The Kingmaker (All the King's Men Duet #1) - Kennedy Ryan Page 0,9

be in the protest with the dogs and tear gas . . . and such. When they offer us our one phone call, maybe I’ll just pass and live out the rest of my senior year in a holding cell. I could redirect all my college acceptance letters to the police station. That wouldn’t raise any red flags, would it? What self-respecting place of higher learning isn’t recruiting from the penal system?

“Out,” the cop standing at the door barks, her voice rough and impatient, her unibrow dipped into a frown.

The six of us shuffle toward the police station. The officers don’t seem bothered by the fact that I’m a minor and take my mug shot without incident. The police station is a small-town operation with one holding cell we’re all tossed into together. I don’t anticipate these charges sticking. Cade probably just wants to intimidate us.

Good luck with that, you rich prick.

I may not actually live on the rez anymore, but staying with my father in town hasn’t made it any less my home. I’d still be living there if Mama . . .

I shove that thought down to a dark hole where I keep the really painful stuff. Why deal with it now? Save something for the therapist I’ll start seeing in my thirties when I finally decide it’s all too much to handle on my own.

My mother was murdered? Taken? Stolen?

Gone.

One of those “unseen” women, an unheard voice, whose disappearance wasn’t shouted about on the news or fretted over by the world.

And I’ll never get over it. Not ever.

There are days when I go a few hours without thinking about it—without wondering what happened to the beautiful woman who gave so much of herself to me and everyone around her. Yeah, there are those days, but not many. Mostly there are a thousand things every day that remind me of her, not the least of which is my own reflection.

“Good to have those off,” Berkeley T-shirt mumbles, rubbing his wrists and reminding me of our current less-than-ideal circumstances. I don’t know how long they’ll keep us in this holding cell.

“This thing hurts like crazy,” Mr. Paul says, touching the reddened, punctured skin of his hand.

“You need medical attention.” I walk over to the bars and glance back over my shoulder to Berkeley T-shirt. “So do you.”

Berkeley. According to that T-shirt, he’s probably already in college. Yeah, he’s already a man, not a boy. My dad would strangle me and maim him.

“I don’t think I’ll lose it.” He nods to his injured arm, one corner of his mouth tipping up.

Focus on first aid, not his lips.

“Hey!” I yell through the bars. “We need a first-aid kit in here.”

Unibrow takes her sweet time ambling toward the cell.

“You rang, m’lady?” she asks. Oh, the sarcasm is thick with this one.

“Yeah. We have two people here with dog bites, thanks to the Cujos you turned loose on us.” I point a thumb over my shoulder. “Thought I’d do you a favor and spare you a lawsuit. You’re welcome.”

She eyes Mr. Paul, who cups his hand, and then she glances at Berkeley. She lingers there, taking in the fully spectacular male specimen he is.

Can’t blame ya, girl.

“I’ll get a first-aid kit and some antibiotic,” she finally says before turning on her heel to leave.

“You’re a real Florence Nightingale,” I shout after her and turn back to the crowded cell. Another van has brought in more of the protestors. It makes my heart heavy, seeing my friends and neighbors behind bars like criminals. We don’t steal. We don’t disregard the law and break our word. That is what has been done to us since the first ship docked.

“Stars and stripes, huh?” Berkeley asks from the bench against the wall.

He’s the only person here I’ve never seen before. I walk over and take the empty spot beside him.

“’Scuse me?” I ask, resting my back against the wall and pulling one knee up while I wait for him to clarify.

“Stars.” He gestures to one side of his eye. “And stripes. On your face. Is that on purpose?”

Sharp. Observant. He does attend Berkeley. Stands to reason.

“I never claimed to be subtle,” I say with a tight smile.

“Yeah, I picked up on the not-subtle part at the protest,” he says with a straight face, but with eyes twinkling the tiniest bit.

I don’t feel like discussing my complex relationship with this nation’s forefathers and their twisted definition of “we the people.” I settle for the simpler answer to his