Power Surge: Power Play Series Book 4

by Kennedy L. Mitchell

  “Can't,” I say with a smirk. “I have brunch plans.”

  My eyes widen, the faux cocky prick attitude falling as Tank rushes toward me. My back slams into the edge of the dresser as I retreat deeper into the bedroom.

  “Two minutes or you're running like you’re dressed.”

  Lips pursed to keep my retorts to myself, I nod. I know he won’t let this idea of a run drop no matter how many snappy comments I toss his way. Hell, it might make him tack on more miles.

  The man scowling at me doesn’t joke around when comes to fitness. It seems he feels I’ve been out of the workout game too long and need his help in restarting a routine. Which he might have a point about. The high-end workout gear stuffed in various drawers hasn’t been used for anything other than lying around this small-ass apartment, besides the few less than vigorous physical therapy appointments, since I was shot.

  “You going to watch?” I jest as I extract a white T–shirt from the dresser.

  “I'm not going to enjoy the sight of your pale bourbon gut, if that's what you're hoping for. But apparently you can't be trusted to follow through with what you say you’re going to do anymore, so yeah, I'm staying right the fuck here until you're ready to go.”

  I grumble a response as the soft fabric slides over my hair and along my face. Far sooner than I’m physically and mentally ready, I've laced up both tennis shoes and am following Tank’s massive back out the door. Gerard and his wife, Beth, are nowhere to be seen as I'm escorted to my death.

  “Nice of you to tell me you moved, fuckface,” Tank mumbles ahead of me.

  “Been busy,” I snap. “How’d you figure out the new condo anyway? Should I be concerned you’re stalking me? You know I don’t swing that way, man.”

  “Jessica.”

  “I think Sarah would be pissed if you swung that way.”

  “You and your damn mouth,” he says, a hint of laughter in his voice. “I went to your old place. Jessica opened the door and told me you sold her the condo. She gave me your new number.” We pause at the elevator; the down button nearly cracks beneath his slamming knuckles. “She seemed good.”

  “Yeah.” I run a hand through my hair as I stare at my reflection in the metal doors, trying to tame my bedhead. “She just got back from Switzerland. Said she needed a few weeks after everything to avoid the media and all. I didn’t even have to see her when selling the condo since she was gone. Everything was done via her estate broker.”

  “Why’d you sell?”

  The sharp ding of the arriving elevator stops me from responding until we’re inside the metal box.

  “Money. A lot has gone down since I confronted my parents.”

  “Such as?”

  I choose not to respond, instead focusing on stretching my arms overhead. He rolls his eyes as I moan and groan through a few short stretches, utilizing his shoulder to help keep my balance on a few.

  Inside his pristine black Escalade, the icy air conditioning kicks on immediately, cooling my already sweaty forehead and upper lip. During the short drive to our normal running spot, the Anacostia Riverwalk, we remain quiet, the smooth jazz music coming through the speakers helping ease my anxiety of what’s to come. With Tank, this could be an easygoing run or a reenactment of boot camp’s hell week. I guess I’ll find out which here shortly.

  After circling the parking lot twice, he backs into the perfect parking spot far away from all the other cars and kills the engine. Without the blasting AC, the inside instantly warms from the scorching sun blasting through the windshield.

  Fuck, I’m over this heat. At least the summer should be winding down now that it’s August. Wait, is it August? Yeah, has to be if the alert earlier said I’m to report back to work next week. Internally, I curse my lazy ass. What have I done the past five weeks besides dwelling on my current string of shit luck and drinking myself into the initial stages of cirrhosis? The only workout I’ve had during the five-week medical leave was pinning Randi to the fridge that night in the White House kitchen—the best kind of workout, in my opinion—and the few physical therapy appointments. No surprise the elastic waistband on these normally loose shorts is digging into my skin more than usual.

  Tank exits the SUV with a tilt of his head, indicating I should follow him. The car door slams behind me. Utilizing the passenger side door for balance, I kick one foot behind me, grasping my shoe to stretch my underused thigh.

