Page 56 of Power Surge

An agent shifts in my periphery, one I somewhat recognize. Coarse, thin carpet grinds beneath the balls of my bare feet as I twist to face the approaching man.

“Agent Wright,” I greet as I accept the cigarette tucked between the two fingers of his extended hand. “I've been meaning to talk to you, but things have been….”

“It's okay, ma'am. You’re the President.” Our fingers graze, and his hand snaps back to his side, a flash of annoyance clouding his features.

“It's no excuse.” Waving the unlit cigarette, I motion for everyone to follow me. “There isn't an easy way to say this, so I'll just say it. I'm sorry for almost shooting you.” I grimace as we take a sharp corner, heading for the stairs.

“I saw your aim. I was in no danger of being shot.” I silently mouth his words, mocking him, highly annoyed that everyone now knows I can’t shoot worth shit. “But apology accepted.”

We continue to march in unison down hallway after hallway toward the kitchen. At least they know I won’t try to trash up the place by lighting up on the front lawn. My nude Prada heels dangle from one hand as I fiddle the cancer stick between two fingers of the other.

“Can I ask something?” an agent from the very back of the entourage asks.

“Ponder,” Bert says.Wait, it is Bert, right?“I said no.”

“He can ask. We're all friends here, right?”

The stark silence is the answer to that question. Fine. I didn't want them as friends anyway. I have enough friends—said no one ever.

“What's your question, Ponder?”

“Why was he in your room that night?”

At the kitchen door, I slow my steps before pausing and turn to face him.

Head tilted to the side, I narrow my gaze at Agent Ponder. “How the hell would I know why he was in my room? You think I invited him to, what, play fucking Scrabble?”

The four agents wear the same confused expression before snapping back to attention, their only focus on something, or someone, behind me. Shoulders tense, hands at the ready, but none of the four make a move for the guns at their sides.

A spicy citrus scent envelops my senses. Wearing a wide smile, I spin to face Trey. Kitchen door open, he leans against the doorframe, having appeared out of nowhere.

“I think Ponder means me, Madam President,” Trey says. All warmth falls from his features as he shifts to survey the agents at my back. “To answer your question, Agent Ponder, it’s none of your fucking business. What the president here does in her private life should not be questioned by an agent. Your responsibility as an agent is to keep her safe, not gossip like a fucking teenage girl about shit you see. Do you understand?”

At Ponder’s lack of response, I shift to glance over my shoulder. Instead of pleading for forgiveness and peeing himself, like I would if Trey's fierce anger and direct reprimand were targeted at me, Ponder’s eyes are narrowed, his pale cheeks flushed in what appears to be more restrained fury than embarrassment.

Trey moves quickly, stepping around me and stopping directly in front of Agent Ponder’s face.

“I said do you understand, Agent Ponder? You're 100 percent disposable. I'll have you ripped from the beta team to protecting the first fucking dog if you don't mind your own damn business from here on out.”

“Um, Trey… I mean Agent Benson,” I whisper with a light tap to his back. “I don't have a dog, so there isn't a first dog for him to protect.”

“It's a damn metaphor, Randi,” he snarls in Agent Ponder’s face.

“Oh, right. Good one. Continue. But just so you know”—I hook a thumb over my shoulder—“while you two measure those manly bits, I'm stepping inside the kitchen to have a quick smoke and possibly two whole minutes alone without knowing if the world is falling apart. Cool? Cool.” I shoot both thumbs up in the air and disappear through the door.

Trey’s voice booms through the gap as it slowly closes behind me. The cool plaster is solid against my back as I lean against the wall. It gives a small rattle at the back of my head smacking against it. The clatter of my overpriced shoes hitting the floor when I release them echoes through the otherwise peaceful quiet of the empty kitchen. Silk glides effortlessly against my back, slipping from the confines of my cropped black suit pants as I shimmy down the wall. Cold hard tile greets my tailbone.

Forearms wrapped around bent knees, I attempt to shut out the world. Eyes squeezed shut, I struggle to clear my mind, to prevent the issues of the day from stealing these few moments of serenity. To my right comes a soft squeak of hinges combined with a waft of cool air brushing a few wayward strands of dark hair across my face. Tucking them behind an ear, I peel my lids open to find a sexy-as-hell agent hovering close, concern lining his pinched features.

The door shudders with the impact of his shoulder. Shoving both hands into his jeans, he crosses one ankle over the other. Like this, in dark jeans, a tight dark gray T-shirt, tousled hair, and a bit of scruff lining his strong jaw, he looks more like a model than a badass agent.

“Long day?” he questions, sincerity softening his tone.

“The longest so far, I think.” Unfolding one arm, I give the tile to my left a soft pat. “Sit with me?”

Trey swings his gaze from me to the stove. “Didn't you come down here for a smoke?”

“How'd you—” I follow his pointed stare to the unlit cigarette still clutched between my fingers. “Right.”

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