Page 42 of Power Switch

“He’s not going to like this, Randi.”

I startle, shifting quickly in the chair to face the deep voice. Hand scrubbing the top of his shiny bald head, T stares at the floor.

“We don’t have a choice,” I say a bit defensively.

“Sure you do, but for some reason, you and that idiot Benson keep making the wrong ones. The lies are stacking up, Randi. What will you do when one card slips and the whole damn house comes falling down?”

I don’t respond. There’s really nothing to say back to that.

“I’ll go get, Benson.”

For several moments, I wait in the silence, gathering my thoughts and courage, dreading what needs to happen next.

Trey will understand that we need to keep our distance while I play the fake girlfriend, attending every fancy-ass party this city has to offer with Sam on my arm, right?

Well, when I put it like that….

11

Trey

Do not shoot him.

Do not shoot him.

Do not shoot him.

I don't pause the calming mantra until the dickwad is out the door and his pounding steps down the front porch stairs are no longer audible. Still, I allow a few additional seconds before sliding my tight fists from the silk-lined pockets of my custom-tailored slacks.

The tendons and muscles in my fingers protest as I flex them wide, stretching out the tightness from holding a knuckle-cracking fist for too long. It was the only way I could hold the involuntary reflexes at bay to reach out and strangle the man encroaching on my girl.

My girl.

Hanging my head, I massage the back of my neck, hoping to ease the building tension making it stiff and sore.

We're in the middle of a shit circus caused by our own doing with no way out. We’d both love to shed the fake lives we've crafted to survive in this political power game, but that won’t happen anytime soon. The one bright spot in my day, the one part of this craziness I look forward to, is our time here at One Observatory. Our alone time, the stolen moments when I’m on shift or the hours together when I’m not, are what’s driving me to see this through.

If I didn't have those stolen moments with her, the daily reminder of what I’m fighting for, this game we’re playing against the world would break me. Break the resolve we made to do whatever it takes to get through the next three years with her political career and life intact.

“She wants to talk to you,” Tank says with a sigh. “I told you two this would end badly. Now I'm forced to play damn mediator.”

I furrow my brows in confusion. End? Maybe he's referring to the less-than-pleasant remark I made in the library about Jessica or how Randi I were done. But that was me playing my part for the dipshit AAG, keeping up the façade we’ve carefully constructed to appease my mother and make sure Sam keeps Randi on the inside of the investigation. Randi knows none of what I said was true. No doubt the words stung like hell; hers did that day with Birmingham in the living room. I thought I’ve felt pain before, but nothing compares to hearing the woman who holds your heart talking about how attractive another man is to her.

Holding Tank’s unforgiving stare, I squeeze between the small space he’s left between his broad shoulders and the doorframe.

“Do not make a scene,” he mutters under his breath as I move past. “Your actions reflect on the team, and I will not have us sidelined again because of your hot head.”

I send him a wink over my shoulder. “Ten-four, buddy. Don't worry though, we're good. It’s all just part of the game we’re forced to play. You know that.”

A flash of what appears to be fear passes across his dark gaze before he breaks the connection to focus on the hardwood floor. With a few muttered curses, Tank steps out of the room and shuts the french doors with a hard pull, leaving me alone with Randi.

Pondering Tank’s strange warning and behavior, I approach the middle of the room with caution. You never know when crazy Randi might come out to play, and I sure as hell don’t want to be caught off guard when she does. But Randi doesn’t even glance in my direction as I approach the grouping of chairs where she sits. Even when I'm standing directly in front of her, she doesn't acknowledge my presence.

“Sam's good with what I told Kyle,” she mumbles around the nail between her teeth.

Grasping her hand, I tug until she drops it from her mouth to the chair. My knees give an audible crackle as I squat low, putting us eye to eye—if she would look at me, that is. Gripping her trembling chin, I tilt her face until those hazel eyes lock with mine. The sadness and pain swirling in them fuel my earlier anger.

“What did that fucker do?” I demand, my grip tightening a fraction.

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