The Kingmaker

by Ryan, Kennedy

  I press my forehead to his, ghost my lips over his to taste his urgent breaths.

  “Don’t tell me never again,” he pants. “I don’t like that word.”

  His commanding words jar me. I jerk back and push him away. God, what have I done? What have I allowed? Yielded? Anyone could have walked in, caught us. I risked so much for what? A quick fuck with a man who lied to me?

  I scramble off the table, standing and righting my clothes. Shame burns my face as the evidence of my weakness trickles out of me, dampening my panties. I’m weak. So weak. I can’t resist him, but I can’t have him. I won’t.

  “I need you to go.” I turn away, struggling to regain my composure. “That was a mistake.”

  “That was what happens when we’re together,” he counters, behind me and closer than he was a few seconds ago. “That’s why I came here, even knowing you’d be furious. Remember when you asked me that night in the alley if it’s always like this?”

  I turn to face him, watching him closely. “You said sometimes.”

  “I lied. It’s never like this. I thought I could walk away, but I don’t want to, Lennix. That was always my rule, but I’d never had you. I can’t stay away from you. Don’t ask me to. Yes, I have to go to the Amazon and you’re going on the campaign trail, but we can try long distance. We can get past this misunderstanding and—”

  “Misunderstanding?” I offer a disbelieving laugh. “You and your family, your father represent everything I want to spend my life fighting.”

  “I told you I’m not the company.”

  “Not the company. You’re a liar and a thief, just like Warren Cade. He took things that weren’t his, just like you did.”

  “Everything of yours I have,” he says, anger burning in his glare, “you gave freely and you know it.”

  “To Maxim Kingsman—not to you.”

  “It’s all the same. It’s all me,” he shouts. “Maxim Kingsman Cade. That’s who I am. I can’t change that, Nix.”

  “You should have told me the truth and let me decide for myself if I wanted to be involved with you, because that means being involved with your family, connected to your father. That’s too complicated for me. And you lied.”

  “Let me tell you the truth now.”

  “It’s too late.”

  “Too late?” He points to the conference room table. “That just happened. We are still happening. I can’t be in the same room with you for ten seconds without wanting that to happen, so don’t tell me it’s too late. You still want this, want me. And I want you so fucking much. When I was in Antarctica—”

  “Don’t.” I close my eyes and cover my ears. If I think about the way my heart broke when I thought he might die, I’ll lose my anger, my indignation and I’ll hold him all night. I might try to hold him forever. “Don’t talk about that.”

  “You don’t want to hear that when I wondered if we’d be rescued in time, all I could think about was you?” he asks softly. “That after only a week with you, it wasn’t my family or the memories from twenty-eight years on this Earth that kept me sane, but it was a matter of days with you? Reliving your kisses and our conversations. The hope that I could make it back to you and convince you we shouldn’t walk away. That I was wrong. A stupid bastard to think I could.”

  “I’m glad you made it out alive,” I say, such a pale reflection of the knee-weakening relief that came when I heard he’d been rescued. “But don’t you get it?” I ask, blinking back tears. “You did the one thing I am so tired of everyone doing. You lied to get what you want.”

  “If you would just let me explain—”

  “How will you explain? You’ll use that bright mind and that silver tongue to convince me? To persuade me? You’re all so good at tricking us, aren’t you? If you care about me at all, don’t convince me. Don’t trick me out of my convictions. When you tell the truth now, it only reminds me that whatever we were before, it was a lie.”

  “You expect what? That I’ll just walk away?”

  “Wasn’t that the original plan?”

  “Before this, Nix. Before us. If you hadn’t left Amsterdam early, I would have told you the truth. I would have told you I can’t walk away.”

  My insides are melting again. The longer I’m around him, the longer I stand in this heat we generate when we’re together, the harder it is to hold onto my anger. My fingers slip and slide around my indignation when he’s inside me, when he tells me all the things I wanted to hear from the first night we made love.

  I’m weakening when something bright on the floor by one of the boxes catches my attention. It’s one of the neon fliers we posted searching for Tammara.

  Tammara. Another girl lost. Gone.

  Mama. Lost. Gone.

  Our land, our traditions, our language—they’re lost and gone. Stolen. A cycle of thievery and scorn and cruelty that began with an invasion, one act after another that evolved into the systems that never give us a chance.

  Liar. Trickster. Thief.

  That’s who I was falling for. That’s who I gave myself to. The son of our oppressor. The heir to our spoils.

  Liar. Trickster. Thief.

  I let the mantra reverberate through me, reach all the places Maxim claimed for himself, and I take them back.

  He shoves his hands through his hair, away from his face, exposing the neat row of stitches at his hairline. I steel my will against the parts of me weakening, thinking of him in danger.

  “Get out.” Even I hear the new resolve in my voice, the starched determination of my words. “I never want to see you again.”

  “Nix.” He strides over, his hands already reaching for me, but I evade him and open the conference room door.

  “Go,” I say. “This was the plan from the beginning. We said we’d walk away and I’m sticking to it. Go to the Amazon, the Antarctic. You go off and change your world.” I point to the campaign logo on my T-shirt. “And I’ll change mine.”

