The Kingmaker

by Ryan, Kennedy

  “Because I think about you like that all the time. I want you like that again. Every night. Naked in bed and completely mine.”

  “In what world could you possibly think I would belong to you?”

  “In the one we make together.”

  When I say it, whatever guard she had in place slips. Just for a second, and I see something in her eyes that tells me I’m not crazy. That tells me I’m not wasting my time. That tells me there’s more to her resistance than Wallace and our past and my mistakes and lies. I don’t know what’s behind that guard, but I’ll be damned if I stop pursuing her until I do.

  “You did this on purpose,” she finally says. “Waited until the whole team was in place and we’d officially signed with Owen to show your hand.”

  “Yes.”

  “Because you think I want to win so badly I won’t back out?”

  “No, because now you believe in Owen and you won’t let the inconvenient fact that I want you derail his candidacy.”

  “You’re right. You’re not worth me giving up on someone who can advance my causes.” A bitter, brittle smile appears on her lips and then shatters. “But if you think you get a second chance, you don’t.”

  She stands and so do I. I don’t bother being discreet with the glance I rake over her in the bright red dress molded to her body from shoulder to hip, tracking the curve of her thigh. Her stilettos bring her to my nose. I tease her scent out from all the others wafting through the coffee house. Hers is spicy, studded with sage and honey.

  I want to pull her onto my lap, bury my face in the curve of her neck like I did once before. Nibble at the silky skin until she trembles against me. I’d do indecent things to her in broad daylight if I thought I could get away with it.

  She moves to walk around me, and I gently grasp her elbow. The contact with her skin affects me. She’s a jolt of electricity and my body is a live wire, struck by the power she probably doesn’t even know or care that she holds over me.

  “It’s a shame you’ll set your resentment aside long enough to elect a Cade,” I say. “but can’t find it in yourself to forgive one.”

  She flicks a glance from my hand on her elbow and up to me. “No, I don’t forgive you, and you can’t make me. You can’t will me to.”

  “I’ve spent the last ten years getting what I want, not because I’m a Cade, but because I work harder than everyone else. I keep working after everyone else has gone home. I take risks no one else even considers. I don’t give up on seemingly lost causes. When I want something, really want something, I’ll do whatever I have to until I have it.”

  The strength of her resistance and mine collide. No one looking would know this charming coffee shop is actually a battlefield, and our weapons are drawn.

  “I know I can’t will you to give me another chance, but remember this, Nix.” I bend my head so close my breath stirs her hair and her scent stirs my pulse. “The harder I have to work for something, the harder I take it.”

  41

  Lennix

  It’s been a month since Maxim ambushed me at the coffee shop. I know he and Kimba have kept in touch, but there isn’t much for him to do right now. We’re the ones working our asses off. We formed Owen’s exploratory committee and have been discreetly raising money from interested donors, of which there are many. We’re strategizing, gathering data, preparing to formally announce that the committee has been formed. In the year or so between now and Iowa’s February caucus, there is a lot less for Maxim to do than there will be later.

  Not a day has gone by when I didn’t think about our confrontation in the coffee shop. I keep waiting for Maxim to jump out from behind a bush and try to kiss me or something. He made all those declarations about wanting a second chance, getting rid of Wallace, getting me to forgive him, and then . . . nothing.

  You sound almost disappointed.

  This from my inner voice.

  Well, inner voice, you can shut it.

  I’m not disappointed. I’m just braced for his next move. If he’s not going to make one, why is he still in town?

  I can’t tear my eyes from the large flat-screen mounted on the wall across from my desk. It’s Beltway’s “Night on the Hill” segment showing Maxim out with some DC socialite seventeen years his junior. The man is thirty-eight. What’s he doing out with a twenty-one-year old?

  Okay. Even I hear the petty in my judge-y.

  “Why are you still here?” I ask my empty office, plopping a carton of Indian takeout on the desk.

  “Why is who still here?” Kimba asks from my office door.

