The Kingmaker

by Ryan, Kennedy

  It’s true. You have two options in our family: Cade Energy or politics. Owen paid his dues with the company, but he’s always kept his eye on the Oval.

  “So are you calling to invite me to the inauguration?” I ask, relaxing into the teasing tone that used to come so easily. “I know I haven’t lived in America in a long time, but did I miss an entire election?”

  “Very funny,” Owen returns, a smile in his voice. “That’s not in the plan for another ten years. Maybe by then you’ll have something to show for yourself and can help me win.”

  “Oh, I’ll have something to show for myself alright. Whether or not I help you depends entirely on who’s pulling your strings.”

  “The people pull my strings, Max.”

  A bark of laughter erupts from me immediately. “Damn, O, there’s no cameras rolling. Save the poll-tested lines for your next speech.”

  “It’s not a line. I want to do what’s in the best interest of my constituents.”

  “So where do you stand on fossil fuels? I mean, given that you used to work for an oil company, I think I know.”

  “Let’s just say my views are evolving. I represent California so there’s a demand for more clean energy legislation.”

  “Good luck convincing the public you aren’t in our father’s pocket on oil when you can’t even convince your own brother.”

  “I’ve got time to figure it out. In the meantime, back to our mother.”

  “She’s okay?” I ask, tensed for his answer.

  “Her birthday’s next week.”

  “I know.” I clear my throat. “I’ll be . . . away.”

  “You mean in Antarctica?”

  “How do you know that?”

  “Do you really think our father doesn’t know where you are and what you’re doing?” Owen asks softly. “At all times?”

  “Why does he care what I’m doing with my life? All he needs to know is I’ll never work for Cade Energy as long as it’s built on antiquated ideas and fossil fuels. I mean fossil fuels? Even the name says old.”

  Owen’s low laughter at my joke makes me smile. “I have no idea how you were raised by Warren Cade and grew up to be a tree hugger.”

  I roll my eyes at the phrase, but don’t deny it. “If you really love your country,” I say instead, “you’ll start hugging some trees, too. And if you do plan to lead the free world, you should get a wife. Americans want bachelor reality shows, not bachelor presidents.”

  “I’ve got someone in mind, but I’m still sowing a few wild oats like you are.”

  “A future president is only allowed so many wild oats, and I’m not sowing wild oats.”

  “You’re in Amsterdam, Max,” Owen says wryly. “The red-light district holds some fond memories. I know how wild it gets. You’ve probably got a new girl every night.”

  “There’s only one girl who interests me right now.”

  The silence following my statement holds so much shock, I’m immediately kicking myself for saying anything. I don’t know why I did. Maybe it’s a longing for the camaraderie we lost—the easy fraternalism we used to share.

  “Wait. There’s a girl?” Owen asks. “I’m sure Dad doesn’t know that. If there’s one thing he wants to control almost as much as our careers, it’s who we marry.”

  “First of all, that’s your life he’s controlling, not mine. Second of all, who said anything about marry? I just said there’s a girl who interests me. I’m not settling down until certain benchmarks are met.”

  “There’s things a girl has to do before you’ll settle down?”

  “No, there’s certain things I have to do before I settle down. I can’t afford distractions. I got too much shit to do.”

  “But this girl is an exception?” The interest in his voice irritates me.

  “She’s exceptional.” I pause a moment before going on. “Did Dad ever tell you about that day we fought? The protest in Arizona?”

  “Just that you tried to manipulate him to get the pipeline re-routed.” If I didn’t know better, I’d think that was admiration in Owen’s voice.

  “Manipulate.” I huff a harsh laugh. “I tried to get him to do what was right, but of course, principles are negotiable with him. It’s an old argument that I don’t want to have with you. There was a girl there. One of the protesters.”

  “You fucked her?”

  The bald question pinches a frown between my eyebrows. “She was seventeen and I was a graduate student, Owen. No, I did not fuck her. Jesus.”

  “But you wanted to,” Owen says with wicked insight.

