Page 6 of Power Surge

What the hell is she even doing here?

A few paces behind me, Grem's parents’ squelching footsteps grow closer.

“Let her through,” I shout to the agent blocking Celia's path. Immediately I regret those words. I loathe this woman. Loathe as in I wish I could punch her in the boob and tell everyone about her kinky ass. But I can't. Why? Because I'm the president of the United States, and apparently there is no boob punching in this role.

Or so says my chief of staff. It might have come up in a conversation or two recently.

“What are you doing here, Celia?” I demand, keeping my voice bored.

“Here supporting my friends,” she says while waving a hand toward Grem's parents. “What a tragedy losing such a promising young man for something so fleeting.”

I grit my teeth, my back molars nearly cracking under the pressure. “How do you know them?” I grit out.

“We met Celia and her husband at a fundraiser years ago,” Grem's father, now standing at my side, says. “When we found out her son worked in the Secret Service here in DC, we asked her to keep an eye on Chad while we were stationed in California for a few years.”

Oh. Fucking. Hell.

Bile rises up my throat. Reaching up, I wrap my fingers around my throat and squeeze to keep from puking.

Great. Just fucking great. It seems my daughter’s dead lover—and baby daddy—was my current lover's mother's spy.

Someone should call Jerry Springer.

The massive amount of varying emotions this day has conjured barrels into me, suddenly becoming too much to bare in front of others.

Flicking my gaze between the two grieving parents, I purse my lips. “I’ll be in touch.”

Three fingers graze the wet door handle of the idling limo just as it's pulled open for me.

“Madam President,” the agent mutters. “Please, allow me.”

I use my last scrap of energy tonotroll my eyes at the man. Every day since shifting into this role, I've missed my old alpha team, but today it’s almost painful. With a parting smile to Grem’s parents, I duck inside the limo. The dry, warm air of the interior brushes against my damp arms, and goosebumps cover my legs and the back of my neck. I rub my arms despite the July heat as I settle back into the black leather seat.

Taeler's pleading expression urges me to talk this through now, to comfort her somehow, but I don’t.

“When did you find out?” We both know what I'm referring to; no need to mention the P-word again.

“This morning,” she rasps, tucking her damp blonde hair behind her ear. She repeats the move over and over as she stares at the floorboard. “Are you mad?”

I sink my lower teeth into my upper lip to keep the string of profanities from slipping out. She needs my support, but all I can do is focus on not falling apart right here in this damn limo.

“You're staying with me, at the White House. How in the hell did you get a damn pregnancy test, Taeler?”

She wraps her arms around her chest, a wounded expression passes her face. “One of my agents ran out and grabbed it for me.” Her breath catches. “Mom—”

“Great, another NDA we need to have signed. Fuck.” The smooth material of my black skirt slides against my palms as I rub them up and down my thighs. “Fuck,” I shout again, letting my rising frustration echo in the word.

“Why the hell are you mad?” Taeler yells back. “I’m the one who’s pregnant, not you.”

“I told you—” I cut myself off to take a deep, calming breath. Screaming at her will accomplish nothing. “I can't have this conversation with you right now, Taeler. You just told me you're pregnant in front of two strangers, in public, at a funeral.”

I slide my phone from the inside pocket of my tailored suit jacket. After swiping the screen open, I press the number for my new chief of staff, Blake Jansen. The moment he picks up, I dive in. “We need an NDA sent to the fallen agent's parents right now. We need them to sign it immediately and get it back to us.” Taking a deep breath, I hold it in until it burns in my lungs. “I need a meeting with you and the press secretary the moment I get to the White House, ETA thirty minutes.” Hanging up, I toss the phone to the seat, then lean forward and massage my temples with my thumbs.

“I'll get a doctor to come to the White House. You'll need to get on prenatal vitamins immediately.” Tears clog in my throat. “And I'm not mad, Taeler. I'm confused and really, really disappointed in you and this situation.”

“Mom.” Her voice breaks. “You're embarrassed?”

Dropping my hands, I turn in the seat to face her straight on. “No, I'm not embarrassed. This has nothing to do with me being president. It has to do with you and me, Taeler Lynn. I told you time and time again to use protection. I've told you to be smart so many times I've lost track. You know how hard being a single mom was for me and that I didn’t want that life, that struggle, for you.”

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