Page 13 of Power Surge

“Whatever,” I grumble. Not the most mature response, but he's digging deeper than I want to dive at the moment—or ever. “I'm taking a nap.”

After setting an alarm, I toss the phone to the side table and press the button on the inside armrest to raise the leg rest. “Everything will work out just fine. I’ll see her tonight, talk things through, and be back to normal in no time. No need to worry,” I mumble, already halfway asleep.

* * *

“Thanks for picking me up, man,” I say while focused on the phone in my hand to avoid eye contact with Tank. Since the moment I woke up a couple hours ago, I’ve used the time to catch up on current affairs in case Randi wants to discuss anything. In my major news website searching, there wasn’t one mention of Birmingham’s death. Either the media doesn't know yet or someone slapped every news channel and paper with an injunction to keep the information from being released.

“It's fine,” Tank says from the driver’s seat.

The government-issued jet-black Suburban coasts down the empty streets. For the first time in our friendship, the silence is tense with unspoken words. The awkwardness eats at my resolve to not talk to him, knowing I'm the cause. But still here I sit, not offering any explanation to my absence in his life since I was released from the hospital or why I'm strung tighter than a damn hair trigger.

At the White House’s fortified wrought iron gate, Tank rolls down the window as a marine approaches, readying to offer both our IDs.

The young kid takes the IDs while casting a suspicious scan inside the SUV. “Are you both expected?”

Tank hooks a thumb in my direction. “He is. The president wants to talk with him about the incident.” We all know what incident he's talking about. Everyone does. My chest tightens, making it hard to inhale deep.

Fuck, what the hell is wrong with me?

The guard hands the IDs back and motions us forward. Again the silence in the cab feels heavy as we wait the eternity it takes for the gates to swing open wide enough for the Suburban to slip through unscathed.

Without any indication from me, Tank turns the wheel, taking us toward the residence side of the White House with the side entrance that's less visible.

Flexing my fingers, I attempt to loosen my tense muscles when the SUV comes to an abrupt halt. I snap forward. The seat belt engages, catching me before my nose collides with the dash.

“What the hell?” I grunt. Groaning, I sit back while rubbing at my chest. A new ache throbs from the still healing wound in my shoulder. “What the fuck is wrong with you, man?”

“Exactly, you idiot.” Knowing full well where this conversation is headed, I reach for the door handle readying for a swift exodus. “Oh hell no,” Tank yells as he lunges across the SUV, smacking my hand away with one of his large mitt-like hands. “You’re not going anywhere, Playboy.”

“Fuck,” I grunt as he bats my hand away at my second escape attempt. “Damnit, Tank. Let me out of this damn thing, now.”

“Not on your life,” he states. “Tell me what the fuck is going on with you.”

“Nothing's ‘going on with me,’” I mock, using air quotes. His eyes narrow as steam seems to billow from his ears. “What the fuck is going on with you?”

Still radiating with tension, Tank props his back against the driver side door, keeping a watchful gaze in my direction in case I try a third jailbreak.

“Talk. To. Me. I haven’t seen you since the hospital, and then the first text in weeks, after all of mine have gone unread, is for a damn ride to help you sneak in to see your girlfriend?” He shakes his head. Averting his eyes, he looks out the front windshield. Rubbing a hand over his bald head, he exhales. “Whatever’s going on, we’ll figure it out. You can talk to me, Trey.”

“Can I?” I say on a huffed breath. Sure, I'm being a dick, but you know what? So is he. Tank's sitting there completely unaware of what he’s wanting me to share. Asking me to shed the multiple layers of grief, fear, and other emotions even I haven’t been able to identify that I've carried the past few weeks. Right, like I’m just going to open up and spill my pussy-ass guts right here in the SUV moments before I visit my girlfriend—who, bonus, is now the leader of the free country. Yeah, he's the one being the dick, not me.

“You've been busy,” I say, no doubt adding insult to injury based on Tank’s pain-laced expression like I just backhanded him.

“True, I’ll give you that,” he grits out. “Pierce's international travel has been significant while you’ve been out on medical, but shit's hit the fan over in the Middle East. He goes where she sends him, and as team lead of his alpha protection team, I had to go too. It's my damn job, your job too once you come back. So don’t fucking deflect that shit back on me. You haven’t responded to a single call or text, so even if I was stateside, it wouldn’t have mattered.”

“Yeah, I know, man,” I reluctantly grumble. “That was a dick shot.”

He dips his chin in acknowledgment, immediately accepting my apology. Because he’s the best damn friend a guy could ask for, and I’m an asshole.

“So tell me what's going on. The same as before?”

Beforemeaning the way heat and close quarters could trigger a panic attack stemming from my multiple deployments in the Middle East with the army.

“Different,” I rasp. Clearing my throat, I swipe my clammy palms down my dark-wash jeans. “I just… can't. Not yet, Davis.”

At his silence, I dare a glance at my friend only to find him carefully considering me. “Fine, I get that. Don’t like it, but I get it. You have to be ready, which is why I’m guessing the agency shrink hasn’t cleared you yet.” He dips his head with a knowing expression. “But soon. And I want to see you at the club tomorrow morning. Your ass is out of shape.”

My brows jump up my forehead. “How do you know I haven't been going?” The depth of care and devotion this man has for our friendship—for me—is incredible.

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