Power Surge: Power Play Series Book 4

by Kennedy L. Mitchell

  The door shudders with the impact of his shoulder. Shoving both hands into his jeans, he crosses one ankle over the other. Like this, in dark jeans, a tight dark gray T-shirt, tousled hair, and a bit of scruff lining his strong jaw, he looks more like a model than a badass agent.

  “Long day?” he questions, sincerity softening his tone.

  “The longest so far, I think.” Unfolding one arm, I give the tile to my left a soft pat. “Sit with me?”

  Trey swings his gaze from me to the stove. “Didn't you come down here for a smoke?”

  “How'd you—” I follow his pointed stare to the unlit cigarette still clutched between my fingers. “Right.”

  “Come on, up you go.” Trey drops to a low squat, sliding one arm behind my shoulders and the other beneath my bent knees. A restrained grunt escapes as he stands with me clutched to his hard chest. The rubber soles of his tennis shoes squeak against the ceramic with each long stride toward our designated smoking area. With more tenderness than needed, he sets me atop the smooth stainless steel counter.

  “Got a light?” I ask. His answering smirk and nod warm a part of me that's been bleak since the last time we had a minute alone. Just his presence, the support and love he freely offers, awakens part of my soul in a way no one before him ever has.

  At the grind of the flint and metal of the cheap blue plastic lighter, my hand instinctively draws up, inserting the filter of the cigarette between my parted lips. Only when the end glows orange do I lean back, a hand resting along the cold metal keeping me propped up.

  “Do you want to talk about it?” he asks with his own cigarette snagged between front teeth.

  “Not really. It was just a day from hell that never let up. Everything terrible and evil and catastrophic in the world finds its way across my desk. And somehow everyone expects me to know how to fix it all. Like the US somehow has a cure-all in its back pocket for dictators, bombings, and natural disasters.” A quick drag fills my lungs with the awful smoke; it seeps out through my slightly parted lips as I debate my next words. “The role isn’t more work than I expected. I knew it would require more of me and my time than anything I’ve ever done. It's the type of work, I guess, that surprises me, daily sometimes. Everything I do, every word and approval or denial affects millions of people’s lives, and I make those kinds of decisions every hour. In the VP role, there was this—” I wave a hand in front of me as I search for the right word. “—failsafe, I guess. I know that doesn't make sense because I was still responsible for a lot, but in this role, it's all me. I'm the final word, the opinion.” I kick my legs back and forth, knocking my bare heels against the cabinet beneath me. “And honestly I don't want to know the evil in our world. How there's a typhoon in Asia while our own country is crumbling along the West Coast. But you know what?” I meet his honey brown eyes. “Even with all the stress and headaches, I'd rather it be me than anyone else. Sure, I'm overwhelmed all time, and there’s always something for me to stress over and issues to solve, but it's my call. That's so empowering considering most of my life, I felt powerless.” He remains quiet, tracking my hand as I lift it to take another hit. “I'm meant to be here, in this role. I don't know why, but I can feel it in my bones.”

  “I agree, Mess. I know this is hard on you. Those around you every day see the toll it’s taking, but there is no doubt in any of our minds that you can do this job better than anyone else.” Hip against the counter edge, he slides a palm over my thigh and squeezes. “What are you doing hiding out down here tonight?”

  The tiny circles his thumb traces along the inside of my thigh send waves of chills along my skin. “After the shit show in Saudi Arabia, coming back and having Ben here, dealing with Taeler’s pregnancy and doctors’ visits… things have been nonstop since we landed. I just needed five minutes to myself, five minutes of… normal.”

  “Normal?”

  “Yeah. To give me a few minutes away from that office upstairs. Some time to remind myself of who I am despite my job. My title is president of the United States, but at the same time, I'm still Randi Sawyer. Teen mother, foul-mouthed, and a bit crazy Randi. I don’t know why, but today more than ever, I needed to remind myself who I am. If I’m not careful, the shadiness of this town will engulf me and make me forget between right and wrong. My morals, who I am at the core is why people voted for me in the first place, why they trust me. It would be so easy to get lost in the power I now have. So here, right now, I'm taking my five-minute time-out to remember who I am, why I'm here, and who I’m fighting for.”

