Power Play: Power Play Series Book 1

by Mitchell, Kennedy L.

  “TMI, Kyle,” my fingers muffling the words.

  “Just wait. You'll love it.”

  “You're sick,” I spit back.

  “And you're mine, bought and paid for, so it's a moot point. The issue is with your mother.”

  All annoyance and fear of the predator in the room vanish, leaving a weight of lead in my belly. “My mom? What's wrong with my mom?”

  “I got an interesting call tonight from the chief of police in your shit-ass hometown.”

  The hand still at my mouth mutes my groan.

  “Why did they call you? She’s my mom, dammit. If something’s wrong—”

  “I pay a lot of hush money to that town to keep shit hidden we don't want public. You'd think you'd be more grateful.” Right. Hell, he's so delusional. And this loon is about to be the president. Yay…. Sorry, America. “He didn't charge her. She's waiting in holding for you to come sort her shit out.”

  “What was it for?” I whisper in disbelief. Which is stupid of me. Of course she's fallen off the wagon even after I paid for those two weeks in rehab.

  “Tested positive for meth plus possession, driving while intoxicated, and indecent exposure.”

  “Nice of her to wrap all that up in one arrest,” I say on a fake laugh. “Meth? Never a dull day with that mom of mine.”

  “Go handle it. Tomorrow. Take the jet, but for fuck’s sake, keep it out of the fucking press.”

  “Okay, go home, sort out Mom, come back. We need to solidify a plan for the next couple months.” Mapping out the cities we want to hit in between the debates and other required appearances during the campaign is crucial to gain the votes we’ll need to win.

  Kyle's returning smirk sparks a warning as bright as a firework finale. “You do that, Walmart. Just handle your shit.”

  Wisely, I don't move an inch or even breathe too loud as he stands from the bed. After adjusting his jacket and buttoning the top button, he steps for the door. Not wanting to draw attention, I keep my unfocused gaze on the spot he vacated, ignoring his demanding stare. My skin crawls with the awareness of being watched.

  “Maybe when you get back, you need a reminder of who's in power here. Because I can guaran—fucking—tee it isn't you, Walmart. Remember that, and maybe you'll survive the next four years.”

  * * *

  Texas Rangers ball cap pulled low and chin tucked tight to my chest, I focus on my ratty Converses slapping on top of the black tarmac. Two sets of men’s shoes match my steps on either side as we approach the jet. Thankfully the stairs are already down when we approach, allowing me to take the steps two at a time the moment we near the plane. Inside, I inhale deeply, scanning the partially filled cabin.

  Laptop bag snug against my side, I shuffle down the aisle toward a grouping of empty seats. The seat belt clicks shut, and I tug the loose end to tighten it around my lap. Disregarding the final agents filing onboard, I adjust in the seat to stare out the window.

  Outside a light fall wind blows through the trees’ brightly covered leaves, loosening some with each pass and scattering them to the ground. I tug the edges of my lightweight jacket tighter. It’s not cold outside by most northerner’s standards, but for this Texas girl, if it’s below eighty, a jacket and scarf are needed to survive.

  Not that I'll need either where we're headed.

  Movement draws my attention from the beautiful fall display. I take in the perfectly tailored pants lingering on the outline of thick thighs before scanning up a narrow waist, broad shoulders, tan neck—wait a second. Why in the hell am I focusing on his neck? Yes, it’s kissable. Purely edible, actually.

  No.

  Stop it, Randi.

  You will not lust after this asshole.

  But I can’t seem to stop myself no matter what asshole thing he does or says. Which is odd, and considering everyone else’s odd is my normal, this is the oddest of oddities. Normally once I get a glimpse past the sexy exterior into the arrogant asshole that the man is at the core, I'm uninterested. Not simply turned off but revolted. But not with this agent. Oh no, that would be way too convenient.

  The fact that I can’t stop gravitating to him any time he’s close should make me question his true self. Is he truly an asshat at heart or just bitter but has a good heart and soul beneath it all? Right now, with everything else going on around me, I can't dive into that theory. Later. Someday I'll work it out.

