Power Play: Power Play Series Book 1

by Mitchell, Kennedy L.

  “Oh really,” says the man holding me. “You don't say. Can't believe we let these fuckers slip through. We've gotten rusty sitting on the sidelines.”

  Despite the circumstances, a smile tugs at my lips.

  “Not the time or place, Benson,” the big guy says. “A doctor will be up in five.”

  “Where were those rent-a-cops she's had on her?”

  “Not sure. Working on it.” The big man presses two fingers to his ear. “On my way.” His narrowed eyes meet mine before flicking to the man cradling me in his arms. “Just get her inside. We'll figure the rest out after we’re secure.”

  Even with the man’s quick steps, rushing us toward the glass doors of the condo lobby, his tight hold keeps me snug against his chest, preventing any jostling. Leaning back a bit to look over his shoulder, I sweep the area until I find the limo.

  “What the…?” I whisper to myself as I scan the wreckage. The damage centers around the passenger compartment, the driver side unharmed except for where it nailed a light pole. “This is getting out of hand.”

  The man’s annoyed huff pulls my gaze from the totaled limo to his face, and I take in every handsome detail. Light brown eyes rapidly scan our surroundings. Straight nose, nostrils flaring with each heavy breath. A full bottom lip presses tight against a thinner upper one, the soft pink color draining, leaving the inside edges white. Happy wrinkles crease his cheeks and the edges of his eyes from years of smiling. Naturally unblemished tan skin and silky, dark chocolate floppy hair accentuate his overall appeal. Attractive in a happy, mischievous way.

  I lower my scrutinizing gaze to a dress shirt, tie, and suit jacket.

  All the pieces snap together.

  Of course they’re Secret Service. I’m grateful for their presence tonight, but now that they’re here, it means they’re here to stay until the general election in November. Two whole months. I begged the previous security detail to keep their distance, allowing some semblance of privacy. There's no way I'll convince these guys of the same. They’re hard core.

  Those honey brown eyes pause their scan to meet mine.

  I attempt a convincing smile, but a sharp pain slices through my head, turning it into a grimace.

  “Knew you'd be full of drama,” he mutters under his breath, which happens to be by my ear, as we step through an open door into the lobby. “You politicians will do anything for publicity.”

  Seriously? Him fucking too?

  I'm so damn tired of people thinking they know me based on what they see. I thought being here, looking like this, changing my background would make people see me as an equal. But instead it’s another set of judgments, different stigma for people to assume.

  How do I change someone’s perspective if they assume who I am instead of learning for themselves? If people continue to tell me who I am based on what they see, why should I keep fighting to prove them wrong?

  Chapter Seven

  Randi

  “I said I'm fine,” I say with a sigh as the doctor sticks a metal contraption inside my ears. “My head hurts, my palms sting from the cuts, but that's it.”

  “You're not fine,” the woman says again. The same words have been exchanged several times over the past hour. “Considering I'm the one with a medical degree in this room, we’ll stick with my assessment over yours.”

  “Whatever,” I grumble and lie back on the soft bedding, my legs dangling over the end. I nibble on the bright red-painted nail of my middle finger.

  On the other side of the bedroom door, distorted male voices draw my attention. No one has mentioned anything regarding the wreck, which is fucking irritating. Add in my pounding head, which Miss ‘I'm right because I have a medical degree’ diagnosed as a mild concussion, and I'm on the sharp edge between holding it together and losing my ever-loving shit.

  “Someone will need to wake you up every few hours tonight,” the woman says more to the tablet in her hand than me. “Do you have someone?”

  “No, it's just me.”

  Her gaze slowly rises from the screen, brow arched. “What about Mr. Birmingham? When will he be by?”

  Fire ignites my blood, and I harden my features, narrowing my eyes into menacing glare. “He won't come by because he doesn't live here.”

  “Sorry, I just assumed….”

  Of course that’s what she assumed since the media has spewed tidbits about our fake relationship across every news channel. This is the part I hate the most about the lies we leaked to the press.

  “Your assumption is wrong.” Elbow digging into the duvet, I push myself up. I squint as the doctor splits, morphing into two people. “Doc, did you happen to clone yourself in the last two seconds?”

