The Kingmaker

by Ryan, Kennedy

  “Then what?” Owen asks.

  “Your political positions and your personality, everything about you polls really well with millennials,” I say. “You feel like a breath of fresh air to them.”

  “Well that’s good to know.” Owen laughs. “Did you hear that, Mill? This old guy polls well with millennials.”

  A few of the team chuckle, but they’re also typing on their iPads and laptops, jotting notes, grabbing data. They’ve started tracking down leads before I’ve had to ask for them.

  “Let’s invite them,” Kimba says, excitement sparking in her dark brown eyes. “Students, community organizers, Instagram influencers, leaders from marginalized groups—all of them.”

  “Yes!” I agree. Kimba and I basically share a brain so I see where this could go. “Bus caravans.”

  “By car, by train,” she picks up. “We send out invitations now to campus leaders, folks who volunteered for campaigns, all key figures in those crucial demographics. We don’t leave them with their faces pressed to the window.”

  “Right,” I say. “We open the doors. Yes, I have a big house, but it’s your house, too. At least for tonight.”

  Everyone laughs again, and the brief tension that had infiltrated the room flees completely. I pace, my brain like a beehive, every idea causing another and chasing that one until I’m buzzing with thoughts, and I can’t get the words out fast enough.

  “Not just a party to celebrate a New Year’s Eve,” I say, my voice climbing, “but a new era!”

  “A new era’s eve party,” Kimba laughs, high-fiving me. “Ooooh! We’re cooking with hot grease now, honey.”

  We continue spit-balling ideas and assigning actionable items. It’s another hour before we break, but I feel much better about this soiree we’re throwing.

  “Big plans for Thanksgiving, Lennix?” Millicent asks, gathering some of the dinner debris while the team packs up to go.

  “Lennix doesn’t celebrate Thanksgiving,” Maxim says from the other end of the table, his words quiet. He looks up from his iPad to meet my eyes. “Unless that’s changed?”

  He and I stare at one another so long I feel other people noticing.

  “No, I don’t celebrate,” I say.

  Thanksgiving is one of those distinctly American traditions that has problematic origins for American Indians.

  “I don’t begrudge other people celebrating,” I tell them, shrugging. “Even some from my tribe celebrate. It’s fine. I just don’t.” I smile to lighten the mood and my words. “But I do go home. My dad and I order pizza and watch parades and boring football games.”

  Everyone laughs, keeps packing up and heading out. I’m still processing that Maxim knows I don’t celebrate Thanksgiving. I must have forgotten we discussed it. I thought I remembered everything about that week.

  “Maxim, Lennix,” Owen says. “Could you two hang for a minute?”

  Maxim glances at the Richard Mille watch on his wrist. “I can give you twenty of them. Jin Lei has my car downstairs and a flight waiting.”

  “You’re leaving DC?” I ask, before I catch my damn tongue.

  Maxim goes still in the middle of pulling on his leather jacket and glances up at me, one brow lifted.

  “I mean,” I say hastily. “I just wondered in case we need anything or have questions.”

  He pulls his jacket on and grabs his iPad from the table. “Kimba has my itinerary and knows how to get in touch with me.”

  One of my conditions. He doesn’t say it, but the silent truth travels the length of the table.

  “Yeah, I’ve been in contact with Jin Lei,” Kimba affirms, smiling. “I know how to find you.”

  He smiles back with an ease that doesn’t exist between the two of us anymore. He hasn’t made any attempts to contact me. Everything I’ve heard of Maxim comes through Kimba or the gossip columns. There seems to be a report about him on D.C.’s social circuit every night. The latest morsel involved him kissing a Russian ambassador’s daughter. I’ve been convincing myself all week that I don’t care. He does think I’m with Wallace. Maybe he decided to give up?

  And shouldn’t I be happy if he has?

  “Well, my mama has started cooking Thanksgiving dinner,” Kimba says, rubbing her stomach. “I can already smell the turkey and dressing.”

  “Oooh, and string bean casserole,” Howard groans.

