Chapter 34. Lennix #2
“Oh.” Alice’s brows pull into a careful crinkle like she doesn’t want to fully frown. “We had some booking changes. Only one other guest today. I’m sorry you weren’t apprised.”
I stiffen. I don’t like walking into situations blindly.
Anyone working for any length of time in DC knows that about me.
Kimba and I think quickly on our feet, but I don’t like to be caught flat-footed.
I’ve been ambushed more than once by some reporter trying to make their name off my possible gaffe. Preparation is key.
“Who?” I ask curtly.
“Owen Cade.”
Motherfucker.
Not Owen personally. He’s not a motherfucker, as far as I can tell.
He’s actually proven to be an excellent senator.
Moderate in some of the ways I’d prefer him to be progressive, but not a douchebag.
He’s compassionate, seems to put his constituents first, has never been associated with any scandal, and has that “it” factor most politicians would give their left nut or boob for. He has stock in that “it” factor.
Like his brother.
“That’s fine,” Kimba says. “Thanks, Alice.”
“Oh, good,” Alice says, relief on her face. “See you out there. Someone will come get you when it’s time.”
The door closes behind Alice, and I catch Kimba’s eyes in the mirror.
“You know I don’t like surprises,” I say through a thin opening in my lips as the makeup artist traces the outline of my mouth.
“I know you don’t like Cades,” Kimba says, her eyes obediently to the ceiling while her tech applies mascara.
“I think that looks great,” I tell the makeup artist, gesturing toward her bags and brushes and colorful palettes. “Thanks, but we’re done.” I look at Kimba’s tech in the mirror. “You, too.”
“I’m almost done,” she protests. “I just need to—”
“You’re done,” I say with a smile that barely moves my freshly painted lips.
Once we’re alone, Kimba and I share a long look in the mirror. The name Cade always makes me feel ill at ease.
“You know he’s in town, right?” Kimba asks.
“Who?” My muscles tighten, braced for her answer.
“Maxim. Testifying before Congress about climate change.”
“Oh.” I look away from my friend to the safety of my own reflection in the mirror, finding stray hairs to smooth. “How nice he remembered he’s an American and graced our shores.”
“He’s in America all the time, but a lot of his business is overseas.”
“Sounds like you’ve kept up with him a lot more than I have, which is not at all.”
“It was ten years ago, Lenn. I know he lied to you—”
“Right. Ten years ago, which is what makes this conversation completely unnecessary.”
I last saw Maxim face-to-face in that Oklahoma conference room.
His threat of “coming back for me” has proven an idle one, though he did try to maintain contact at first. His text messages—unreturned.
Postcards from faraway places—tossed in the trash.
Voice mails—deleted before I could hear the plea in his words.
The incident—okay, the fucking —in the conference room demonstrated that I’m vulnerable where Maxim Cade is concerned, so I had to shut down every attempt, cut him off at every pass, and keep him out of my life.
He was so busy risking his life in the Amazon or where the hell ever, it wasn’t hard to do.
And then it all just…stopped.
I was left to assume his threat to come back for me was indeed an empty one.
Each time he’s been in DC to testify before Congress, I half-wondered if he might show up at my office.
The element of surprise and all that, but no.
Over the past decade, he’s seemed completely focused on building his clean energy empire, just like he said he would.
The crusader and the capitalist, too busy to come back. Or maybe he just moved on.
Like I have.
The door opens, and a production assistant pops in.
“They’re ready for you, ladies.” She opens the door wider and gestures ahead with her clipboard. “If you’d follow me.”
Bryce Collins is who I thought he was, with questions ranging from subtly condescending to blatantly sexist.
“So they call you the Kingmaker, Ms. Hunter,” he says. “But it seems you like to focus on making queens. About 60 percent of your candidates are women.”
“It’s actually closer to 70 percent,” I offer with a wide, proud smile.
“What do you have against us guys?” he asks, his humor lined with invisible barbs.
“As we discuss in our book Louder , Kimba and I decided we wanted to amplify muted voices—wanted to position in places of power those most concerned about marginalized groups, especially women, people of color, LGBTQIA, and those with disabilities.”
“Seems like we add letters every day for being gay,” Bryce says with a caustic laugh.
“Try to keep up,” Kimba says. “It’s the least we can do.”
