Total pages in book: 113
Estimated words: 108242 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 541(@200wpm)___ 433(@250wpm)___ 361(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 108242 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 541(@200wpm)___ 433(@250wpm)___ 361(@300wpm)
“I’m sorry.”
“And a meme. Almost forgot about the meme and the surveillance camera footage was a g-reat touch.”
Note to self: Never make an enemy of a tech genius who could mine the internet for footage of your lover coming in and out of your apartment.
And in. And out. And in. And out.
The several grainy surveillance photos of Maxim climbing into his SUV with security trailing him for sure made me seem like some little trollop he kept in a house and visited on a regular basis. Glenn confirmed my suspicions that he’d had something up his sleeve when he texted Kimba and me right after the story broke.
Glenn: Hey, ladies. Just wanted to let you know. That old buddy who had a spot for me on another campaign? It was Lacy. I’m writing speeches for Governor Dentley now. Glad we’re all still FRIENDS. ;-)
Apparently Lacy and Glenn became pal-ish on that project they worked on together before, and he went straight to her bearing tales about Maxim and me. His text message was just enough to taunt us but not enough to prove he’s Lacy’s source. Certainly not enough to sue his ass for breaking the NDA. For all intents and purposes, Lacy talked. Glenn didn’t.
“Oh, this might be the best headline yet.” Kimba turns the iPad so I can see. “Making it with the Kingmaker. I think that’s my fave.”
“I know. I messed up.”
“Messed up?” Kimba looks at me, disappointment and anger accumulating in her dark eyes. “Two of the candidates we had booked for midterm elections called this morning to say they’ve found consultants with ‘less drama’ and won’t be needing our services.”
I close my eyes and drop my head into my hands.
“Drama, Lennix. Do you know how long these people have been waiting for us to screw up? Two brown girls who think their shit doesn’t stink getting taken down a peg or two. So that’s how they made it so far, so fast. That’s what they’re saying. You gave them that.”
“Kimba, come on,” Maxim says from the conference-room door. “I think we both feel bad enough as it is.”
“Oh, you feel bad?” Kimba laughs harshly. “That’s not how it works, Maxim. These headlines aren’t about you doing anything wrong or being suspect or not being great at what you do. Matter of fact, there are a lot of men patting you on the back for tapping that ass.”
“Do you think I’m going to let you talk about her like that?” he asks, his eyes turning to slits.
“I don’t have to talk about her.” Kimba stands and points to the iPad. “Everyone else is. I love her. I’ve worked with her the last ten years building something we believe in. Now it and she are being laughed at, are being denigrated because of you. So don’t come in here thinking you’re gonna set me straight. I set you straight.”
She walks to the door and stops in front of him. “Also, Ms. Hunter is no longer available for your campaign. She’s being reassigned, but should you still want to retain the services of Hunter, Allen and Associates, meet me back here at eight o’clock sharp tomorrow morning so we can figure out how to salvage what’s left of your campaign. Excuse me.”
She pushes past him, through the door and out of the conference room. Her high heels echo down the hall to the reception area, followed by a definite slam of the front door.
In the quiet after her departure, I flip through the various articles and insulting headlines.
“My father called today,” I say. “He wanted to make sure I was okay.”
Maxim takes the seat across from me.
“He got into an argument with a colleague at work,” I continue tonelessly. “The professor apparently had not-so-nice things to say about me, not realizing I was Dr. Hunter’s daughter. He and Dad almost came to blows. He didn’t tell me that part. Bethany did.”
Maxim releases a sharp breath and reaches for my hand. “Nix, I’m so sorry.”
“It’s not your fault.” I shake my head and push my hair back. “I knew this would happen.”
“I’m not just apologizing for the fallout,” he says. “I’m apologizing for what happened before all of this, on the bus.”
I pause, flicking an uncertain glance up at him. It was almost easy to forget the volatile conversation we’d had before the press descended. I force a laugh. “Let me deal with one crisis at a time, okay?”
“Me asking you to marry me is a crisis?” He asks the question lightly, but I know him too well not to hear, not to feel the hurt behind it. I saw it in his eyes on the bus, too.
“When you asked,” I start, meting out each word carefully, not wanting to do any more damage than I already have, “for just a second, it was scary how badly I wanted to be your wife. Yes was right there on the tip of my tongue. My heart wanted it immediately, but my head started asking, how would this work? How would I advocate so hard, so openly for Native issues when you’d have to be everyone’s president? And what would we say when they call me biased? Or I take a stance that you don’t agree with or that doesn’t align with your policies? A first lady doesn’t usually have opinions—at least, not that she voices. She has a husband, and her voice is swallowed by his.”