  The sense of falling makes my breath catch as I topple forward when Tank smacks my hand off the shiny black paint. Using the hem of his tight shirt, he rubs away the palm smudge I'd left behind.

  “Ungrateful ass,” he grumbles with a side-eye glare.

  “Ungrateful? I didn't ask to be here.”

  “You're practically screaming it, Playboy.” Without another word, he ends his meticulous polishing with a satisfied nod and storms out of the parking lot, headed for the trail. I’m already panting from the brisk walk to catch up with him. “We'll go slow today since you're so out of shape. But from here on out, we’ll increase the pace daily, working toward our normal.” His accusing glare slides to me as I speed up to match his slow jog. “The pace that’s required by the damn agency to remain on the vice president’s alpha team.”

  I’m dying. I know it. Dying a slow, suffocating death. Already my breaths are labored and we’ve gone less than a quarter of a mile. But even with the burning in my lungs, legs, arms… hell, my entire body there is one positive: running means no talking.

  Just like old times, we stay shoulder to shoulder, our strides matching the other’s. And like normal, the steady pound of our feet against the concrete and the drag of my repetitive ragged breaths in and out of my nose shut out the outside world. Only today, I don’t want to get lost in my own thoughts. I’ve been stuck there for weeks without a way out.

  Hell, this is going to be a long fucking day.

  Chapter Seven

  Randi

  August

  Several sets of curious eyes peer above rows of the standard beige office cubicles. Ignoring them the best I can, I continue through the office space, my eyes forward, surrounded by the president’s alpha team. I don't smile or wave, ignoring the urge to finally show off the princess wave I’ve been practicing at night in the mirror, like old Randi would have. But once again the coldness of this role—being presidential, as I’ve been told—prevents me from being… well, me. At first it was just my fiery anger and sailor mouth they wanted me to alter, but unfortunately it's now every emotion—good or bad. They seem to think the American people will lose faith in me if I remind them I’m a real live oxygen-breathing person.

  Somedays I want to just run out on the back lawn, shoes off with my arms stretched out wide, allowing all the backed-up feelings a means to escape. What would the people think of me then? What if they saw me smile, or grieve, or, God forbid, laugh?

  I’ve been on my own my entire life, always fighting for the next foothold, yet I’ve never felt more secluded and alone than now.

  “Being the president sucks,” I grumble under my breath as we round a corner.

  But I’m also well aware I’m not in a position to challenge their annoying rules, seeing as I'm a little over seven weeks into this gig and am barely surviving. The workload increased significantly, and with a thousand times more pressure, that fateful day. My days now consist of twenty-hour workdays seven days a week, and it's still not enough to keep up with everything going on across the globe. Even without the scandal and mess Kyle left behind, I'd be buried in urgent issues and updates. Add in the Kyle mess I'm tasked with cleaning up before it escalates and I’m suffocating under the pressure.

  Or maybe this all feels worse because for the first time, I don’t have my friends surrounding me. Which is why I'm in this late-eighties-style office building today. Trey returned to active duty last week and has adjusted well, per T. With the team whole, it’s time for me to present my case to the director, to fight for my team.

  There isn’t a s
ingle miniscule doubt in my rambling mind that they can protect me as well as, or maybe better than, any one of the men on my current alpha team. The current team is great at their job, but I miss the relationships, the laughter and sense of ease the other guys bring with them. They were with me for two and a half years; I need that stability back in my daily life.

  The director turned me down previously when I requested the switch, but that attempt was over the phone. Now I'm here and not leaving without a time frame of when the shift will occur. Actually, scratch all that shit talk about me asking her for my friends back. Today I’m here abusing my presidential power and demanding she order the change.

  I can do that right?

  Surely I can do that.

  Eh, can't hurt to try.

  Murmured voices vibrate through the director’s office door. A booming rumble from the other side signals Tank is already here and getting an early start on the meeting.

