The Kingmaker

I grin and wiggle the pretty little ass in question at her and walk behind my desk, then flop down into my chair with a whoosh of tired breath.

“And the publisher wants us to do it,” Kimba continues. “The studio’s sending a car over to take us.”

“Fancy.”

The intercom buzzes on my desk.

“Lenn,” Karla says. “I have Kristen Bowden on the phone.”

Kimba and I exchange a harassed look. I sigh and pick up the phone, leaning back in my chair and kicking my feet up onto the desk.

“Kristen,” I say, ready to beg and mollify. “Thanks for taking my call.”

* * *

“So she’s still in?” Kimba asks once we’re in the car Beltway sent for us.

“Barely. She was angry and hurt, of course, but she does believe in Susan’s vision. And she loves her and wants to save her marriage, so hearing that Lacy is no longer working for the campaign went a long way. Good luck getting Susan to stop long enough to focus on fixing the marriage, though.”

“Is every politician a narcissist?”

“Pretty much, with few exceptions. We work with who we’re given.”

“You know how everyone talks about that once-in-a-lifetime candidate?” Kimba asks. “We’ve put some incredible people in power and done a lot of good, but I’m still waiting for that.”

“Me, too.” I sigh. “Until then, we keep doing our best with what we get.”

Our best has been great and we’ve gotten a lot. In the five years since we started our political consulting firm, Allen, Hunter & Associates, we’ve gotten a lot of people who champion the causes of marginalized people elected.

“You look great,” I tell Kimba when we arrive at Beltway’s downtown studio.

“Ya think?” She fluffs the cloud of her naturally textured brown hair, highlighted with gold. “That Orangetheory must be working. Gotta keep this ass in check.”

Several men and a few women watch said ass in Kimba’s body-hugging fuchsia dress.

“I think you’re doing just fine,” I say wryly.

“You look great, too.” She nods to my dress. “Is that another Wiona original?”

“Yup.” I smooth the fitted azure dress and scarf at my neck. “I try to wear her stuff when I have appearances.”

Wiona is an incredibly gifted indigenous fashion designer I met in North Dakota. I wear her clothes every chance I get, declaring my heritage when I can.

We’re in the dressing room getting our makeup freshened when Alice, the producer, comes in. She’s sharp and I respect her, despite the fact that her host is a bit of an ass. He postures himself as a moderate who maintains professional objectivity, but I think it thinly veils his implicit bias and misogyny. Kimba says I find bias and misogyny in house plants. She’s not wrong, but come on. That shit’s everywhere.

“So did they tell you who’s on with you today?” Alice asks, splitting a glance in the mirror between Kimba and me as the makeup artists apply color to our cheeks.

Beltway’s format is similar to old school late-night television in that the guests stay as others are added. It’s kind of Bill Maher-esque with the host encouraging conversation and interaction between the guests.

“It’s Rhonda Mays?” Kimba asks. “The special education advocate?”

“And Senator Biggs,” I add. “Republican from Ohio, right?”

“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 quick 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.