Page 23 of Power Surge

Lips pursed to keep my retorts to myself, I nod. I know he won’t let this idea of a run drop no matter how many snappy comments I toss his way. Hell, it might make him tack on more miles.

The man scowling at me doesn’t joke around when comes to fitness. It seems he feels I’ve been out of the workout game too long and need his help in restarting a routine. Which he might have a point about. The high-end workout gear stuffed in various drawers hasn’t been used for anything other than lying around this small-ass apartment, besides the few less than vigorous physical therapy appointments, since I was shot.

“You going to watch?” I jest as I extract a white T–shirt from the dresser.

“I'm not going to enjoy the sight of your pale bourbon gut, if that's what you're hoping for. But apparently you can't be trusted to follow through with what you say you’re going to do anymore, so yeah, I'm staying right the fuck here until you're ready to go.”

I grumble a response as the soft fabric slides over my hair and along my face. Far sooner than I’m physically and mentally ready, I've laced up both tennis shoes and am following Tank’s massive back out the door. Gerard and his wife, Beth, are nowhere to be seen as I'm escorted to my death.

“Nice of you to tell me you moved, fuckface,” Tank mumbles ahead of me.

“Been busy,” I snap. “How’d you figure out the new condo anyway? Should I be concerned you’re stalking me? You know I don’t swing that way, man.”

“Jessica.”

“I think Sarah would be pissed if you swung that way.”

“You and your damn mouth,” he says, a hint of laughter in his voice. “I went to your old place. Jessica opened the door and told me you sold her the condo. She gave me your new number.” We pause at the elevator; the down button nearly cracks beneath his slamming knuckles. “She seemed good.”

“Yeah.” I run a hand through my hair as I stare at my reflection in the metal doors, trying to tame my bedhead. “She just got back from Switzerland. Said she needed a few weeks after everything to avoid the media and all. I didn’t even have to see her when selling the condo since she was gone. Everything was done via her estate broker.”

“Why’d you sell?”

The sharp ding of the arriving elevator stops me from responding until we’re inside the metal box.

“Money. A lot has gone down since I confronted my parents.”

“Such as?”

I choose not to respond, instead focusing on stretching my arms overhead. He rolls his eyes as I moan and groan through a few short stretches, utilizing his shoulder to help keep my balance on a few.

Inside his pristine black Escalade, the icy air conditioning kicks on immediately, cooling my already sweaty forehead and upper lip. During the short drive to our normal running spot, the Anacostia Riverwalk, we remain quiet, the smooth jazz music coming through the speakers helping ease my anxiety of what’s to come. With Tank, this could be an easygoing run or a reenactment of boot camp’s hell week. I guess I’ll find out which here shortly.

After circling the parking lot twice, he backs into the perfect parking spot far away from all the other cars and kills the engine. Without the blasting AC, the inside instantly warms from the scorching sun blasting through the windshield.

Fuck, I’m over this heat. At least the summer should be winding down now that it’s August. Wait, is it August? Yeah, has to be if the alert earlier said I’m to report back to work next week. Internally, I curse my lazy ass. What have I done the past five weeks besides dwelling on my current string of shit luck and drinking myself into the initial stages of cirrhosis? The only workout I’ve had during the five-week medical leave was pinning Randi to the fridge that night in the White House kitchen—the best kind of workout, in my opinion—and the few physical therapy appointments. No surprise the elastic waistband on these normally loose shorts is digging into my skin more than usual.

Tank exits the SUV with a tilt of his head, indicating I should follow him. The car door slams behind me. Utilizing the passenger side door for balance, I kick one foot behind me, grasping my shoe to stretch my underused thigh.

The sense of falling makes my breath catch as I topple forward when Tank smacks my hand off the shiny black paint. Using the hem of his tight shirt, he rubs away the palm smudge I'd left behind.

“Ungrateful ass,” he grumbles with a side-eye glare.

“Ungrateful? I didn't ask to be here.”

“You're practically screaming it, Playboy.” Without another word, he ends his meticulous polishing with a satisfied nod and storms out of the parking lot, headed for the trail. I’m already panting from the brisk walk to catch up with him. “We'll go slow today since you're so out of shape. But from here on out, we’ll increase the pace daily, working toward our normal.” His accusing glare slides to me as I speed up to match his slow jog. “The pace that’s required by the damn agency to remain on the vice president’s alpha team.”

I’m dying. I know it. Dying a slow, suffocating death. Already my breaths are labored and we’ve gone less than a quarter of a mile. But even with the burning in my lungs, legs, arms… hell, my entire body there is one positive: running means no talking.

Just like old times, we stay shoulder to shoulder, our strides matching the other’s. And like normal, the steady pound of our feet against the concrete and the drag of my repetitive ragged breaths in and out of my nose shut out the outside world. Only today, I don’t want to get lost in my own thoughts. I’ve been stuck there for weeks without a way out.

Hell, this is going to be a long fucking day.

Chapter Seven

Randi

August

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