Chapter Eight

 

Kimba

Present Day

 

 

“Would you like to make history, Congressman?”

I’ve lost track of how many leaders I’ve asked that question. They always say yes, the thought of breaking ground intoxicating them into a knee-jerk response. It’s usually the ones who answer fastest who don’t even make a dent. The ones who take their time replying, who ponder it for a second, often have the best chance of changing the world. Phone pressed to my ear in the beats of silence while I wait for Mateo Ruiz, the Georgia congressman, to reply, I can practically hear him counting the cost, weighing his next words.

“Yes,” he finally says. “And I look forward to your support.”

“You’ll have it.” I press through my own hesitation to make the risky play. “I’d love to lead the charge for the first Hispanic governor of Georgia. My firm has a proven track record.”

Understatement, since we just elected the sitting president.

“That you do,” Mateo agrees. “I’m still figuring out the composition of our team, but I’ll keep you in mind.”

Keep me in mind? My phone hasn’t stopped ringing since word got out that I turned down a cabinet position in the new administration. Every candidate on my side of the aisle worth their salt wants me running their campaign, yet the one candidate I actually want to represent will keep me in mind?

“Who else are you considering?” I ask, uninterested in beating around the bush.

“You’re on a very short list, Kimba,” he says dryly. “You know that.”

“Me and…let me guess. Anthony Rodderick?”

His chuckle confirms I guessed right. “Anthony has a lot to offer, and he’s a native son.”

“I grew up in Atlanta. My family’s one of the most influential in the city. You know that. I have a personal stake in seeing the first minority governor of my home state.”

“I know you do, and of course I recognize the weight of the Allen name in Atlanta. You know Atlanta, but there’s Atlanta and then the rest of the state, which we both know is a different demographic.”

“Oh, I see. You think you need a good ol’ boy to win the good ol’ boys. Someone like me couldn’t possibly understand anything beyond Atlanta city limits, even though I just elected a president for all fifty states.”

“I need stability, and your company is in transition. I’m ecstatic to have our first Indigenous First Lady, but Lennix was half of Hunter, Allen & Associates. If we’re honest, she was the face of it.”

No one to blame but myself. I should have nothing to prove at this stage of my career, but I’m still being questioned. Still being tried. To some degree, I shot myself in the foot all those years ago making sure my business partner Lennix was the one on camera. My abhorrence for public speaking, always pushing her out there, led many to believe Lennix was running the show alone. Now that she’s gone, some wonder if there’s still a show.

Well there is, and I’m running it.

“With all due respect, Congressman, you won’t need a face to win your election. You’ll need a sharp political mind, experience and determination, all of which I have. While I understand your concerns about stability during this transition, I still have the most hungry, talented team in the business. None of our campaigns will suffer.”

“Like I said, I’ll keep you in mind.”

I want to tell him he can keep this middle finger in mind, but then I remember how much I actually like him—that I agree with him on policy, on principle. That I honestly believe the things he wants to do might just transform the lives of the working poor and middle class in my home state. That means something to me. It’s the bigger picture, and it’s worth me setting my pride and ego aside long enough to wait for the answer I want.

Daddy used to say don’t talk about it. Be about it. The fastest way to shut up someone who thinks you can’t do something is to do something. Two years since he passed away, and his words continue to guide me every day.

“Yes, please keep me in mind, Congressman,” I say, executing an internal whoosah. “I admire Anthony deeply and respect all he’s done, but I think I’m the best person to lead you to victory in Georgia. I hope you’ll come to agree.”

He chuckles. “No one can ever say you lack confidence, Kimba.”

“I’m a woman, a black woman at that, working in a male world. If I waited on other people to believe in me, I wouldn’t get very far, and neither would my clients. And I take my clients far, Congressman.” I let that sink in because we both know I just took one to Pennsylvania Avenue. “Get in touch when you’re ready to talk.”

He’s one of the good ones. That rare politician who isn’t a narcissist and who is actually in it for the people more than for himself. Because it’s always a little for ourselves. While I wait for him to arrive at the right conclusion—that we should work together—I’ll do a little work on my own. I’ll search for things like tucked-away mistresses, hidden drug habits, brushed-under-the-rug convictions. Every closet has skeletons. I like to drag my candidates’ dirty secrets out into the open before we even begin. If I can dig and find them, so can anyone else. I’m an on the offensive kinda girl, so I dig first and I dig deep.