  Our space is industrial meets modern and is located in DC’s center city complex. We were so proud to open Hunter, Allen & Associates. We chose every piece of furniture, all the paint, the fixtures, and rugs ourselves. It was a labor of love. This whole operation has been a labor of love.

  “Oh, hey.” I poke around in my tandoori chicken. “Thought everyone had left for the night.”

  “I forgot something.” She holds up a folder.

  I nod and scoop up some rice. “Gotcha.”

  “Why is who still here?”

  Inward groan.

  “Mmm, no one,” I mumble, my mouth deliberately stuffed with savory meat.

  “Oh, cool.” Kimba leans against the doorjamb. “Because I thought you were asking the television why Maxim Cade is still in DC. Or even why’s he dating a gorgeous woman ten years younger than you.”

  I stop mid-chew, my mouth hanging open in a way that cannot be flattering. I glare at her over a forkful of food, clear my throat and set the takeout carton back on the edge of my desk. “So they’re actually dating?”

  Kimba rolls her eyes up to the ceiling before walking deeper into my office. It’s a Friday, our casual day, and her jeans hang loose everywhere but her ass. She’s wearing her Black Girl Magic T-shirt and her hair is pulled up to show off the regal lines of her face. My best friend is pretty damn gorgeous.

  “Do you really want to know?” She sits in the Queen Anne chair I chose for its sturdiness, comfort and loveliness.

  I reach for the glasses and bottle of wine stowed under my desk and start pouring. “Do tell.”

  “Maxim has set up shop here in DC.”

  Red wine splashes onto the desk and my hand. “What? Why?”

  “He says he can do business from anywhere,” Kimba says, watching me mop up the mess I made with a napkin. “The man’s got business interests all over the world. He says he believes entrenching himself in DC society will be beneficial to the campaign, but I have my own theory.”

  Which I do not want to hear.

  “Want some?” I tip the chicken toward her. “Got plenty.”

  “No, thanks. You don’t want to hear why I think Maxim’s still in DC?”

  I tip my head to the side and squint one eye. “I do know how to ask follow-up questions when I actually want to know something, but thanks.”

  “I think he’s still in DC for the same reason seeing him with Miss Teen USA bothers you so much.”

  “It does not bother me.” I do a double take. “Wait. Is she really Miss Teen USA?”

  “No, but she is young. My point is I think he’s here for you.”

  My heart somersaults foolishly in my chest and I take a long draw on my wine. “I don’t care about Miss Teen USA, and I don’t care why he’s here.”

  “He still thinks you’re dating Wallace, ya know.”

  A satisfied smile spreads over my face. “How do you know that?”

  “Because he asked me if you were still dating Wallace.”

  I slam my glass on the desk. “What did you say? Tell me exactly what you said.”

  “I said that from what I knew . . .” Her sigh is disgusted. “. . . nothing has changed.”

  “Great answer. You didn’t lie, but you didn’t betray me. Very good.”

  “Are you horny at all?”

  I choke on my food and pound my chest at the whiplash change in conversation. “’Scuse me? C
ome again?”

  “Yeah, when’s the last time you came again?” Kimba’s grin is salacious smeared on a sassy bun. “I had back-to-back orgasms last week, and it was incredible.”

  “Not counting Mr. Feelgood. Anybody can put in batteries.”

  “Oh, no, honey. Not my vibrator. This was flesh and bone.” She waggles her eyebrows. “Lots of bone.”

  “Who?”

  “Don’t you worry about who.”

  “Oh, my God, who, you shameless hussy?”

  “That new corn lobbyist we met last month.”

  “Oh, he was dreamy.”

  “Yes, ma’am, and generous. He took care of ya girl.” She closes her eyes and sighs. “Woo child.”

  “Well I’m very happy for you, but don’t worry about me.”

  “Studies show that women who have frequent orgasms are significantly more productive.”

  “Really?”

  “No, but I betcha.”

  “Out.” I point a finger toward the exit. “Be gone and leave me to my delicious, if solitary, meal.”