  Plus, I'm his boss, right? Pretty sure an interoffice relationship is listed somewhere in the top things to avoid. Even though the mental image of us alone in a dark office, me sprawled on top of a disheveled desk with him between—

  “Ma'am?”

  Trouble's honey brown eyes brighten with humor, crinkling at the edges with a sunburst of lines. Whoops, I'm blatantly staring as I fantasize about an inappropriate work hookup. And I mean hookup, not relationship. Those things are way too touchy-feely for this emotionally unavailable, overworked, ‘too stressed to even remember to eat’ girl.

  “Sorry, still a little fuzzy, I guess.” Clearing my throat, I distract myself by bending forward to rifle through my laptop bag in search of my iPad. “But that's not unusual for me.” Fuck, I sound like an idiot.

  I swear I'm smart and can rock the VP role if I’m elected. It might be wise to have that printed on a small business card to hand out after I've said something that displays my crazy.

  A curse almost slips past my lips when the sexy Secret Service guy settles into the light leather seat across the tiny table that separates us. Not sure why he chose to sit close by, considering this morning he and the rest of the guys, minus Terminator, are acting frigid toward me. Why the mood from last night—tense but casual—shifted to all business, I have no idea. Maybe I said something strange in my sleep or to an agent when he woke me up per the doctor’s instructions.

  I part my lips and suck in a breath, ready to ask why the cold shoulder, but seal them shut when the captain's voice comes over the speakers, informing us we're cleared for takeoff.

  The row shakes, jostling me in my chair, as the massive boulder of a man settles into the seat beside me. Instinct kicks in, pulling me away from Terminator until my right shoulder hits the thick plastic window. A flash of uncertainty crosses his face. Not wanting to hurt the big guy’s feelings, I stretch my lips into a tight smile. It's not him I don't want touching me, it’s most people. Casual or intimate, it doesn't matter; all of it sets off an internal timer, counting down how long I must endure the contact until I can pull way.

  “How's the head?” he asks. His assessing gaze sweeps along my face like he can see through to my injured brain. Sweet man.

  “Still hurts, but it’s not pounding toward the edge of pulverizing my brain, so that's an improvement.”

  A corner of his lips tugs up. “That's good. We caught the driver of the truck that caused the accident last night.”

  That has my full attention. Brows raised, I lean back against the plane and rest my head on the window. “Oh yeah? Has he said anything?”

  “Nothing, unfortunately. We've run his name though the various databases, but we can't connect him to any watch list groups.”

  The building hope deflates in my chest. Blowing out through tight lips, I roll my shoulders and shift my focus from Terminator to the table. Dammit, I can’t stop the disappointment from dampening my mood.

  “Hey, we'll figure it out.” I nod, not glancing up. “I looked over the driver’s background. No way was he working alone. Until then, you're safe with us.”

  A large hand rests on my forearm. As I return my attention back to him, I start my internal countdown till I can move out of his grasp without it offending him. Thankfully he pulls away before the ten-second timer buzzes.

  “We're your primary or alpha team. Last night was a shi—” Terminator clears his throat. “Apologies, ma'am—”

  I hold up a hand to halt his apology. “Stop. I want to be myself when you and the other agents are around, and I want the same from you. All of you. I'm
not some sensitive, stuck-up Washington socialite. You don't have to pussyfoot around me unless we're in public.”

  The entire plane tenses, the air turning stiff and heavy.

  “What?” I ask, letting a hint of annoyance seep into my tone. Terminator doesn't speak up, looking everywhere other than me. I scan the cabin, looking for someone who will explain. “Okay, what is going on?”

  “We believe considering your relationship with Birmingham, it's best to keep everything professional, keep the lines clear.” There’s no mistaking the disdain in Trouble's voice.

  What the hell?

  I meet his flaring gaze. “My relationship.”

  “Oh, I'm sorry. Are you just his fuck toy?”

  “Benson!” Terminator shouts.

  “You know nothing about me,” I grit out. Pressing my elbow to the tabletop, I lean forward, shortening the distance between me and the judgy prick.

  “I know enough.”