  “Mac and cheese,” Kimba bounces back as they leave the conference room.

  “I’m gonna go check on the twins,” Millicent says. She pauses at the door and turns to me. “Thanks for not backing down in the meeting, Lennix. Some people blow smoke up my ass because of who I’m married to.”

  “First of all, if I blew smoke up your ass,” I tell her, “it would be because of who you are, not your husband. And second of all, I got no smoke, lady.”

  We exchange slow, genuine smiles. She nods and leaves the room.

  “So what’s up, brother?” Maxim asks. “I got a plane to catch.”

  “Where are you going?” Owen asks, frowning a little.

  “Berlin, Prague, Stockholm,” Maxim says. “Then it gets fuzzy and you’ll have to ask Jin Lei.”

  “When do you come back to the States?” Owen asks. “Will you be home for Christmas?”

  Maxim’s face shutters. “You already know the answer to that, O. I’ll make sure to send the twins their gifts and—”

  “And your mother?” Owen demands. “When will you see her?”

  “I see Mom more than ever,” Maxim fires back. “Just not with him. He doesn’t want to see me.”

  “And he says you don’t want to see him.” Exasperation and frustration war on Owen’s face. “You two are the most—”

  “My flight, Owen,” Maxim interrupts. “I’ve adjusted everything for your campaign. The least you can do is not give me hell when I need to get back to my life every once in a while.”

  “You know that’s not . . .” Owen takes a deep breath. “Anyway, okay. Do what you need to do, but we’ll be at Mom and Dad’s. Our kids need to know their grandparents and their uncle.”

  Maxim remains silent, the muscles of his body seemingly drawn tight and preternaturally still. Owen finally nods and steeples his fingers in front of him on the table. I feel like an interloper witnessing this family discord. I wonder if they’ve forgotten I’m here, but then Owen turns his attention to me.

  “My father will be there when I announce the exploratory committee.” His words brook no argument, and I don’t give him any.

  “Yes, sir,” I say. “I expected as much, but I hope you don’t want him to speak or—”

  “No, nothing like that.” Owen frowns. “He doesn’t want that. He actually has steered pretty clear of everything. He’s probably afraid if he gets involved, he’ll run you off, Max.”

  “Perceptive,” Maxim intones. “We’ll be fine.”

  Millicent pokes her head back in, her cell phone held to her chest. “Sorry, but could I borrow you for a sec, O? The kids want to say goodnight.”

  “Of course.” Owen rises and leaves the room, already wearing that smile reserved only for the three people who live under his roof.

  The walls push in as soon as I’m alone with Maxim. The air throbs with awareness like smoke filling my lungs, choking me. I allow myself short, shallow breaths so the smell of him doesn’t overwhelm my senses. I grab my bag and head toward the door, deciding not to even speak. At the threshold, though, curiosity gets the better of me and I turn back to face him.

  His eyes are waiting for me, intense and hungry. Fully wolf. The naked emotion on his face snatches my breath and my thoughts and my words for a second. It’s familiar. This look hovered above me when he drove into my body with commanding sensuality, but it seems different on this matured version of him. It’s even more dangerous, more appealing.

  I clear my throat, needing to break the tension arcing between us. “When did I tell you I don’t celebrate Thanksgiving?”

  He frowns and turns down the f
irm, full lips at the corners. “That night at Vuurtoreneiland.”

  “Really? I don’t remember. I guess we talked about a lot of things that night.”

  It comes back to me, now, though. Both of us leaning forward across the table, pushing in closer, straining to catch each other’s voices, like archeologists digging around in each other’s heads, searching for answers. I wanted so badly to bottle those moments—not to miss a word he said.

  “I can’t believe I forgot I told you,” I say, leaning my back against the doorjamb.

  “It was a great night.” He chuckles and sits on the edge of the desk. “I think we were both talking a mile a minute, and by the end of the meal, I couldn’t wait to get out of there.”

