The Kingmaker

by Ryan, Kennedy

  “Sounds good,” Kimba says, eyeing him closely like she’s memorizing his face, which she probably is. “Okay.”

  She bends to kiss my cheek and whispers in my ear, “Girl, get you some. If you say this one isn’t right, your ass is mine. That V-card? You better play it!”

  We chuckle and I glance over her shoulder to find Maxim watching me with single-minded intent.

  “I’ll see you when I get home,” I whisper back, not confirming, but I acknowledge at least to myself that meeting Maxim again feels like destiny; like fate set us up. I’d be a fool to ignore it, and for the first time, I think the V-card might actually come into play.

  9

  Maxim

  God, I thought they’d never leave. Our friends spill into the street, leaving the faintest echo of their laughter and conversation behind. I can tell David’s into Kimba. I wish him luck, but I’m too preoccupied with a second chance I never thought I’d get. Can it be called a second chance when there was never a chance before?

  I’m still, on some level, processing that the girl I was so drawn to four years ago is this even-more-beautiful-than-before woman here in Amsterdam, in my favorite brown bar, watching me with the same kind of stunned excitement buzzing through my body.

  “Your friends are nice,” Lennix says, popping a triangle of gouda into her mouth.

  “They’re not.” I laugh. “But they were on their best behavior tonight. They can fake it when pretty girls are involved.”

  “The night definitely took a turn when you guys came around.” She smiles, pushing a chunk of straight black hair behind her ear. “It’s spring break and they’re looking for hook-ups, so your friends might get lucky. Well, not with Viv.”

  “I hope not with you. I was kind of hoping I’d have you all to myself.”

  She doesn’t laugh. Or smile even. She looks up from the cheese board and levels an intense stare at me.

  “Is that what you want?” she asks, her voice more casual than her eyes. “A hook-up?”

  If she’s asking if I want to fuck her, then of course. If she’s asking if that’s all it would be . . . who knows? Nothing ever felt typical where this girl was concerned. Not the way we met. Not the things I learned about her. Not the way her image, her voice, that throaty laugh would revisit me in the middle of a lecture or even while I was kissing someone else.

  “I want to get to know you,” I tell her, answering and not answering as honestly as I can. “Tell me what’s been happening with you the last few years.”

  “Yes, well, let’s see. I was, as predicted, grounded until graduation.”

  We share a quick glance and a chuckle.

  “I’m not surprised,” I say. “I wouldn’t want my seventeen-year-old daughter getting bitten by dogs and tear gassed and stuck in a holding cell with a bunch of grown men and prostitutes.”

  “I didn’t get bitten by a dog.” She surprises me, reaching out to push up my sleeve and touch the scar on my forearm. “You did.”

  Her fingers on my skin make my breath shorten and my body harden. Really? One touch and I’m ready to blow?

  “So from grounded to graduation.” I stroke my fingertip over her thumb where it still rests on my forearm. I don’t miss the quick catch of her breath, but I keep talking. “Then college?”

  “Uh, yeah.” She traces the labyrinthic pattern of my fingerprint. “Arizona State.”

  “Major?”

  “Public service and public policy, with a concentration in American Indian studies.”

  “Cool.” I squeeze the hand still resting on my arm. “What do you want to do?”

  “That’s the million-dollar question. Maybe get my master’s. I’ve been offered a pretty prestigious fellowship, which would require I serve in some field-related area for a year, or I have a great job offer from a firm in DC.”

  “What kind of firm?”

  “A lobbying firm. For some reason, I think I may end up in politics.” She eyes me closely. “I remember you went to Berkeley. That was . . . undergrad?”

  “Undergrad and my master’s. I just finished my PhD in climate science.”

  “Wow. So Doctor Kingsman. I would never have guessed.”

  “What would you have guessed?”

  She squints one eye and hums, considering. “Business maybe?”

  “I double majored in business and energy resources engineering at Berkeley, so you’re not far off there.”

  “Why those fields?”

