Power Play: Power Play Series Book 1

by Mitchell, Kennedy L.

  “I've heard she had a few run-ins with protesters. The campaign hired additional security for her.”

  “Wonder why?” I muse before shoving a warm dumpling into my open mouth.

  Eyes glued to the game, Tank shrugs. “No idea. Maybe some people don't like the idea of a woman potentially being in the VP spot, or they don't like the idea of someone outside of the political powerhouse families in the election at all. All I'm saying is if they do get the nod for their party, it could get ugly early.”

  “Well, that could be fun. Change of pace.”

  “Fun for who?” He chuckles.

  “Us, of course. Even before the demotion, the prior years were boring as shit. Why else do you think I stirred up so much trouble?”

  “If I'd known that, I would've given you more to do,” Tank mutters under his breath as he strides across the living room, eyes on the food.

  “You love me and the entertainment I bring to the table.”

  He snatches the disposable set of chopsticks I launch at his head right before they smack his face. “Tell yourself whatever you need to make you feel loved.”

  “That hurts, man,” I say with my lips around the top of the beer bottle. I tip it back only to get a few drops of backwash. Disgusting.

  “The truth hurts. Speaking of your desperate longing for someone to love you, how are your parents?”

  He should be glad I'm not carrying right now. Fucking prick.

  “Still disappointed in my life choices and making sure I'm aware of that fact every time I see them. Last week my mom pulled me aside and asked me when I’m going to grow up and get a real job.”

  “Wow,” Tank says around a mouthful of food. “Man, this is good.”

  I slide off the stool and make my way to the fridge. “Yep. They had the perfect plan for my life before I went and destroyed it. If I’d stayed true to their timeline, I'd be the one running for the president gig, not Birmingham.” Swiping a bottle of water and another beer from the fridge, I kick it closed behind me. “His name being all over the news is making it worse. They can't stand that family, even though they're best friends. I know it's killing Mom and Dad both that Kyle is the political poster child, not me.”

  The stool wobbles on the tile as I sit back down, placing the bottle of water in front of Tank. Lifting the hem of my T-shirt, I wrap my hand in it and twist the cap off the beer.

  “Knowing you all these years, I can't imagine you shoved into one of those political figure roles. You'd be like a bull in a china shop.”

  No doubt. It's why I went into the army after college. Damn, my parents were pissed when they learned I’d signed up without telling them. It pissed them off even more when not even their name—or their money—could change my enlistment. Best decision I ever made, breaking free from their perfect plan. There isn't a doubt in my mind that I would be as miserable as they are if I hadn’t.

  Not that the past year has been that great, but the others have. And the ones after this one will be. Change is coming; I can almost feel it. The past few weeks, I've been antsy, tense, like I’m waiting for something.

  But what is the question.

  Chapter Six

  Randi

  September

  Holding in a shallow breath, I tug back the gold and green embellished curtain, peeking into the ballroom.

  Wall-to-wall people dressed to the nines fill the room all laughing and mingling with a thrill of excitement in the air.

  After various live debates and the hundreds of speaking engagements throughout the campaign, I'm used to all this. Well, except the pointed, hateful glares from those who deem me unworthy. No matter how many pep talks I give myself in the mirror, those crush the part of me that wants to be accepted.

  They don't know me. They think they do because of what our campaign has told them, but they don't. No one out in the crowd knows the person they see in front of them night after night isn't the real Randi Sawyer. No, the real me was polished, waxed, highlighted, and sculpted away. Am I the perfect Politician Barbie? Yes. But not really me.

  Not that I miss the five-dollar box dye job or the scratchy secondhand clothes, but I do miss having a choice in what I wear and say. For a chance at being more than the trailer park stigma, I gave up control of my life. Now here I am, about to walk on stage with Politician Ken to celebrate our primary win.

  Now on to the general election.

  I shake my head, dispelling the list that needs to be done and checked off for the next stage of the campaign trail. That prep can wait till tomorrow, because tonight I celebrate this win. In November, my name, Randi fucking Sawyer, will be listed as Kyle Birmingham’s running mate on the presidential ballot for the United States of America.