  My cheeks heat with the memory of our hurried departure. We couldn’t stop touching each other on the ferry back to the city. I confessed my virginity in the moonlight and we sprinted through the streets to reach his house. Everything that followed once we were inside rushes back and I see myself again, spread on his bed, offering myself to him.

  “Such a great night,” he repeats, holding my gaze captive. “I think about it all the time.”

  Me, too.

  It’s an unspoken whisper singeing my heart with its hot breath and secret sentiment. I search for my anger, resentment—anything still lurking around because of the things he didn’t tell me that week, but I can only remember the things he did say. And time folds on itself, blending Kingsman, the young adventurer with a head full of dreams, and Cade, the unimaginably successful man standing in front of me now who brought that young man’s ideas to life. Two men not so different when I think about it. Not different at all. What we had that week, that night, it was true. I think I’ve wanted to run from that because the implication of forgiving Maxim, accepting him back into my life . . .

  “You better catch that flight,” I say, turning to walk out the door.

  “Nix,” he says from behind me, his voice getting closer. “I’ve been giving you space, but I haven’t given up. I’ve decided to use a different tactic.”

  I pause, but don’t turn. “And what tactic is that?”

  “Letting you miss me,” he says softly. “Letting you remember what we were like together. Is it working?”

  Every single day.

  Every single day some memory of our time together disrupts my peace of mind, but I won’t tell him that.

  “I’m trying to respect your wishes.” He steps in front of me so we’re facing each other. “To respect your decision and your . . .” He twists his lips and they tighten at the corners. “. . . your relationship, but I told you I would come back when the time was right. I think the time is now. I love my brother and I would support his run, but I wouldn’t be living in this city for him.”

  He brushes a knuckle over my cheek and pushes my hair back. “I’m not here for Owen, Nix. I’m here for you.”

  “Maxim,” I say, my breath trapped in my throat. “I don’t think—”

  “What do I have to do?” he asks, bending so our mouths line up, so the question waits on my lips for an answer. “What does a man like me, used to getting anything he wants, do when the woman he wants more than anything won’t forgive him for a mistake when he was too stupid and too young to know better?”

  I close my eyes against the urgency in his stare, dark green like a forest I’d get lost in. My chest heaves as if I’m running, but the only exertion is staying out of his arms; is not throwing myself on top of him and kissing him like it’s been ten years since I had anything as good as what we had. It takes everything to remain still, mute.

  I want to tell him there’s no relationship to respect. There’s nothing to forgive, but if I say any of those things, there will be no barrier between us—nothing keeping the wolf from my door. And if he gets in . . .

  With swift steps, I make my escape to the elevator, duck in and press the close doors button. I probably won’t see him again until the announcement. When I look up, he stands there, frustration clearly painted on his strong face.

  “Happy holidays, Doc,” I say as the doors close.

  44

  Lennix

  “Merry Christmas, Mama.”

  I say it every year here in this place where I whispered her name. It’s not much, but it’s all the closure I have. No body and no grave. A story with no end. I can only hope she found peace because I’m not sure I ever really can.

  “Rest in peace, Liana,” my father says, his sober gaze fixed below.

  I’d almost forgotten he stood beside me, I was so turned in on my own sadness. He comes every year, though I haven’t asked him to in a long time. They never married and weren’t together when she died.

  Guilt stabs at me.

  “Dad, you don’t have to keep coming.” I take his hand and squeeze. “You should be home with Bethany. I could have come alone.”

  “Bethany’s fine,” he says of the English professor he married after dating a few years. “It’s just an hour and she understands.”

  She is pretty awesome. Since she came into my father’s life, Christmas has become festive again with trees lit and tables laid.

  “Besides, Liana was a woman who deserves to be remembered.”

  I nod. She was indeed. A warrior. Fierce and principled.

  “You’re so like her,” Dad says, a gentle smile quirking his lips even though his gaze is trained on the sky, not on me. “She would be proud of you—of how you fought to protect this place.”

  “And failed,” I mumble, misery making my eyes burn. “I couldn’t save . . .”