  Both doctors frown. “Upgrading that concussion to severe.”

  When the two doctors mold back into one, I sit up straight on the bed. “When will someone update me on tonight?”

  “As soon as we're done.”

  I flick my gaze to the closed door. “Then we're done. Leave a list of what I need to do tonight for the concussion, and I'll set my alarm.”

  “You really need someone to—”

  “Well, lady,” I say, pushing off the bed to stand. Tightening the sash of my long-sleeve terry cloth robe, I step toward the door. “I'm used to doing this thing called life on my own, so I'll figure it out.” At the door, I turn the brass knob and pull it open. I wave a hand through the air, gesturing out the door with a smile. “Thank you for your help tonight. Contact my admin for payment.” Because on top of the wardrobe coordinators, I also employ an admin to handle bills, flights, personal errands, and who knows what else.

  With a huff, she storms out of the room. Without looking into the craziness of the living room, I slam the door shut behind the doctor and lean against it. A few bruises, cuts, and a concussion aren’t too bad considering my end of the limo was crushed.

  I chew on a manicured nail as I shuffle toward the en suite bathroom. For an additional layer of protection against… everyone, I lock the bathroom door behind me. The marble vanity digs against my lower belly as I lean closer to the mirror, inspecting the wounds for myself.

  I tilt my head one way and then the other. The image follows. It’s me—I’m not that crazy—but the woman staring back at me doesn’t look like me.

  The woman in the mirror strongly resembles a brunette Lindsay Lohan mug shot after an all-night bender.

  Not good.

  I tilt my chin down, hoping for a better angle.

  Nope. Zero good angles.

  I slide the multiple temporary extensions from my hair and lay them carefully on the sink. I stroke each piece, smoothing it out before pulling another free. With the final section out, I ruffle my real hair and sigh in relief. They make my hair full and beautiful but hurt after a full day of wearing so many.

  Soap bubbles collect around the drain as I remove the grime from the wreck and a thousand handshakes from my hands. Pressing closer to the mirror, I widen one eye and then the other, removing the green-tinted contacts. It's nice not having to wear glasses, but the color enhancement to change my hazel to brilliant green is overboard if you ask me.

  Not that anyone did.

  Oh no, not once was I consulted on any of these 'enhancements.' Most days I don't recognize the beautiful woman staring back at me in the mirror. After several somewhat painful laser treatments, brown spots from years of sun damage and bad skin vanished. A little bit of lip plump here, some Botox there, a billion chemical peels, and months of Invisalign later, I'm this. Beautiful by some people’s standards, a far cry from the haggard look I started with. The woman in the mirror would've been a part of the popular crowd in high school, not the weird one who ended up getting pregnant in the back seat of her boyfriend’s parents’ van.

  Do I miss basic Randi 1.0? Yes and no. I enjoy feeling beautiful and the new attention from men, but with Randi 2.0 comes obligations and strings attached. All this and still it’s not enough to be accepted in this city or back home, where
people are waiting for me to fail.

  Ugh. I rest my elbow on the vanity and cover my face with both hands to stop me from staring at my reflection. The condo, the makeover, the money—all for a chance to prove myself.

  The intense throb in my head distracts me from the deep life thoughts I was falling into. I wince with each step to the shower. The large glass door whooshes open with a soft tug. Stretching, I twist the handle all the way right to steaming hot. Slow fingers release the sash knot and the robe parts, exposing me to the empty bathroom. I hiss through the soreness as I lift both shoulders, shrugging the soft material to pool on the heated tile floor. Initial pelts of steaming spray against the multitude of thin cuts cause bites of stinging pain along my battered skin.

  I lean back, the cool tile sending a chill down my spine. A wave of homesickness barrels through me from the contradicting temperatures of the water and tile, the battle of the two similar to warm Texas spring days soaked in a cold rain shower.

  Alone in the quiet, the steam wrapped around me like a security blanket, I replay the scene from earlier. Bile rises, pushing up my throat. My head screams as I pitch forward, palms slapping the opposite wall for support, and puke up the miniature hors d’oeuvres from the party.