  Fucking hell.

  Shit, hope I didn't say that out loud.

  I cut my eyes left and then right just to be sure I’m alone in case another foul word slips. Per my etiquette teacher, cussing is trashy and unladylike. It was one of the first things they 'cured' me off. Like I had some kind of disease or something. But they can't control my inner thoughts—hell, I can't even control them. That’s where I win in the long run. I'm the picture-perfect candidate for Kyle and Shawn, but inside, I'm holding tight to the pieces they’re trying to erase. The pieces that make me, me.

  I shift from one black stiletto to the other as I take one last look over the crowd. Over a thousand people wait to hear us, but not a single one I know. Taeler wasn't invited, by me, in a precise power move to keep her away from these leeches. The farther she is from this town, away from this corruption, the better.

  I smirk.

  Shit.

  Fuck.

  Damn.

  Ha, they can't control me. In my head, I imagine raising a fist and shaking it in the air with my middle finger proudly extended. I glance over one shoulder, then the other, and my smile falters. The area surrounding me is vacant, signaling once again that I’m in this alone. Not even a single somewhat friend to laugh with about my crazy imagination.

  I let out a slow, resigned sigh and release the curtain, the edge floating back into place.

  “We're almost up, Walmart,” Kyle says behind me.

  I nod and turn back toward the stage to wait for the signal to walk out.

  I gasp in a lungful of cologne filled air when something wraps around my waist. Before I can process what's happening, the heels of my stilettos teeter as I’m jerked backward, back slamming against Kyle's hard chest.

  “We should properly celebrate after the party, together,” he whispers against the shell of my ear.

  I cough at the overwhelming smell of his cologne. Damn, does he bathe in the shit? “Not a chance,” I grit out, shoving his arm down to release his hold on my waist. “Now let me go, you fucking bastard.”

  I grunt, a puff of air pushing past my lips as he adds pressure around my ribs. I gulp down tiny breaths, desperate for more than his tightening arm allows.

  “All those etiquette classes and still that trash mouth of yours.” Nose against the sensitive skin of my neck, he inhales. A shiver of disgust racks my shoulders. “You feel this between us. I know you do. We can be enemies and lovers too.”

  “You're delusional.” Desperation shoots through my core, turning my movements frantic. I already dislike touch. Add in this scenario…. Tears, as well as panic, set in. “Let go, Kyle.”

  “Hmm, I don't think so.” He chuckles into my hair. “Keep wiggling that fine ass of yours against my dick, Walmart, and I might not wait until after the party.”

  I still, the rapid rise and fall of my chest my body’s only movement. My eyes dart around the dark backstage area, desperate to locate anyone who will stop this. Movement toward the back corner catches my attention. Locking eyes with the woman with a clipboard in her hands, I open my mouth to beg for help but snap it shut at the shake of her head. A single tear streaks down my cheek as I watch her walk away, leaving me alone with Kyle once again.

  “You're acting like you have a choi
ce in this, Walmart.” The room spins, my brain barely able to keep up with the quick movement. The buttons of his dress shirt press against the exposed skin of my chest. “It's not a matter of if, but when.” Hot breath brushes over my damp cheek. “You're a fool if you think you’re anything more than a pawn in our game. I own you. I own you, your family, your whole fucking life. Every dollar I've paid wasn't a damn charity. It's a debt. One I will collect on one day soon.”

  Focusing the building fear into panicked strength, I press both palms against his chest and shove back as hard as I can. A demented smirk spreads across his face as he eases his hold. The unexpected release sends me staggering back, barely regaining my balance before I fall to the floor.

  “Now, back to business. We've gotten this far, but we still have the main election to win. And believe me, Walmart, you don't want to find out what will happen if we lose.” His cold eyes rake up and down my body, eyeing the curves my snug red dress accentuates. “Do whatever it takes to ensure a win in November. I don't care who you have to bribe, suck off, fuck, or kill. We have to win. It's not just your life depending on it.”

