Power Switch (Power Play #3) - Kennedy L. Mitchell Page 0,15

the coffee table.

Holy fuck, that’s a lot of accusations. Detailed ones. Where in the hell does he think all that’s coming from?

“I don't know… I didn't… who the hell would do that?” My words are rushed and panicked.

“The president.”

Ah, well, that makes sense. I’ll give him that much.

4

Randi

All I can do is gape at the fuming man sitting across from me. No words come to mind. Once, twice, I open my mouth, but when the right words don’t form, I close it tight once again. Fingers digging into the worn leather armrests, I push to a standing position and maneuver around Sam, careful not to get too close. I pause in front of the massive desk and tilt forward, grasping the edge for support. For several moments, I stare unseeing at the polished wood, processing his accusation and planning my next move.

“I don't know. Didn't know.” Long dark locks of hair fall over my shoulders, creating a curtain around my face. “Why are you here, Sam? To pin this on me?”

“We're investigating the president’s involvement and several of his major campaign supporters. I needed to know, needed to ask you the hard questions personally and gauge your reactions to know if you're involved too.”

I shake my head. “I wouldn't do that.”

“You have to admit it's farfetched that you haven't noticed, or aren't involved. You're his VP, up at the White House almost daily to meet with him and other members of your party. Hell, you're even the one who went to the OPEC summit, not Birmingham.”

Indignation slams through me. Whirling around, I take a step toward Sam, my index finger raised at his chest. Hands in the pockets of his slacks, he doesn't retreat. Hell, he doesn’t even look bothered by my sudden burst of anger.

“Do you have any clue what I've been focused on the last seven months? Do you?” Sam shakes his head. “Trying to make sure that prick of a president doesn't whisk away voter rights with a fucking bill that he knew would pass.” I jam my finger into his hard chest. “And if you must know, that fucker doesn't let me in on anything. He used me to get the president spot and has shut me out ever since. I don't know what he's doing behind closed doors or who he's meeting with. And yeah, I did go to the OPEC summit, but it was to try and understand what’s happening.”

The only sound in the room is my heavy breathing.

Reluctantly, I pull my finger from his chest and retreat a couple steps to sit on the edge of the desk. Embarrassment fills my thoughts as the anger ebbs away.

“That Birmingham always was a prick.”

I huff and hang my head in defeat.

“Hey,” he says, the earlier accusatory tone gone replaced with hesitation. With an impatient groan, he cuts himself off before he can say any more. The tips of his black dress shoes, which are nice but not nearly as expensive as Trey’s or most of the other men I’ve met in DC, stop just in front of my ballet slippers. “I believe you.”

“That I'm a fool, or that I didn't know about the president’s illegal activities he was conducting behind my back?”

“Both.”

I roll my eyes. “Ass.” But his response does what it intended, breaking the growing self-accusing black hole I was slipping into.

Giving my head a slight shake, I grasp my thick hair in a makeshift ponytail. With a few twists and a random ballpoint pen I find along the desk top, I secure the mess on top of my head.

“Okay.” I slap my hands on my thighs and stand. Walking around the desk, I fold into my oversized leather chair. “Now what? Was that all you came for? To make sure I'm not a part of it so you can keep zeroing in on the people who are?”

Hip against the desk, he crosses both arms over his chest, causing the sleeves to ride a little higher up his forearms. More colorful tattoos peek through, drawing my gaze.

“Nice ink,” I comment.

His gaze flicks from mine to his arms. When he looks back up, a small smirk pulls at his lips. “Thanks. You're not the only one in this town who doesn't truly belong.”

“Is that so?”

He dips his chin in acknowledgment. “The investigation is at a standstill. We have assumptions of illegal activity but can't prove it. Either Birmingham is innocent and someone else is doing all this behind the scenes, or he's very good at