Page 14 of The Illusion of Power (Passion and Politics #1)

CAL

P art of me wants to force Beck’s raised hand back down under the table where it will be free from the scrutinizing gaze of our boss, Daniel Hicks, who has just asked if anyone has anything to add before our Monday meeting concludes.

Everyone, but especially Beck, knows the question about having more to add is rhetorical.

Any items Hicks wanted to hear or needed to address have already been discussed at length, and the point Beck is about to raise was not one of those things.

It doesn’t help that he has already mentioned it to Hicks and been told his assessment of the situation was incorrect.

I don’t agree with that take, but I also know calling our boss out on his bullshit in front of the rest of the team won’t help Beck no matter how right he is.

Hicks scoffs, sitting back in his seat with his fingers laced in front of his stomach. “What is it, Beckham?”

Beck stands with a stack of papers in his hand.

They’re memos containing all of the pertinent information for the threat he discovered at the Taylors’ residence.

I know this without having looked at the paper he dropped in front of me because I was there with him when he put it all together.

My chest bare, my tone cajoling, my hands busy with the need to soothe.

Still, I pick up the paper, acting just as surprised by the information it relays as everyone else.

“On Saturday morning at approximately 0800 hours, I performed a perimeter check at the Taylor residence and spotted this vehicle—” he slams the memo down in front of Hicks, lingering for a second longer than he did with the rest of us to jab at the paper with his index finger, indicating the printed photo of a red Honda civic with South Carolina plates on the road right outside the Taylors’ gate.

Hicks snatches his paper out from under Beck’s fingertip, nearly ripping the memo in half.

“We’ve already discussed this,” Hicks gripes, balling the paper up and tossing it onto the table. “I reviewed the footage myself and concluded that there was no viable threat.”

Beck is back at my side now, sinking into his seat with a grimace while the rest of our team looks on with thinly veiled excitement. They love to see Beck and Hicks go at each other. They love it even more when Beck is inevitably punished for insubordination.

“With all due respect, sir, your conclusion was wrong,” he says, clenching his fist together to maintain some semblance of calm.

I’m proud of him for trying, but I can’t let it show on my face.

“The vehicle was parked on the street for hours. I spotted it on my first perimeter check at 0700, and it was still there an hour later on my next sweep.”

“The windows are tinted, though, how do you know anyone was in there?” Jim Ortega, Hicks’ right hand, asks, leaning around his best friend to lay skeptical eyes on mine. I glare at him, warning him to tread carefully.

“The photo is a still taken from video footage, so it’s a bit darker in the picture than it was in person,” I say, addressing the other man directly.

“There was enough visibility for him to see the silhouette of the driver. I believe that’s stated in the brief, Ortega, along with a first-hand account from Agent Beckham and me about how the driver took off when we tried to approach. ”

Anderson, who’s sitting closest to me and therefore the last person who should be lending his voice to a contrary opinion, scoffs. “If I’d seen two big motherfuckers that look like you coming my way, I would have peeled off too.”

My head whips around so fast, the asshole doesn’t have time to hide his flinch. “The fuck did you just say, Anderson?”

His face turns red, but I know it’s not remorse he’s displaying, or even embarrassment, it’s just plain ole fear that I might actually introduce his face to the clenched fist my hand has turned into. He slides away from me, holding his hands up with his palms facing outward.

“Chill, Drake, I was just joking.”

“Which part of that was funny, Anderson?” I tilt my head to the side as he flounders for a response, looking to his friends for help. I grab hold of his chair, spinning it around so Beck and I are the only things in his line of sight. Glancing back at Beck, I ask, “Did you get the joke?”

He grips his chin lightly, pursing his lips. “I didn’t. Why don’t you explain it to us, Anderson? Break down all the nuances that people who look like us might have missed.”

“Oh, well, I just meant…you know?—”

Hicks slams his hand on the table. “Enough!”

I can tell by the reckless thread of energy running between Beck and I that neither of us thinks its enough. It won’t ever be enough, not until fuckers who try to pass off racism and microaggressions as humor start losing their jobs for it.