  My mouth gapes at the insinuation.

  He wouldn't. Would he?

  “Kyle.” My head whips to the side as a suit-clad Shawn appears from the shadowed corner. The earlier light lunch churns in my belly at his evil smirk. “You’re up.”

  “Right,” Kyle acknowledges, shifting his hungry eyes from me with a long breath. “We're up. Let's go.”

  I scowl at Shawn as Kyle takes his sweet-ass time to adjust his suit jacket and smooth down his tie. A bright fake smile, one I’ve become very familiar with the last several months, spreads up Kyle’s cheeks before he steps out onto the stage, waving.

  “Why didn't you stop that?” I say, anger and confusion hardening my tone.

  Shawn's smile falls. “I cannot believe someone as stupid as you took my spot on the ticket. You think I give a fuck what he does to you, Trailer? We own you from now until you lose or you're dead, and honestly, I fucking hope it’s the latter. You don't deserve to be here, breathe the same air as us. I've worked my whole damn life for this shot, and you took it from me. You will pay.”

  The crowd behind the curtain roars in excitement at something Kyle said onstage. They’re none the wiser about what’s going on backstage—not that they would care or do anything to stop Shawn’s threats.

  My heart plummets, stomach rolling. I seal my hand over my mouth to hold back the bile rising in my throat. I shove around him and race to the bathroom. The door barely snickers shut before I vomit into the sink. My arms tremble under my weight, the white porcelain sink cool beneath my clammy palms. His words shouldn't rock me that much; the subtle threats are nothing new. The past few months he's done nothing but taunt and torture me with his words.

  They know I'm trapped. I know I’m trapped, their caged plaything they enjoy tormenting. Everything I was promised, everything they’ve done to this point, adds to my gilded prison, locking me into doing their daily bidding. But tonight Kyle changed the game, stepped over the invisible line they’ve toed the past several months by touching me. Not that it changes anything. I'm still bound to them until this is done, and no one would care if I spoke up about their terrible treatment. Plus, it’s not like my life didn’t prepare me for this. At least now I’m beautifully dressed, have a sweet-ass condo, and more spending money than I can imagine in exchange for the daily torment; in the past, it came free to the bully.

  I scan my reflection in the nearby mirror, carefully using the image to wipe away the smeared black mascara lines striping my cheek from the earlier tears. Shawn’s threats, Kyle’s advances. I have to see this through like I've done my whole life.

  Prepare, plan, and push forward. This is my checklist, what will help me survive the next few months and next four years if we win. No, not if—when we win. I can’t go back home now, a failure. No, I’ll put up with their shit, and we will win.

  I’ve accomplished everything I've set my mind to doing, and this is no different.

  Graduating on time as a teen mom at the top of the class. Check.

  Get into University of Texas. Check.

  Score high on the LSAT for top law schools to take notice. Check.

  Convince Harvard to offer me more grants and scholarships than anyone before. Check.

  This is simply another hurdle in life. Win the election, no matter the cost, so Kyle doesn't kill me and hide the body, and don't let him touch me. Oh, and watch my back for when Shawn is there, eager to plunge a knife in when I’m not looking.

  This would be easier if I had someone to confide in, someone to trust. But finding that someone in this town won't happen.

  I'll tackle this like every other hurdle I’ve met in my life.

  All on my own.

  * * *

  Before the black limo’s door shuts, I toe off one black Louboutin and then the other, the shoes clattering to the floorboard. An unladylike groan pushes past my lips as I wiggle my toes in their newfound freedom. Beautiful shoes, comfortable too, until hour four of standing in them. I didn’t pick them out, or the beautiful dress I’m wearing. All my outfits and clothes are coordinated by my wardrobe consultants. Who knew that’s a real job.

  I don't glance back as the car smoothly pulls from the curb, easing into the constant traffic. I’ll get an earful tomorrow from the campaign manager for leaving early, but I don’t care. The cool, soft leather seeps through the back of my dress as I lean back, inhaling deeply for the first time all night. Pressing the heels of both hands to my cheeks, I massage the ache away. Holding that wide fake smile all night burned some serious calories. Head thumping back against the headrest, I allow my eyes to close.

