The Kingmaker

by Ryan, Kennedy

  “But that is one in a million,” she continues. “In most cases, some monster just got away with it, and you’ll never have answers.”

  I have no idea how to comfort her beyond holding her close, rubbing her arms, and shutting the hell up so she can say what she needs to say, letting her know I’m here and I’m listening. I want to know.

  “My only solace—and this won’t make sense, I warn you of that now—was that at Christmas, we went to that clearing where I had my Sunrise Dance, where so many of our sacred ceremonies happened, where some of our heroes are buried. I laid her to rest there in the only way I knew how. I still go there every Christmas, even for just a few minutes. It’s like spending part of the holiday with her.”

  She shakes her head, tucks a wild chunk of hair behind her ear.

  “I know it seems morbid. It was a false peace, but it was the most I ever got. And then Warren Cade and that senator came in with their damn pipeline.”

  Bitterness and hatred drip from her words, and it almost doesn’t even sound like my Nix—like the funny, brave, brilliant woman I’ve known for the last few days.

  “One thing I can say is that protest, that pipeline gave me focus,” she says. “It’s shaped me. I know I’ll fight men like Warren Cade for the rest of my life, and I know I have to work the system to help people it doesn’t care about. That’s why I’ve been so careful about my next steps.”

  “It’s too important to get it wrong,” I say, understanding for the first time the pivotal role the pipeline and my father have played in shaping the girl I’ve come to care so much about in such a short time.

  “Exactly.” She tilts her head back and sets her eyes on my face. “I have to be intentional about everything. I can’t afford wrong steps, bad moves. It’s not for me. It’s for the people I want to help.”

  I should have told her that first night who my father was. Who I am. Hell, I should have told them in the cell that day four years ago, but I didn’t see it serving any purpose. I know most people would love to be a Cade, but I can’t say I’ve been proud of that name or of my father in a long time. I’ve lived the last four years out from under the shadow of my family and all that comes with them. Hearing my father’s role in the dreams that torture Lennix, I can’t ruin this connection by telling her the truth yet. It’s all tangled up in her mind and heart—her mother’s disappearance, death, and the pipeline that ruined the sacred grounds where she laid her mother to rest. It’s a sticky, convoluted web and my father? He’s the spider.

  “Let’s not talk about it anymore.” She snuggles closer, pressing her naked body into mine. “I’m better now.”

  I’ll deal with the issue of my name later. Now I just want to fully embrace our last few days. We said at the end of the week we’d walk away, but I refuse to wreck the little time I have left with the truth.

  I roll her onto her back and prop myself up on my elbows so I’m looking down at her. “The day after tomorrow, I have to go to London.”

  “What?” Dismay and disappointment tint her voice and her face. “Why?”

  “It’s a meeting for the Antarctica expedition. We have people on the team from all over the world. Those of us in easy travelling distance of London, like David and me, will go in person. Others will Skype in.”

  “So we lose a day.”

  “Yeah. When I come back, we’ll only have one day before you fly home.”

  “Then I guess,” she says, kissing my neck and sliding her hand down my back to squeeze my ass, “we should make the most of it.”

  My laugh is an aroused exhalation. “My sentiments exactly, which is why I want you to ditch your friends and spend the entire day with me tomorrow. They can have you back when I go to London.”

  “What do you have in mind?”

  “You have to trust me.” I trace the contours of her face with my index finger.

  “Okay. I trust you.”

  I feel like an ass because I know how precious and hard-won her trust is. Her hatred for my father still burns bright and fresh. I have to tell her the truth, but I’m selfish enough, I want her too much just like this for as long as I can have this, to even tell her my real name.

  20

  Lennix

  Maxim’s smile steals hearts for a living. The magnetism of it draws me to him sitting on that wall across from the hostel.