“I’ll be in touch,” he says. “Either way.”

Motion at the office door distracts me. My assistant, Carla, taps her watch and lifts her brows to disappear beneath purple-tinted bangs. My next appointment must be here. Considering who my next appointment is, I’m surprised she didn’t just burst through the door. After all, this used to be her company, too.

“Congressman, I have to go.” We disconnect and Carla smiles her satisfaction as she turns to leave.

My office door opens and a huge man walks in, speaking into a mic at his sleeve, his bulk shrinking the room.

“Excuse me?” I toss my cell phone onto the desk and lean my hip against the edge. “Did you just barge into my office?”

“I have to clear the space before the First Lady enters,” he intones absently, walking around the room and checking I suppose for explosives.

“Uh-huh. I figured, but they do teach you to knock at the Secret Service, right?”

“Yes, ma’am,” he says, a little color creeping into his cheeks. “Sorry about that.”

“We all clear?” I ask with a teasing smile.

“All clear,” he says into the mic, allowing a small smile of his own.

I quickly forget his rudeness when Lennix rushes in, arms extended.

“Kimba,” she says, squeezing me like I’m a raft in rushing rapids. “Thank God.”

I squeeze her back and then pry her arms from my neck after a few seconds. “Whoa, there, little koala.”

“I’m sorry.” She pulls away, grinning wryly. “I’m just glad to see a normal person.”

She glances over her shoulder to where Secret Service man stands at the door like a centurion.

“Hal, thank you for checking the room,” Lennix says. “You can wait outside.”

Uncertainty skitters across his face for a moment, tightening the corners of his eyes and lips. He opens his mouth, probably poised to object, but Lennix holds up one hand and points to the door with the other.

“Thank you, Hal.”

He turns to leave and closes the door behind himself.

“He’s new,” she says, rolling her eyes. “And zealous.”

“Not one of the normal people, I gather.” I cross the office to sit down on the couch and pat the cushion beside me. “Come tell Mama all the things.”

When she walks over and sits, her dress pulls taut over her middle, revealing a little baby bump.

“Oh my God!” I touch the small mound, breaking pregnant lady etiquette because that’s my godchild in there. “Look at our little peanut.”

Her grin widens and her gray eyes light up. “I know. I’ve never been so happy about gaining weight.”

“I bet Maxim is crazy protective and over the moon.”

“All of the above and more. He’s ecstatic. We both are.” She rubs a hand over the little bump lovingly, her expression softening. “But it’s happening when there’s so much pressure, so much scrutiny, and people underfoot all the time. It feels like I’m rarely alone, much less alone with Maxim.”

She glances around the office, furnished with items we chose together when we first opened our political consulting firm. “I kinda miss normal life.”

“Fuck normal. We are not normal chicks.” I relax into the corner of the sofa and cross my legs. “We are in the League of Extraordinary Bitches. You hear me? You are the first Native American First Lady this country’s ever had. Damn right it’s pressure. Your agenda is the most ambitious we’ve ever seen from a First Lady, so yeah, it’s hard, but you’ve got this.”

When she first announced that her agenda was simply women, everyone asked her to elaborate. Just…women? Equal pay for women. Reforming maternity rights for women. Secondary education for women. She has assembled the Cabinet on Women’s Empowerment, a body of experts who craft programs and solicit support from the corporate sector to partner with government initiatives.

“I’m so glad you’re on the CWE,” Lennix says, blowing out a breath. “I wish you’d reconsider the position Maxim offered you in his cabinet, though, so you’d be around the White House even more.”

“As tempting as Chief of Staff is, it’s like a desk job when I need to be in the field. This is where I belong. I want to be in the trenches and continuing the work we set out to do.”

“I get it,” Lennix says, almost wistfully. “You know how hard it was for me to walk away from our mission.”

“You didn’t walk away. You are doing our mission on a scale we never could have imagined.” I waggle my eyebrows. “Speak to power? Honey, you sleep with power. When your baby’s daddy is the leader of the free world, I’d call that on mission.”

