Power Switch (Power Play #3) - Kennedy L. Mitchell Page 0,57
mule.”
Good to know the guys are comfortable around Sam now, dropping the “ma'am” shit and back to talking to me like they always did when we were alone.
“But way prettier,” I whisper. “If I have an opinion on the matter.”
“No doubt, but it doesn't change that you're acting like an ass.”
Even with the pain, his words make me smile.
“What if they're still poisoning her?” This time Sam's voice is closer, no doubt encroaching on my personal space once again. I urge my eyelids to open but can't find the energy to fight through the pain. “Ever thought of that, Randi?”
“We're monitoring everything she's eating, everything she's drinking. There's no way.” The resolve in Champ’s voice fades with each word, making the last one sound more like a question.
The men continue talking, but I tune them out, trying to keep their loud voices from splitting my sensitive ears. Maybe Sam is right and I should let the doctor run more tests. More because this is becoming a nuisance than anything. But it could also simply be the stress of this job taking its toll in a more physical way. At least that’s what WebMD said. It’s either the stress or I'm dying and should seek immediate medical attention.
Eh, those websites are always a bit dramatic, probably written by someone like me. It could be the common cold or Ebola.
Yet I search the stupid site time and time again, thinking their prediction will make more sense or at the very least offer a smaller lethal gap in diagnosis.
“Death would really suck,” I whisper.
At some point while I'm preoccupied with simply surviving this migraine, we arrive at our destination. The SUV pulls to a slow stop, the seat belt tugging slightly to keep me from falling forward. Crips fall air brushes my hair across my face as the door swings open. Slowly opening my eyes despite the pain, I focus on the dark mass now blocking out the sun.
“Another headache?” Trey's familiar deep voice soothes the anxiety of being helpless these headaches invoke.
T answers for me. “Yeah. This one seemed to come on quicker than the others.”
“What the hell is going on with you, Mess?” he whispers as he dips into the cab, no doubt readying to scoop me into his arms and carry me into the cabin.
Nope, not going to happen.
“Stop. I can walk,” I grit out as another burst of pain flares behind my eyes. “I can’t let you carry me in there. Kyle cannot see me weak or he’ll take full advantage.”
Grinding my back teeth, I scoot to the edge of the seat and grip the door handle with a white-knuckled grip. Even with the overcast day, the peeking sun’s brightness assaults my eyes. Instinctively I squint to minimize the damage. Trey grumbles something as I step out onto the smooth concrete.
Hard plastic slides along my temples before settling along the bridge of my nose, casting darkness over my vision. I let out a sigh of relief and adjust the sunglasses to keep the heavy frames from slipping down the bridge of my nose.
“Thank you.” I tilt my head left and then right, looking at all the different angles through the expensive sunglasses the agents are required to wear as part of their uniform. “Wow. No wonder they seem attached to your face at all times. Can we order me a pair?”
With a grunt of what seems to be agreement, Trey places a hand against my lower back, guiding me toward the massive set of wooden doors with ornate iron work decorating the front.
Did I say cabin? I retract the earlier statement and now would like to add to the record that we've arrived at the estate. I should've known the Camp David would be a massive compound.
Both doors swing open. Welcoming smells and the murmur of happy chatter greet us as we step over the threshold into the gilded cage. At my side, Sam slips his hand into mine, giving my cold fingers a slight squeeze for reassurance.
The murmuring silences as my entourage and I stride into the large living room. A few women openly roll their eyes my way and then turn back to their conversation partners, dismissing me outright.
Palpable anger attracts my attention to the roaring fireplace. My stomach tightens at the pure hate seeping through Mr. Hindle's hard stare. Beside him, a lovely woman, who I recognize from the research I did last year on his family, holds his bicep, struggling to draw his notice back