Page 54 of Power Play

Chapter Sixteen

Trey

Muscles tense, hands fisted, I fight the urge to turn and skewer that rat bastard’s balls with the steak knife I left on the booth seat. The magic lessons as a kid come in handy at times; tonight was one of them. No one noticed the slight of hand as I swiped the seemingly unsuspecting knife from the table. No one except Mr. Hindle, who felt said knife slicing through his suit pants, readying to do the same to his sac if he so much as breathed too deep.

Tank set it up for the team to hear every word through the small listening device hidden in that tiny purse of hers. How I kept myself from tackling the fucker as he played Randi with the expensive wine and faking to be interested in the causes she holds close, I'll never know. I deserve a big fucking gold star next to my name.

The old fucker should be tortured and left for dead for even thinking it was okay to extort a woman like that. A snarl pulls at my face. I know from personal experience that he's just one of hundreds, if not thousands, in the corrupt political scene.

A forceful relieved exhale pushes from my chest as we exit the restaurant into the much cooler hotel lobby.

Instead of directing Randi toward the front doors where Tank and the other boys wait to whisk her back to the jet, I tug her close and divert us down a long hall.

“Um, Trouble, where—”

I press a finger to my lips, cutting her off. The clicking of her heels echoes down the empty hall, mine silent with each step. Searching right and then left, I grip her elbow and tug her toward a conference room door. I press an ear to the door and listen.

Nothing.

Perfect.

The door clicks open with ease, and I pull her through after me. Darkness engulfs the large ballroom except for the bright band of light cutting through its inky blackness from the hallway. I tip my face to meet hers, wide hazel eyes searching mine.

The door snaps closed, eliminating the last bit of light.

Darkness envelops us. A bolt of satisfaction shoots through my chest as her smaller body presses against my own. Without questioning the emotions spurring the moment, I wrap an arm around her shoulders, tucking her tighter against my chest. Here, she’s safe. Away from the corrupt world that wants nothing more than to conquer and pillage her trusting soul. A growing part of me doesn’t want her to win in the general election. She’s too good for this town. I’ve seen what the political game does to women like her, seen the bitter shell left behind.

Through the earpiece, Tank demands our location.

“Tank, listen, man. Don't be mad.” I wince at the explosion of curse words in my ear. “But we're going off-line for a little while. Don't worry, big guy, we'll be fine.”

At that, I tug the earpiece from my ear and turn off the radio. Digging around my pants pocket, I pull out my phone and press the flashlight icon. Randi's sweet face pinches as she pulls back from the bright light assaulting her unprepared eyes.

“Do you or do you not want to see New York City while you're here?” Her eyes search mine before glancing to the closed door. “If you're ready to go back, then we walk out of here and head to the jet. I just thought after all that”—my muscles tighten, tugging her closer—“you'd want a night off. You didn't get one in Dallas. This is your chance.”

“What about the team?” she asks. I tug on her hand for her to release the thumbnail she's chewing on. “Can we go out there alone?”

“Do you trust me?” I ask, seriousness filling my voice. If she doesn't, hell, that’ll be a blow I'm not prepared to take.

An eternity seems to pass between the moment my question leaves my lips and her answer. I want her to rely on me. No, I’mdesperatefor her to rely on me, to see me as her protector. A man who will fight to keep her safe from the DC wolves and threats to her life.

“Yes,” she says with a smile. “Yes, I trust you.”

My lips curl, mirroring her own. “Good. Then let's go.”

* * *

“Wow,” she says on a pushed breath.

Standing close, I peer down, soaking in her palpable excitement. Around us, lights blink throughout glittering Times Square. Thousands of tourists shuffle, bumping against each other, moving bodies like human bumper cars. Horns blare over the music pouring from various stores. In the center of the exciting madness, the Naked Cowboy strums away on his guitar, eating up the attention.

With her excitement, it's like seeing it all for the first time, even though it could easily be my hundredth. I chuckle in amusement as she points at the nearly naked man, her brows waggling suggestively beneath the “I Love NYC” hat pulled low.

The hat and sweat suit, plus the flip-flops—all her idea, not mine—were a necessary purchase after we broke out of the hotel's back exit, hightailing it down various streets to escape a murderous Tank.

I offered to buy her something less… well, ugly. That’s the best way to put it. But she refused, saying the New York Yankees sweatpants and sweatshirt were perfect. Paired with a pair of gaudy flip-flops from another vendor and she's a hilarious hot mess. Not that she seems to care one bit. Hell, she didn't even bat an eye at having to change in a dark alley or the hot dog stand I suggested for dinner.

This woman tosses everything I know about women out the window and has ruined me for the Political Barbies in DC forever. This is fun. Easy. The last time I was in New York, all I saw was the inside of high-end boutiques and department stores as Rachel lit my credit card on fire. Thank fuck I didn't give in to her pouting when I wouldn't go into Harry Winston with her. The media circus around our breakup would've been ten times worse if there was a broken engagement tossed into the shit show.

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