  It’s only been a few hours since we parted ways. Maxim brought me home long enough for us to both change and prepare for our day together. He slides his aviators into his hair, and strands of it curl around and cling to the lenses. I’ll miss the way his hair feels threading through my fingers when he’s inside me. I’ll miss the way he kisses me like he can’t believe it’s real—a startling sense of wonder from someone so pragmatic, cynical even. I’ll miss the way he tangles our fingers under tables and touches me every chance he gets. There are a dozen things I’ll miss about him. I’m already cataloguing them with only two days left of whatever this is, has been.

  “Hey.” He stands from the wall, laying that same book about Antarctic expeditions down, spine up. He grabs my hand and pulls me into a hug. I don’t wait for him to bend and kiss me, but tip up on my toes to take his mouth with mine. My hands slide over his shoulders and into his hair. I press him close, and keep my eyes sealed tightly over sudden tears.

  I’m going to lose him.

  I’ve only had a few days with him, but just the thought of not having this every day brings tears to my eyes.

  He pulls back and links our hands at our sides.

  “Well good morning to you, too,” he says with a chuckle.

  I force a laugh and keep my lashes lowered a second longer, composing myself. Get your shit together, girl.

  My little pep talk goes to hell when I glance up to find his stare fixed intently on my face. I fear my shit is beyond getting together. Can you feel so deeply for someone after just a few days? But Maxim has been inside me. It’s not just sex; he’s entertained my impossible dreams. Witnessed my nightmares. Maybe I waited so long to make love because I knew I’d be bad at this—at taking someone into my body, but checking them at the door to my soul. I rolled out a welcome mat for Maxim, and it’s no one’s fault but mine. He said no attachments from the beginning.

  I don’t care if it hurts.

  I said that the first night we made love. Naïve, silly girl. Myopic child, thinking only to have him, with no notion how hard it would be to let him go.

  “You okay?” he asks, a frown pleating his thick brows.

  “Yeah.” I brighten my smile for him. “I’m fine.”

  “Kimba and Viv didn’t mind me kidnapping you for the day?”

  My smile becomes more natural. “They’re actually relishing sleeping in. After dinner last night, Aya took them drinking. They’re pretty hung over.”

  “Good. Then they won’t miss you too badly.”

  We walk to the train station and board. Anticipation overtakes the sadness the thought of our pending separation brought on.

  “Where are we going?” I lean onto his shoulder where he’s seated beside me.

  “West,” he says, deliberately cryptic.

  I pinch his side, though it’s just lean muscle, not much to get hold of.

  “Ow!” He laughs so loudly several heads on the train turn. “You little . . . I’m punishing you for that later.”

  “Spank me?” I give him an eager look. “Tie me up? Gag me?”

  “Are you sure you were a virgin just days ago?” he whispers. “I’m not sure I can keep up with you.”

  “You seemed to be doing fine this morning.”

  “And last night.” He licks at the seam of my lips, teasing them open for a deepening kiss. “God, I want to fuck you all the time.”

  “We have that in common then. Now tell me where we’re going.”

  “Sassenheim. Keukenhof Gardens is a little more curated. Like a tulip museum. I thought we’d go a little off the beaten path.”

  “Says the man leaving
for Antarctica in a week. I’m pretty sure you’re king of ‘off the beaten path.’”

  “You may be right about that.” He laughs. “I think we can access tulips better on our own, finding the fields, seeing windmills along the way. Maybe have a picnic. Sound okay?”

  “Seriously? It sounds like the best day ever.” As soon as he said “we” it sounded perfect. I want to see tulips and the coastline and anything of this country he wants to show me, but I mostly just want more time with him.

  “Good. The season for tulips is just beginning, so they won’t be in full bloom, but still beautiful. The weather has been favorable this year. Mid-April is best, so we’re about a month early. I just wanted some time out of the city,” he says. “Some quiet with you. A slower pace with fewer distractions where we can just enjoy each other.”

  “It’s working already.”

  The train ride lasts about a half an hour, and as soon as we step off, I’m in love. A canal runs through the village, bordered by narrow houses. Small boats line the canal walls and stone bridges crisscross the water. It reminds me of Amsterdam, but emits a different energy, like the city’s restive cousin. It’s so vivid and the air is crisp. It only takes a few minutes to rent bikes, find a bike path and start off. It’s cool, and the wind whips at my face and hair. Exhilarating.

