Page 63 of Power Surge

“Rand, baby—”

“She said out,” Trey growls. A comforting hand rests on my shoulder in support.

Ben tracks the gesture, and a snarl pulls at his lips. “Is this the one you’re fucking?”

“Ben!” I gasp. “Stop.”

The fool doesn’t know he’s seconds from a very slow, grueling death at Trey’s hand.

An arrogant snarl curls Ben’s upper lip as he sizes Trey up. “You’re just pissed I hit that before you. Wasn’t that great—”

One second Ben’s standing being all kinds of douchey. The next he’s against the wall with T’s thick forearm pressed to his throat. The hand on my shoulder tightens before slipping away.

Trey stalks toward the other two men, menace and fury fueling each calculated step.

“Benson, you stay the hell away from him,” T shouts over his shoulder, having zero effect.

“I’m not scared of that pretty boy.” Ben wheezes, his face beet red and eyes starting to bulge. “I’m staying.”

“You damn fool,” T shouts, a spray of spit dotting Ben’s grimacing face. “Trey, I said back the fuck up.”

“Come on, man, I only want to kill him.”

“I know, but I don’t have time or the energy for burying a body tonight. That shit’s for the kids. We’re too old to be dragging around dead weight.”

“Get Smith to carry the body. It’ll be part of his hazing.”

A wave of fear passes over Ben’s features. His wild eyes connect with mine.

“Rand, do you hear this? Stop them.”

“And why in the hell would I do that?” I ask on a laugh. Trey won’t really kill him. I think. Maybe. Eh, who knows? There are so many metaphorical bodies buried in this building; might as well add in a real one. I saw a great place by the rosebushes on one of my walks the other day.

“Probably not a good time to bring that up,” I mutter under my breath. Twisting back to face the table, I take another bite of the steak and wash it down with the best cabernet I’ve had since that night in New York with that asshole Hinkle. The reminder of that night and his roaming hands turns the juicy bite in my mouth to ash.

Ben whines, the sound like nails on a chalkboard, followed by two murderous rumbling chuckles. They continue to whisper—conspiring on Ben’s murder, no doubt—when a low hum along the table redirects my intrigue. The cell phone vibrates, shifting against the unused salad fork—or is that the dessert fork? With the tips of two fingers, I flip the device over to view the screen.

“What the hell?” I mutter. Snatching the napkin from my lap, I toss it to the table.

The earlier commotion behind me is now silenced with the weight of listening ears.

I slide the side of my thumb against the screen, stopping the annoying vibrating and answering my Russian friend’s call.

“Vlad,” I breathe into the mouthpiece now pressed beside my lips. “This is an unexpected call.”

“Madam President.” His thick voice sends a bolt of excitement and dread through my system. “I have need of your assistance.”

“My assistance.” Two looming shadows appear over my shoulder. “Care to be a little more detailed?”

“No.”

“Right.” I press the pad of my index finger against my right temple to soothe the low throb this night has already caused. “Okay, what do you need my help with?”

At this, Trey and T both shift, resting their asses on the table to face me. Trey shakes his head, his face pinched with concern, while T pitches forward, listening to my every word.

“Not on the phone. This needs to be handled in person. You come to Russia. It will be fun.”

“Russia?” I scoff. “You want me to pick up and fly to Russia to help you with some mysterious issue?”

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