Page 122 of The Rebel King

“Speaking of bias,” I murmur dryly, causing my mom to chuckle and Lennix to grin.

“Those are facts, and back toyou,” he says, leveling a stern look at Lennix. “You’re gonna let some TMZ shit keep you from locking down Iowa? I thought you made kings, not governors.”

You could hear dust settle the room goes so quiet. He and Lennix lock eyes down the length of the table, and the air hums with tension.

“Dad, Lennix—”

“Thought you said she was the best,” Dad challenges, still staring Lennix down.

“I am,” she asserts with quiet confidence.

“My son gets the best. You should be working on his campaign, not some governor in Virginia.”

“How do you know it’s Virginia?” she asks. “You’re paying closer attention to my life than I would have thought.”

“If you’re going to be with Maxim,” my father says, “you should get used to that. I keep track of mine.”

Lennix glances down at the hands folded in her lap and caresses the compass charm on her bracelet. She meets my eyes and smiles. I shrug. I stopped being surprised long ago about my father knowing everything that goes on in my life and where I am at all times. Her bracelet is testament to the fact that I’m made the same way. I think she sees that now. I only hope she doesn’t start wondering what else my father and I have in common. She might run for the hills.

Except Lennix already knows me, flaws and all, and she’s still here.

“If he loses Iowa,” my father says, steepling his hands, “he loses his shot. Am I right?”

After a hesitation, Lennix nods. “We have to win Iowa. It’s psychological warfare. Whatever candidate millennials attach their ideals to, they’ll ride to the end, even if they think that person will lose. Moderate Republicans, centrist Dems, older voters are more likely to use Iowa as a litmus test of Maxim’s viability. If they see him lose Iowa, they won’t waste their vote in the later primaries on someone they don’t think has at least a chance.”

“You mean they’ll assume I’m like every other independent candidate who has ever run,” I say, “and stop taking me seriously.”

“Right,” Lennix says with a brisk nod.

“Do you mean to tell me,” Dad says, “that the girl I saw facing down dogs and rubber bullets when she was just seventeen years old grew up to be a woman afraid of a little gossip?”

“Dad, I don’t think—”

“He’s right,” Lennix cuts in. “If you lose Iowa, I’ll never know if my direct involvement could have made a difference.”

“Then I suggest,” my father says, spearing a clump of green beans, “you get back where you’re supposed to be before you lose this thing worrying what people think. Cades don’t care what people think.”

“I’m not a Cade,” she parries.

“Yet,” I say. Our eyes lock, but there’s no doubt in hers. It’s only a matter of time. Therighttime.

“Goodness,” my mother titters. “I’m surrounded by testosterone and…” She studies Lennix with a tilt of her head, like she’s not sure how to classify her. “And whatever it is you have, Lennix.”

We all laugh and dig back into our meal.

“I’ll speak to Kimba,” Lennix says, “about coming back to the campaign.”

I pause my chewing. “Seriously?”

“That’s right,” my father says, raising his glass in a toast. “Fuck ’em.”

Lennix watches him as if he’s one of those pet boa constrictors who might turn feral without notice and squeeze the life from its owner during the night. Then she raises her glass, too. “Yeah. Fuck ’em.”

The dining room becomes a war council, with my father, Lennix, and me strategizing for Iowa and beyond while my mother fakes looking mildly interested from time to time but surreptitiously plays Wordscapes on her phone.

“You thought about a potential running mate?” Dad asks, smiling at my mom when she slices the apple pie the staff brought in and sets a plate in front of him.

“Peggy Newcombe,” I say.

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