“I don't understand,” I say, breaking the quiet.
“You will,” she whispers, leaning back into the seat, her shoulders rounded and head lowered. “To answer your question, T, in two more lights, make a left and then take a right at the stop sign.”
My focus shifts from her as Tank makes the various turns. Something antsy and desperate builds, begging me to grab her shoulder and pull her close.
What the actual fuck?
Comfort is not a top ten attribute of mine. Or twenty. Yet seeing her ashamed urges me to heal whatever pain is causing this strong woman to falter.
“Ma’am—” Tank clears his throat. “Randi, you sure you know where you're going?”
Her head bobs in a slight nod.
What the hell is going on?
Tearing my gaze from her side of the Suburban, I glance out the windshield and do a double take.
“The police station?”
Even with Tank's dark sunglasses, I can tell he’s watching through the rearview mirror. I shrug and shake my head. No wonder she wasn't concerned with security. At least twenty cop cars and a few highway patrol SUVs fill the parking lot.
Tank eases the Suburban to the curb right outside the front door.
“I don't want to make a scene,” Randi says to the window, staring at the glass doors of the station. “I'd prefer to go in alone.” Tank starts to object, but she cuts him off. “But I know you won't let that happen. How about you guys stay out here, and I'll take Trouble in with me. It’s safe in there, you know it is, and if anything shady happens outside, you can let Trouble know.”
“I don't—”
“Please,” she says on a heavy sigh. “I've done this before, unfortunately. We'll be in and out. Kyle said they didn't book her, so there shouldn't be any paperwork.”
Her?
My already burning curiosity spikes. My eyes flick from Randi to the police station and back again.
“I've got her,” I say, popping the door handle and shoving the heavy door open. “In and out, like she says. We're at a police station, for fuck’s sake, Tank.”
After slamming the door shut, I step to the driver side door and motion for him to lower the window.
“It's fine,” I say reassuringly with two thumbs up and a smile.
“It's not, you fool,” he growls. “You're putting her life in danger.”
Gremlin shouts a curse. Both our heads whip to the other side of the SUV as two doors slam shut.
“Shit,” I grumble and bolt around the hood. “Ma'am,” I shout in warning just as Gremlin wraps his arms around her waist, halting her determined stride toward the doors.
“Let me go,” she grunts, wiggling in his arms, unable to break free.
Gremlin’s eyes lift up to mine, an unspoken question passing between us.
“Don't run off like that,” I chastise, lifting the standard-issue dark sunglasses as I massage the bridge of my nose between two fingers. “It makes us look bad, and you could die. Neither is good.”
Randi's fight against Gremlin's hold lessens.
I wave a hand for him to drop his restraint and hike a thumb over my shoulder. “I've got it from here. Take watch with Tank. Let me know if anything happens out here while we're inside.”
With an annoyed glare directed at Gremlin’s retreating back, Randi adjusts her jacket with frustrated tugs and pulls. I reach out and grip the metal door handle, pulling it open. A burst of dry heat singes up my nose and immediately dries out my throat. Fuck, it’s hot in there. Just the thought of stepping into that makes me regret volunteering. September in Texas is fucking hot already; why do they have the damn heat on?
“After you,” I say and sweep a hand between us. Sweat drips down my back from being sandwiched in the heat. She rolls her shoulders and shakes her hands like she’s flicking out the tension, then walks through the door.
The linoleum floor squeaks with every step we take inside. I scan the waiting area; an older woman glances up from behind an aged, ragged desk. I match Randi's steps, staying inches from her back.
“Christy,” Randi says, a full smile brightening her face.
The older woman, Christy apparently, smiles back. The white of her hair has a blue tint that matches the thick layer of eye shadow plastered across her eyelids. Deep wrinkles mark every inch of her face, giving her a kind, gentle look.
“Well, look who we have here. Randi Sawyer, look at you!” With a clap, the older woman slides off her stool and shuffles around the desk, both arms extended wide. Randi hesitates, muscles stiff before stepping into the woman’s grasp, accepting the predestined hug.