  A devious smile pulls at his lips, a sparkle shining in those light brown eyes.

  “What?” I ask drawing back a few inches. “What are you planning?”

  “You want normal?”

  “Desperately,” I breathe.

  Extinguishing the cigarette butt in the sink, he grabs mine and does the same.

  “Do you trust me, Mess?”

  There’s zero hesitation in my honest answer. “Always, Trouble.”

  Sheer joy washes over his face, softening his previously tight features. “Good. Now come on. We need to get you changed.”

  Chapter Sixteen

  Randi

  A giggle tickles in my chest as I press my forehead harder against Trey's flexing back. Fingers curling into tight fists, I grasp his T-shirt as we maneuver our way down the dark alley and through the back door of his condo building. With the hoodie of my zip-up sweatshirt tugged low, covering my face, I’m forced to monitor the back of Trey’s gray tennis shoes to keep from stepping on the backs—again.

  “Quiet back there,” Trey admonishes with zero heat. “We’re almost to the lobby.”

  The soft fabric of his T-shirt slips beneath my forehead as I nod in acknowledgment.

  A gaggle of agents shuffles ahead while a few hover close. We told them to act as casual as possible, but that was wishful thinking on our part. There’s no mistaking the dozen or so suit-clad men all wearing shoulder harnesses beneath their jackets and serious-as-hell expressions. At least we escaped without taking the whole damn motorcade. That little bit of freedom made me happy beyond belief. Two cars, the most nondescript SUV we own, and a small army on standby two blocks down was the least amount of force I negotiated out of the lead beta team agent, Bass.

  It's Bass, right?

  “Elevator hundred paces to the left,” Trey says under his breath to the closest agent. “Going to the third floor.”

  Erm, what? I raise my head off his back and cast a quizzical look at the back of his neck. “Third floor? You live on the top floor.”

  Trey doesn’t respond, just keeps us moving at a fast pace toward the bank of elevators. Up ahead, an agent holds the elevator open, his searching gaze taking in the expanse of the lobby. Trey rushes us into the small box, and three other agents file in behind us. Shoulder to shoulder, the heat magnifies in the small space making the long sleeves and hoodie almost unbearable. Peering around Trey’s bicep, I watch as he presses the glowing button for the third floor.

  Butterflies erupt in my empty stomach as the elevator shoots upward, settling as we slow to a stop at the third floor. The doors slide open with a near silent whoosh. In a herd of black and gray, we shuffle down the hallway, coming to a stop at the second door. Confusion and curiosity mix, making me forget that I'm hiding from the public eye. Releasing my tight hold on Trey’s shirt, I shift to take in the hall. Every few feet, a different door faces the hallway, the sheer amount of condos on this level vastly different than the one I've visited before.

  “Trouble, what's going on?” I ask as he shoves a key into the door and twists. The deadbolt releases with an ominous click.

  Worry lines along his forehead deepen as he rests his chin on his shoulder. At a hard shove with the heel of his palm, the door swings open. Several of the waiting agents brush past him to secure the inside.

  Frustrated, I arch a questioning brow at Trey.

  “Right, well, there’ve been a few changes that I haven't to
ld you about. I didn’t know how. Fuck, this is a cluster.”

  I swallow back the worry tightening my throat. “Trey Benson, if Jessica Hawthorne is in that apartment, I will commit murder tonight.”

  The agent beside me shuffles on his feet. Guess hearing the president openly talking about killing someone isn't a normal thing. They'll learn soon enough that it is with this crazy-ass president the longer they're around me.

  A shy smile spreads across his lips before he sinks his teeth into the lower one, fighting the growing grin. Not sure why he finds my growing anger funny, but he won’t for long, that’s for fucking sure.