  “You okay?” Maxim asks over his shoulder, pedaling slightly ahead of me on the bike path.

  I increase my speed to pull up beside him. “Yes. I’m loving this.”

  “I thought you would.”

  As we ride, the landscape changes, signs of the village falling away and replaced by lush countryside, by fields and horses leisurely grazing, not bothering to look up when we ride past. Stout windmills, their thick, wooden arms lazily whirring, dot the scenic route along the highway hugging the coastline.

  He pulls over and stops at a railing bordering the bike path. I pull up beside him.

  “See those?” He points out to the water.

  “The windmills?”

  He slants me a grin. “Those are wind turbines, not windmills. There’s a difference.”

  “Yeah, well what about them?”

  “They’re mine,” he says, a possessive glint to his eyes.

  My mouth falls open and I scoot closer to the rail like that will somehow bring me much closer to the objects floating on the water, starkly white and elegant.

  “What do you mean they’re yours?”

  “I bought them. Just those few, but it’s a start. I used the last of my money.”

  “You own them? Oh, my God. What are you gonna do with them?”

  “The Netherlands are making real headway with wind energy. It’s a viable substitute for fossil fuels and the dirtier ways we get power.”

  “Wow. You own windmills.”

  “Wind turbines, Nix.”

  “You’re a regular old Don Quixote,” I go on, warming to my analogy. “A knight errant, determined to save the world. Comes fully equipped with windmills.”

  “So I’m a joke now, huh?” He reaches for me with a playful growl.

  “Ahhhhhh!” I jump on my bike and take off, pedaling furiously, yelling over my shoulder when I see him coming after me, “It’s Doc Quixote!”

  We ride and laugh until we reach the tulip fields, rolled out like vibrant carpets displayed in an open-air bazaar. Great swathes of purple, yellow, red and pink.

  “Most of these fields are owned by farmers who sell the tulips. Some won’t even let you take photos, much less pick the flowers,” Maxim tells me, bringing his bike to a stop. “Fortunately for you, your guide knows where to pick ‘em.”

  We ride a bit farther, alternating between moments of easy silence, conversation passed between us as we ride beside each other, and at one point, a rousing chorus of Billy Joel’s greatest hits. Maxim makes up his own ridiculous lyrics for “We Didn’t Start the Fire.”

  “Rabbit ears, Britney Spears, iPhone, Home Alone.”

  “I’m pretty sure the iPhone hadn’t been invented when Billy Joel wrote that song.” I laugh after his last chorus, which included such anachronisms as The West Wing and DVRs.

  “You have to go ruin it with technicalities,” he says.

  “Also known as truth.”

  “Truth is relative.”

  “If you think that, maybe you should go into politics,” I say. We’ve reached the flower-picking garden, and walk our bikes through wide aisles between the rows of tulips. “Do you have a general disdain for all politicians, or have there been any good ones, in your expert opinion?”

  “There’s just always an agenda. Their own glory usually, but a few of them have inspired me.”

  “Like who?”

  “I liked the Kennedys.”

  “Figures,” I say with a snort.

  “Excuse me?” He sends me a lifted brow and a half grin.

  “Don’t tell me no one’s ever compared you to JFK, Jr.”

  “What the hell?” His surprised laughter rings loud in the relative stillness of the field. We’ve come on a weekday at the very beginning of tulip season. There aren’t many tourists today, and we have a private patch of this colorful quilt to ourselves.

  “Oh, come on.” I smile and tip my bicycle’s kickstand, leaving it and walking down a row of flowers. “The height, the dark hair, the dreamy smile and bedroom eyes.”

  “You think I have bedroom eyes and a dreamy smile?”

  “Like I would have given my V-card after a day to some slouch with a non-dreamy smile.”

