Page 9 of The Illusion of Power (Passion and Politics #1)

BECK

“ S he’s impossible.”

I toss the words over my shoulder, and even though I can’t see his face because I’m digging through the refrigerator to find the steaks that have been marinating all day in preparation for our first night off in weeks, I know Cal is smiling.

He’s amused by my agitation with Selene Taylor and has taken every opportunity to let me know it.

I’ve been ranting about my run-in with the future First Lady for hours, starting the moment I passed through the door of his home after stopping by my place for a quick shower and a change of clothes.

It’s not rare for us to spend our nights off together, even though we spend all day by each other’s side, but it is rare for me to still be talking shop when I’m on the cusp of consuming one of his culinary creations.

The bowl I’ve been hunting is sitting on a shelf below the one Cal said it would be on, and I pull it out, setting it on the counter so the steaks inside can come down to room temperature.

“You don’t agree?” I ask, arching a brow as I scoop up my glass of wine. It’s the only one I’ll have tonight. Usually, I would save the small indulgence for the food it’s meant to be enjoyed with, but I couldn’t bring myself to wait.

Nothing goes with venting like wine.

“I didn’t say that.”

“You didn’t say anything.” My eyes are on his hands, watching the fluid motion of the knife rocking against the wooden cutting board as he minces garlic and slices shallots.

When he’s done, he slides everything into the stainless steel pan on the stove. They hit the olive oil with a quiet sizzle that makes him smile.

He loves to cook.

That’s the first thing I learned about him, and I gained that knowledge at a time in my life when I didn’t want to know anything about anyone new because I’d just had my entire world ripped from me in the most brutal way.

I was trying to rebuild, and despite transferring to a new unit within the Bureau and integrating myself into a team I didn’t know or trust, I was hellbent on doing it alone.

Cal wouldn’t let me.

We were partnered up on my first day in the Counter Terrorism Unit.

I knew it was because he was the only other Black man, but I didn’t mind.

I was glad to be paired with someone who’d spent more of his life than I had carrying the badge.

I relished his wisdom even as I resented him for forcing his way into my life, infiltrating my bubble of grief with his quiet strength, constant support, and meals, even a recently widowed man out of his mind with anger and self-loathing couldn’t refuse.

Now he cooks for me all the time, and I have no qualms about letting him.

We share meals and vent our frustrations about being Black men in America who have spent our lives in service to a country that was never meant to serve us back.

Most of the time, our frustrations are shared.

The two of us volleying complaints back and forth until we both feel light enough to wake up the next morning and do the job all over again.

I don’t need the camaraderie, but I do wonder why it feels like I’m alone in my frustration with Selene Taylor, especially when I gave Cal the complete play-by-play, including the acrid smell of burnt rubber that stuck to me long after she peeled out of the driveway in front of her building.

“Why aren’t you saying anything, Cal?”

“Because you need me to listen more than you need me to talk, Beck,” he says, copper eyes flicking to my face with humor shimmering in the brass puddles of his irises.

“That’s never stopped you from adding in your two cents before.

” Curious, I study his face, watching for something.

I’m not sure what, though. He rolls his eyes, turning his back to me.

I slap my hand on the counter, taking the break in eye contact for the tell that it is.

“You think I’m in the wrong, don’t you?”

When he spins back around with the bowl of spinach I washed earlier in his hand, I see the truth written all over the perfectly symmetrical lines of his face. “I was following orders,” I explain through clenched teeth. “It came directly from Hicks. What was I supposed to do? Say no?”

“Of course not. You’re already on thin ice with him as it is.”

I grimace, hating that he’s right. Daniel Hicks and I have butted heads since Cal and I made the move from the FBI to the Secret Service together.

Years later, not much has changed except for the fact that he’s my boss, which means I can’t over rule him when he’s wrong, which is far too often, or punch him in his shit when his mouth gets a little too reckless.

“Well then? What was I supposed to do?”

Cal sighs, stirring slowly to fully incorporate the heavy cream he’s just added to the pan of spinach.

