Page 4 of Power Switch

Now I understand how Randi suffered that night in Chile just wanting to get so drunk that the world and all its troubles faded away. That’s what I wanted last night, what I needed to survive the entire party without strangling those bottom-feeding asshat aristocrats.

Years have passed since I’ve been on this scene, yet nothing has changed. Everyone wants something, and no one thinks about anything other than their own ambitions. Every breath, every laugh and word were a struggle knowing this is the life I’ve sealed myself to for the unseen future. All for Randi. And even though last night was a beating—more like an MMA fight—I don’t regret any of it.

I strain to swallow down the rising emotions, but my cotton mouth prevents it. Fuck, I love her. I miss her desperately, like she’s the air I need to survive, and it's only been twelve hours since I last laid eyes on her.

I shouldn’t have let last night get that far. Should’ve turned Jessica down when she offered me my favorite bourbon. But I didn’t, and now here I am alone, hungover and pining for the only woman I’ve ever truly loved.

Scrubbing a hand down my face, I slap my cheek a couple times to get my head in the game. Going into the party last night, we both knew what this arrangement would require. Our plan to keep Mother on Randi's side while I played along with the engagement shit made sense at the time. But now I'm not so sure. Everyone is getting what they want except me. Because all I want is Randi. Us together. Never apart, from now until the end of either of us.

But I can't. She can't. This is a delicate power game we’re playing with Mother and half of the city. And Randi ending up in a smear campaign because of me isn’t an option. So maybe not showing up on her doorstep at four in the morning was a better idea than I’m giving myself credit for. Unlike during the campaign, so much more is on the table now, so much to lose if anyone finds out about us and our grand plan to make it through the next three years and then be together.

A thump at the front door drags me out of my depressing thoughts. Pulling the hand away from my face, I squint a single eye at the open bedroom door, wishing I had X-ray vision to see who's waking me up at… shit, what time is it?

With another cranky groan, I smack the bed blindly, searching for the phone I know I pitched haphazardly onto the comforter after texting Randi the two words that shredded my heart.

Fuck, am I catching her dramatics?

Squinting at the phone in my hand, I scan the time, then drop it back to the rumpled sheets. Who the hell is pounding on my door at nine in the morning on my day off? Someone who wants a good Bobbiting, that’s who.

Yep, Randi is 100 percent rubbing off on me. For the first time this morning, I manage a smile.

The beating against the front door turns into an impatient jackhammering.

Grumbling a string of undecipherable curse words, I stretch my tight arms high above my head, letting the stiffness slowly ease from my shoulders. Bare feet on the floor, I arch my back, making it pop in several places and creak in others, ignoring the person now using what sounds like a battering ram against my condo door. Not bothering with clothes, I shuffle through the living room, my annoyance and the throbbing in my head increasing with every step.

Face pressed against the cool metal door, I peer through the peephole, blinking a few times to clear my foggy vision. Annoyed dark eyes stare back at me like he can see through the door right into me.

“Motherfucker,” I grumble as I snap the deadbolt free and yank the door open, not caring if there’s anyone in the hallway who could see me in my birthday suit. “What the ever-loving hell do you want, Tank?” Tank—real name David Washington—is my best friend and team lead, and Randi’s only other friend in this town. He leads the alpha secret service team assigned to protect Madam VP ever since the campaign trail.

“Put that thing away,” he grunts, avoiding looking at my naked junk. Ignoring my smirk and enticing swivel of my hips, he shoves the door open enough for him to step past without touching me and slips into the condo. After securing the door, I follow as he marches through the living room and turns into the kitchen.

“Good morning to you too,” I mutter. “I feel like shit, man, so tell me what you’re doing here and get out. I need my beauty sleep.”

“You’re already pretty, Playboy. All the girls tell you that. But you do look a little worse for the wear this morning.”

“Tank,” I whine.

His upper lip twitches in a sneer at my pouting. “You really have no clue?”

“For my endless supply of bacon the housekeeper keeps on hand just for you?”

“You’re tossing around jokes while your girl's on the lip of a boiling fucking pot?” Tank lets out an incredulous huff. “Knew you didn't deserve her.”

In two steps, I'm in his personal space, our faces inches apart. “What the hell are you talking about?”

“Unless you want me to whip mine out to fucking compare, get that limp-ass dick away from me.” He steps back with a snarl. “Go get some fucking pants on, Playboy. Shit happened last night while you were playing the perfect politician.”

“What—”

“Clothes,” he thunders. “I don't want to see that shit.” A smirk pulls at his lips. “Makes me feel bad for Randi knowing that's what she’s settling for.”

Middle finger in the air, I spin and stride to the bedroom. The dresser shakes at the force of me opening one drawer after another in search of a clean pair of workout shorts. Not wanting to waste a second, I tug the Dryfit shorts on as I walk back into the living room, pausing at the edge of the kitchen. Tank's head is buried in the fridge, searching for the bacon, no doubt.

“Bottom drawer.”

The clatter of the plastic drawers opening and closing fills the kitchen. Knowing this conversation won't start until the bacon is cooking, I search under a cabinet and snag the first frying pan my fingers touch. I toss it onto the stove, the banging metal making me instantly regret that choice.

“Start talking. What the hell could she have gotten herself into in the past twelve hours?” Stretching above the microwave, I snag a bottle of aspirin from the cabinet and pop four of the small white pills into my mouth. Dipping my head beneath the kitchen faucet, I suck several mouthfuls of cold tap water down, soothing my dry mouth and throat while swallowing the much-needed medicine.

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