Page 22 of Power Surge

“I have this feeling you both feel the same way. Just think about that as you work through whatever it is you’re not wanting to admit to yourself.”

A smirk tugs at my lips. “And how do you think we both feel?” This kid, so much like her mother in looks and personality.

Nibbling on her lower lip, she tucks a stray wisp of hair behind her ear over and over again.

“Undeserving.”

The single word smacks across my face, leaving me stunned. I force myself not to flinch. Without another word, I step out into the hall and storm toward the control room.

Bits of the tangled web of my fucked-up mind loosen, offering a moment of clarity before jumbling back to the damn mess it’s been for weeks again. At least the conversation with Taeler confirmed one thing I was afraid of: that young woman who was abducted for several hours on foreign soil and who lost the man she loves is doing a hell of a lot better than me.

Maybe there’s some validity to talking to someone.

Taeler's parting word shadows me as I work through the maze of connecting halls.

Undeserving.

It's never been a word I've used, but that Trey Benson is hidden deep. That Trey lived a lie shielded behind a solid family name, knew where he stood with his girlfriends because the relationship was superficial and common. Pre-shooting Trey didn't comprehend the true heartrending fear of leaving this world with the woman you love left behind unprotected without you there by her side. Today’s Trey fears the media won't look down on him for dating Randi, because of her poverty background, but will destroy her for loving a simple agent, the son of a sick bastard whose dirty laundry is plastered across the papers daily.

Undeserving.

Never a better word could be used to describe the paralyzing doubt and gut-wrenching uncertainty that's now my daily companion.

Undeserving.

And there's nothing I can do to change the outcome. That day warped me, warped us. I just hope we can somehow find our way through the wake of uncertainty. And that she'll give me the time to free my old self from the confines of my own doubts and fears.

* * *

The next morning, I don't wake up early to meet up at the rowing club like I promised Tank, or the next. His calls and texts go unanswered, just as they did before the confrontation in the SUV. The days and nights flow together, making all concept of time a vague memory. It’s only after a lonely text from Randi that I realize two weeks have passed since I saw her that night in the White House, two weeks since I've seen my best friend.

What can I say? Avoiding my mounting problems by drinking too much and being lazy as hell is a time suck.

With a scratchy throat groan, I stretch my stiff muscles along the cool satin sheets and crack an eye open. Late morning light filters through the edges of the blackout curtains, casting a single line of sunlight on the nearly empty bottle of Four Roses on the nightstand and knocked-over tumbler. An annoying ding of an alarm chirps happily from my phone. Smacking the top of the quilt blindly, I search for the device that woke me so rudely, ruining my plans of sleeping until noon.

The thin metal shell of the phone connects with my pinkie finger. Sliding it from where it burrowed itself beneath the blanket, I hold it above my face and squint at the screen.

An event reminder blinks back at me. A reminder I set weeks ago. Exactly one week from today, I'm eligible for active duty.

My stomach, still sour from last night’s bourbon binge, rolls as a chill skates across my clammy skin.

Instead of dealing with the information like a healthy bastard, I toss the phone back to the bed and roll over. Deep breath in and out, I fight back the growing nausea—from the hangover or the alert, I don’t know. Hell, maybe both.

An unfamiliar sound from beyond the bedroom door sidetracks me mid-inhale. I hold the half breath, letting it burn in my lungs as I wait. The wind rushes out of me as I heave my lethargic legs over the side of the bed. The movement makes my fuzzy head swim, but I push off the mattress only to stagger forward, colliding with the dresser against the wall. A booming voice I know all too well rattles the thin walls. Cursing, I yank the bottom drawer open and fish out a pair of running shorts.

I tug the soft Dri-Fit material over my ass, feeling a bit more snug since the last time I wore these, just as the bedroom door erupts inward. The bastard doesn't even offer the decency of knocking. The door crashes against the opposite wall, adding to the many dents put there by me and the previous owners. Tank stands in the middle of the doorframe, arms crossed over his broad chest, blocking my only exit.

“I put pants on for you,” I say, forcing a fake smug smile while waving toward my black Under Armour shorts. “You should work on your stealth mode a little more. I had all the time in the world before you barged into my room.”

His dark eyes narrow. A bolt of apprehension races through my sluggish veins at his obvious ire directed solely on me.

“Get a damn shirt and running shoes on, you lazy ass.”

“Can't,” I say with a smirk. “I have brunch plans.”

My eyes widen, the faux cocky prick attitude falling as Tank rushes toward me. My back slams into the edge of the dresser as I retreat deeper into the bedroom.

“Two minutes or you're running like you’re dressed.”

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