“Who?” I ask curtly.
“Owen Cade.”
Motherfucker.
Not Owen personally. He’s not a motherfucker, as far as I can tell. He’s actually proven to be an excellent senator. Moderate in some of the ways I’d prefer him to be progressive, but not a douchebag. He’s compassionate, seems to put his constituents first, has never been associated with any scandal, and has that “it” factor most politicians would give their left nut or boob for. He has stock in that “it” factor.
Like his brother.
“That’s fine,” Kimba says. “Thanks, Alice.”
“Oh, good,” Alice says, relief on her face. “See you out there. Someone will come get you when it’s time.”
The door closes behind Alice and I catch Kimba’s eyes in the mirror.
“You know I don’t like surprises,” I say through a thin opening in my lips as the makeup artist traces the outline of my mouth.
“I know you don’t like Cades,” Kimba says, her eyes obediently to the ceiling while her tech applies mascara.
“I think that looks great,” I tell the makeup artist, gesturing toward her bags and brushes and colorful palettes. “Thanks, but we’re done.” I look at Kimba’s tech in the mirror. “You, too.”
“I’m almost done,” she protests. “I just need to—”
“You’re done,” I say with a smile that barely moves my freshly-painted lips.
Once we’re alone, Kimba and I share a long look in the mirror. The name Cade always makes me feel ill at ease.
“You know he’s in town, right?” Kimba asks.
“Who?” My muscles tighten, braced for her answer.
“Maxim. Testifying before Congress about climate change.”
“Oh.” I look away from my friend to the safety of my own reflection in the mirror, finding stray hairs to smooth. “How nice he remembered he’s an American and graced our shores.”
“He’s in America all the time, but a lot of his business is overseas.”
“Sounds like you’ve kept up with him a lot more than I have, which is not at all.”
“It was ten years ago, Lenn. I know he lied to you—”
“Right. Ten years ago, which is what makes this conversation completely unnecessary.”
I last saw Maxim face-to-face in that Oklahoma conference room. His threat of “coming back for me” has proven an idle one, though he did try to maintain contact at first. His text messages—unreturned. Postcards from faraway places—tossed in the trash. Voice mails—deleted before I could hear the plea in his words. The incident . . . okay the fucking . . . in the conference room demonstrated that I’m vulnerable where Maxim Cade is concerned, so I had to shut down every attempt, cut him off at every pass, and keep him out of my life. He was so busy risking his life in the Amazon or where-the-hell-ever, it wasn’t hard to do.
And then it all just . . . stopped.
I was left to assume his threat to come back for me was indeed an empty one. Each time he’s been in DC to testify before Congress, I half-wondered if he might show up at my office. The element of surprise and all that, but no. Over the last decade, he’s seemed completely focused on building his clean energy empire, just like he said he would. The crusader and the capitalist, too busy to come back. Or maybe he just moved on.
Like I have.
The door opens and a production assistant pops in.
“They’re ready for you, ladies.” She opens the door wider and gestures ahead with her clipboard. “If you’d follow me.”
Bryce Collins is who I thought he was, with questions ranging from subtly condescending to blatantly sexist.
“So they call you the Kingmaker, Ms. Hunter,” he says. “But it seems you like to focus on making queens. About sixty percent of your candidates are women.”