“You were supposed to remember that everyone reacts to having their lives invaded by strangers differently. Selene has made it clear from the beginning that she didn’t want us in her building.

Did you honestly think she was going to respond well to you showing up and strong-arming her? ”

“I wasn’t strong-arming her,” I grumble as the frustration that had my chest all puffed up and my shoulders high around my ears dissipates. Cal watches me deflate, a knowing smile curving his full lips as he adds a mixture of freshly grated Provolone and Parmesan into the pan.

“You were, and you probably got all stern and formal when you realized she was intent on standing her ground.”

Damn, the man knows me too well.

“How many times did you call her ma’am?”

“Shut up, Drake.”

Cutting the heat to the eye, he huffs out a laugh that only grows louder when I flip him off, and I busy myself with taking another sip of my wine.

Cal’s smile fades, his expression growing a bit more serious.

Over the rim of my near-empty glass, I watch him cover the pan of creamed spinach and move it off the stove.

Then he’s crossing the room to me, wiping his hands on the kitchen towel he keeps slung across his shoulder when he’s cooking.

“All I’m saying is you could have adjusted your approach when you realized she wasn’t receptive.”

“Is this the moment where you give me the speech about getting more flies with honey?” I ask, setting my empty glass down.

As the more cynical and outspoken half of our duo, I’ve heard the speech from Cal a thousand times before. They weren’t as frequent when we were in the Bureau as they are now, but I wasn’t as unsatisfied there as I am here.

He sets the towel down on the counter. His hand still resting on the blue cotton with white lines threaded through it, the tips of his outstretched fingers stopping mere inches from mine. I obsess over that distance while he considers my question.

“No,” he says finally. “I don’t think you need to hear it today.

I do think you need to come to terms with the reality of this detail, though.

You’ve already made it clear you think this assignment is below you.

You don’t have to let that belief spill out into every interaction with the Taylors or the rest of our team. ”

Cal has always been the more diplomatic of the two of us.

I’m not sure if it’s wisdom from the few years he has on me or just ill-placed humility, but he’s always so cool about everything, including not getting what he deserves.

I, unfortunately, have never had a diplomatic bone in my body.

I push and push and push for what I deserve.

When it’s not easily given, I take it. And I’m a million times worse when it comes to what I believe the people I love deserve.

“I don’t think the assignment is below me. I think it’s below us .”

“Beck, we’ve been through this.”

He’s right. We’ve been through this a million times, and the conversation is always just me trying to figure out how we went from decorated FBI agents preventing a domestic terrorism group run by a gun-loving white supremacist named Leland Marsh from murdering a sitting President to doing whatever it is we’re doing now.

Our unit, but more specifically Cal and I, had been building a case against Marsh and the Brothers of Confederate Pride for years.

Leland was methodical and surprisingly intelligent for a man so ignorant, so it had been a slow process.

Every time we thought we were about to catch a break, the witness we flipped would turn up dead, or the agent we put undercover would double-cross us.

The assassination attempt was a lucky break.

It had come out of nowhere, though. A result of President Warner’s outcry for gun control laws in the wake of the Taylors’ son’s death.

Like most things involving politicians, I’d taken the President’s speech about our government needing to do more than send thoughts and prayers with a grain of salt.

However, Marsh and his cronies took it as a sign that the government was finally banding together with minority groups to prevent white Americans from protecting themselves.

When I put the cuffs on him, Marsh admitted he considered gunning for the Taylors instead of Warner, but ultimately decided a dead President would make a bigger splash.

It was a dumb risk, but I’m glad he took it because it allowed us to put him and the majority of his organization behind bars for a long time.

Cal clears his throat, pulling me out of my head and prompting me to reply.

“I know we have, but that doesn’t make me any less angry about it.

Five years ago, you and I were the only thing standing between a sitting President and imminent danger.

They came to us, do you remember? They fed us all of this shit about valor and patriotism and asked us to leave the Bureau, promising renowned details and distinguished assignments worthy of our sacrifices.

We should be guarding Presidents, Cal, not babysitting future First Ladies who don’t even want our protection. ”