  “Anyway,” I bulldoze over the innuendo in his voice, “she’s here. It’s been like four years and by some crazy coincidence, she’s here in Amsterdam.”

  “So now you want to fuck her.”

  God, so badly.

  I forbid the words from leaving my mouth.

  “I want to get to know her. I’m not doing relationships or anything like that. After Antarctica, it’s the Amazon. Then after that, we’ll see, but I can’t do the strain of a long-distance relationship.”

  “I can’t say that anyone has left the kind of impression on me that this girl has left on you.”

  “I didn’t say she left an impression.”

  “This is me, Max. I’ve known you since before you knew yourself. I hear impression all in your voice.”

  “Whatever.”

  “I’m saying maybe she’s not a wild oat,” Owen offers. “Maybe she’s a wild dream.”

  `

  12

  Lennix

  “This,” Kimba says, tipping her head back as our tour boat cuts through the canal and under the arch of a bridge, “is the life.”

  Kimba, Viv, and I sit at the far end of the sloop. The guide, or skipper as he suggested we call him, stands at the other. A hostess checks on us, ensuring we’re still plied with Moët, gin, Perrier, heavy hors d’oeuvres, and sandwiches I can barely get my hand around.

  “Agreed,” Viv slurs, half-drowsy, half-drunk on cocktails and sunshine, “I’m so glad we chose Amsterdam for our last hurrah.”

  Last hurrah because when we get back to Arizona, we finish the little that’s left of our final semester and real life begins.

  I push away all thoughts of the decisions I still have to make about my next steps. I don’t want to think any further into the future than tonight. A slow, secret smile pushes the corners of my mouth. Why think of the future when the present holds Maxim Kingsman? A literal sigh slips past my lips at the thought of him. What’s next? A dead swoon?

  “All that sighing and grinning happening over there . . .” Kimba waves a finger at me like it’s a wand. “. . . means it must have been good last night with the doctor.”

  I try to control my smile, but it just keeps getting bigger. I cover it as much as I can by taking a long sip of my jenever, which really is quite growing on me. Kimba and Viv have been asking about last night, and I’ve only given them crumbs so far, holding the details close.

  “Yeah, he’s great,” I downplay, because I could stand up in this boat and fire off about thirty superlatives for that man and his hands and his lips and those kisses from last night.

  But restraint.

  “What are you wearing on your date tonight?” Vivienne singsongs teasingly.

  “I don’t know.” I look from one to the other, not wanting to abandon my friends, but wanting to see Maxim. “You guys sure you’re okay with me going?”

  “Oh, honey, we’ve spent the whole day together,” Kimba says. “Besides, David buzzed ya girl. I was going to ask if I might be excused anyway for some one-on-one with him.”

  “Nice. You got my go for it vote.” I turn to Vivienne. “And you, Viv? I don’t want to leave you on your own.”

  “I’ll be fine,” Vivienne says. “Aya and I are having dinner with her family tonight.”

  “So is tonight the night?” Kimba eyes me over the rim of her glass. “Do we need to have the talk before it goes down?”

&
nbsp; My uninhibited peal of laugher takes me by surprise. God, where’d this happiness come from? It feels good to be happy about something. Truly giddy, which is how Maxim’s kisses and his touch and his words, his company make me feel. And to feel certain about something. For weeks I’ve circled my future warily, unsure of what I’ll do next. I’m pretty sure tonight, I’ll do Maxim.

  “I think it’s tonight, yeah,” I admit. “But I’m good on the talk. Just because I haven’t used the equipment doesn’t mean I haven’t read the manual or played with the knobs.”

  Kimba cackles and runs a hand over her closely cropped golden brown hair. “Yes, those knobs have gotten me through this drought, but I think I may give David the controls tonight.”

  “What time are you meeting Maxim?” Vivienne asks, still grinning over Kimba’s comment.

  “Uh, I’m not sure. He said he would text me, but of course . . . ” I roll my eyes. “I left my phone in the room.”