  “Just seemed smart to have a business background.” I don’t add that my family’s company has been a Forbes lister for decades.

  “And the energy resources?” she asks. “How’d you come to that?”

  “I’m fascinated by the climate. How we can reverse all the crap we’re doing to ruin this planet. Most importantly, how America can become less dependent on fossil fuels. Our leaders are so damn shortsighted, leaning on oil and gas as much as we do. It’s not sustainable.”

  “Is that why you were there protesting the pipeline?”

  “Yeah, something like that.” I rush on before she can probe any further. “So still figuring out what you want to do with the degree, huh?”

  “I know I want to change the world. I’m just not sure how yet.”

  I’ve never heard anyone more confident saying they don’t know something. She says it like she is the question—like as soon as she determines her plan of action, the world will be putty in her hands to shape and mold into something better. I could laugh in her face, call her naïve, but I don’t because I feel the same way.

  “I get that,” I reply, linking my pinky finger with hers on the table. “Sometimes my goals and dreams feel too big. Like you really think you can convince a nation to change its ways? And the answer is always yes. I don’t know how either, but yes.” I force a chuckle, growing uncomfortable under her unwavering regard. “Is that arrogant? Presumptuous?”

  “Yes, but I think revolution requires a certain degree of hubris.”

  “Who said that?” I ask, racking my brain for a reference for the quote.

  “Oh, I did. Just now.”

  Well, impress the hell out of me.

  She lifts her beer with the hand I’m not holding and yawns into the glass. “Sorry. I guess jet lag is starting to kick in.”

  I stand, pulling her to her feet, too. “Let’s get you home, or at least your home away from home. Let’s get you to your hostel.”

  When we step outside, crisp, cold air greets us on the street.

  “It’s much cooler than I thought it would be,” Lennix says, chafing her bare arms. “Glad it’s a short walk.”

  “Yeah, the weather here can be unpredictable and cool until it’s not.” I tug my leather jacket off and drape it around her shoulders.

  “Oh, no.” She starts to slide the jacket off, but I stop her.

  “Look.” I point to the long sleeve of my T-shirt. “I’ll be fine for a few minutes.”

  She nods, reluctance and gratitude in her smile.

  It’s a straight shot to her hostel, but I take us down a side street to stretch out our time. That and it puts us along the Amstel river, a romantic promenade if ever there was one.

  Moonlight refracts from the glassy water. The slightest breeze, the breath of night, lifts Lennix’s hair, and I’m reminded how it seemed she commanded the very elements that day in the desert.

  “You really were remarkable at that protest,” I say, breaking the companionable silence we’ve been walking in.

  “Huh?” She looks up at me, her leisurely stride never breaking. “What?”

  “At the protest that day. You spoke with such conviction and passion.”

  “So many things were taken from us,” she says, her voice hushed, but strong. “They tried to strip our language, our land, our home, our family. Even our traditions.”

  I listen, wanting to hear her much more than I want to hear myself.

  “To me, to many of us, activism is as holy as the ceremonies we almost
lost because it connects us to the land and to our ancestors. It’s how we join their fight. We take our place in the line of generations who will resist.” A snort of cynical laughter escapes her. “Even when it seems like a lost cause.”

  “It’s not.” I grab her hand and tuck it into the crook of my elbow, shorten my steps to match hers. “Don’t ever think that.”

  She glances up at me, searching my face before nodding, smiling.

  “Why Amsterdam?” she asks, shifting the focus to me.

  “Well, Europe is far ahead of us in clean energy. For whatever reason, Europeans are less resistant to the energy shifts we need. I came here to study the progress they’re making. How the governments educate the populace and persuade them the changes are necessary. The Dutch are really forward thinking, especially when it comes to wind.”

  “You’re kinda smart, aren’t you?” She grins and tightens her fingers on my arm. “PhD and all.”

  “I promise not to make you call me doctor.”