  Knuckles to the fake wood door, I give it a hard rap and step back, swallowed whole by the swarm of suited men. Even after the order to enter, I stay back like I've been trained. I shift from one red Manolo Blahnik to the other, briefly distracted by how the patent leather shines under the florescent lights.

  Tom—or maybe it’s Ted?—dips his chin, indicating the all clear. I roll my eyes at the stupidity of the situation—it’s the director’s office, for fuck’s sake, not a terrorist cell meeting—knowing full well no one besides the agent glaring at me can witness the small rebellion. A corner of my lips twitches, wanting desperately to smirk. They can take the girl out of the trailer park, but they can't take the “fuck it” attitude out of the girl.

  We move as one into the room. Inside, T stands from the ancient wood and leather office chair. I hold in a giggle as the small chair hugs his hips and thighs, staying with him as he stands before dropping back to the floor. Ignoring the rude chair, T straightens his jacket and locks those dark, knowing eyes on mine.

  At the imperceptible shake of his head, my earlier bravado falters. Seems the director is primed to disregard our request.

  A sudden urge strikes me to crack my knuckles one by one and stretch out my neck from one side to the other like they do in the movies when they're preparing for a fight.

  “Madam President,” the attractive older woman says from where she stands behind a solid dark mahogany desk.

  “Director,” I respond with a curt nod. An eerie feeling of being watched creeps up the back of my neck. Spinning on the balls of my feet, I scan the room for the cause. In the back of the room, Trey leans against the far wall, arms crossed, his features a cold blank slate. It shouldn’t affect me—T told me they both had to play the personal relationship between us three carefully—but still, not even a flicker of warmth in his honey brown eyes pours salt in the wound from him not coming by the past few weeks.

  “Let’s make this quick. I only have a few minutes before I’m due somewhere else,” I state.

  The director motions to the rickety-looking chair beside T. The stiff bun at the nape of my neck that I twisted my hair into this morning doesn't shift with the quick shake of my head due to the amount of product I applied to make it sleek and sophisticated. And ugly. Very, very ugly. “I’ll stand. This won’t take long. There are no more requests about the alpha team change. Today I'm here to tell you my previous alpha team will be placed into the current alpha team slot beginning next week.”

  Her fine-lined lips pop open, but I raise a hand, the shiny fake red nails shimmering in the light pouring through the large window at her back.

  “I understand your concerns and your reason for previously denying the request. But Agent Washington’s team is now fully intact”—I tilt my head back, indicating Trey—“and from what I've been told, Agent Benson has made a full recovery and is ready for this new challenge.”

  Her eyes narrow. I stifle the urge to bite at my nails under her intense stare. Yikes, no wonder she’s the director. She’s deadly with a simple glare.

  Truth be told, I haven’t the slightest clue if I can make her do what I’m asking her to do. But she can’t go around a directive from the president. Technically I'm her boss’ boss. Right?

  “I need an organizational chart,” I mumble. The director's penciled brows furrow. Tank covers a smile with a fake cough, and Trey shakes his head, the cold demeanor slipping a fraction.

  “This is unprecedented,” she states with an exasperated sigh. Seems I have that affect on a lot of people in this city.

  “So is a woman president,” I retort.

  Her blonde bob slides along her petite jaw as she nods. “Is there anything I can do to change your mind, Madam President?”

  Searching the room, I meet the eyes of every man in the office. I hitch my chin toward the door. “Give us a minute, please.”

  They all file out, except two. Trey and Tank. With only these three as witness to the tiny rebellion against the cold woman I'm being molded into, I roll my eyes to the ceiling and point to the door. “And you two. Shoo.”

  “Come on now, we're not pu—cats howling at the back door,” Trey declares as he shoves off the wall. Our eyes lock across the short distance between us. Regret and desire cramp my stomach. We've talked daily, texted nonstop, but nothing face-to-face since that night weeks ago.