  “There’s only one world, Nix,” he says.

  A harsh laugh burns my lips, acidic and cynical. “God, you are a fool if you believe that. Every statistic, every news story, every broken promise and dead girl tells me we don’t live in the same world, and we have different battles to fight. You go fight yours and leave me to fight mine.”

  Something changes in him, on his face. Anger and resolve harden his features. He walks up to me, but doesn’t touch.

  “Since you found out that I’m a Cade,” he says. “I don’t have to hide anymore. There’s something you should know about us.”

  “And what’s that?” I ask, feeling hunted by the wolf gleam in his eyes. I want to deny what a thrill it sends through me.

  “We get whatever the fuck we want,” he says, dropping his eyes down the length of my body. “And I want you, Lennix Moon. I want the girl who chases stars.”

  “Well you can’t have her. You can’t have me.”

  “I can’t force you. I wouldn’t want you like that anyway. You want time. I can respect that. I can’t make you give me another chance.”

  He pulls in a tired breath and shoves his hands through his hair. “I have to leave now for this expedition, but we’re not done.”

  “I say we are.” My voice is shockingly steady, considering how I’m trembling inside.

  “We’re not. Do what you need to do. Change your world,” he says softly, his eyes connected to mine so intensely there’s no hope of looking away. “I have to go make my world, but when the time is right, I’ll be back for you.”

  Part III

  “Let us put our minds together to see what kind of future we can make . . .”

  – Sitting Bull, Lakota Holy Man & Leader

  34

  Lennix

  Ten Years Later

  “Never fuck the candidate.”

  No matter how many times I’ve said it, there’s always some dewy-eyed girl still smelling like sorority who doesn’t get it. Who just haaaaaaas to know what two hundred or so pounds of future Mr.
President feels like between her legs.

  “It’s rule number one, Lacy.” I sit on the edge of my desk and consider the young campaign technology director. “And you broke it.”

  “I didn’t mean for it to happen.” Fat tears stream from Lacy’s eyes and she rubs at them just enough to look cute, but not smear her makeup.

  “Cut the tears, honey,” I say. “This act you’re putting on, it’s a re-run. I’ve seen every season.”

  Lacy freezes mid-weep, glancing at me from under a set of press-on lashes.

  “I don’t have time for tears or excuses,” I continue. “Day one, I tell everybody, don’t fuck the candidate. It’s bad for business. It eliminates your objectiveness. Most of all, it gives the press, and therefore potential voters, something to focus on besides the issues. And nine times out of ten, it costs everyone. The candidate, the sweet young thing, and most importantly, the people that candidate could have helped had we installed them into the place of power. That is the main reason the rule exists because the people are our bottom line.”

  I cross my legs, swinging one bright green Louboutin Pigalle sling-back in time with the second hand ticking on my wall clock.

  “I have to let you go.” I sculpt my voice into the shape and hardness of dismissal.

  Lacy’s shocked eyes snap to meet mine.

  “Are you kidding me?” She shakes her head, setting her blond curls bobbing. “I could have run tech for fifty campaigns, but I wanted to work with the Kingmaker. I chose you.”

  I grimace at the ridiculous nickname the press started using a few years ago when a string of my candidates won high-profile races.

  “Actually, I chose you,” I remind her ungently. “Not the other way around. And I appreciate your special talents and your dedication to the job, but you’re compromised. I’m running triage now covering your tracks and trying my damnedest to keep this out of the news cycle.”

  “We were discreet.”

  “Oh, is that what you call it? Susan’s wife came home to find the two of you in her bed with their kids asleep upstairs. What part of that do you consider discreet exactly?”

  “Kristin was supposed to be out of town,” Lacy says defensively. “And it was so late, we knew the kids wouldn’t come downstairs. I just . . . Susan’s so amazing.”

  “They often are. In my experience, power gilds the goose. Makes it look like a peacock, but in the end, it’s still just a bird that honks when it flies.”

  “I need this job, Lennix.”

  “And I need you off this campaign. Firing you is the first of several steps to keep Kristin at Susan’s side, smiling for the cameras until election day. Susan may have a wandering eye, but she’s got damn good ideas for getting women equal pay. That’s all I care about. We need her to win in Denver.”

  “But where will I go?” Lacy cries, and this time I believe her tears. She doesn’t bother being careful with the mascara. “What will I do? Can you at least give me a letter of reference?”

  “Sure. The first line of my letter will read, ‘Watch this one. She fucks the candidates.’” I pluck a couple Kleenex from the glass holder on the corner of my desk and hand them to her. “I wish this could be different, and I wish you the best.”

  “The hell you wish me the best.” Lacy stands, her fists clenched at her sides. “Bitch. Do you know how hard it will be for me to find another job in politics without a reference letter?”

  “Harder than keeping your legs closed, I’m guessing? ’Cause that proved really difficult for you.” I lean back and press the intercom. “Karla, Lacy’s ready for her escort.”

  The heavy glass doors swing open. My assistant, Karla, stands there with two security guards. They walk forward, and though they don’t grab Lacy, it’s obvious if she jumps, they’re ready.