  “Seriously, though, Lenn,” Kimba says, standing and walking to the door. “I know how much you value honesty. You need to have an honest conversation with yourself. Do you remember what it was like with Maxim?”

  I bite my lip to keep from moaning. I relive that week in my wet dreams. Not just the first and best sex of my life, but everything else. An intimacy so sheer Maxim and I could see each other clearly, completely through it. Lying in a field of half-opened tulips. Our eyes meeting over an underground candlelit dinner. Racing through rain-splashed streets, chased by his heavy footsteps and the low rumble of his laughter.

  My heart burns in my chest and I set my fork down, praying for indigestion, but afraid it’s something else.

  “If you can forgive him,” Kimba says. “And I personally think you already have, but are just scared to risk yourself again—then don’t waste more time. He’s not dating Miss Teen USA now, but keep him waiting much longer, and he might.”

  42

  Maxim

  “Ya by khotel sosat' tvoy chlen.”

  I keep my surprised laughter low enough for only the woman seated beside me to hear.

  “My Russian is patchy, Katya,” I murmur, slicing into the perfectly prepared lamb chop on my plate. “But I think you just asked to suck me off. Am I right?”

  “You remember.” Her brown eyes smolder over a glass of Sangiovese. “I taught you well.”

  “I actually remember very little from your lessons, but I do know enough to say nytet, spaseeba.”

  “Turning me down?” Her sultry expression dives to crestfallen. “But we had so much fun in Moscow.”

  She slides her hand under the table and into my lap, finding and gripping me hard.

  I’m enduring the tedium of this dinner party in the heart of Georgetown to make connections, not only for Owen’s upcoming campaign, but for the legislation I want to push forward in the future. I didn’t expect the daughter of a Russian ambassador I met five years ago to be in attendance.

  And yet here we are. My dick in her hand under a table beside the leader of the Budget Committee.

  “Move your hand, Katya.” My voice is calm but firm. “Now.”

  “You don’t mean that.” She slides her hand up and down. “Ah, see he wants to come out and play. Remember the night we had together? And then the morning?” A husky laugh drifts past her lips, and her brown eyes are dark with humor and horniness. “And the afternoon.”

  “I won’t ask you again. Move your hand.”

  Her hand slides away and she pouts. “You’re less fun in your old age.”

  “I like to think wiser.” I glance over to find her lashes lowered, blinking rapidly, and the color high on her cheeks. “Hey. I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to hurt you. I just . . .” The truth will make her feel better. “Katya, there’s someone else.”

  Her eyes flick up to meet mine. “You’re with someone else?”

  I shake my head, an ironic smile tipping one side of my mouth. “No, I want someone else and I’m waiting for her to want me back.”

  “That’s all very noble,” Katya says, her Russian accent thickening, sliding her hand back to my thigh. “But while you’re waiting . . .”

  I catch hold of her hand and push it away, but offer what I hope is a kind smile. “Nytet, spaseeba.”

  She nods and cuts into her own lamb chop. “So who is this madwoman who does not know what she’s missing?”

  “Oh, she knows. She’s had it before, but I screwed things up.”

  “You cheated?” she asks, her eyes condemning slits.

  “No, I lied.”

  Katya nods sagely, turning down the corners of her mouth and shrugging. “Lying is simply cheating on the truth.”

  “Yeah, well I did that about something that was important to her. She’s with someone else for now.”

  “You’ll take her from him, though, da?”

  I shake my head. “She’ll have to leave him. I need her to come to me.”

  Lennix freely given was the most intoxicating thing I’ve ever tasted. She spilled down my throat like wine, warm and wet and full-bodied. Unbuttoning her blouse, offering me her breasts. Leaned back on her elbows in my bed, morning sunshine beaming between her long, firm legs spread open. Begging me not to stop in the chill of night, in the rain.

  Shit. My dick didn’t get hard with Katya’s little hand wrapped around it, but the thought of Lennix’s kisses from ten years ago has me stiff as a tree trunk.