  “I know. Sorry, girl. We’ll be back soon,” Kimba assures me and bites into a lime wedge.

  “I was listening to yet another voice mail from my dad when I was brushing my teeth. I think I left it at the sink.”

  When we dock and deboard, I force a leisurely pace to match Viv and Kimba’s, but I want to run, find my phone, and see if Maxim tried to call or text. We’re still talking about the art we saw at the Van Gogh Museum and the gorgeous country hillside from the bike tour when we reach our hostel. Maxim sits on a low stone wall across from the building, reading a book and looking delectable in aviator sunglasses.

  God, save me from this man in aviators.

  “Well so much for thinking he’d be deterred by a lost phone,” Vivienne murmurs with a smile. “Right here waiting for you.”

  I send them a gleeful look before walking a little ahead to approach him. He seems completely absorbed in whatever he’s reading.

  “Hi,” I say once I’m standing right in front of him.

  His smile packs a rush of adrenaline, a needle plunged right through my heart, deploying blood and endorphins and electricity to all my vital parts. “Hi. Hope it’s okay that I just showed up. I called, but—”

  “Sorry. I left my phone. And of course, it’s okay.”

  He glances past me and offers another smile, this one more polite, less familiar. “Hey, Kimba, Vivienne. You guys have fun today?”

  “Yup, so much fun,” Kimba says, already turning toward the hostel’s entrance. “See you upstairs, Lenn.”

  “It was great,” Vivienne replies, right behind Kimba, both rushing to leave us alone. “We went to the Van Gogh and rode bikes, and took a canal ride.”

  “Oh, I was hoping we could take a canal ride, Nix,” he says to me, his eyes and voice private, intimate even though we don’t know each other’s bodies yet. The abbreviation of my name, for some reason, is so damn sexy. My father, all my friends shorten my name to Lenn. Nix is just . . . yeah. I want to be Nix this week. Tonight, I want to be Nix for him.

  “We still can,” I assure him, my voice softening so only he will hear me. “There were lots of people. Maybe there’s one for just two?”

  He folds the book facedown on the wall and clasps my hips, pulling me to stand between his legs. He reaches up to roll his closed fist around and down the length of my ponytail. “Exactly what I had in mind.”

  He’s seated on the wall, but so tall, we’re almost eye level. We met four years ago for a couple of hours. We clocked some time last night and even shared kisses. How can we be here already? How can I want this with him after never wanting it with anyone else before?

  But then he tugs on my ponytail and pulls me close enough to kiss. Every doubt and question follows common sense out the window. I cup his face and press deeper into the V of his thighs. I open to him, take him in, taste his groan, and relish how he tautens under my hands.

  “Jesus,” he breathes, palming my ass. “I’ve been thinking about this all day. About how you tasted last night.”

  “You have?” I smile against his lips.

  “Could you please ignore the eighty-four text messages and thirty-six missed calls on your phone when you get upstairs?” His husky laugh behind my ear makes me shudder. “Let’s just pretend those didn’t happen.”

  “Do they escalate in desperation?” I ask hopefully.

  “They do a little, yeah.”

  “Then I’m saving them.”

  He narrows his eyes and drops his hands from me, but the corners of his mouth twitch. How can lips be firm and so lush?

  “I’m as bad as your dad. I kept thinking maybe something happened to you or . . .” His shoulders lift and fall, and he looks away.

  “Or?”

  “Maybe you changed your mind about getting to know each other.” He looks back to me and there’s an unexpected flash of uncertainty. Maxim doesn’t strike me as an uncertain man.

  “I have the feeling you’re the kind of guy people like to get to know. I’m no exception. Sorry if I worried you.”

  “You can make it up to me over dinner.”

  “I’d like that.”

  “Great.” He stands and picks up his book. “I’ll let you get inside to relax a little, get changed. Eight o’clock okay to come back for you?”

  “Sure,” I reply distractedly, my attention caught by the cover of his book.

  “Shackleton’s Way: Leadership Lessons from the Great Antarctic Explorer.” I turn down the corners of my mouth, simultaneously intrigued and already half dozing. “The Antarctic, huh?”