  Instead of launching across the table and wrapping my hands around his neck like I desperately want, I lean back into the seat and cross both arms across my chest. “Oh really? Go on, then, tell me a bit about myself.”

  His honey brown eyes darken with challenge. “You're nothing more than a pretty political pawn—”

  “Aw, you think I'm pretty,” I say, batting my eyelashes and pressing a hand to my heart before shooting him the bird. “And side note, I prefer Politician Barbie.”

  “You'll do anything that fuckstick Birmingham tells you—”

  “Enough!” Terminator shouts and pushes up from his seat like he might take a swing at Trouble.

  I hold out a hand to stop him. “No, let him get it out. Everyone can see he has a chip on his shoulder the size of Texas and has something to say.” I swipe a hand across the table. “Well, here's your chance, Trouble. Get it out of your system now. But I will say we agree on one thing: him being a fuckstick, not me being his puppet.”

  “Scheming puppet—”

  “Judgmental asshole.”

  “Fuck, can I finish?” he grits out. Not sure how, considering his teeth and jaw are locked down tight.

  “Oh, please continue. This is so interesting. I love learning new awful things about myself.”

  “You're nothing but a fraud.”

  Heavy tension settles inside the plane.

  Swallowing back the lump lodged in my throat, I swing my gaze to the table, breaking from his hate-filled glare. If looks could kill, I'd be bleeding out all over this fancy plane. “There is a bit of truth in that statement,” I whisper, “but not in the way you're thinking.”

  “Enough,” Terminator says in a tight, quiet voice that’s more terrifying than his yell. “Benson, you will keep your opinions to yourself and keep your fat-ass mouth shut. Ma'am, I apologize for—”

  “I asked for it,” I say quickly to stop him. No idea why I egged him on, but I won’t play innocent in the argument. It's crazy, but somehow I know he doesn't believe those terrible things about me, not deep down. I know firsthand how people treat me who truly believe what they see is what they get, and Trouble isn't one of them. He's angry, yes, and from the outburst just now, I can tell it’s because he was hurt by someone who is or was a political pawn. Maybe even more than one person. Something happened to cause the man sitting across from me to become this bitter shell of the fun, mischievous person I can tell he used to be. “We're good.”

  Trouble's eyes widen at my words. The minuscule dip of his chin signals to our spectators that the show is over. Once again the chatter increases, vibrating around the cabin, punctuated by the insistent clicking on laptops or their phones.

  “What I was trying to do before you two got into your spat was introduce you to the team.”

  Oops, forgot I don't know anyone's real name. “Sorry, T.” I give his rock-solid shoulder an awkward pat. “Go ahead with the introductions. Trouble and I won't cause any more… well, trouble.”

  Pointing across the table at Trouble, he says, “Benson.” Then he shifts his finger to point to the next guy. “Jenkins, Hanks, Jones, Alejo, Walsh, Cole, and Banks. I’m Washington, the team lead.”

  I give a small wave and awkward smile. “Randi Sawyer. Are those last names or first names?”

  “Last. Now, we're your primary team going forward. If you need anything, let me know. Beta team will meet us in Dallas before driving ahead to secure the area.”

  I snort. “Secure the area. You're hilarious, T-man. You know where we're going, right?”

  “Boone, Texas.”

  “Well, there are around fifteen hundred people in the town, and I can guarantee you no one there will try to hurt me. And if some random snuck in to plot another hit on me, they'd be run out of town before they could settle into the only motel. I don't want a lot of attention drawn to us.” Shifting in the seat, I fiddle with the iPad resting on my lap. “You know why we're going, right?”

  Terminator shoots a quick look at Trouble.

  You've got to be kidding me. “Seriously? No one told you what’s going on?” My gaze bounces between the two men. So different physically and, from what I’ve seen so far, personality wise, but the two seem to gel. Trouble is the ying to T’s yang.

  “Birmingham told us he ordered you home and the jet would be ready, that was it. He said you'd fill us in.”

  “Motherfucker,” I grumble and grip the iPad to keep from flinging it across the plane. “No wonder y'all think so little of me.” Peering up through my lashes, I give Trouble a sad, tight-lipped smile. “He didn't order me to go home, but he did inform me of a situation that I need to handle.” I huff a fake laugh. “You said I'm a fraud. Well, you're about to learn firsthand how right you are.”

