Page 12 of Power Surge

“What you'd expect, I guess.” Yep, not allowing those emotions an outlet either. No, that grief will stay stuffed deep down like all my other issues. “I would’ve been back sooner, but I was summoned to the White House.”

An almost smile tweaks at the corners of his wrinkled lips. “And how is the president?”

“Randi,” I correct. An almost insecure feeling churns my gut at the simple mention of her title. It’s not that I’m jealous, that I’m sure of. It’s that I’m… lost, not really knowing where I stand with her now and where our relationship falls in the hierarchy of her priorities. Fuck, I sound like a pining girl. “She's okay. Today was difficult for her.”

“For all of you. He was a part of your team too at one point,” Gerard says as he dangles a highball glass with two fingers of dark liquid between us.

My mouth waters at the sight. This right here is the new normal, the new and less improved Trey Benson. Drinking too much to deflect and hide the pain, not sleeping enough because of the drinking and self-wallowing, overanalyzing everything, and—bonus—random bouts of pure rage.

“Yeah, he was a good kid” is all I say before taking a deep swallow of the burning liquid to chase back the lump of emotions clogging my throat. “Do you know why my mother would’ve been there? I swore I saw her tucked and injected face in the crowd.”

“Probably did see her,” Gerard says at my back. “From what I understand, they were friends.”

I jerk to a halt to spin around. “What?” I ask, utterly shocked. “Why didn’t I know about this?”

The wrinkles marking his forehead deepen as he furrows his brow. “I don’t know much about the how or why, but Mrs. Benson was acquainted with the young man’s parents somehow. They stopped by the estate once or twice several years back.”

At the sight of my deep leather recliner, one of the pieces of furniture I couldn’t part with despite it crowding the entire living room, I yank the ends of my dress shirt from my belt with my free hand before toeing off one Ferragamo, then the other.

Somewhat more comfortable, I drop down into the cushions. Immediately the soft leather molds around my ass and back. A distant memory of my girl curled in my arms, the two of us acting like we didn't have a worry in the world, assaults me, taking me back to that moment. I can almost smell her cherry vanilla shampoo and feel the chill of her always cold hand seeping through my dress shirt. That day there were no stressors, no obligations or worries. It only lasted all of a few hours before the world came crashing back down around us, but those few hours I cherish even more now. Little did we know what lay ahead for her and how much of an impact it would have on us.

Swirling the ice and liquid around the thin glass sides, I observe the small waves. I should text Tank, tell him about my suspicions regarding the ongoing mole investigation. With my concerns at Camp David last fall and now the new information brought to light today, there's no doubt Grem was Mother's inside man.

Why? Guess we'll never know.

Tipping the glass up, I finish the drink in a single swallow.

But if I text Tank, that will open up the flood of questions I know will follow. I'm not ready to confront him. I don’t have it in me to convince him I’m not slipping down a very dangerous path.

Without a doubt, Randi will take notice of my issues too when she’s not consumed with grief and confusion. Which makes tonight a precarious situation I'll need to carefully navigate through. If I can even get past the side gate entrance unnoticed. Sure, I could always go through the front gates like a normal visitor, get the pass waiting at the guard tower like I did today, but being there at night is a different scenario entirely. No, going through the front gate isn’t an option; it’ll raise too many questions. And attract the media, which neither she nor I need right now. The reporters waiting outside the building and the constant calls asking for a statement about my father’s arrest have finally died down, and I want to keep it that way. I have to figure out a plan to get inside the gates without drawing attention.

“You need to talk to someone,” Gerard says from where he hovers.

Peeking one eye open, I take in the concern written across his face.

“Like who? That shrink I’m assigned to is a damn fool.” Shutting my eyelid once again, I shift in the seat to find a more comfortable position. “Plus, I am. Tonight. Things will be better once I see her.”

“You saw her today, yet here you are drinking and sleeping the day away, again.”

“That was different,” I protest.

“You need to get better, Trey. To get past this.”

“I know, and I will.” I sigh. “I just need to see her for longer than ten minutes without her upset about something I can't fucking fix.” I curl my fingers into a tight fist. Heat washes along my skin, making a warm flush build beneath my undershirt. “I just need to get back to work.”

“You'll end up shooting someone.”

“If they deserve it, that’s what guns are for.”

“I'm more worried about you hurting someone who doesn't.”

“I wouldn't do that. I wouldn't hurt an innocent person.”

“You are right now.”

A deep line forms between my brows as I give up on my nap and open both eyes. “I don't understand what you’re implying.”

“You, Trey. You can’t continue to beat yourself up about things that were out of your control. Your parents made their own choices and are now facing those consequences. Those were their own actions, not yours. You were shot protecting the vice president, doing your job. Then come to find out one of the fatalities in Paris was a young man who you knew, who you trained. You have to let all this go and move on. None of it was your fault.”

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