  Fuck, what will I do? Can I really expect to avoid being alone with Kyle for the next few months—or worse, four years if we win? There must be something to protect myself, but what? I'm weak. I'll own up to that. These narrow hips and soft arms didn't get their 'character' by hitting the gym, that's for sure.

  I need a plan.

  And mace.

  Perhaps a stun gun too. Shooting those cords and electrifying Kyle's balls seems like a decent quid pro quo after his manhandling tonight. Eyes to the ceiling, I chant the words ‘mace’ and ‘stun gun’ three times to commit them to memory. This way I'll remember to add both to the Amazon cart after this glorious shower.

  A sharp knock at the door sounds as I’m still weapons planning. With the pad of my thumb, I clear two small circles in the fogged glass door to clearly see through.

  The door opens an inch or two, but no one steps through.

  “Ma'am,” a male voice calls out. “Everything okay in there?”

  “Checking to make sure I cleaned behind the ears? Didn't realize that was in your job description,” I mutter just loud enough for the guy on the other side of the door to hear.

  “The doctor said we needed to check on you every hour.”

  I roll my eyes before sticking my hair under the water. “Okay, now she's just trying to piss me off. She told me every couple of hours.” I attack my thick dark hair with ferocity, making layers and layers of cherry almond scented suds build along my scalp and cascade down my back. “But as you can see, or hear rather, I'm fine. Just trying to get the stench of almost-death off me.”

  “Ma'am?”

  “What happened tonight?”

  If we were in Texas, crickets would chirp in the blatant silence.

  “Also, your daughter is on the phone, saying she won't hang up until she talks to you.”

  “What?” I growl and slam my palm against the faucet handle, cutting off the stream of water. “Why didn't you start with that?” Channeling all my anger into my movements, I snatch a towel off the nearby hook and scrub at the streams of water cascading down my body. Towel wrapped around my chest, I pause. “Wait, why did she call you?”

  “She didn't, ma'am. She called your cell phone several times. By the twentieth or so missed call, we answered.”

  “That could’ve been China calling!” I yell. Okay, maybe I see how Ben believes Taeler inherited her dramatics from me.

  The man on the other side of the cracked door clears his throat. “Her name was on the caller ID, and a picture of you two flashed on the screen as well, ma'am.”

  Hmm. Didn't think about that one.

  “Good point. Still could've been China. They're sneaky little bastards. Or someone calling to tell me I was left a million dollars by a distant relative and I need to send them my social and bank account information.” I chuckle to myself. I really am hilarious. Too bad either no one is around to hear me or doesn't get the brilliance of my jokes.

  “I would advise against that, ma'am. Sounds fishy.”

  “No shit, Sherlock,” I mumble under my breath as I press the length of my hair between a dry towel to remove excess water. Once again donned in the robe from earlier, I swipe my thick-frame glasses off the counter and yank the door open.

  I eye the young man I’ve been talking to. His eyes flick from mine to the door leading to the living room and back again.

  “Are you a super genius or something?” I ask, head cocked to the side as my eyes scan his baby face.

  The boy’s light blond brows furrow. “Ma'am?”

  “How old are you? I’m guessing twenty. Did you just graduate from Secret Service school or something?” Not that I want these guys hanging around every second, but if I have to endure them, I’d prefer guys who are old enough to need a shave once a week.

  Pops of crimson dot his cheeks as he shifts from one foot to the other, avoiding eye contact.

  Well hell. I've embarrassed him. Sweet kid.

  I hold out a hand, awkwardly patting his shoulder. “Sorry, that was rude. You're old enough, and cute.” I leave off ‘I could be your mom.’

  “Now this I'm surprised about.”

  Junior and I turn to the voice on the other side of the room. I scowl at the man I recognize leaning against the far wall. He’s the one who pulled me out of the town car and carried me inside. Damn, he's hot. Earlier, with my fuzzy vision and shock, I thought he was attractive, but here in my room? Attractive doesn’t even count. On a scale of one to ten, he’s a nine working his way to an eleven if he can grow a quick man bun. And old, thank goodness, unlike Junior here. Shit, not old. He's like my age.

