Page 82 of The Rebel King

Dad searches my face, his eyes narrowed and his mouth tight before nodding.

“What’s going on?” I ask, shifting from Gregory, my new least-favorite word and subject. “I didn’t even think you knew about this place. What made you fly all the way out here?”

His stare is a laser. “Several well-placed people have approached me over the last month about you running.”

“Running where?”

“Not where, son. For what. Running for president.”

I laugh outright and lean forward. “And you flew all the way out here to, what? Have a good laugh?”

“You don’t think you could do the job?”

My humor dries up. I hate that he knows how I respond to challenges and knows just which buttons to push. When someone intimates I can’t do something, I immediately want to prove them wrong. That was how I broke my arm in third grade. Owen said I couldn’t fly.

Right again, O.

But that two-second hang time before I crashed was glorious.

“Not interested,” I say instead of what my father wanted to hear.

“You’re telling me the job for the most powerful office in the world is open and you don’t even want to apply?”

“I’m not convinced it’s the most powerful office in the world anymore.”

“Look, you want to do good, want to change the world or whatever, this is how you do it. Can’t you see that?”

“Owen was a rare politician, Dad. Most of them are so hamstrung by party rules and keeping the ones who scratch their backs happy, they can’t do the things people actually elected them to do.”

“Then be different. Change things. The men who want you to run are powerful enough to deliver the nomination.”

“If I did run, I wouldn’t need anyone todeliveranything to me. I’d deliver on my own.”

Something sparks in my father’s eyes. I’ve seen it when he talked about Owen, but it’s been a long time since I’ve seen it in his eyes for me.Pride.

“And I assume you’re talking about guys like Chuck Garrett,” I say.

“Garrett was one of the first who approached me, yes.”

“Why would the head of the DNC want me to run when I’ve told anyone who’d listen I’m independent, not a Democrat?”

“Maybe he’s hoping to change your mind.”

“About the two-party system? In one conversation? Wow, check out the balls on Chuck.”

“If you decide to run, aligning with the Dems might be your best bet, and Chuck is the road to the party. There’s a real chance here,Maxim. I would never want to trade on Owen’s death, but you’re in a unique situation.”

“I think I’ll vomit if you say another word, Dad,” I tell him, my jaw so tight it hurts.

“Listen to me, and not with that soft heart you got from your mama. Listen to me with all the parts you got fromme. There is a window, and if we don’t strike now, it will close. Iowa is in ten months. That’s no time in the election cycle. Candidates are preparing for debate season, introducing themselves to the American people, but you don’t need an introduction. People already know you, and that speech you gave at Owen’s funeral has gone viral.”

“Dancing cats go viral. Excuse me for not trusting a million hits on YouTube to dictate my future.”

“Millions,” Dad amends. “While you’ve been licking your wounds and hiding in these hills—”

“I’m not hiding.”

“Whatever. You’re not out there. People believed in Owen. They don’t see any other candidate who makes them feel that way, who makes thembelievethat way. They’ve started petitions to get your name on the ballot.”

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