The Rebel King (All the King's Men Duet #2) - Kennedy Ryan Page 0,66

looks back to the crowd.

“The past is behind us. The future is ours. Figure out how you can change the world right now, and don’t fear it. Do it.”

29

Maxim

My polite responses to condolences stopped hours ago. The comfort of strangers feels like an itchy sweater—agitating. I want to strip it off. Whomever decided the best way to spend the afternoon following a funeral was with food and well-meaning, awkward mourners should be punched in the face. This reception is absolutely the last thing I want to do.

I haven’t been in my parents’ house in years, and this was not how I saw myself returning. When I have come to visit my mother over the last decade, I’ve stayed in a hotel. I own homes all over the world, but not here. Even Texas isn’t big enough for my father and me.

I flew into Dallas yesterday to help prepare for the service, and to support Millie and Mom. This has taken the hardest toll on them.

“How you doing?”

I glance at David, considering his question.

“Irritable,” I reply. “And ready to kick everyone out.”

“I can imagine. Actually, I’ve never lost anyone this close, so I can’t imagine. Sorry doesn’t even begin to cut it, brother, but I am sorry.”

I nod, grateful for the sincerity of his helplessness. We’ve been friends long enough not to say stupid, useless shit when we’re hurting, though nothing has ever hurt like this.

“Thanks, man,” I say.

“You talked to Grim?” David glances around the room. “I thought he might break his no funeral rule this time.”

“He’s where I need him to be, working with the authorities to figure out who did this. He knows that means a lot more to me than him showing up in a suit and tie.”

“I hear ya.”

Mom, standing across the room, nurses a glass of her favorite Pinot. The congresswoman talking to her doesn’t seem to notice the glaze over Mom’s eyes or her plastic smile cracking around the edges, but I do. Why is the family expected to entertain? We’re not in the mood for finger sandwiches and banal standing-room conversations. Middle finger to the guy who thought I know what we’ll do now that our loved one has died. We’ll throw a party.

“I’ll be back,” I tell David. “I need to go check on my mom.”

I’m headed toward her when a new group enters the dining room. I recognize several of them from Owen’s campaign and re-direct my steps, walking toward the sharply-dressed knot of people.

“Maxim.”

I turn my head toward the familiar voice.

“Kimba,” I say. “Thank you for coming.”

She steps forward and wraps her arms around me and I squeeze her back.

“I’m so sorry,” she says, her voice teary. “We all loved him.”

And they all did. From that first night when we all met at Owen’s, a bond started forming between Owen and the team Kimba and Lennix led. Millie had asked for their birthdays and anniversaries so her social secretary could get them a little something. She would have made a fine first lady. I don’t know what the future holds for her, but I’ll make sure it’s whatever she wants.

I pull away and scan the group with Kimba. “Where’s Lennix?”

“She’s coming. There was some press outside of the church, and they pounced as soon as they saw her.”

I clamp down on my frustration. I want her with me. I haven’t pressed on it much. I understand her hesitation. Our relationship hasn’t been public and my brother’s funeral isn’t exactly the best place to debut as a couple. Mostly, Lennix has wanted my father to be able to grieve with the family without her presence, considering the enmity between them. I appreciate her sensitivity, but I need her in ways I can’t even articulate. My body and my heart tell me every second of every day that she should be with me.

“Doc.”

It’s like my need for Lennix drew her to me. Her hair is sleek and long, a shiny dark curtain spilling over the red coat she wears, covering a severely cut black dress. Her mouth is red and full. My arms flex with the effort it takes not to grab her.

“Nix.” I keep my voice calm, but take her hand and start walking off. “Kimba, excuse us.”

I know I was abrupt, but I need to be alone with her. A few minutes where it’s just us and no one expects me to be “doing well,” “holding up” or “hanging in there.” In measured but swift strides, I pull her out