  “I think I will, Doc.” Her grin widens, and the humor is like a candle lit inside of her, illuminating all the things I like most about her face. The pride in the jut of her chin. The strength to the set of her jaw. The kindness, intelligence, and curiosity in the metal/mettle silver eyes.

  I break our stride and look down at her, and cup one side of her face in my hand. It’s cool against the dry warmth of my palm.

  “Ask me how many times I’ve thought about you since that protest.” My voice scratches gruffly against the cool silk of the quiet night.

  She stares up at me, and at first I think she’ll wave off my question, pretend this is normal, what’s happening between us. But she doesn’t do that. She doesn’t pretend or wave it off. She meets it head-on and answers with unflinching honesty.

  “Maybe as many times as I’ve thought of you.”

  10

  Lennix

  My father would lecture me until his face turned blue.

  He’d send the authorities searching for me.

  A man I met only once before tonight, a stranger whose last name I just discovered an hour ago, has me alone on a nearly deserted street in a foreign country at three a.m.

  It may not be wise, but I’ll be damned if I would be anywhere else right now. Not safely tucked into my top bunk at the hostel knowing Maxim was out there wanting my company. We’ve been wooing each other with tiny touches and furtive brushes and lingering glances. I’m not sure how much longer I can stand it.

  “So you thought of me, too, huh?” His grin is rakish on the handsome “somebody” face. There’s a Kennedy vibe about him. Not just the dark, dappled hair, or the tall, fit body, or the confidence in his shoulders. It’s his ideals and the iron will barely hidden beneath the casual manner. I’m not fooled. This man is not casual. He bleeds ambition. I wonder if he tries to hide it—to blend in with everyone else. It’s laughable to think he could camouflage his driven nature and be something that he’s not. Be domesticated when he is indeed, like Kimba said, a wolf.

  “You’re probably already too conceited for me to answer that.” I grin back and start walking again.

  “Tell me.” He says it like he means it, grasping my arm gently and halting our steps again. “You thought of me?”

  Words rise and fall in my throat. I could tell him that I didn’t realize it until right now, but he was a bar no other guy ever cleared. That it had nothing to do with how handsome he was, or his formidable body or dazzling smile. That the moment he stepped between me and that dog, something inside me recognized him as more than the rest.

  I can’t say any of that, so I answer with only a solemn nod. There’s a wild flare in his eyes, like that ambition, that will I see tucked beneath his easy demeanor, roaring to life. He places a hand on either side of my face, his palms to my cheeks, and caresses the sides of my neck.

  “Can I kiss you, Lennix?”

  The question lights a fiery thread that binds us to one another, and it burns so strong, so hot, that words seem superfluous. How could he not know I want that, too? He has to know I hunger for this kiss, but I nod again.

  He slowly backs us up a few feet to where the cobblestone street meets a wall. We’re partially hidden in the shadow this building casts. There’s stone at my back, the Amstel river glittering ahead, and Maxim’s body flush against mine. I feel every hardened ridge of him perfectly fitting to my body. His fingers slide into my hair. He looks down at me, and though his face is painted in shades of night, I see those gem eyes, gleaming bright and green, staring at my mouth.

  He doesn’t ask again if he can kiss me. He just does, bending to test the texture of my lips with one swipe of his tongue and then another, like I’m a lollipop he wants to know how many licks it takes to get to the center of. He probes at me, seeking something I want to give. I open and take him in completely, tasting that last glass of whiskey and him. God, him. I want to crawl down his throat. My hands climb his shoulders and rove into the thick hair falling around his nape, all the while I tilt my head to get and give as much as possible.

  If a kiss has a color, this one is the muted shades of the sky overhead, a ménage à trois

  of midnight and indigo and moonshine silver. If a kiss has a sound, this one is the concert of our breaths and sighs and moans. If a kiss has a taste, it tastes like this. Hunger flavored with yearning and spiced with desperation. With bites and growls and tender licks and soothing whimpers. Perfectly served portions of sweet and scorching.