  Chapter Ten

  Trey

  My eyes slide across the back seat of the Suburban to Randi for the third time in the last thirty seconds. For forty minutes, we've been locked side by side with Tank—or Terminator, as she's deemed him—at the wheel. I focus back out the window to the acres and acres of open farm land. Terminator does fit him, and Trouble fits me with a capital T.

  Not that I'll admit that to her.

  The resentment and disappointment from last night fused in the early morning hours, turning to disdain. On the plane, I couldn’t hold my anger back any longer, and it poured from me like water from an opened dam. Then she went and confused the hell out of me during the back-and-forth tirade. In that minute, everything I thought I knew about her changed. My disdain, the hate, and anger, it all receded, leaving confusion in its place.

  Which is why I can't keep my eyes off her now. She’s a puzzle, this Randi Sawyer, one I’m determined to solve.

  Again my gaze finds its way to her side of the SUV. With her brows furrowed, her hazel eyes skim over the iPad screen, teeth chewing on her pinkie nail.

  I shouldn't instigate another fight, but the last one was so entertaining. Plus I have to figure her out, and when she's pissed, her guard is down, providing a peek into the real Randi Sawyer.

  “Facebook or Instagram?” I say, my tone bored.

  She doesn't even glance from the screen. “How little you think of me is quite astounding. Really it is.”

  “Ah, you're on Twitter, catching up on the news.”

  I smile at the flare of her nostrils.

  “No, you idiot.” Sitting back in the seat, she adjusts her knees to angle to my side. Perfect. “Listen. I'm not sure what type of women you've surrounded yourself with, but based on your preconceived judgments of me, I'm guessing no one I'd be friends with. Stop trying to figure me out if you're unwilling to shove all your judgmental, idiotic, chauvinistic notions up your ass before you do. I deserve a clean fucking slate, cowboy, because I can guarantee you I'm unlike anyone you've ever met.”

  I smirk. “Cocky.”

  The tip of her ponytail swishes along her back as she shakes her head. Her pursed lips and loud sigh give off a disappointed feel.

  My smile fades as lead sinks in my gut. “Then what?” I ask, desper
ate for the answer.

  Randi sighs and nibbles on the corner of a thumbnail. “You'll figure it out soon enough.” Adjusting her weight, she leans forward to point at something outside my window. “We're here.” Craning my neck, I barely catch a worn sign announcing the town we're entering. “Let's see what you think of me by the end of the day.”

  My brows furrow at the uncertainty in her voice.

  But that doesn't make sense.

  Curiosity building, I shift in my seat, unable to sit still.

  Tank's voice booms from the front. “Okay, ma'am—”

  “I told you on the plane, T, only in public, okay? When it's just us, it's Randi. Or Rand. None of this ‘ma'am’ shit.”

  In the review mirror, his reflection smiles. An actual smile. It's unheard of for him to drop the professional mask when he’s working. Tank says smiling comes off as unprofessional. It's a challenge I face daily, considering I find humor in just about everything. Well, I used to. The past few years have put me in the less humorous, more jaded category in life.

  “Randi, where are we headed? You said you'd tell us when we made it to town.” All traces of the earlier smile are gone, leaving his normal tense mask.

  She pitches forward, our shoulders almost touching, her head between the front seats.

  “What do you know about my past?”

  Gremlin responds from the front passenger seat. “Grew up in Boone, Texas, pregnant at fifteen, daughter at sixteen, graduated top of your class—”

  “The basics. Okay, well, if you can't tell by the current scenery, Boone isn't the wealthiest city or the biggest.”

  “So?” I say before I can stop myself. I need to get a fucking grip. I’m hanging on every word, desperate to learn more.

  “What you've seen, who you think I am”—her hazel eyes slide to meet mine—“it's one layer, the tip of the iceberg. You're about to get a front row seat to who I've had to fight to not become.”

  For several minutes, the whirl of the tires along the asphalt fills the otherwise silent Suburban.