  “I know Ernest Shackleton isn’t exactly a household name . . .” he laughs, picking up the book and closing it, holding it, “. . . but he’s kind of a big deal as far as expeditions go.”

  “Are expeditions your thing then? Is there even any place left to expedition to?”

  “Oh, yeah.” He lifts his brows and studies the cover. “On both counts. There’s a ton left to explore and most of it interests me very much. I’m actually leaving for Antarctica next week.”

  My heart wobbles and my whole body goes still. If I counted up every minute I’ve ever spent with this man, it wouldn’t even equal a day, but hearing he’s leaving next week . . . hell, I’m leaving next week. Whatever this is or could be, it’s most likely short-lived. I need to remember that.

  “Wow, Antarctica. A trip to the most remote place on the planet. Were you drafted? Is it a condition for your degree or something?”

  “I applied and it’s actually a pretty competitive process. I’ll be there all winter and staying through November, which is Antarctic summer. The research you can get in the two seasons is completely different, and I want exposure to both. I’ll be inland until around September and then will study along the peninsula on an ice-capable ship for the summer. Some of the best clues we have, some of the best predictors of how the planet is changing and what the implications of it will be, are in the Antarctic.”

  “When I say I want to save the world, I mean people, but you mean—”

  “The actual planet, yeah, but that is people. The rapid changes in our planet—that’s one of the most urgent crises we face, and the people who can actually do the most about it aren’t paying attention, or don’t seem to care.”

  I was mistaken. That flare, that spark in his eyes, I mistook for ambition? It’s passion. It’s zeal. It’s an important distinction, and I recognize it because it burns through me, too.

  “If you ask me, there are plenty of things more urgent than melting ice caps,” I say, watching for his response to my words. “Like the fact that an astounding number of Native American women are sexually assaulted, and there’s barely any data or concern when we go missing. Or the fact that children in certain parts of the world, in America, don’t have enough food.”

  “Agreed, those things are urgent, but to put it in perspective, the Antarctic holds ninety percent of the planet’s ice and seventy percent of our freshwater. Do you know what that means?”

  “It’s really cold and wet there?” I ask w
ith a self-mocking grin.

  He smiles back, but there is a graveness to the set of his mouth. “It means that if all the ice in Antarctica melted, global sea levels would increase so much that London, New York, Sydney—major cities would be underwater.”

  “Holy crap.”

  “It’s unlikely that it would all melt, but things are changing rapidly. We could wait until it’s too late to do a damn thing, which is why we should be doing those things now. While we can.” He caresses my cheekbone. “And you wouldn’t have to worry about all those people you want to help, Nix, because they’d all be dead. So, yes. I want to save the world, too.”

  I feel chagrined and incredibly turned on and concerned about the planet all of a sudden. I want to recycle and dry hump him in the middle of the square. These feelings, seemingly at odds with one another, confuse me. Or maybe it’s him being so much more than I bargained for, and exactly what I was hoping.

  13

  Maxim

  This was a good idea. Vuurtoreneiland is a great first date if you can swing it because it’s a full experience, not just dinner. Five hours. You usually need reservations, but I know a guy who knows a guy.

  “This is gorgeous,” Lennix says, her eyes scanning the horizon as we cross the IJ to reach the island where we’ll have dinner. “Now explain to me what this is we’re doing.”

  “It’s called Vuurtoreneiland, which translates to lighthouse island. You can only really reach it by boat. It used to be a functioning lighthouse, but now there’s a restaurant. In the summer, dinner is in a greenhouse. In the winter, which is anything before July for all intents and purposes, you dine underground in a bunker. I’m not sure exactly what to expect, but I hear great things.”

  “A new adventure. You seem to enjoy those.”

  “Yeah, I guess I do. Always something new to learn, but I have a lot I want to accomplish, so there’s always more I need to know.”

  “Ahhh.” She nods like I’ve confirmed something I didn’t even realize was in question.