  One powerful thigh presses between mine, and I’m riding it before I realize my hips have taken up a rhythm of their own. He holds my head still as he plunders my mouth. He cups my breast, teasing the tip into a tight bud. I break the kiss to cry out, my back arching away from the wall to press deeper into his hand. My thighs straddle his as I rub myself against him over and over, seeking the abrasion of denim through the layers of my dress and panties.

  “Shit, Nix.” He rests his forehead against mine. “My place is just a few streets over. Come home with me.”

  Is this how it happens? My first time with a man? In a mad dash through cobblestone streets and a frantic push and pull of clothes and a head half-fogged by Dutch gin and jet lag?

  I pant into his mouth, brushing my lips against his, but pulling back when he would dive inside again to muddy my thoughts and steal my reason. I give him one last kiss, brief and hot, before disentangling myself from him. I leave him at the wall, his broad shoulders heaving with the force of his breath, of his passion. His face is shadowed by the moon hiding behind a cloud.

  “Not, um . . .” I pull his jacket tighter around me. “Not tonight. Is that okay?”

  “Yes.” He pushes from the wall and is close in two strides. His hands are back on me in seconds, one at my hip and the other cupping my face. “Of course it’s alright. I’m sorry. That was fast. Damn, I’m sorry.”

  “No, I wanted it, too. I . . . I want it, too.”

  He leans into a beam of moonlight, revealing his pleased smile. Not smug or cocky. Just pleased that I want him, too. He kisses me again, but without the madness. With a sweet brush of lips and a gentle touch at the side of my mouth before pulling back to peer down at me.

  “Let’s get you home . . . or rather let’s get you hostel.”

  We both grin at that, but there is still this niggling fear that maybe I’ve ruined something. Maybe I should have gone home with him.

  “I’m glad you stopped,” he says, and I wonder if I’ve worried aloud.

  “You are?”

  “I want us both clear-headed and alert and certain when it happens. I can’t pretend I don’t want it to happen, though. I do.”

  “I do, too.” I huddle deeper into the him smell of his leather jacket, and into the warmth of his body it still wraps me in. He shoots me a hot look, one that transports me back to the wall in the shadows with his hand teasing my nipple. Wordlessly, he takes my hand. It feels natural to twine our fingers and swing our joined hands between us just the slighte
st bit, making our own breeze in an otherwise still night.

  We complete the short walk in silence and far too soon stand outside the hostel. I start sliding his jacket off, but he stops me again, clutching the lapels to pull me in for one final kiss.

  “Tomorrow,” he murmurs against my lips, licking into the corners and nipping at the center. “I’ll get it back tomorrow.”

  It’s all the promise I need.

  11

  Maxim

  My brother’s name on my cell always takes me by surprise. He calls so rarely that it jolts me, mostly because I always assume something must be catastrophically wrong for him to cross the picket line my father has drawn between us. Or maybe I drew it. After four years, it seems to matter less who drew the line. All that really matters is that I stand on this side of it alone.

  “Owen,” I answer on the third ring. “Hey.”

  “I wasn’t sure you’d pick up.” My brother’s deep voice comes across the phone.

  “Is Mom okay? Are you?” Is Dad?

  I leave that last question unasked, but I dread the day when Owen calls to say our father is gone.

  “Damn, Max, why does it have to be doom or gloom before I can talk to my little brother? Maybe I’m just calling to say hi.”

  “Okay, hi. What do you want?” The small pause after my words makes me feel ashamed.

  Owen is a good man. He may be on the path our father set for him, but he’s not like him. Not like us. He may have balls of steel, or whatever my father thinks you need to survive politics, but he also has iron integrity.

  “That’s not fair,” he replies with low, firm reproach. “This fight is between you and Dad. Mom and I don’t want to choose sides. You barely answer when we call. You never come home. Mom misses you.”

  “Bullshit. You’ve chosen a side, O. Is your precious Senate seat courtesy of Dad’s deep pockets?”

  “You don’t know a damn thing, Max. I worked my ass off for this, and it’s what I’ve always wanted to do. You know that.”