.”

  “Fine, three pounds of bacon.”

  “When's the meeting?” Pausing in front of the Nespresso machine, I pop a pod into the dispenser with one hand while swiping a mug off the exposed shelf with the other. After hitting the brew button, I turn to face Tank, who's busy placing several crispy slices of cooked bacon on a plate. “You said today.”

  “This afternoon. He's coming by the house around three.”

  “We need to be there for her.” And I want a good look at this guy.

  “It's our day off,” Tank states like I could’ve forgotten as he shoves three pieces of hot blackened bacon into his mouth. “What excuse would we have for showing up and sitting in on her meeting? We’re her friends, yes, but not everyone is good with the notion that she tells us everything. We know we’d never use it against her, but others don’t.”

  The gurgle of the bubbling water pulls my attention to the brewing coffee. Focused on the dark streaming liquid, I shuffle through the options. I hate to admit it, but he's right. We don't need to draw attention to our friendship with Randi. Who knows? The fuckers might take us off her protection detail just to be assholes.

  But I can’t not be there.

  “Call in a favor to the beta team lead, Chaz. He owes you, I’m sure.” Before the last drip reaches the foam, I pull the mug up to my lips and take a scalding sip of the steaming liquid. Hopefully this will help clear my head. “Tell him we want to sub in for two of his agents for a few hours today. That way we’ll have a legit excuse to be there, nothing suspicious.”

  Excuse or not, I'll be at that meeting.

  I cringe behind the coffee mug.

  Even if Randi might be pissed as hell and not want me there.

  * * *

  The wooden front porch step creaks under my dress shoe as I travel up the short set of stairs toward the front door. The unknown of the next few hours rakes at my nerves. A thin sheen of sweat dampens my palms and shines across my forehead. It’s hot as a sauna in hades today. I hate these humid summer days where Mother Nature attempts to smother you with the heat.

  I pause at the closed door, half ready to get inside to the AC while the other part of me doesn’t want to face her. I hate disappointing the people I love. That’s due to those childhood years I spent doing whatever it took to make my parents proud of me, working for the parental love that should’ve come easily only to be rejected at every opportunity.

  Instead of knocking, I twist the knob and push the heavy door open. Inside, a beta team agent perks his head up, eyes scrolling across my face and then down my chest before turning back to his phone. Quiet day, I guess. Wonder if anyone else knows about the upcoming meeting with the associate attorney general, Sam.

  Sam.

  What kind of name is that anyway? Three letters do not make a name. That’s like Bud or Rob, neither of which are strong names, which means this Sam character will be weak as fuck. Just like his name.

  No, I'm not jealous.

  Keeping my steps silent, I move around the house, searching each room for Randi. My ears perk up at the sound of a voice I know and hate.

  At the edge of the living room, I pause just out of sight, giving myself a second to observe her. Dressed in dark jeans and a lightweight long-sleeve T-shirt, she's curled on the lush sofa, iPad forgotten on her lap, attention riveted on whatever is on TV. Again, Birmingham’s voice pours through the house.

  I shift my attention from the beauty I love to the idiot on the screen, my brows furrowing in confusion at what I see at the bottom of the screen.

  Special Briefing with President Birmingham.

  Birmingham stands behind the podium in the White House press briefing room, face flushed as he points to someone in the row of chairs in front of him and leans forward. The reporter’s words are mumbled, but he must hear her clearly. With a nod, he leans back and clasps his hands on top of the podium.

  “Yes, this is a last resort. Leading this country into a war that, in the past, has proven to be unwinnable is not ideal. However, we cannot allow these countries to continue extorting us. The price of oil continues to rise, and somethi
ng must be done.”

  A hand shoots into the air. The prick of a president points to the woman, who stands. After straightening her skirt, she locks eyes with Birmingham and raises her chin. “There’s talk that the DOJ is seeking responsibility for the spike in gas prices closer to home. Is this true?”

  “No,” Birmingham brushes her off. He scans the room, looking for another question to answer, when the woman speaks up once again.

  “Why would the leaders in the Middle East do this now? What are you saying has changed to make them drive the cost higher only for Americans?”

  Absorbed in the press conference, I step through the door, pausing at the end of the couch. Randi's eyes flick to me before turning back to the TV. Shuffling on the couch, she leans closer to the screen.

  “We don't know the why. But as the leader of this great nation, I cannot sit back and do nothing while the hardworking Americans bring home less and less due to the cost of getting to work. We will stay strong. We will push back. Thank you.”

  With that, he walks off the stage, but not before shooting that one female reporter a death glare.

  The moment he's out the door, the screen flips to a beautiful blonde sitting behind a newsroom desk. Her fast words lull to background noise as I turn to face Randi.

  “Did you hear that?” she asks, lost in thought. Nibbling on her pinkie nail, she stands and moves to the other side of the room. “Vlad said something like that,” she whispers. “Said if we didn't stop Kyle, there would be war.”

  “Maybe you should call the Russian president and ask him.”

  She shakes her head, her loose dark hair falling over her shoulders and hiding her face before she tucks the rogue locks behind her ear. “No, I don’t want to draw attention to my… friendship? Relationship? Whatever Vlad and I have with the DOJ looking around. The tension between our two countries is still tense, and Kyle still isn’t aware that I’ve been in contact with Vlad. The meeting he and I had in Chile wasn’t illegal, per se, but it could add clout to an investigation if the AAG is trying to find dirt on me. I mean, Vlad did openly say he wanted to help me get into the president role. That’s borderline treason talk.”