Page 48 of Power Play

“I'll get it. You go get comfortable.”

My gaze follows him until he disappears into the living room.

I only make it a few steps toward the chair when Trouble marches back in, annoyance written across his tight features. “Your phone's vibrating.” It lands on the fluffy duvet with a poof. Reaching over, I flip it to check who it is.

'Blocked Caller' flashes on the black screen.

Kyle.

I swipe to answer and press it to my ear.

“Where are you?” he demands, forgoing any niceties.

“Dallas.” The mattress presses against my backside as I perch on the edge. Leaning back on an elbow, I let my head fall back. “Things are taken care of with my mom. I'm looking into some exclusive rehab centers that promise confidentiality.”

“I don't give a fuck what you're doing with her. Get your ass back to DC now.”

My elbow slides along the soft fabric as I fall back onto the bed. “A lot has happened in the last twenty-four hours. I need some time to—”

“This isn't about you, Walmart, or have you not fucking figured that out yet? This is about winning and doing whatever I need you to do to ensure that we do. Get back on that jet right now. I need you in New York City Friday night to meet with a campaign donor. He wants to meet you.”

“Well, that's promising. Maybe he likes my platform for lower taxes on the working—”

“That's not what he likes, you idiot. Damn, you’re ignorant. Get your ass back here now so we can go over what I need you to do when you meet with him.”

'Kyle, I don't feel comfortable—” I peel the hot glass from my ear and frown at the dark screen. Staring at the ceiling, I hold the phone to my chest.

“What was that about?” Trey’s concerned face peers over the bed, blocking my view of the ceiling.

I roll my head back and forth. “We need to pack up and get back to DC tonight.”

A heavy hand rests on the crown of my head. “What don't you feel comfortable with, Randi? What did that dipshit tell you to do?”

“Does it matter?” I slide my gaze to focus on his shoulder.

“Hey, look at me. Friends, right?”

I nod and bite my lower lip to keep it from trembling.

“Then what? Tell me.”

“He wants me in New York to meet with a campaign donor. I get the impression the guy has other things than discussing the campaign on the agenda.”

Trouble curses. The bed dips, making me roll toward the middle, my side smooshing up against his thigh. Pressing my cheek against the duvet, I stare up at his profile. He’s propped on the edge of the bed, his head tipped back, eyes focused on the ceiling.

“Don't do it.” A hunk of dark hair slides across his forehead as pleading eyes meet mine. “I have zero right to tell you what to do, but don't do it.”

“I don't have a choice,” I whisper. The fear of returning home, once again unsuccessful in life, lodges in my throat. “I can't go home. Can't go back to living like that day after day.”

“You always have a choice.”

“Easy for you to say. You don't have as much to lose as I do.”

“Don't I?” he grits out. “I have more on the table than you realize. Don't judge me when you get pissed that people do the exact same to you.”

My lashes flutter closed. “You're right. But it doesn't change the situation or the outcome.”

“Fight back. Be a fighter in this. Don't give in to his demands sitting down.”

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