“Yes, well, you’re running a candidate now who hits on several categories,” he says. “Susan Bowden, a gay woman, married with three children. How’s the Denver race going?”
If he’s sniffing around a story, we can’t afford to give anything away, not with Kristin barely contained.
“Susan is an exceptional leader.” My smile comes naturally. “We expect big things from her—things that will benefit people who need better representation, especially women seeking equal pay.”
“I keep hearing about women not making as much,” Bryce says with a shrug. “But you ladies seem to be doing really well, and a lot of other women, too.”
“We command the same rates as our peers,” Kimba replies. “Every woman is not in a position to demand. Those are the ones we fight for.”
“Yes, well,” Bryce continues. “You mentioned your book, Louder . In it, you’re very critical of some of this nation’s forefathers, Ms. Hunter. Men widely recognized as heroes.”
“Recognizing their contributions without exposing their shortcomings, the discrepancies between rhetoric of freedom and systemic mistreatment and exclusion of marginalized groups, is a disservice,” I say, trying to check my irritation.
“As for them being heroes, how could I consider Andrew Jackson, a president who ratified the death of my ancestors, a hero? A man who sent them on the Trail of Tears? Is he my hero? The men who stripped us of our heritage, stole our language, forbade our customs—they aren’t my heroes.
My ancestors, the people who resisted them, those are heroes to me. ”
“Forgive me.” Bryce leans forward, his eyes gleaming, obviously relishing the rise he gets out of me. “But your sentiments don’t sound very patriotic.”
“Dissent is the highest form of patriotism,” I quote. “I love this country too much to settle for the lies written in our history books. I love the Constitution too much not to hold the men who wrote it accountable for the truth of its principles.”
“Some would call your perspective radical.”
“Some would be right,” I say with my sweetest smile. “I’ll continue loving this country on one hand and exposing the government’s kleptocratic practices on the other.”
“What are we supposed to do with that information, Ms. Hunter?” Bryce asks. “Feel guilty for something our ancestors did? Doesn’t this line of discussion simply perpetuate the divisiveness that’s tearing our country apart? How is this productive?”
“Not only is it productive, it’s essential.
Most Americans don’t really know the full truth of what happened to Native people because our history books don’t tell it.
We have to know what happened if we are to ensure that it never happens again.
And it’s not just what occurred in the past but what’s still happening.
We’re still living with it, and there are things that can be done now.
This is not about blaming for the past. It’s about us all being responsible for the future. ”
Bryce blinks at me, apparently at the end of his combative line of questioning, and turns his attention to Kimba.
The light of battle in her eyes tells him he doesn’t want any of that, and he offers a softer version of the thrust and parry for the next few minutes until we break and add Owen Cade to the set.
“You’re doing great, girls,” Bryce says, patting Kimba’s hand.
“We’re not your girls,” I say mildly. “We’re your guests, and thanks for having us.”
He watches me for an extra few seconds, picking through what is admittedly backhanded appreciation. “Thanks for coming at the last minute,” he finally replies.
I want to ask why the last minute. He doesn’t seem particularly interested in our book, our causes or us in general, but I’m distracted by Owen Cade taking the seat next to me. They’re checking his mic, which gives me a chance to check him .
I’ve seen him before, of course. He’s a California senator, but our paths have crossed very little. Maybe that was intentional on my part. I’ve never allowed myself to think too much about it. About him. Or about his brother.
He couldn’t be more unlike Maxim. Where Maxim is dark-haired and green-eyed like his father, Owen looks very much like his mother, fair with blue eyes.
Truly and literally the golden boy of politics.
He reaches across the aisle, manages to remain civil in the most vitriolic political climate, and, at least as far as I’ve heard, never cheats on his wife.
“Ladies,” he says to Kimba and me once he’s settled. “Glad to be on with you today. I don’t think we’ve ever actually met, but I know of your father and grandfather, of course, Ms. Allen. Their contribution to the civil rights movement is invaluable. So sorry for your family’s loss.”
Kimba’s grandfather died years before, but her father passed away from a heart attack just a few months ago. Pain tweaks her expression for a second, but she clears it and pulls the professional mask in place before most would notice. “Thank you, Senator Cade,” she replies.
“Please,” he says. “Call me Owen.”
She won’t. Neither will I.
“And you, Ms. Hunter.” He turns that piercing blue stare on me. “I’ve wanted to meet you for a long time.”