  “Someone’s taking photos for tomorrow’s papers,” Katya whispers, leaning over. “Let’s make her jealous.”

  “What?”

  Before I can stop her, she kisses me.

  43

  Lennix

  “This will be fantastic.”

  Millicent fairly glows reading the plans we’ve drafted to announce Owen’s exploratory committee on New Year’s Eve. Take-out cartons, coffee cups, laptops and iPads crowd the glass surface of our conference room table. The faces around the room look tired, but her response makes the hard work worth it.

  “I agree,” Owen says absently. “Fantastic.”

  He’s been reading the draft of a bill during the meeting, negotiating the challenge of still serving in the Senate while running for president. That will only intensify the further we get into this process.

  Millicent gives him a heatless glare and rolls her eyes. “He’ll be no fun until that bill goes through. Now I do have some questions about the menu and decorations. It is still New Year’s Eve. It has to be festive.”

  “It’ll be at our house,” Owen says, still not looking up from the massive stack in front of him. “Our Christmas decorations are up from Thanksgiving ’til St. Patrick’s Day. You don’t get more festive than that.”

  “He exaggerates,” she says with a smile. “They’re down by Valentine’s Day.”

  She crosses her arms and begins what resembles a military march. “But that is neither here nor there. We need to discuss menu, additional decorations, entertainment, fireworks—”

  “Fireworks?” Owen, Kimba and I ask simultaneously.

  She lifts one haughty brow, her general’s face on. “Are we going to have a problem with my fireworks? It’s the least we can do to launch one of the greatest presidential administrations in our fine nation’s history. A Cade finally sitting in the oval? We need to blow some shit up.”

  Silence hangs in the air. Everyone exchanges nervous glances. Then there is a snicker from the far end of the conference room table. It’s Maxim, who hasn’t said a word the entire meeting. With his head and shoulders hunched over his iPad, I assumed he was barely paying attention. His humor seems to uncork everyone else, and then we’re all laughing. Owen laughs loudest and pulls his wife down onto his lap.

  “My girl wants fireworks,” he says, kissing the top of Millicent’s head. “My girl gets fireworks.”

  She giggles and burrows into his neck. “Thank you, O.”r />
  I stand and put on my general face.

  “There’s something else we need to discuss,” I say, waiting for the laughter to settle down. “This announcement is taking place at your house. Your Pacific Heights mansion in San Francisco, to be more precise.”

  “It’s our home,” Owen says, his voice stiffening. “I thought we agreed that would personalize it rather than at a city hall or something.”

  “I think the party at your place is great,” I say. “And Millicent’s known to be an incredible hostess, so treating it like a party is perfect. We just need to be cognizant of the optics. Republicans will paint you as elitist, and speaking frankly, there’s a lot about your background that screams wealth and the dirtiest buzzword of all right now—privilege.”

  “We can’t change who we are,” Millicent says, a little defensively.

  “I’m not asking you to change who you are,” I reassure her, keeping my voice calm. “I’m asking you to manage how they see you. We don’t want struggling working-class voters to feel like they could never relate to you. Seeing all your rich friends gathered around the sprawling ballroom in your mansion does not exactly communicate ‘I feel your pain.’”

  “Okay,” Millicent says with a small frown. “What do you suggest?”

  “I think we need to make sure you don’t look like the one percenters you actually are if we want the middle class pulling the lever for you next year, Senator Cade. Most Americans don’t even really tune into politics until we start gearing up for elections. Do you want their first impression of you to be the elitism your opponent will surely accuse you of?”

  My words land with a thump into the subsequent quiet. I give it a beat and am about to elaborate, but Maxim speaks before I can. “She’s right, O.”

  I look up to find his stare fixed on me, but he quickly shifts it to his brother. “Not many people grew up the way we did or live the way we do. We want them to know we may have a lot, but we want to use what we have to help.”

  “Exactly,” I add. “I’m not suggesting you hide who you are or fake poverty. That would be disingenuous, and your authenticity is one of the most appealing things about you.”