Page 24 of Power Surge

Several sets of curious eyes peer above rows of the standard beige office cubicles. Ignoring them the best I can, I continue through the office space, my eyes forward, surrounded by the president’s alpha team. I don't smile or wave, ignoring the urge to finally show off the princess wave I’ve been practicing at night in the mirror, like old Randi would have. But once again the coldness of this role—being presidential, as I’ve been told—prevents me from being… well, me. At first it was just my fiery anger and sailor mouth they wanted me to alter, but unfortunately it's noweveryemotion—good or bad. They seem to think the American people will lose faith in me if I remind them I’m a real live oxygen-breathing person.

Somedays I want to just run out on the back lawn, shoes off with my arms stretched out wide, allowing all the backed-up feelings a means to escape. What would the people think of me then? What if they saw me smile, or grieve, or, God forbid, laugh?

I’ve been on my own my entire life, always fighting for the next foothold, yet I’ve never felt more secluded and alone than now.

“Being the president sucks,” I grumble under my breath as we round a corner.

But I’m also well aware I’m not in a position to challenge their annoying rules, seeing as I'm a little over seven weeks into this gig and am barely surviving. The workload increased significantly, and with a thousand times more pressure, that fateful day. My days now consist of twenty-hour workdays seven days a week, and it's still not enough to keep up with everything going on across the globe. Even without the scandal and mess Kyle left behind, I'd be buried in urgent issues and updates. Add in the Kyle mess I'm tasked with cleaning up before it escalates and I’m suffocating under the pressure.

Or maybe this all feels worse because for the first time, I don’t have my friends surrounding me. Which is why I'm in this late-eighties-style office building today. Trey returned to active duty last week and has adjusted well, per T. With the team whole, it’s time for me to present my case to the director, to fight for my team.

There isn’t a single miniscule doubt in my rambling mind that they can protect me as well as, or maybe better than, any one of the men on my current alpha team. The current team is great at their job, but I miss the relationships, the laughter and sense of ease the other guys bring with them. They were with me for two and a half years; I need that stability back in my daily life.

The director turned me down previously when I requested the switch, but that attempt was over the phone. Now I'm here and not leaving without a time frame of when the shift will occur. Actually, scratch all that shit talk about measkingher for my friends back. Today I’m here abusing my presidential power anddemandingshe order the change.

I can do that right?

Surely I can do that.

Eh, can't hurt to try.

Murmured voices vibrate through the director’s office door. A booming rumble from the other side signals Tank is already here and getting an early start on the meeting.

Knuckles to the fake wood door, I give it a hard rap and step back, swallowed whole by the swarm of suited men. Even after the order to enter, I stay back like I've been trained. I shift from one red Manolo Blahnik to the other, briefly distracted by how the patent leather shines under the florescent lights.

Tom—or maybe it’s Ted?—dips his chin, indicating the all clear. I roll my eyes at the stupidity of the situation—it’s the director’s office, for fuck’s sake, not a terrorist cell meeting—knowing full well no one besides the agent glaring at me can witness the small rebellion. A corner of my lips twitches, wanting desperately to smirk. They can take the girl out of the trailer park, but they can't take the “fuck it” attitude out of the girl.

We move as one into the room. Inside, T stands from the ancient wood and leather office chair. I hold in a giggle as the small chair hugs his hips and thighs, staying with him as he stands before dropping back to the floor. Ignoring the rude chair, T straightens his jacket and locks those dark, knowing eyes on mine.

At the imperceptible shake of his head, my earlier bravado falters. Seems the director is primed to disregard our request.

A sudden urge strikes me to crack my knuckles one by one and stretch out my neck from one side to the other like they do in the movies when they're preparing for a fight.

“Madam President,” the attractive older woman says from where she stands behind a solid dark mahogany desk.

“Director,” I respond with a curt nod. An eerie feeling of being watched creeps up the back of my neck. Spinning on the balls of my feet, I scan the room for the cause. In the back of the room, Trey leans against the far wall, arms crossed, his features a cold blank slate. It shouldn’t affect me—T told me they both had to play the personal relationship between us three carefully—but still, not even a flicker of warmth in his honey brown eyes pours salt in the wound from him not coming by the past few weeks.

“Let’s make this quick. I only have a few minutes before I’m due somewhere else,” I state.

The director motions to the rickety-looking chair beside T. The stiff bun at the nape of my neck that I twisted my hair into this morning doesn't shift with the quick shake of my head due to the amount of product I applied to make it sleek and sophisticated. And ugly. Very, very ugly. “I’ll stand. This won’t take long. There are no more requests about the alpha team change. Today I'm here to tell you my previous alpha teamwillbeplaced into the current alpha team slot beginning next week.”

Her fine-lined lips pop open, but I raise a hand, the shiny fake red nails shimmering in the light pouring through the large window at her back.

“I understand your concerns and your reason for previously denying the request. But Agent Washington’s team is now fully intact”—I tilt my head back, indicating Trey—“and from what I've been told, Agent Benson has made a full recovery and is ready for this new challenge.”

Her eyes narrow. I stifle the urge to bite at my nails under her intense stare.Yikes, no wonder she’s the director. She’s deadly with a simple glare.

Truth be told, I haven’t the slightest clue if I can make her do what I’m asking her to do. But she can’t go around a directive from the president. Technically I'm her boss’ boss. Right?

“I need an organizational chart,” I mumble. The director's penciled brows furrow. Tank covers a smile with a fake cough, and Trey shakes his head, the cold demeanor slipping a fraction.

“This is unprecedented,” she states with an exasperated sigh. Seems I have that affect on a lot of people in this city.

“So is a woman president,” I retort.

Her blonde bob slides along her petite jaw as she nods. “Is there anything I can do to change your mind, Madam President?”

Searching the room, I meet the eyes of every man in the office. I hitch my chin toward the door. “Give us a minute, please.”

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