  One of the previous agents who slipped inside to clear the condo moves into view and gives us the all clear. Reaching behind him, Trey grabs my hand and laces his fingers with my own. A hard tug and I’m sealed to his back once again as he steps over the threshold into the strange condo.

  It’s the smell that hits me first. The powdery sweet scent of fresh baking and thick aroma of seasoning from cooking. The underlying smell of lavender and mint mixes the earlier scents, confusing me further. With only two steps from the door, we’re in the living room area. A short window dots the wall while two chairs—one recliner I recognize—are all that fill the cramped space, along with the familiar massive flat-screen from his old apartment attached to the wall. To the left, the room opens up to a dated kitchen complete with a breakfast nook, and to the right is a darkened hallway.

  An overwhelming sense of home envelops me, like a warm blanket fresh from the dryer. The soothing smells combined with the cozy space and something else that lingers in the air offer all the comforts a loving home should offer. For the first time in weeks, I relax, feeling comfortable in my own skin and my surroundings.

  I shake my fingers free from his tight hold. Moving around him, I carefully inspect the living room in search of personal touches or knickknacks. With nothing to snag my curious attention, I rotate to make my way toward the kitchen.

  Unease twists my stomach as I run a finger along the worn countertop. Yet another direct contrast to his previous condo. It's not the outdated appliances and decor that have caught me off guard, no, it's the fact that this kitchen looks used. Currently used. Clean baking pans and an assortment of pots rest on the drying rack beside the sink with several cups and plates stacked neatly alongside. My heart hammers, and a short breath catches in my chest. Trey doesn't know how to cook or clean up after himself.

  I grip the damp dishcloth hanging over the side of the sink and tighten my grip around the coarse material.

  “Trouble, I need you to start talking. Now.” My entire body quivers with tension as I turn on my heels, my worn Converses squeaking against the linoleum floor. Twisting the damp rag, just one piece of evidence that someone else was here recently, I wait as he plops into a chair near the small breakfast table. The quaint nook is barely big enough for the round table and three wooden chairs.

  A repetitive grinding sounds from the table where he passes the salt shaker along the wooden surface from one hand to the other.

  “Things fell apart after I was released from the hospital.” His Adam’s apple bobs as he takes a hard swallow. “You were right, my mother had no right or the ability to cut off my trust fund, but the feds do. It's all frozen except for a small sum that was already in my bank account from the last deposit.”

  I scan the small apartment, considering it in a new light with that revelation.

  “I sold the condo upstairs to Jessica.” He releases a shaky laugh. “She could afford it and wanted it. They haven’t given any indication to how long the trust will remain frozen, which means I didn't know how long I could continue affording the large mortgage payment. So I sold it, used the money to buy this one, and stashed the remaining funds in an account in case the trial against my father drags on.”

  “Trey,” I say on a breath. “Why didn't you tell me?” The stack of clean dishes pulls me away from the beautifully broken man in front of me. “And what’s all this?” I wave a hand to the drying rack. “You have roommates now too?”

  “Kind of.” The chair legs scrape along the floor as he shoves away from the table. “I'm not doing a good job of explaining all this.” Reaching up, he runs a hand through his already disheveled hair. “I thought coming here would be relaxing for you. I'm sorry, Mess. We can leave if you want—”

  “No,” I say quickly, cutting him off. “I'm a little disappointed you didn’t tell me about all this before now, but I like being here.” Taking in the cozy condo, I smile at Trey, who’s monitoring my every reaction. “It's cozy, homey almost.” Lifting my nose in the air, I take an exaggerated sniff. “Are those cookies I smell?”

  Trey grins. “I'm glad you like it. It's small, but it honestly hasn't been as terrible as I thought it would be. It needs a remodel, but I'm not at a point where I want to waste the cash when I need to conserve.”

  “Why did they freeze your trust?”

  An incredulous huff pushes past his lips. He inches closer to lean a hip on the edge of the counter. Slowly he unravels the towel from my hands and tosses it to the counter. “My mother mentioned funds from my father’s dirty dealings and exchanges from the Boardroom were funneled into my trust.”

