The Kingmaker (All the King's Men, #1)(89)

“Holy shit,” David groans, running a hand through his hair. “I don’t know about you, Grim, but if he says ‘Amsterdam’ one more time . . .”

“Yeah.” Grim reaches for the heavily-spiked eggnog my chef has perfected over the years. “I’ll figure out how to chew my own ear off.”

“Good one.” David chuckles and clicks his mug to Grim’s. “Now, Max, you say Kimba is your main contact for the campaign, right? She still got that great ass? Did she ask about me? I mean, she and I also had a great week in the city that shall not be named.”

“Really?” Grim turns to him, his brows lifted. “You tapped that?”

“Dude . . .” David closes his eyes and tips his head back into the cushions. “Like one of my top ten fucks of all time.”

“Top ten?” Grim does look impressed by that. “Wow.”

“I’m sorry,” I interrupt. “But I was kind of in the middle of asking for your advice.”

“Are we still talking about you?” David frowns. “I didn’t want to say it, man, but Kimba and I had a week, too, and you don’t hear me going on and on about it.”

“Because it meant absolutely nothing to either of you. She passed her goodbye through me on the street and told me it meant nothing.”

David cocks his grin to the side. “But I bet she remembers my dick fondly.”

He and Grim bump fists and their bawdy laughter echoes through the room.

“I was trying to ask if I should call Lennix,” I tell them. “She hasn’t called me Doc since I’ve been back. Hell, she’s barely looked me in the face.”

Through the floor-to-ceiling window, I contemplate the mountains. Nearby properties glitter with Christmas lights, and the moon hangs low in the sky like an Earth-sized ornament, illuminating the snow-dusted rise of mountains. It’s a scene from a holiday postcard, but it doesn’t feel like Christmas. Not really.

I talked to Owen and Millie and the kids yesterday before they left for my parents’ place in Dallas. The kids loved the gifts I sent, and I could hear their squeals of laughter and their Cocker Spaniel barking in the background. It reminded me of Christmases growing up, Owen and I running downstairs at one minute past midnight and tearing into our gifts. My mom and dad would get up with us to watch.

I had a fantastic childhood. I can appreciate that now. Not for the reason people would assume, for all the money, but for my family. I think I blocked some of it so the separation from my father wouldn’t hurt as much, but tonight, I feel it. Dad was busier than I could even comprehend then, but I caught him once assembling our bikes himself so they’d be under the tree when we woke up. He stood there with my mom, bleary-eyed in his robe, grinning when we rode the bikes up and down the halls.

I miss my parents. I miss my dad. I don’t allow myself to acknowledge that most days. The enmity has calcified between us—hardened into bone that might now prove too painful if we break it.

“If you don’t call,” Grim says, pulling me away from past holiday mornings, “you’ll just keep thinking about it.”

“And, God help us, talking about it,” David says. “So just call.”

Dammit, they’re right. I step out onto the verandah overlooking a string of pearl-topped mountains. I dial the number, waiting while the cold pierces through my thick sweater.

“Maxim!” my mom says, her voice breaking over my name.

Maybe I’m a coward. This was the easier call to make.

“Mom, hey.”

“I was hoping you’d call. I planned to call you in a few minutes, so I’m . . .” A silence thick with emotion builds between us.

“It’s good hearing your voice,” I say, forcing a lighter tone. “Those kids of Owen’s driving you crazy yet? They’re the loudest little monsters I’ve ever met. They drive me bonkers in DC.”

“I’m pretty sure if I survived my own two little Kingsman monsters,” she says, her voice warm, “I can survive Owen’s.”

I hadn’t thought of that in years, how she used to chase us around the house yelling, “I’m looking for all the king’s men!”

“I’m so glad you’re with Owen while he’s running,” she continues. “He needs someone he can trust, and politics is a dirty game.”

“One he’s been playing for ten years,” I remind her dryly.

“Yes, but this is another level. It requires even more ruthlessness.” She pauses to laugh. “And we both know you’re ten times as ruthless as your brother.”

“Not sure how I feel about that, Mom. Thanks?”

“You get it from your father,” she says, humor and affection in her voice. “You both play dirty when you have to. I’m glad Owen has you at his back. Take care of your brother, son.”

It should be an odd request considering I’m younger, but she’s right. Owen has a heart of gold, but I’ve always been the fighter of us two.

“I will, Mom,” I promise. “I got him.”

“Would you, um . . . like to speak with your father?” she asks, her voice trying to sound normal.

I try for normal, too, as if my father and I talk every day instead of once every few years. “Sure.”