What was that about? I step closer, curiously monitoring their interaction.
“Yeah, a bit of a change, right?” Randi gives Christy’s shoulder an awkward pat and steps back, putting her at arm’s length. “Somedays I don't even recognize myself.” She shifts from one foot to the other, nibbling on the nail of her middle finger. “I'm somewhat pretty now.”
“Randi,” Christy admonishes. “You stop that right now. You've always been beautiful in the most important spot. Right here.” She presses her right hand over her heart. “Now everyone can see what I've always known, sweet girl.”
If I wasn't blatantly staring, I would've missed Randi's eyes flick to me before quickly going back to Christy.
“You know why I'm here?” Randi asks around the pinkie fingernail she's now nibbling on.
Christy's kind expression drops, the happy wrinkles falling and making her age instantly. “I do. Who's he?”
“Secret Service.”
“Boyfriend too?”
“Christy!” Randi groans and shakes her head. “Stop it. That would be inappropriate.”
“Why?” Christy blurts. I chuckle into the fist at my lips. “He has a sweet face.”
“Thank you.” I step forward, hand extended. “Trey Benson, Secret Service, ma'am. Pleased to meet you.”
I barely grasp her frail hand, afraid even a gentle squeeze will break bones.
“My, my, aren't you a charmer. Trouble, that's what you are,” she says with a wink.
“That's what I said,” Randi grumbles beside me.
“Don't let this one push you around, you hear?” Christy says, nodding toward the huffing Randi. “She's got a good soul, a good heart. Best thing to come out of this town, if you ask me. She don't deserve the life she was handed.”
I half turn to meet Randi's eyes, my brows raised in question, but they're too busy inspecting the blank, white wall to notice.
A puzzle indeed. All the pieces aren’t adding up. Only way to solve this is to ask the right questions.
“Is that so?” I tuck both hands behind my back, my lips pulling up in a wide smile to Christy. Hopefully a little charm will open her up. “Seems like a pretty great life to me. UT, Harvard, on her way to being vice president.”
Christy's eyes narrow. Shaking her head, she looks to Randi. “Cute but not that bright.”
“Agreed.”
“Hey now.” What the hell? This is not going as planned. I glance between the two women. “Don't gang up on me. Just an observation.”
“I'm worried for her safety if those are your observation skills, son.”
Well hell. Did I just get smack-talked by an eighty-year-old lady?
“Leave him alone,” Randi says, still smiling, clearly laughing at me. “You know why he doesn't know. It's why Mom's in holding instead of booked already.”
The woman grunts in agreement.
“Wait,” I state and turn to face Randi. “Your mom is here. In holding?”
She nods with a noncommittal shrug. “Not the first time either.”
“Come on. I'll take you to her.” The keys jingle as Christy’s trembling hand slides the key into the lock and tugs the door open. Halfway down the narrow hall, she calls over her shoulder, “Everything else has been taken care of by that evil man of yours.”
“She mean's Kyle,” Randi says back to me.
�
��Take it you don't like him,” I shout as we turn a corner, taking another short hall.
She shakes her head, her silver-blue hair bouncing with the movement. “Anyone can see through his charm. A wolf in sheep’s clothing, if you ask me. If it weren't for Randi here, no way I’d want him in office.”
“You and most Americans,” Randi mutters, not bothering to turn to make sure I hear her.
“Here we are.” Christy's hand pauses over the doorknob. With a resigned sigh, she turns to Randi, sympathy etched across her face. “I know you've tried to help her, but, Randi, some people just aren't ready for what we're so willing to give. You hear me? Your mother has made her own life choices, and you've made yours. She does not define you. Never has and never will. Now get your mama home and get your ass back to DC. Do something about those ridiculous damn taxes. I work hard for my money, don't want that government taking any more than they already are.”
“Yes, ma'am.” Rolling her shoulders, Randi stretches her neck to the right, then left. “Okay, I'm ready. Let's do this.”
Why does it feel like we're about to go into battle?
“Do we need backup?” I question, though it feels stupid to suggest I can't handle her mom on my own.
