Page 46 of Power Surge

I know what I have to do.

Acrylic nails dig into the hard floor as I lunge the remaining distance. My teeth rattle as my chest slams onto the floor, my hand fumbling with the gun instead of softening my fall. Not nearly as smooth as in the movies, I flop to my side, the gun unsteady in my sweaty palm, and point the barrel toward the looming figure.

Shock and understanding wash over Trey's features. Acting faster than any human should, he drops to the floor.

Sealing my eyes shut, I aim in the direction of the intruder striding from the balcony and tug on the trigger. With one breath, the world stills. Everything is silent, and then there’s chaos. The gun clutched between my trembling hands fires with a simple flick of a finger against the trigger. The force of the kickback is so unexpected and strong it pops from my clammy hands. I can’t track the movement as the gun launches into the air. Somehow midair, another round fires. And another before dropping to the stone floor.

I gape at the weapon, unable to look away. Muffled male voices followed by shouts drag my unfocused gaze to the middle of the room.

Trey pushes up from his crouch as fast as a whip, turning to face the other two men now coming closer to where he stands over a body.

A body with a river of deep red flowing from beneath him, tracing its way through the thin grout lines of the floor.

Holy fuck.

I shot a gun. I shotsomeone.

And I'm pretty sure he's dead.

Chapter Thirteen

Randi

Aflurry of movement ensues all around the room, but I stay frozen in place on the floor, gaping at the man I murdered. A light and silky cover drapes over my still exposed lap before gravity vanishes and I'm hoisted into the air. Every muscle seems at the verge of snapping, the tension locking them in place making them stiff as boards. I stay rigid in the bridal-style hold, unable to relax into the strong arms carrying me.

Soft, comforting whispers are muttered into my disheveled hair as we make our way the few feet to the bathroom, the room that was supposed to be my sanctuary all along. The double doors slam closed, and then we're moving again. I barely take notice when I’m lowered and sat on the edge of the large sunken tub. The arm around my waist flexes, holding me in place as a bare chest leans over me. The scent of jasmine and honey wafts through the room as the pounding of water fills the tub behind me.

With two hands on my hips, he crouches down, meeting my gaze. Concern swirls behind Trey’s light brown eyes as he scans my face.

“You're all right, Mess.” One hand slides up my bare arm, fingertips skimming along my neck before a palm cradles my cheek. His usual warmth seeps into my skin, his scent filling my lungs, slowly loosening the hold shock has on my body. “I've got you. No one will hurt you. Not now, not ever.”

“I shot him,” I whisper, terrified to admit those words.

What does this even mean? Will I go on trial? Would they put the president in jail for murder? It was in self-defense. They were attacking me and Trey in my suite….

Oh hell. I’m 100 percent fucked. I'm in another damn country, not in the US. I have zero rights here. I could be put in a Saudi prison. Forced into slave labor to pay off my crimes.

Each scenario is worse than the previous until my heart nearly races out of my chest. My fingers wrap around Trey’s muscular shoulders and tighten, digging my chipped and jagged nails into his perfect skin.

“I don't want to be a part of a chain gang,” I squeak, my eyes searching his.

Fine laugh lines crinkle around the corners of his eyes as they alight with humor. His lips fight the smirk desperate to make an appearance.

“I could be imprisoned, you ass. This isn't funny.” My voice’s high pitch gives away my increasing panic.

“Mess, baby,” he says on a snicker. A fucking snicker. I’m about to wear orange for ten to twelve years and he fucking snickers. “You didn't shoot anyone.”

Oh hell. Poor guy. He must have hit his head.

“Trouble, baby, that man out there is dead because of me.” I scan his forehead as I weave my fingers through his thick, sweaty hair, searching for the laceration or bump. “Did that guy hit you in the head? I think you need a doctor. You’re not remembering things.”

Now that I really take in his overall appearance, he actually might need medical attention for other issues besides the hit to the noggin. A dried trickle of blood lines his chin and continues to seep from a split lip. Splotches of bright red dot his right cheekbone, the surrounding area swelling and puffing around his eye.

Trey teeters on the balls of his feet to lean in close. I feel his smile as he presses a chaste kiss to my temple.

“You did shootsomething, but not that guy, or the other one, thank the fuck.” While he talks, the tearing of dislodging Velcro assaults my ears. With a quick tug, he pulls the vest over my head, followed by my damp tank top that seems to have adhered to my sweat-slick skin.

“Trey,” I complain, giving his shoulders a small shake. “You were there. You saw it all happen.”

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