  “I'm not old, dammit,” I mutter.

  The two men exchange a quick look.

  “Ma'am?” Junior asks.

  I wave a hand through the air, dismissing him. “Sorry, wrong conversation.”

  “Did I miss something?” asks the hot, annoying one. I swear his light brown eyes fucking twinkle. Twinkle. Is he part unicorn or something?

  “What are you surprised about?” I shoot back, relenting in our sudden stare-off.

  He pushes off the wall to stalk closer. Why does he have to be such an asshole? In the baking of men, can the two ingredients hot and a nice guy not mix together or something? Even with the asshole factor, I'm drawn to him. Maybe the doc’s diagnosis of a concussion is legit.

  “That you'd be interested in a no one like Grem here.”

  My lips curve upward, matching his smirk, before my eyes track back to the Grem fellow.

  “Grem, as in the Grim Reaper? You kill a lot of people or something?”

  Grem chokes back a cough, whereas the hot one chuckles. “Grem, as in short for Gremlin. The kid hates the water.”

  “Funny. Can't wait to hear that story.” I hold out my hand. “Now, give me my phone, please.”

  Gremlin drops the phone into my palm, avoiding skin-to-skin contact. His gaze darts from the hot guy back to me before he turns on his heels.

  “Thanks,” I mutter to his back as he fast-walks out of the bedroom. With a deep calming breath, I lift the cell phone to my ear. “Tae?”

  “Mom! What the fuck happened to you?” I pull the phone from my ear with a cringe. The doctor did mention something about loud noises doing more damage. I think. Wasn't really listening, actually.

  “Taeler Lynn, do not use that fucking language with me, dammit,” I bite back. College has taught her the worst manners, I fucking swear.

  Movement across the room catches my eye, reminding me I'm not alone. His lips curve in a sexy, mischievous smirk that flips my insides and warms the space between my thighs. Those brown eyes shine with amusement, his fine smile lines crinkling.

  I wince at Taeler’s continued high-pitched rampage on the other end. He ta
kes a step forward, smirk gone.

  “Wait,” My shaky voice is barely loud enough for Taeler to hear. “Calm the hell down, Tae. My head is killing me, and your yelling is making it worse. Concussions are the worst. I wouldn't recommend ever getting one.”

  “Sorry, Mom, I'm just—wait, what the hell? Concussion?” A slight tremble resonates in her tone. For the second time tonight, tears build, but this time they’re due to her worry instead of fear. “Mom, what happened? Tell me, please. I'm worried out of my mind over here. Do I need to fly up? I'm sure I can miss classes if you need me.”

  A magnetic pull draws my gaze back to the agent. “No, sweetheart, you don't need to fly up here. Everything is okay. It's being handled by the Secret Service as we speak.” Wait a second. Careful to not make any sudden movements, I ease onto the edge of the bed and lie back. “Taeler, how did you even know something happened tonight?”

  Her sigh sounds through the phone. At least she's calmed down a little. “You're all over the news. Whatever happened tonight is covered on every news channel. It's a big deal, Mom. You're a big deal now. Congratulations, by the way.”

  “Thanks,” I mutter. “I still can't believe it.” Securing the phone between my ear and shoulder, I roll to my side and swipe the remote off the side table. It clatters back onto the solid wood after I hit the Power button. No need to change the channel, since I monitored the big network news channels all morning as the votes were tallied. The large flat-screen TV snaps to life. Bright flashes from other cameras disorient the image, but the entrance to my condo building is unmistakable. Black Suburbans dot the area, along with several police cars and one fire truck. The woman on the screen waves a frantic hand behind her while talking to the camera.

  “Watching now,” I say more to myself than Taeler. On the other end of the line, Taeler talks a thousand words a second, demanding answers and threatening to fly up here, but all I can focus on is the footage on the screen. “Listen, Tae, I love you, but I don't know what to tell you. The Secret Service is here now and I'm safe, promise. I'll call you as soon as I know something. Love you.” After a teary goodbye, the line goes dead.