“I can’t complain.” Lennix laughs throatily, leaning back and resting her head on the couch. “Except it’s you, and you’re my best friend so you have to let me complain.”

“Yup. Part of the job description.” I wag a finger at her. “But so is telling you the truth. You are exactly where you belong and where you can do the most good right now. You have everything to be grateful for.” I tip my head toward the closed door. “Other than Robocop out there acting like a bloodhound, sniffing for bombs under my Queen Anne desk. What’s up with Mr. High Alert?”

“Like I said…” She smiles and shakes her head. “He’s new. I do get tired of the constant Secret Service presence, but I get it. And they are so over the top now that the word is out I’m pregnant.”

“We haven’t had a baby in the White House since…” I frown, thinking back. “Wow. Since the Kennedys.”

“Yeah, we’re hoping for a better ending,” she says dryly. “Thus all the hyper protection. There’s like four more where Hal came from out in the lobby.”

“Oh, I bet Carla is salivating. You know she loves a big man.”

Right on cue, a knock comes and my assistant pokes her head around the door. There’s a flush on her pale cheeks and her purple hair is slightly disheveled like she’s run her fingers through it.

“Should I feed those men out there?” she whispers. “I could order lunch for everyone.”

“That won’t be necessary,” Lennix says. “I’m not staying long, but thank you, Carla.”

“Don’t rush off,” Carla says, her cheeks going pinker. “Really. It’s no trouble.”

“Don’t get distracted by all those muscles,” I warn playfully, “and miss my delivery.”

“It just came.” Carla’s grin is abashed. “Should I bring it in?”

“Sure. Thanks, lady.” I rub my hands together. “This is the dress I’m wearing to the awards ceremony in Atlanta. My family’s foundation is honoring community leaders.”

 I always make sure our foundation has plenty of donations, but my limited hands-on involvement has been a sore point. My mother insisted I attend this event, and I’m actually looking forward to it.

Carla walks back through the door carrying a huge brown box. I gesture toward the work table on the other side of my office, thanking her as she leaves. Once the box is laid out, I tear through the packaging to find another box inside, this one white, emblazoned with the word gLo, and tied with a wide purple ribbon.

“I didn’t know it was one of Lotus Ross’ designs,” Lennix breathes, touching the silk bow. “You guys know each other?”

“We met at the Image Awards not too long ago. She’s a riot. You’d love her.”

“I adore her stuff. That last line was fire.”

“Are you kidding? She’ll send you anything you want. A chance to dress the First Lady? What designer wouldn’t jump at that opportunity?”

“I’ve been careful to make sure I’m wearing things by up-and-coming designers when possible, especially indigenous women. It’s such a great way to draw attention to those who might get overlooked.”

“I wouldn’t exactly call Lotus overlooked,” I say dryly, “since she just won the CFDA for womenswear designer of the year, but she’s still pretty new to the game, so that kind of exposure could only help.”

When I lift the lid of the white box and peel the fragile tissue paper away, Lennix and I both gasp.

“Holy crap,” Lennix says, running her fingers lightly over the golden silk. “This will look fantastic on you.”

“It was literally made for me.” I lift the dress from the box, revealing the gilded fall of shimmering fabric. “Lo sketched it over drinks when I was in LA a couple months ago.”

“You have to try it on.” Lennix presses her palms together in a begging pose. “I wanna see.”

“Okay! You lock the door. I’ll get the windows.”

While Lennix walks briskly to lock the door, I draw the drapes across the floor-to-ceiling windows overlooking the chaos of D.C. traffic and commerce. I rush back to the work table, anticipation humming through my every molecule. My girly reflex is fully activated. I’m already thinking about the Manolos I found to go with the dress, mentally accessorizing and wondering if I should wear my hair blown out or upswept and in its natural curls. Without self-consciousness, I strip off my slacks and blouse, standing in only panties and bra. Lennix and I are in that “over ourselves” stage of friendship you reach through time and trial. She, along with our friend Vivienne, were my extended family so far from home. I carefully slide the silk up to my thighs, frowning when it catches there.

