Page 16 of Power Play

The blood drains from my face. “What?” I gasp.

“This guarantees your cooperation,” Kyle says with a haughty chuckle. “We hold the cards, not you. Get used to it and maybe you'll survive this with minimal damage.”

My mouth gapes, my coffee forgotten between my hands, as Kyle, the woman, and the four men file out of the room.

Nausea rolls as fear coils in my gut. Real fear. I've had tough times, had to get myself out of difficult situations, but this is different. I'm in over my head,wayover my head, with no one on my side. These men are ruthless. I suspected this town is run by men like this, but when the evil and manipulation stare you in the eye, ripping through your soul, it's like a backhand to the face.

“Hey, Trailer.” Slowly I lift my unfocused gaze to Shawn. Shoulder against the doorframe, dark eyes glinting in the overhead lights, the evil rolls off him, filling the room. “You're mine, puppet. Let the fun begin.”

Chapter Five

Trey

January

“It's open,” I shout over my shoulder, eyes glued to the live debate on TV. Heavy footsteps thump closer as the person moves from the front door deeper into my condo. Tipping the near-empty beer bottle back, I flick my gaze to Tank as he falls into one of the five leather recliners stationed around the TV.

“Game's on,” he grunts as he rearranges in an attempt to sink deeper into the soft leather. “Why are you watching this shit?”

Hitting the Mute button, I keep my eyes on the screen.

“Can you believe this?” I point the remote at the television, where a man and woman debate back and forth. “This candidate and the bullshit platform she's taking. No doubt she's lying through her perfect teeth, and the general public is fucking buying it. People are idiots if they believe someone like her is any different than the rest of the corrupt fucks running for office.”

“Then turn it off.” Tank’s eyes slide shut. “When's the food getting here? I'm fucking starving.”

“Second dinner?”

“Damn straight,” he grunts. “That health crap Sarah forces us to eat isn't enough. Look at me.” He waves up and down his massive body. “This tank don't run on fucking kale. I swear that woman’s trying to kill me. I love my wife, but damn, give me the meats.”

I smirk and shake my head. With a groan of my own, I shove from the recliner and amble to the kitchen. Head deep in the fridge, I shout, “That wife of yours is deadly in her own right; she doesn't need to kill you by starvation.” The door rattles, beer bottles clanking together. I pinch my lips, letting out a short, high-pitched whistle. “You want a beer?”

A deep chuckle vibrates through the condo. “Hell no.” He lifts his tight T-shirt up his chest, displaying the rippled six-pack he's so proud of. “With a body like this, I don't waste calories on beer.”

I pop the cap on the bottle and toss it into the trash. I’m not worried about my figure. No one’s warming my bed at night; no need to put in the hours at the gym to stay chiseled. The cold white marble digs into my side as I lean against it. “I know you’re just saving those precious calories for your other addiction.”

The man is the purest definition of a badass, yet he has a soft spot for one delicious treat.

Chocolate.

What can I say? My best friend has many strange quirks; that’s just one of many. Not that I can judge, since I have plenty of my own. We balance each other. He's calm to my knee-jerk reactions. I'm the crazy offsetting his boring ass. At the academy we hated each other, mostly due to our equally fierce competitive spirits. We both strived to be first in everything, but in the end, we recognized we were more successful as a team rather than fighting each other. He’s been my best friend ever since. The only real, honest man in this damn city.

I turn my attention back to the debate. My eyes narrow at the woman on the screen. She’s beautiful, no doubt about that. Everything about her is perfect, from her dark, silky, full hair to the flawless makeup and St. John's suit. It's not her perfection I don't like, it’s her type. The woman on the screen is the same as every other woman in this city. Beautiful, smart, the perfect arm candy for an up-and-coming politician. I know her kind—Mom. Fucked her kind—way too many to name. Fell for her kind—She Who Must Not Be Named. I'm over it. Over them, their agendas, the backstabbing and manipulating. Done.

This is my life, and I will live it the way I want, no matter the consequences.

“What's up your ass?” Tank questions. “You look like you have gas or something.”

I loosen my lips softening the snarl and roll my shoulders to drop them from my ears.

“Her. I've known enough of her kind. No way in hell can I be around someone like that all day every day. What will we do if they win the primary and we're on her protection detail? Can you imagine the fucking drama that surrounds someone like her?”

“Our job doesn't change just because she's a woman. Makes it a little more challenging, but it’s still a job nonetheless. It wouldn't be a problem if we were still on the VP’s alpha team.”

“That old fuckstick was asking for it and you know it.” Of course he's still stuck on my fuckup from last year. I've gotten over it, somewhat. It's been a fun vacation, if you enjoy zero true responsibility and daily paper shuffling.

Who am I kidding? It’s terrible. These past several months sitting idle have turned me bitter.

Didn't life used to be fun? Fun was before the demotion, before I realized Rachel was using me, before Mom and Dad threw down their ultimatum.

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