  “This is ridiculous,” Lacy screams. “I’ll sue you for this.”

  “Try that. You signed an iron-clad contract that you wouldn’t have sexual relations with any candidate Hunter, Allen represents. We’ve all signed that agreement, with the understanding that violating it is grounds for instant dismissal.”

  “You’ll regret this,” Lacy grits between her teeth.

  “You can clear out your things.” I reach behind my desk and proffer a box already assembled. “Or Karla can do it for you. Either way is fine with me.”

  Lacy snatches the box from my hands and walks toward the door with her head held high and Karla at her heels. “I’ll do it myself. I’ve done nothing to be ashamed of.”

  “Actually you had an affair with a married woman whose wife almost died giving birth to their triplets. So . . . yeah. The public would think you should be ashamed.”

  Susan should be ashamed, too, but she probably won’t be. Concerned, yes, about whether we can convince her wife to hang around. Concerned that this never makes it to the public’s greedy noses. She won’t be concerned, though, that I just fired one of the most brilliant tech minds I’ve encountered in a long time.

  “And now I need a replacement.”

  “Yeah, you do,” Kimba says from the door, the “Allen” in Hunter, Allen & Associates. “And fast. This campaign is in full swing.”

  “Karla!” I say loud enough to carry to my assistant’s outer office. She hurries in, running a hand over her purple pixie cut and with red in her cheeks.

  “Lacy is not happy,” she says, her eyes wide. “But the guards are with her.”

  “Good. I want her off the property in ten. Find Kristin Bowden for me, will ya? I need to speak to her ASAP.”

  “Got it, boss.” Karla heads for the door, but leaves a parting shot over her shoulder. “And ASAP number two needs to be getting outta here and down to the set.”

  “Exactly why I’m here,” Kimba says. “We need to leave in ten minutes if we’re gonna make it to the taping in time.”

  “Ugh.” I massage my temples. “Remind me again why we’re doing this now? I fly to New York tonight for that rally in Queens. This is the last thing I need.”

  “We’re doing this because Beltway is the hottest new political show around.” Kimba raises perfectly shaped brows over shrewd brown eyes. “You know I love stuff like this about as much as a pap smear, but we got books to sell, baby.”

  “Louder is already a New York Times bestseller, no thanks to Bryce Collins. If he’d actually wanted to help, he would have had us on for release week when we asked. Why now?”

  “Who said he wants to help us? I’m sure he has his own agenda, but don’t kick a gift horse. Get that pretty little ass in gear.”

  I grin and wiggle the pretty little ass in question at her and walk behind my desk, then flop down into my chair with a whoosh of tired breath.

  “And the publisher wants us to do it,” Kimba continues. “The studio’s sending a car over to take us.”

  “Fancy.”

  The intercom buzzes on my desk.

  “Lenn,” Karla says. “I have Kristen Bowden on the phone.”

  Kimba and I exchange a harassed look. I sigh and pick up the phone, leaning back in my chair and kicking my feet up onto the desk.

  “Kristen,” I say, ready to beg and mollify. “Thanks for taking my call.”

  * * *

  “So she’s still in?” Kimba asks once we’re in the car Beltway sent for us.

  “Barely. She was angry and hurt, of course, but she does believe in Susan’s vision. And she loves her and wants to save her marriage, so hearing that Lacy is no longer working for the campaign went a long way. Good luck getting Susan to stop long enough to focus on fixing the marriage, though.”

  “Is every politician a narcissist?”

  “Pretty much, with few exceptions. We work with who we’re given.”

  “You know how everyone talks about that once-in-a-lifetime candidate?” Kimba asks. “We’ve put some incredible people in power and done a lot of good, but I’m still waiting for that.”

  “Me, too.” I sigh. “Until then, we keep doing our best with what we get.”
<
br />   Our best has been great and we’ve gotten a lot. In the five years since we started our political consulting firm, Allen, Hunter & Associates, we’ve gotten a lot of people who champion the causes of marginalized people elected.

  “You look great,” I tell Kimba when we arrive at Beltway’s downtown studio.

  “Ya think?” She fluffs the cloud of her naturally textured brown hair, highlighted with gold. “That Orangetheory must be working. Gotta keep this ass in check.”

  Several men and a few women watch said ass in Kimba’s body-hugging fuchsia dress.

  “I think you’re doing just fine,” I say wryly.

  “You look great, too.” She nods to my dress. “Is that another Wiona original?”

  “Yup.” I smooth the fitted azure dress and scarf at my neck. “I try to wear her stuff when I have appearances.”

  Wiona is an incredibly gifted indigenous fashion designer I met in North Dakota. I wear her clothes every chance I get, declaring my heritage when I can.

  We’re in the dressing room getting our makeup freshened when Alice, the producer, comes in. She’s sharp and I respect her, despite the fact that her host is a bit of an ass. He postures himself as a moderate who maintains professional objectivity, but I think it thinly veils his implicit bias and misogyny. Kimba says I find bias and misogyny in house plants. She’s not wrong, but come on. That shit’s everywhere.