Page 11 of Power Surge

Trey runs a hand down the front of his dress shirt, smoothing out the wrinkles I caused. “You and Taeler need to talk before I stop by. You two will be fine once you have a chance to discuss what this means to both of you and hash out a plan. Do you even know what she wants?”

My long dark hair swipes along my back as I shake my head. No, I haven’t a clue, because I was too wrapped up in my own emotions earlier to ask.

Great, I already suck at this supportive grandparent thing.

The door rattles with another demanding knock. Twisting around, I fist the doorknob and yank it open, frustration clearly written across my face.

“What?” I snap before I register Sam’s blazing green eyes staring back at me.

He blinks, completely unfazed by my outburst. His attention shifts over my shoulder, where Trey now stands based off the tension radiating at my back.

“We need to talk,” Sam states, sliding his narrowed eyes back to me. “There’s been an incident.”

The sharp edge of the door digs into my forehead as I press it against the wood. “You can’t be serious. What else can go wrong today?”

“Birmingham is dead.”

Chapter Three

Trey

The hard plastic bubble indents a fraction as I stab a finger into the button indicating the floor to the condo. Shoulder against the metal wall, I stabilize myself for the jostle that will come as the elevator starts its ascent. The mechanics whir to life, shooting me upward.

Exhaustion grips me, making my legs feel loose and unstable. The venture out into the real world for the service and to see Randi took nearly every reserve of energy I had. Even though I’m bored as hell on medical leave, I can't imagine getting through a twelve-hour shift like this. Not that I’m anywhere close to being in any shape to return to duty.

The elevator slows its ascent before coming to a smooth halt. Listing forward, I force myself into motion as the doors open with a silent whoosh. Taking a right, I fumble for my keys as my heavy footsteps pound down the empty hall.

Damnit to hell, I fucking hate this. My weakness is pathetic. I shake my head, a few thick locks of hair sliding in front of my eyes. Even with the agency-issued physical training, the recovery is slower than I expected. It was a simple through-and-through shoulder wound, but somehow I know it’s not the physical wound that’s keeping my healing stagnant. Other aspects of those chaotic twelve hours have stuck with me, things I just can't seem to move past.

What those are, hell if I know. Not that I’m telling my appointed therapist the agency requires me to see weekly. But there’s something in there, something that’s building, making me moody, angry, despondent, and fucking tired. But today, seeing Randi and holding her in my arms, lifted a layer of that heaviness that’s slowly suffocating me.

At the door, I slip my key into the deadbolt and twist, but it doesn’t move. Confused, I narrow my eyes at the deadbolt before shifting my annoyance to the gold number hanging in the middle of the door.

“Fuck,” I grumble and drop my hand, taking the nonworking key with it.

This isn’t my condo anymore. It was, up until about a week ago when I sold it to Jessica Hawthorne.

Careful to not make a noise and attract Jessica to the front door, I turn and retreat the few steps back down the hallway toward the elevator.

Damnit, I really need to snap out of it. Get over this anger and resentment festering deep in my wounded soul. From challenging my parents on their perverted hobbies, to Taeler going missing, then confronting a drunken Birmingham before getting shot by the fucker, then Randi being sworn in while I was in surgery.

It's a lot to let go of when you're not really sure where to start. Top it off that my stronghold, the key to helping me work through it all, is locked up tight in that white prison. Earlier I couldn't even stick around while they talked about Birmingham’s death. Like a useless accessory, I was shoved out of the room the moment details were discussed.

Now here I am back home—well, almost. I hit the button for the third floor and cringe as the elevator begins its decent.

Randi doesn’t know about all this yet, and I’ll keep it that way until I can figure out how to unfreeze the money stored in my trust. Mother might not have been able to cut me off from the money herself, but the FBI can. One mention of those funds being secured by my father at the Boardroom, where the trafficking of young girls was taking place, was enough evidence for a judge to freeze all assets.

So now on top of figuring out this emotional turmoil shit and healing, I’m fucking broke. Good thing I found roommates willing to help out with this new, much cheaper mortgage.

At the third floor, I exit the elevator. Door after door is crammed along the long hall, a visual display of how tiny these condos are on this level compared to the ones on the higher floors. Before I insert the key into the deadbolt, the door swings open, familiar bushy gray eyebrows and tired eyes greeting me.

“Master Trey,” Gerard says as he opens the door wider, waving me into the tiny condo.

A huff brushes past my lips as I step around him. “I've told you over and over to stop it with that shit. Especially here, now.” Rubbing my forehead, I sigh deeply and continue the couple steps to the living room. “That was one of the conditions for you and Beth staying here, remember? Well, that and her cookies.”

That and I need the minimal amount they’ve offered to help me pay for the condo. There’s also the guilt factor. It eats at my gut knowing I’m the reason they lost their jobs, that I’m the reason my family estate is now empty and for sale.

“Right, sorry. Old habits. How was the service and burial for your friend?”

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