Hazel eyes meet mine, flicking from one to the other, searching for… hell if I know.
“Maybe.”
What the hell?
Chapter Eleven
Randi
Dammit, why did I ask him to walk me in here? Anyone but him. Internally I groan and turn back to the door Christy’s unlocking. I'm not embarrassed about him seeing Mom; no that's something I got over a long time ago. It's everything Christy pointed out. Love that woman, but today I wish she'd keep her thoughts to herself. Trouble doesn't seem like the type of guy who needs his ego inflated any more than it already is.
The last thing I need right now is for him to think I find him attractive. The thin veil of anger keeping us apart needs to stay. Period. If he changes his attitude toward being kind and non-assy, I'll have a difficult time keeping my walls up. And those suckers are needed to survive the piranha-infested pond known as the DC political circle.
Relaxing both hands at my sides, I give them a quick shake, releasing the tension.
Christy pushes the door wide and steps aside, allowing me to walk in first. With a deep breath for courage, I step through. That same breath whooshes out at the sight of Mom passed out on the far side of the holding cell. All thoughts of Trouble at my back, wondering what he's thinking, vanish as I step closer and wrap my hands around the bars. The cold metal bites into my palms as I squeeze so tight my knuckles turn white.
Every time I see Mom, there is less and less of the woman I used to know left behind. The woman curled on her side on top of the lone metal bench is nothing but a shell of the charismatic woman she once was. Much thinner than the last time I saw her. Bones protrude, almost slicing through the thin skin covering her hips and shoulders. Deep lines mark her face, making her look ten years older.
The clanging of metal against metal draws my focus from Mom to Christy opening the holding cell door.
“Thank you,” I whisper as I slip past. The overwhelming smell of urine, stale smoke, and decay halts my steps halfway into the cell. I raise an arm and bury my nose into the crook of my elbow before stepping closer.
“Mom,” I say, muffled by the sleeve of my jacket. My chest expands as I take in a deep breath before pulling my arm away. “Mom.”
Nothing.
Eyes focused on her chest, I squat low, watching for signs of life. A flash of relief settles and I release the held breath at the rapid rise and fall of her chest. At least she's alive. Forgetting about the stench wafting off Mom, I take a breath to call her name again. Nausea brews and I gag, instinctively shoving backward to move away from the stench. My ass hits the unforgiving cement floor.
Strong hands tuck under each armpit and haul me upright. The movement disrupts my already delicate equilibrium, and I sway once my feet meet the floor.
“What happened? Are you okay? Randi?”
I blink a couple times, attempting to make the room stop spinning. “Fine. I'm fine. I'm just… still a little dizzy from last night.” Again, the room whirls in my vision, but this time it’s due to Trouble flipping me around so we’re chest to chest, his intense, assessing gaze scanning my face. “It’s the smell. Really, I’m okay.”
Still he doesn’t release his hold. Heat floods from his warm body into my own. His hands slide from my shoulders to grip my waist, and my breath catches. Our eyes locked on one another’s, everything else in the room fades. For a moment, I forget where we are and the fact that I’m comfortable in someone’s hold. His honey eyes flash, opening up like a window into his soul. He’s sucking me in, making me want to dive into his past to learn how he became the bitter man he is today.
“This isn't the first time, is it?” he whispers.
I shake my head. My gaze falls to his full lower lip, and I bite my own to keep from leaning forward and taking a nip.
With his chest pressed against mine, I feel the jolt of his breath catching.
“Why didn't you say something?”
I furrow my brows. “Would it have changed anything?”
“Well, yeah. I didn't know… I thought….”
“You thought you had me all figured out.” Reality snaps back to the forefront of my mind. Jerking out of his hold, I turn my back to him. The intensity of his stare burns the back of my neck. I rub at it, trying to ease the feel of being watched. “Now you'll move me from one stigma to another. Nothing changes. Nothing ever changes when it comes to people’s beliefs on who I am.”
“I'm sorry,” he says. The sympathy dripping from those two words begs me to turn back around, to step back into that warm hold.