  The edges of my lips dip as I recall the night’s events. My dress was gorgeous, shoes perfection, makeup and hair flawless—and still no one paid me any attention. Not that I wanted to fake chitchat with people I don’t know, but feeling like you have the plague isn't the best way to spend an evening either.

  Blowing out a slow breath, I relax my tense muscles. It's irrational that in this limo, alone, the suffocating weight of loneliness is less than earlier in a room filled to the brim with people.

  The revving of a car engine draws my attention out the window. I gasp, hands slapping the seat for support. Glass shatters as metal against metal screeches through the night. I sail through the air, my head smacking the opposite window. The world spins, my thoughts fuzzy.

  Blinking through the pain radiating through my scalp and shoulder, I open my mouth to shout for help.

  I don’t get the chance.

  Another impact, this time from behind, rockets me forward. A scream scratches its way up my throat, but the screeching of rubber against asphalt gobbles up the sound.

  Warm liquid trickles over my upper lip, building along the seam before seeping in between.

  Demanding shouts call outside the destroyed limo, barely audible over the sharp ringing in my ears. I give my head a small shake, immediately regretting the movement as pain flares unbidden. My throbbing head gripped between my palms, I give it a hard press to prevent it from exploding from the building pressure.

  More glass shatters, fragments scratching down my back.

  The voices grow louder. Shock takes over all rational thought. Curling into the fetal position, I cover both ears to keep them from rupturing at the blaring sounds.

  What the hell is going on?

  Forcing my eyes open, I blink several times. Blocks of light from the streetlights seep through the shattered windows. Shadows shift outside, their inky figures skirting across the seat and floorboard.

  I hiss through clenched teeth as I move across the floorboard toward the still-intact door. Everything pulses with sharp, breath-catching pain. Shards of glass slice at my knees and palms, but still I continue toward freedom.

  The putrid scent of burning rubber wafts through the destroyed passenger compartment.

  “Fuck,” I wheeze. Lunging for
the door, I grip the handle and shove.

  It doesn’t budge. A stronger waft of smoke fuels my frantic attempt at escape.

  I will not burn to death in this fucking limo. Nope. Light breaks through the darkness, the grind of metal against metal piercing my sensitive ears.

  A head pops through the now-open door. “Ma'am, we need to get you out of here.”

  Relief swells in my chest, calming my stroke-level pulse at the authoritative male voice.

  I’m getting out of here. Today is not my death day. Whew.

  “No shit.” Okay, apparently near-death experiences shift the real Randi back into the driver seat of my mouth.

  He dips farther through the door into the tattered interior, a hint of a smirk shining on his face. “Now,” he commands.

  I eagerly accept his extended hand. Calluses scrape along my palm as our hands slide together.

  “So bossy,” I grumble. I scoot across the leather, careful to not pierce my ass with the broken window bits. At the door, he snakes an arm around my waist and hoists me into the air.

  My eyes dart around, taking in the flashing lights and utter chaos. A crowd with flashing cameras shouts from behind a line of suited men while another group on the other side of the street jerks handmade signs in the air, their faces contorted in anger.

  “What… what the hell happened?” I ask, confusion filling my soft tone. He takes several long strides away from the limo with me still pressed tightly to his hard chest. “What are you're doing? I can walk.”

  “The glass, ma'am. You're not wearing shoes.”

  Okay, he has a point, but still, he could've asked.

  I shift my focus from the crowds toward the direction he’s headed. The bright lights of my condo building’s overhang blare through the night across the block. At his back, lights continue to flash, red and blue beams like a colorful strobe light coming from the few police cars.

  “Get her inside,” says a deep, masculine voice. I peer over my hero’s shoulder, and my eyes widen. The man is a fucking tank. The light reflects off his smooth bald head, shadows contouring to highlight his bulky frame. His dark eyes scan the area over and over again.