Page 26 of Power Play

Tank clears his throat, dragging my attention back to him.

“You want me to take over?” he asks.

I wave a hand, declining his offer. “I'm good.” Nodding to the soft armchair in the corner, I say, “I'll wake her up in an hour.”

Tank’s large bald head tilts to the side. Shit, I know that look.

“Odd, don't you think?” he muses. “Earlier tonight, you were complaining about this gig, and now here you are offering to watch while she sleeps.”

My shoulders rise and fall in an exaggerated shrug. “Just doing my job, you nosy shit. Nothing else.”

“Right.” He drags out the word, making it clear he doesn’t believe me. “We're in the next room piecing shit together. Let me know if you need me.”

I track him until his back disappears through the door and it clicks shut behind him. Like a magnet drawn to metal, my eyes shift back to the woman on the bed. I startle when they meet her half-open hazel ones.

“You wouldn't happen to have any water on you, would you?” she whispers like every word hurts.

I nod and point to her side table. “Bottle is beside you, along with some meds the doctor approved you to take for the headache.”

“Headache doesn't even begin to describe the death metal concert going on up there.” A pained gasp pushes past her lips at her attempt to sit up. “Fucking hell.” She groans before giving up on her water quest and lowering back to the bed. “It's like the worst hangover ever but without all the fun and poor decisions from the night before.”

I open my mouth to say something sarcastic, but her wide eyes flick to mine just as a slight green tint washes over her face.

“Shit,” I grumble. I race to the bathroom, my steps pounding against the soft carpet. I skid to a stop along the tile and grab the first trash can I lay my eyes on. Emerging from the bathroom, I lunge for the side of the bed just as she leans over and vomits.

“You should've left me in the damn car.” Another wave of nausea causes her to curl into a tight ball as she dry heaves into the metal bin. Tears streak down her pale face, drawing attention to the light scattering of freckles that adorn the skin along her cheekbones.

All my smartass remarks—hell, even my annoyance at the woman, which has grown every day since she first appeared in DC—evaporate at her weak state. The metal of the bin digs into my fingers as I adjust my grip to hold it in one hand. With the other, I gather her long dark hair into a tight bundle at the nape of her neck to keep it away from her face.

After a few more heaves into the bin, she waves a weak hand and falls back into the pillows. Sweat glistens on her forehead, and a pain-laced grimace scrunches her features. I set the metal can beside the door to take out later and return to the bathroom to find a towel.

Her eyes are closed when I return but flutter open when I place the cool, wet washcloth along her forehead. For a minute, we stay in the cocoon of comfortable silence. Something in her eyes pounds at the thick walls I've built, telling me to reconsider my prejudgment of her. Before I fall further under her spell, I step back from the bed, snagging the bottle of water off the nightstand.

“Here.” I crack the seal and hold it out over the bed.

“Thanks.” The slight tremble in her hand as she reaches for the bottle doesn’t go unnoticed.

What the hell am I doing? I roll my eyes at the concern and worry building in my chest, constricting my airway. She's fine, or she will be. Why the hell do I care anyway? She's the job, and she's with that fucktard Birmingham. She's just like them, all of them, and that's why I have to keep my distance. Even if she is beautiful. And somehow funny while in pain.

“Anything new about tonight?” she mumbles after a long, deep gulp from the bottle.

“Small sips or you'll get sick again. And try to sit up more.” Her hazel eyes flick to mine, and a confused look lashes across her face. “No, I haven't heard anything new. I've been in here since you passed out on me.”

Her dramatic eye roll looks painful. “I didn't pass out. I rested my eyes for a few minutes. It's been a long night okay.”

“Nothing like almost getting killed to ruin an evening,” I say dryly.

“Right,” she groans in agreement. “Not that the party was any better. What a waste of money.” Turning on her side, she tucks the edges of the robe together, covering almost every inch of her legs, and snuggles deeper into the pillow. “What's up with the small food at those things? Is it not okay to eat anymore?”

“What?”

“I mean, I had to eat like a hundred balls to—”

“Balls?” I raise my dark brows in question while attempting to hold back the laugh that wants to erupt. “You ate a hundred balls? Busy night.” This time I don't mask my smirk.

Her eyes narrow before widening. “Didn't expect that.”

I sink into the armchair opposite the bed. “Expect what, exactly?”

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