“What the…” I mutter when the material only inches up incrementally, not quite clearing my hips. It pulls so tight that if I force it, the dress will probably rip.

“Oh.” Lennix bites her bottom lip and tilts her head to the side. “Well, it…did she maybe send the wrong size?”

“I told you. She made it for me. One of these exists in the whole world, and Lo confirmed my measurements no more than ten days ago. I don’t get it.”

“I’m sorry, babe. Well, if we—” Her phone buzzes on the work table. She grabs it, still eyeing me with consternation. She glances down and grimaces. “Ugh. Dammit. I forgot we added a meeting to my schedule this morning. It’s on possible legislation for improved maternity leave. Something with teeth. My secretary just reminded me.”

“Go.” I waddle over to her, careful not to make any sudden dress-ripping moves, and give her a quick squeeze. “Be the badass bitch First Lady I know you can be.”

“And here I was looking for a motto when you had that up your sleeve this whole time,” she says, the sarcasm thick, but still not eclipsing the concern when she pulls back from our hug. “Kimba, the dress—”

“It’s fine.” I force a smile. “I have a dozen dresses that should work.”

If I can fit any of them.

“You get outta here. I don’t want you to be late.”

“Okay.” She rushes to the office door and unlocks and opens it. Hal stands there, blocking our view of the lobby and Carla, who is probably on her fainting couch with all that broody testosterone in forced proximity.

“Love you,” Lennix offers as a final parting and closes the door behind her.

“Love you, too,” I mumble absently, staring down the length of my body with dismay. I’ve noticed a few lumps and rolls that stubbornly resisted four days a week of Orange Theory, but didn’t realize it had gotten this out of control. I’ve been busy strategizing how I’ll turn a swing state in an upcoming gubernatorial election. Lumps and rolls around my middle got back-burnered.

My cell rings and I grimace when Lotus pops up on FaceTime. I want to ignore it and call back audio only so she won’t see me.

I answer, being careful to keep the phone aimed above my shoulders.

“Hey, Lo.” I inject my voice with the enthusiasm the woman who has become a close friend would usually merit.

“Heyyyyyy.” Her pretty face, surrounded by a huge, curly afro, lights up. “My assistant just told me we got a delivery notification on the dress. How is it?”

“It’s…” I glance at the material pooled below my waist. “A little tight.”

“Tight?” Lotus’ sleek black brows snap into a frown. “It shouldn’t be. We finalized measurements not long ago.”

“It’s not you,” I rush to reassure her. “I’ve been gaining weight lately faster than I ever have in my life.”

“Everything okay?”

“Yeah, but um…” I make sure the door is still closed. “I’ve also missed four periods.”

The reaction is instant and comes with a boom.

“What the hell, Kimba?” Lotus’ husky voice pops me on the head through the screen. “Did you take a pregnancy test?”

“Several.” I groan and tilt my head back to contemplate the ceiling. “All negative.”

“But could you be?”

I think back to my last hook-up. A unisex bathroom at the networking mixer off Fourteenth Street. It’s a blur of hand-blown chandeliers, bottomless mojitos, blond hair, hazel eyes, a medium-sized dick and a DIY orgasm, but I know we used protection. And I have IUD insurance.

“It shouldn’t be possible,” I say on a long exhale. “I took all the precautions, but nothing’s fail-proof, right?”

“Well, something must be up.”

“I have an appointment with my doctor. They drew blood a few days ago and are running several tests. I go in to discuss the results tomorrow.”

“Okay, we’ll figure it out, but first things first.” Lotus narrows dark eyes at me through the screen. “How much do we need to alter the dress so you can have it in time for the event?”

I reluctantly scroll the phone down my half-clothed figure to show her the poorly-fitting garment.

“Oh.” Lotus pastes on a smile. “I can work with that.”

“Lo, don’t play me.”

“No, I’m serious. Get Carla to take new measurements. Ship it to me next day. I’ll make the alterations myself with a little wiggle room and send it back immediately. Sound good?”

I swallow a lump in my throat, put there partially by her kindness and partially by the problem I’ve tried to shove to the back of my mind for weeks. It has pushed its way front and center today.

I paste on a smile of my own. “Thanks, Lo. Sounds great.”