“Drake, let go of his chair,” Hicks orders, his voice cracking like a whip.

I do as he asks, releasing Anderson and then shoving hard to get him the fuck away from me.

Once Anderson is settled in his spot around the table, Hicks looks between Beck and I.

At first, I think he’s going to ream us out, but he surprises me by sighing and rubbing a hand at the back of his neck.

“I wasn’t aware that the two of you tried to approach the vehicle,” he admits.

Beck places his elbows on the edge of the table, steepling his fingers together. “I thought you reviewed the video footage?”

“I did!” Hicks insists. “I guess I must have missed the part where you two made your approach.” He won’t meet either of our eyes, focusing instead on unfurling the piece of paper he scrapped just moments ago.

“Says here you went into the residence to retrieve Agent Drake instead of radioing for backup.”

Beck nods. “I did.”

He’d found me in the hallway having a rare moment alone with Selene.

She was fresh-faced and relaxed, her feet bare and her smile wide as I laughed at her bad joke.

There was a moment, after the joke and the crack in my professional persona, when I wanted to move past the formalities and tell her I wanted more of this side of her.

The silly, corny woman with eyes that sparkle with delight at someone else’s amusement.

I wanted to tell her that the remote, withdrawn woman who wears a suit of strength every time she leaves the house is lovely, but I know she’s not real because I watched my mother don the same armor when my dad left.

She never got to take it off because she never found anyone she trusted enough to be vulnerable with.

I want Selene to know she can trust that part of herself with me, to believe that if she wanted to shed it, I’d be there to shield her.

All of those desires evaporated into thin air when Beck appeared, which was just as well because I had no business wanting any of those things.

My job is her physical safety, not her emotional well-being.

It’s a fact I have to remind myself of constantly these days.

A mantra I repeat every time I scroll through her mentions on social media to log threats and run background checks on potential perpetrators and find myself wondering how she feels when she sees the things I see.

How it feels when the hate shows up in places I can’t be, like her personal inbox or the mail she gets at Culture Code, when the whole world feels like a cavern with sharp teeth, mouth open and waiting, ready to eat her alive.

When Beck and I first met, I found myself wondering about him in the same way.

I would go to sleep and dream of him, wake up and worry about him, about the grief he wore like a second skin and the wardrobe of pain and loneliness he layered over it.

I felt for him then what I feel for Selene now: a pressing need to be there for him, to hold some of his pain, so I insinuated my way into his world until he accepted I wasn’t going anywhere.

Doing that with Selene isn’t an option, though, because she’s married to the next President of the United States, and the oath I’m bound by only permits me to kill for her. To die for her. It doesn’t allow me to know her.

And even knowing that, I still indulged in that short, stolen moment and hated having to walk away from it. If it had been anyone else asking, I would have found a reason to say no, but it wasn’t anyone else. It was Beck, and I took one look at his face and knew denial wasn’t an option.

It never is with him.

He gave me the rundown on the situation on our way out of the house, and I followed his lead, covering him while he approached the driver’s side window, pulling him back when they sped away suddenly.

We called it in to Hicks immediately, not because we wanted his opinion—we knew something was off—but because we needed his permission to abandon our posts to give chase. Of course, he declined almost instantly, never letting Beck give him the complete picture.

This time when Beck tries to explain the interaction, Hicks lets him, nodding when he ends his recount by saying, “I think we should have the local PD put out a BOLO and bring the driver in for questioning. At the very least, we need the incident documented.”

“I’ll make note of it,” he says, rising from his seat, which puts an end to the meeting.

The rest of the team stands too, and Beck and I follow suit.

I’m about to congratulate him on making it through the meeting without ending up in Hicks’ dog house when he squares his shoulders and lets out a dark chuckle.

“Hey, Hicks,” he calls out, stopping him in his tracks.

Hicks turns, and his cronies turn too. All of them are wearing similar looks, anticipatory smirks pressed down into feigned serious expressions.

They know the train we’ve just managed to get back on track is about to go flying off the rails. “You didn’t write it down.”

Hicks’ brows furrow. “I’m sorry?”