  “Don’t forget my bedroom eyes.” He bats his long eyelashes rapidly and laughs when I flip him off. He settles his bike between two rows of tulips and joins me.

  “The Kennedys were far from perfect, you know,” I tell him.

  “Well documented, but why do we expect our politicians to be perfect? I’d rather have someone say, ‘Hey. I cheat on my wife, but what does that have to do with me keeping us out of stupid wars? Or raising taxes on the people who can least afford it?’”

  He takes my hand and pulls me into his side as we walk farther away from the bikes.

  “When you think about it, we had so little time with JFK,” he continues. “But he’s the one everyone talks about. He understood the importance of vision—of inspiring people. He literally said we’re going to the moon. And we did. He told us to ask not what the country could do for us, but dammit, what can we do for this country? Responsibility, balanced with compassion. That’s the problem with most democrats. So much compassion, but they never show me how they’ll pay for it, or who’s going to take responsibility for it, and they need to be ruthless from time to time. Show me some killer instinct. If you care so much about people, fight for them. If your opponent fights grimy, maybe you’ll have to, but get it done for the people you say need it.”

  “And what’s the problem with republicans?”

  “They have a compassion problem.” He kicks a rock, sending it skipping ahead of us. “They’re medieval in their views on just about everything, including climate change.”

  “And you are which?”

  “I’m myself. I hate the two-party system. It asks people to set aside their individual principles for a platform. Give me a guy who says, ‘I believe like four of their things and maybe three of theirs, and they both get it wrong on this shit, but don’t worry. I got my own plan for that. Follow me.’”

  “Wow. A campaign slogan if I ever heard one.”

  “Now you see why I’ll never do politics. It’s all power games and manipulation, not actually giving a shit. If they cut a deal that’s advantageous to them and their constituents happen to benefit, that’s fine, but they are first.”

  “So there’s a very short list of politicians you’ve approved of.”

  He shrugs. “Some exceptions. I actually liked Bobby even more than President Kennedy. He said, ‘The future is not a gift. It is an achievement.’”

  “I love that.”

  “I’m gonna do that,” Maxim says. The force of
his will and ambition are like a wall. “You don’t have to be a politician to change the world. Matter of fact, I think your chances are better if you’re not one. Power blurs everything and can rob you of perspective.”

  It’s a shame he doesn’t want to run because I’m here for everything he just said. And the man is fine, which goes a long way with American voters. They love a pretty POTUS.

  “I honestly don’t care about left or right,” I tell him. “I just want things to change, and I don’t care which side does it.”

  “Agreed.”

  We walk through rows of tulips with color so rich each bulb looks hand-painted. I pick and drop them in my basket along the way, taking a few photos of the flowers, and sneaking a few of Maxim, who looks incongruously big beside the delicate blooms.

  “Getting enough?” he asks idly. “Pictures, I mean.”

  “I need one of us here together.”

  He lifts his head at that, his eyes meeting mine, and a smile fully blooms on his handsome face.

  “Miss,” he calls to an older woman a few rows over and down. When she looks back, he turns that dazzling smile on her, and of course in a few seconds she’s headed our way.

  “Would you take a picture of me and my . . .” His words falter and he looks as unsure how to fill in that blank as I am. “Would you take a picture of us?”

  “Certainly.” She takes his phone and smiles indulgently.

  He pulls me in front of him and rests his chin on my head. She snaps the first picture. When I glance up at him, the look in his eyes warms me and melts any reserve I had left. He bends to cup my chin and kisses me tenderly. I hear her snapping the photo, but couldn’t care less. I lean up into that kiss, deepen it, drag it out until she clears her throat.

  “Sorry,” he says, offering her an apologetic grin. “Thank you.”

  “Anything for young love,” she says wistfully and returns to her basket a few rows away.

  Young love. That’s not what we have. It must be too soon for that, but we have something, and it’s making itself at home in my heart more every day, as much as I try to fight it. I try to hold myself back, remind myself that this isn’t permanent, but my heart gives me the finger and goes its own way.