  “No, Agent Benson, you're more like a curious raccoon,” I say with a grin.

  T grumbles under his breath, too low for me to hear, but Trey's face lights up, shooting his friend a mischievous smile. Without another protest, T stands from the tight chair and grasps on to Trey’s arm, tugging him along on his way toward the door, and they both stride out without a single glance back.

  With the office empty except me and the director, I allow another facet of the bravado to slip. Folding into the chair T vacated, I lean back and rest both arms on the armrests.

  “How are you doing? If I’m allowed to be ask.” The director’s intuitive gaze skims my face.

  “Honestly?” I blow out a long breath. “I'd be up shit creek if it weren't for good concealer,” I say with a quick gesture to the dark circles that have been ever present since that day Kyle walked into my run-down mayor office in my hometown of Boone, Texas.

  A tiny grin curls her lips, breaking the resigned act she dutifully played while the male agents were present. I tilt my head, really taking in her appearance for the first time since I entered the office. She's beautiful, a bit taciturn, but maybe that's what's expected of her in this role, or possibly who she’s had to become being a high-ranking woman commanding hundreds of dominant men.

  Like me.

  “Does it ever get easier?” In a moment of weakness, I raise a finger to my teeth and attempt to gnaw on the fake acrylic nail.

  The director relaxes into her office chair, causing a high-pitched squeak to cut through the quiet. She cringes as I find joy in the sheer normalcy of the situation. It's a wonderful reprieve to not feel the strain to be polished political Barbie.

  “I’d like to tell you that it does get easier with time, but no, it doesn't.”

  “Honesty,” I huff. “That's refreshing.”

  “Madam President, I—”

  “Please, call me Randi. I'm less than two months in and I’m already sick of the title.”

  A frown shifts her features. “I'm sorry, that I cannot do.”

  “That's what everyone else says,” I grumble like a pouting five-year-old girl.

  “Back to the reason you’re here, Madam President. The Secret Service teams assigned to the presidential protection detail are required to complete more situational training than any other team. You're requesting an unqualified team for the level of security needed to protect you. I advise against that.”

  “I understand your concerns, but you aren’t seeing things from my perspective. Those men know my routine, know what to expect from me even sometimes before I do. They know my strengths and weaknesses. They can protect me better than anyone else because of our history. Sure, other agents teste
d higher or have been through more challenging simulations, but that doesn't mean they are the better fit for me.” Leaning forward, I widen my knees—another no-no—and press both elbows into my thighs. “I need some semblance of comfort back, and they offer that.”

  “Comfort will get you killed.”

  “They'd never allow it.” I shake my head. “You have to trust me that I'm making the right decision here.”

  “Not that I have much of a choice. When the president makes a direct order, I have to obey it.” Her thin lips purse in obvious disapproval.

  “Great.” I release a measured breath at the simplicity of this meeting. The continuous meetings revolving in and out of the Oval Office are mostly crisis control, meaning every word I choose, every decision, means life or death for someone. Too many choices over the past several weeks had the potential to impact millions; this here today just impacts me.

  And the guys too, I guess. But they’re all on board with the change and additional responsibility. At least that’s what T says.

  “I presumed today would come to this.” Her gaze flicks to the desk almost in avoidance. “Which is why I came prepared too.” Middle finger to a button on the phone, she leans in close to the speaker. “Pamela, please send in Agent Smith.” At the mention of the unfamiliar agent joining us, I straighten in the chair, sliding my polished presidential facade back into place.

  A rush of cool air breezes along the back of my bare neck, the clatter of the office space increasing before ceasing once again.

  My skin pebbles down my arms as a sense of vulnerability blankets me. I resist the impulse to twist around and see the stranger at my back. Steady footsteps approach, increasing my anticipation before a man clad in a gray suit appears at my left side.

  “Madam President,” the director says, still avoiding eye contact. “This is Agent Smith. He will be the new team lead for your alpha team.”

  “No,” I retort. “Not happening.”