  Her. The land. Tammara. Too many losses to name over the years. It makes me tired. I stare at the smooth expanse of dry land, with the pipeline trail cutting over it like a scar, healed, but jagged.

  “You can’t save them all, Lenn,” Dad says, slipping an arm around me and pulling me in tight. “But you’re your mother’s daughter, so I know you’ll always try.”

  I nod against his shoulder, tears stinging my eyes.

  “Just promise me you’ll stop fighting for everyone else long enough to find something for yourself,” Dad says. “Liana never did that, but you can.”

  He’s right. It usually feels like everything I want most is for someone else.

  Not everything, that damn voice reminds me again.

  I clench my eyes closed against the images that flood my mind—images of Maxim and me. My desire for him was a living thing that writhed and screamed and demanded for itself—took what it wanted. Took him however he came. Wanted him with no holds barred, even if it hurt.

  But then it did hurt, and I ran away.

  The barren land mocks me, an open casket holding nothing more than a whisper and my pain. God, so much pain. Pain I don’t think I can live through again.

  Mena says I cut myself off so I never have to feel this again—never have to lose like this again. Does never having someone to lose mean I’ll never have someone . . . at all?

  45

  Maxim

  “And then Lennix says, ‘Happy holidays . . .” I pause for emphasis. “. . . Doc.’”

  David and Grim don’t look as impressed by this last bit of information as they should. They actually look slightly disinterested.

  “You get the significance of that, right?” I demand. “Remember I told you she used to call me—”

  “Doc Quixote,” they both finish flatly, arms crossed over their chests. They’re slumped into the sumptuous sectional that takes up a quarter of the room. We’re at my place embedded in the slopes of the Aspen Highlands. Neither of them have immediate families, and mine . . . well, it’s obviously complicated.

  “Not all the time. Mostly she would just call me Doc, but there was that one time we went—”

  “Bike riding,” they say together again, exasperation creeping into their voices.

  “I told you guys about that?” I frown. “About the windmills when we went bike riding in Amsterdam?”

  “Holy shit,” David groans, running a
hand through his hair. “I don’t know about you, Grim, but if he says ‘Amsterdam’ one more time . . .”

  “Yeah.” Grim reaches for the heavily-spiked eggnog my chef has perfected over the years. “I’ll figure out how to chew my own ear off.”

  “Good one.” David chuckles and clicks his mug to Grim’s. “Now, Max, you say Kimba is your main contact for the campaign, right? She still got that great ass? Did she ask about me? I mean, she and I also had a great week in the city that shall not be named.”

  “Really?” Grim turns to him, his brows lifted. “You tapped that?”

  “Dude . . .” David closes his eyes and tips his head back into the cushions. “Like one of my top ten fucks of all time.”

  “Top ten?” Grim does look impressed by that. “Wow.”

  “I’m sorry,” I interrupt. “But I was kind of in the middle of asking for your advice.”

  “Are we still talking about you?” David frowns. “I didn’t want to say it, man, but Kimba and I had a week, too, and you don’t hear me going on and on about it.”

  “Because it meant absolutely nothing to either of you. She passed her goodbye through me on the street and told me it meant nothing.”

  David cocks his grin to the side. “But I bet she remembers my dick fondly.”

  He and Grim bump fists and their bawdy laughter echoes through the room.

  “I was trying to ask if I should call Lennix,” I tell them. “She hasn’t called me Doc since I’ve been back. Hell, she’s barely looked me in the face.”

  Through the floor-to-ceiling window, I contemplate the mountains. Nearby properties glitter with Christmas lights, and the moon hangs low in the sky like an Earth-sized ornament, illuminating the snow-dusted rise of mountains. It’s a scene from a holiday postcard, but it doesn’t feel like Christmas. Not really.

  I talked to Owen and Millie and the kids yesterday before they left for my parents’ place in Dallas. The kids loved the gifts I sent, and I could hear their squeals of laughter and their Cocker Spaniel barking in the background. It reminded me of Christmases growing up, Owen and I running downstairs at one minute past midnight and tearing into our gifts. My mom and dad would get up with us to watch.