The Rebel King (All the King's Men Duet #2) - Kennedy Ryan Page 0,103
issue. You and I have been friends a long time. We should be fighting to save that, not fighting each other.”
After a few moments of tense silence, Glenn nods. “You’re right, and I understand.”
“So . . .” Kimba glances between the two of us, cautious hope in the look. “We’re straight?”
“Yeah, I could stay on with the campaign, if that’s okay,” he says. “Maxim’s going all the way. I know that. Writing speeches for the future president will look good. I can get past this if you can.”
Crap.
Kimba and I share a quick look because she knows as well as I do there’s no way Maxim will go for this.
“I think, given the circumstances,” Kimba says, “it’s still best that we go our separate ways. We have friends working for the Dems who could use someone like you.”
“Yeah, we’ll be more than happy to give you a glowing letter of recommendation,” I add. “I know we can have you placed in a day or so with another campaign.”
Glenn’s mouth tightens and he rubs his palms over his knees. “That won’t be necessary,” he says stiffly. “I have a friend with another campaign who wanted me to go there initially, but I saw this as a great opportunity. I’m sure there’s still a spot for me.”
“Do you mind if we ask who?” Kimba frowns.
“I’d prefer not to say until it’s definite,” he replies, his look daring us to press.
I don’t want to. This is as amicable as it will get.
“Well, if that’s all,” I say, standing, “the bus pulls out for Pittsburgh in a few minutes. We better get out there.”
“Yeah,” Kimba says, standing, too. “We can arrange transportation to anywhere you need to go.”
“I’ll get my own ride.” Glenn stands, too, extending his hand. “Nice doing business with you.”
Kimba accepts his handshake and so do I. His grip on my fingers tightens and I look up to find his face a serene mask. Even though there’s no detectable malice in his eyes, I still feel like I just made some deal I don’t understand with the devil.
47
Maxim
“Why didn’t you tell us you were auditioning first ladies, Maxim?” Polly asks teasingly.
Everyone freezes, then all eyes are on me.
Eight of us are spread across two booths on the bus, laptops, iPads, phones and stacks of papers littering the surfaces.
“Excuse me?” I quirk a curious brow. “I’m not, as far as I know.”
I sneak a look at Lennix, whose face reflects my confusion.
“According to Page Six,” Polly says, showing us an article pulled up on her phone, “you may be just days away from the altar, and America might have its next first lady.”
I roll my eyes. “Fake news.”
Polly scrolls down the screen and a few pictures pop up. All heads on that side of the table tilt in one accord to peer at the screen, including Lennix’s. She and Kimba exchange a quick, unreadable look.
“Excuse me, guys,” Lennix says. “I need to go read this policy paper.”
She stands and walks to the back of the bus. Polly looks after her and shrugs, turning back to the fascinating piece on my potential forthcoming nuptials.
“Could I at least meet my bride?” I ask, holding my hand out for the phone. Polly laughs and hands it over.
Shit.
It was all innocent, but these photos of Salina and me make things look intimate and arranged. The two of us deboarding the Cade Energy plane. Photos some kind parent at the party innocently posted to Instagram from the birthday party. Salina and me smiling, standing side by side, our faces lit by the glow of birthday candles. Us sitting beside each other during dinner on the patio. I thought nothing of any of it at the time, but we present the perfect picture of a courting couple.
America’s Next Camelot? the headline blares, and the sensational speculation that follows only gets worse.
Maxim Cade isn’t the only candidate. Salina Pérez may be mounting a campaign of her own. Maxim for president. Salina for . . . first lady? Does she get your vote? A young, beautiful couple in the White House! First babies! We are here for it!
If my father leaked this . . .
Right on time, my phone buzzes with a notification.
Dad: I didn’t do this. Just some reporter piecing shit together and speculating. Trying to take advantage of a slow news cycle.
Me: Why should I believe you?
Dad: If I did it, I would tell you. I’m not scared of you, boy.