Page 36 of Power Play

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 Wranglers 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.”

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