“There’s only one world, Nix,” he says.
A harsh laugh burns my lips, acidic and cynical. “God, you are a fool if you believe that. Every statistic, every news story, every broken promise and dead girl tells me we don’t live in the same world, and we have different battles to fight. You go fight yours and leave me to fight mine.”
Something changes in him, on his face. Anger and resolve harden his features. He walks up to me, but doesn’t touch.
“Since you found out that I’m a Cade,” he says. “I don’t have to hide anymore. There’s something you should know about us.”
“And what’s that?” I ask, feeling hunted by the wolf gleam in his eyes. I want to deny what a thrill it sends through me.
“We get whatever the fuck we want,” he says, dropping his eyes down the length of my body. “And I want you, Lennix Moon. I want the girl who chases stars.”
“Well you can’t have her. You can’t have me.”
“I can’t force you. I wouldn’t want you like that anyway. You want time. I can respect that. I can’t make you give me another chance.”
He pulls in a tired breath and shoves his hands through his hair. “I have to leave now for this expedition, but we’re not done.”
“I say we are.” My voice is shockingly steady, considering how I’m trembling inside.
“We’re not. Do what you need to do. Change your world,” he says softly, his eyes connected to mine so intensely there’s no hope of looking away. “I have to go make my world, but when the time is right, I’ll be back for you.”
Part III
“Let us put our minds together to see what kind of future we can make . . .”
– Sitting Bull, Lakota Holy Man & Leader
34
Lennix
Ten Years Later
“Never fuck the candidate.”
No matter how many times I’ve said it, there’s always some dewy-eyed girl still smelling like sorority who doesn’t get it. Who just haaaaaaas to know what two hundred or so pounds of future Mr.
President feels like between her legs.
“It’s rule number one, Lacy.” I sit on the edge of my desk and consider the young campaign technology director. “And you broke it.”
“I didn’t mean for it to happen.” Fat tears stream from Lacy’s eyes and she rubs at them just enough to look cute, but not smear her makeup.
“Cut the tears, honey,” I say. “This act you’re putting on, it’s a re-run. I’ve seen every season.”
Lacy freezes mid-weep, glancing at me from under a set of press-on lashes.
“I don’t have time for tears or excuses,” I continue. “Day one, I tell everybody, don’t fuck the candidate. It’s bad for business. It eliminates your objectiveness. Most of all, it gives the press, and therefore potential voters, something to focus on besides the issues. And nine times out of ten, it costs everyone. The candidate, the sweet young thing, and most importantly, the people that candidate could have helped had we installed them into the place of power. That is the main reason the rule exists because the people are our bottom line.”
I cross my legs, swinging one bright green Louboutin Pigalle sling-back in time with the second hand ticking on my wall clock.
“I have to let you go.” I sculpt my voice into the shape and hardness of dismissal.
Lacy’s shocked eyes snap to meet mine.
“Are you kidding me?” She shakes her head, setting her blond curls bobbing. “I could have run tech for fifty campaigns, but I wanted to work with the Kingmaker. I chose you.”
I grimace at the ridiculous nickname the press started using a few years ago when a string of my candidates won high-profile races.