“I don't need your pity,” I bite back. I lock gazes with Christy, who's still outside the cell watching. “Do you have any extra clothes?” I nod toward my passed-out mother. “I can't take her out in that. It smells too bad. I'll puke in the car before we even leave the parking lot.”
My shoulders drop at the saddened shake of her head.
“Honey, my clothes will be a tent on your mama.”
She's right, but it was worth a try. Sighing, I return my focus to Mom to keep from turning back to Trouble. Why, oh why, does the one person whose touch I’m not annoyed by have to be his? And why am I desperate to snuggle against his chest and stay there for eternity? Maybe I magically got high from the drug stench seeping off Mom.
That’s totally a thing.
“Benson, can you run out and grab my bag? I'll use the spare set of clothes I brought in case we need to stay overnight.”
“I'm not leaving you. Tank would shit a brick.” I snort in response. His clipped directives echo off the bare cinder block walls as he talks to the agents outside. “Three minutes,” he says to me once he’s finished. “Christy, would you meet them at the door so they can get back here?”
I'm still staring at Mom when the door snickers shut, signaling Christy's departure. Neither Trouble nor I say a word as we wait. Breathing through my mouth, I approach the bench once again and squat, putting my face close to Mom’s. Minutes pass of me stroking her stringy hair before a gentle hand rests on my shoulder. Turning on the balls of my feet, I find one of the agents from the plane now standing on the other side of the bars, eyes on Mom, holding a bag in one hand.
“I'll help,” Trouble says beside me.
Cutting my eyes up, I shake my head. “No thanks. I can do it.”
His grip on my shoulder tightens a fraction. “It wasn't a question. Walsh,” he shouts. “Drop the bag and get out. I'll help Miss Sawyer and let you know when we're ready to move out.”
The bag thumps to the floor, and Christy and Walsh exit the room. Alone again, Trouble snags the bag from across the room and hauls it deeper into the holding cell, dropping it at my feet. I unzip the top zipper and search through the duffel’s contents. Selecting an older pair of Wrangl
ers and a long-sleeve T–shirt, I pile them on top of the bag and push off the cold concrete to stand.
“I'll hold her and you undress, then redress her?” I suggest. I turned down his offer to help seconds ago, but I'm thankful he didn't give me the option. Doing this alone would take forever. A challenge I'm not up to taking on right now.
I shift angles a couple times, trying to figure out the best approach to help her sit up. With Trouble's assistance, we raise her to a somewhat sitting position, leaning against the wall, while I hold her shoulders so she doesn’t slump forward.
“Do you want to talk about it?” he asks as he slowly peels Mom's tank top up her belly.
I cringe at the number of visible ribs beneath her pale thin skin as he pulls the ratty tank over her head. I give a half shrug in answer to his previous question. My head tilts up at Trouble’s pointed cough. His cheeks are flushed pink, eyes a little wild. I follow his embarrassed gaze down to Mom's naked chest.
“Classy, Mom. Even if you don't have boobs, you still have to wear something.” I shake my head and motion for him to hand me the sweater. “I can do it.”
“It's fine, just didn't expect it. Hell, didn't expect any of the last thirty minutes, or twenty-four hours, honestly.”
I scoff. “You've never had to bail a parent out or redress them after a drug-induced stupor?”
“That would be a definite ‘never.’”
“That's a luxury I've never been afforded. It hasn't always been this bad, but it's never been good, that's for sure.”
“Lay her back against the bench and make sure she doesn't roll off while I get her shorts off.” His fingers pause at the button. “Uh, Randi?”
I glance up. I almost laugh at the uncomfortable cringe he's sporting. “What?”
“Just wanting to prepare myself here. Think the underwear situation is the same down here as it was up top?”
Now I can't help but laugh, then immediately gag. Shit, this place stinks. No. Mom reeks.
“It's fifty-fifty, honestly. You never know with this one.” I stifle another giggle at his full-body shudder. “Come on. Let’s get this over with and get her home.”
Power Play: Power Play Series Book 1 Page 10