  “That's not solid enough evidence for them to freeze the funds. Have they provided you with documentation?”

  He shakes his head. Several thick sections of his long hair fall across his eyes.

  I sweep two fingers across his forehead, pushing it to the side. “I'm guessing haircuts aren't on the new improved budget.”

  That smile of his widens. “I've been a little busy.”

  Chewing on a hard fake nail, I nod and allow those fingers to trail down his face. “Tell me about these roommates of yours. Are they cute?” I waggle both brows suggestively to lessen the heavy cloud that's hanging in the room.

  Trey's hands lash out, gripping my hips with enough force that I wonder if I’ll bruise, and yanks me forward. A sharp breath escapes as our lower halves slam together. Desire quivers low in my gut as warm tingles erupt through my chest, heating my normally cool skin.

  “Watch your mouth, Madam President. You’re mine and mine only.” A shiver races down my spine at his deep, commanding tone. “My mother dismissed the entire house staff after we confronted them that day in the sunroom. Part of me wonders if she couldn't afford their salaries with their funds frozen or if she knew how much it would upset me since I was the cause of them losing their jobs.”

  “Trouble, none of what happened that day was your fault. You stopped your father, that's it.” I mold a palm against his scruffy cheek, brushing a thumb along his cheekbone.

  “There were two people, a couple. I just couldn't…. So I asked them to move in with me.” He shrugs, acting like the genuine act of kindness isn't as big of a deal as I believe it to be. “They were there when my parents weren't. I consider them surrogate parents at this point. I couldn't let them be homeless because my mother is a fucking bitch. It's worked out well so far. They're looking for new positions in and around the city, but there aren't many jobs out there for a live-in butler and cook.”

  “Where are they?” I ask as I step backward, putting several inches between us. If I'm to meet these people who mean so much to Trey, I sure as hell don't want our pelvises touching. Call me old-school.

  “They’re out for now. I wanted to tell you all this alone before you met them. It's a lot to take in.”

  His teeth nibble at that fuller lower lip, allowing a bit of insight to his apprehension.

  Sucking in a breath, I let it out slowly. “Yeah it is. I'm just confused on why you didn't tell me sooner. Why didn't you at least tell me about the frozen accounts?” I give his shoulder a playful shove. Palms pressed to the counter, I hop up and hook my feet around his narrow hips. A gentle tug is all it takes for him to seal himself between my spread knees.

  “So much changed those few days. I had a tough time processing it all myself.”

  “Is that
why you were so despondent those few weeks?”

  He nods with a grimace. “Amongst other things.”

  “You know the money means nothing to me, right?” I ask, searching his face.

  “I do know that. I honestly do. Deep down I know that even if I lost everything, nothing would change between us. But that wealth and the status that comes with it has been a part of my identity for my whole life. Having that part of my identity, the safety net money like I have, or had, ripped away left me foundering. Add in being shot, you announcing Pierce instead of that fuckface Whit as your VP, and me finding out at the same time as the rest of the world?” His chest heaves with a deep breath as he runs a hand through his hair. “I didn’t know how to process it all.”

  “You know the reason I chose Sam over Shawn. It was the lesser of two evils. If I selected Shawn as the VP, I’d have a larger target on my back than I do now. He would’ve manipulated and snaked his way into the president spot—”

  “I know, Mess. I know.” Calloused hands cup my cheeks. “I agreed with your decision wholeheartedly and understand your rationale on why you made that choice. It was the timing of it all. It left me feeling helpless.”

  Wrapping my arms around his lean waist, I tug him closer. The soft material of his T-shirt imprints on my chin as I press it against his breastbone and stare up.

  “I've believed many different things about you since we first met on the campaign trail. Asshole, spoiled, twatwaffle, rich brat, idiot—”

  “Are you going somewhere with this?”

  My lips part, spreading into a genuine grin. “I’m getting there. ‘Helpless’ has never been a word I would or have used to describe you. And I know without a doubt I never will.”