Power Switch (Power Play #3) - Kennedy L. Mitchell Page 0,40

on my life won’t stop. So would I really be safer doing nothing?

“Yes,” they say in unison.

I shake my head. “I wish it were that easy. But it's not. You both know it's not.” Tense silence fills the library. “I don't want to be president,” I admit in an almost silent whisper. “I want Kyle and Shawn to pay for everything they've done to me, what they're doing to the American citizens, but….”

“Mess,” Trey says with an exhaustion-laced sigh. “That's part of it. If you want to continue down this path, if you want to help the DOJ, that will be the end result.”

“I know. Doesn't mean I have to like it.” Resting my hands in my lap, I fidget with the tissue still wrapped around my thumb. “I'll do what I have to do. I always have, always will. Just because I'm nervous as hell doesn't mean I shouldn't keep going. If I thought that way, I'd be stuck in my hometown following in Mom's staggering footsteps. Just because something is challenging and overwhelming at first doesn't mean it should stop you from trying.”

“Then suck it up and accept it,” T adds. Shifting my gaze to where he sits by the door, I watch as he scrubs a hand over his bald head. “You can't keep living like this.”

“Tied up in knots?” I say with a forced laugh. “I need a plan. I know what I want, but how do I get there? I've bought us a little time with the lie about Sam, but now what? Maybe once I know how to meet my goal, I'll relax. I just need a plan.”

Maybe if I say it one more time, I’ll believe it.

A hard knock against the closed library doors beats through the large room. Hands on his knees, T pushes to a standing position with a groan. His broad shoulders rise and fall as he circles them forward and backward like he's trying to ease the stress tightening the muscles. Massive hand on the doorknob, he pulls it open wide and waves the other hand toward me.

“Washington,” Sam murmurs as he passes T. His bright eyes scan the room. “Benson,” he grumbles with a hint of annoyance.

“Pierce.” There's no mistaking the tension clipping the single word.

Finally, Sam's piercing green eyes slide to me. “Randi.” Silence fills the room as he waits by the door. “You wanted to see me?”

I nod.

“You okay?” he asks, taking a tentative step deeper into the room. “You look….”

“Like I was poisoned three weeks ago?” I force a smile to lighten the weight of my words. “Yeah, I know. Come on in. We need to talk.”

Lips pursed, Sam attempts to suppress a smile. “Never a good sign when a woman says those words. From my experience, that is.” The clicking of his dress shoes against the hardwood floor goes silent as he steps onto the area rug. I motion to the chair beside me, requesting him to take a seat. His features harden, closing me off from reading his emotions as he folds down into the chair and leans forward, closing the distance between us.

“You're backing out,” he grits out as a statement, not a question. The muscle along his square jaw twitches like he's grinding his teeth. “Listen, I don't blame you after—”

I hold up a hand, cutting him off. “The opposite, actually.” Relief sinks in at the steadiness of my hand as I reach for the water bottle, proving the earlier panic attack is easing. Yep, panic attack, because I’m not going to dwell on the thought it could be something more sinister. Taking a deep breath, I hold it until it burns before letting it out slowly. “Kyle stopped by last week.”

Both brows climb up Sam’s forehead. Sweeping my gaze over his cropped black hair down to his clean-shaven jaw, I take in his hard features. Handsome yet stern. The overall look, bad boy in a nice suit, works for him. A little too well. The humor dancing behind his eyes hints that he knows exactly what I was doing.

Clearing my throat, I swing my focus to my hands clasped in my lap, thumb still wrapped in the blood-dotted tissue.

“And?” he asks, encouraging me to continue. I decide to overlook the smile in his tone.

“He knew you and I met more than once.” Sneaking a peek through my lashes, I find Sam studying me, the earlier bit of humor gone.

“How?” he demands. Inching forward, he perches on the edge of his