Page 37 of Power Surge

“Back to the topic at hand, Madam President. Some reporter put two and two together about the ob-gyn making frequent visits to the White House. This article is listed on a small website now, but a larger site—hell, maybe a network—will pick it up. Soon.”

“What are you getting at, Blake?” I tap the spacebar to wake my sleeping laptop.

“They suspect that you, the president, are pregnant, not your daughter. This is bad. We knew it would get out, and now we’re behind the media on this.”

My breath catches, my fingers hovering over the keyboard as a million different outcomes of this mess filter through. None of them good, for me or for Taeler. I’m already known as the trailer trash president in this city, things printed about me in the papers personal and vicious. What will they do to Taeler? I swallow hard and start typing, trying to push the worst-case scenarios from my thoughts.

“Let them assume what they want. Even if I were pregnant—which you know I'm not—it would be my business, not theirs. When did this role mean the president’s private life was fair game for attacks?”

“Your business is their business, Madam President. It's part of the job. It always has been and always will be. You’re the leader of this country, and how you and your family members conduct yourselves reflects directly on the American people.”

The rounded edge of the wooden desk digs into my forearms as I flex, balling my hands into tight fists. My knuckles protest under the strain, the skin of my palms pinched under long nails indenting crescent moon shapes.

“It's fine. We have bigger things to worry about.” Slowly I relax my fingers one by one, the blood flowing freely back to the tips. “Anything else? I’ve got real problems to solve before my next meeting.”

The weight of his glare doesn’t go unnoticed. “You can't push this issue under the rug for long. The story won't go away and will only get bigger if we do nothing. We need to address itnow.”

“What would you suggest I do? Tell them it’s not me who’s pregnant but my daughter? My daughter who's still reeling with emotions from the death of her boyfriend and father of her unborn baby? Let her shoulder all the negative and fucking vicious media attention, all the taunts and name-calling and shaming that I’ve kept her from since I stepped into this city? You think I want that for my only daughter?” Elbows on the armrests of the chair, I cover my face with both hands.

“It's too late for avoidance. If we come out about her pregnancy now, we can control the message and—”

“I saidno, Blake.” Heat sweeps beneath my skin as my temper rises. “I understand where you're coming from, I do, but you're not looking at it from a mother’s perspective. My job above any other is to protect her and now my grandbaby. Taeler is still in the early stages of pregnancy, and I will not have her upset, jeopardizing either of their health. My answer is no. Ignore the post. I sure as hell will.”

A knock at the door prevents him from continuing the argument. The side office door swings open, my secretary’s hand still on the door handle as she shuffles to the side, allowing Trey, T, and—

I narrow my eyes at the ice storm of a man who's right on their heels.

Blake grumbles his discontent about… well, probably everything to do with me, then exits the Oval Office, slamming the door behind him.

“Agent Smith,” I grit out. “I wasn’t aware you were joining us for this meeting today.” I swing an accusing glare at T.

The annoying new agent doesn’t say a word as he takes a position along the back wall, where he no doubt has a perfect view of every square inch of this room, and interlaces his fingers in front of his hips. It's concerning the way he blends in with the wall despite the fact that it's some awful yellow color, which I'm told is soothing, and he's wearing a dark gray suit.

“Our director made it clear that he's now our third wheel.” If T’s looks could kill, Agent Smith would be a pile of ashes right about now.

“Fourth,” I say, drawing T’s attention back to me. A line forms between his dark bushy brows. “You, me, Trouble, and now Agent Smith.” Again my attention swings to the unassuming man with his back against the wall. “We need a nickname for him if he's going to be part of the squad.”

“Squad?” The laughter in Trey's voice makes a corner of my lips turn upward even with the shitty day I’ve had.

“Tribe?” I retort.

“How about protection detail?”

“Always so serious, T.” Pushing up from the desk, I arch my feet to stand on my tiptoes and stretch both arms high above my head. “In other news, a small blog caught wind of the type of doctor who’s been frequenting the White House. It's not that big of a deal now, but it might be. I want extra security on Taeler if she ventures outside the gates. Her next appointment is next week, but I’ll make sure the doctor continues to come here.” T’s thumbs fly across his phone screen, I assume taking notes. “Also I met with the director of the CIA this morning.” Keeping my head tilted toward T, I monitor Agent Smith's reaction in my periphery. “He understands what I need done and will keep me updated while we’re overseas.”

Trey clears his throat with an attention-seeking cough. “Which is why Tank and I needed to meet with you today. There are a few details on the logistics of next week’s trip we need to cover. We also need to discuss any changes in your behaviors or routine since you were at One Observatory Circle.”

I look to the ceiling like I'm concentrating. “Let's see, I've picked up smoking again, which Trouble is aware of.” I shoot Trey a wink. “I work a little more and sleep a lot less.”

“Not sure that's even possible,” T grumbles.

“And I've pretty much given up on eating an actual meal at a dinner table outside of diplomatic dinner parties.”

“So the same, then,” Trey says with a smirk. “Just a little extra now.”

“Sounds about right.”

Our eyes stay locked as Tank rattles off a list of preparations for the upcoming trip to Saudi Arabia. The weight of Agent Smith's gaze burns the skin along the back of my neck as I creep toward Trey, who's posted up alongside the desk, hip digging into the edge. “Hi,” I whisper once I'm close.

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