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)
CHAPTER 29
MAXIM
My polite responses to condolences stopped hours ago. The comfort of strangers feels like an itchy sweater—agitating. I want to strip it off. Whoever decided the best way to spend the afternoon following a funeral was with food and well-meaning, awkward mourners should be punched in the face. This reception is absolutely the last thing I want to do.
I haven’t been in my parents’ house in years, and this was not how I saw myself returning. When I have come to visit my mother over the past decade, I’ve stayed in a hotel. I own homes all over the world, but not here. Even Texas isn’t big enough for my father and me.
I flew into Dallas yesterday to help prepare for the service and to support Millie and Mom. This has taken the hardest toll on them.
“How you doing?” David asks, the concern clear in the eyes of my long-time friend.
“Irritable,” I reply. “And ready to kick everyone out.”
“I can imagine. Actually, I’ve never lost anyone this close, so I can’t imagine. Sorry doesn’t even begin to cut it, brother, but I am sorry.”
I nod, grateful for the sincerity of his helplessness. We’ve been friends long enough not to say stupid, useless shit when we’re hurting, though nothing has ever hurt like this.
“Thanks, man,” I say.
“You talked to Grim?” David glances around the room. “I thought he might break his no funeral rule this time.”
“He’s where I need him to be, working with the authorities to figure out who did this. He knows that means a lot more to me than him showing up in a suit and tie.”
“I hear ya.”
Mom, standing across the room, nurses a glass of her favorite pinot. The congresswoman talking to her doesn’t seem to notice the glaze over Mom’s eyes or her plastic smile cracking around the edges, but I do. Why is the family expected to entertain? We’re not in the mood for finger sandwiches and banal standing-room conversations. Middle finger to the guy who thought I know what we’ll do now that our loved one has died. We’ll throw a party.
“I’ll be back,” I tell David. “I need to go check on my mom.”
I’m headed toward her when a new group enters the dining room. I recognize several of them from Owen’s campaign and redirect my steps, walking toward the sharply dressed knot of people.
“Maxim.”
I turn my head toward the familiar voice.
“Kimba,” I say. “Thank you for coming.”
She steps forward and wraps her arms around me, and I squeeze her back.
“I’m so sorry,” she says, her voice teary. “We all loved him.”
And they all did. From that first night when we all met at Owen’s, a bond started forming between Owen and the team Kimba and Lennix led. Millie had asked for their birthdays and anniversaries so her social secretary could get them a little something. She would have made a fine first lady. I don’t know what the future holds for her, but I’ll make sure it’s whatever she wants.
I pull away and scan the group with Kimba. “Where’s Lennix?”
“She’s coming. There was some press outside the church, and they pounced as soon as they saw her.”
I clamp down on my frustration. I want her with me. I haven’t pressed on it much. I understand her hesitation. Our relationship hasn’t been public and my brother’s funeral isn’t exactly the best place to debut as a couple. Mostly, Lennix has wanted my father to be able to grieve with the family without her presence, considering the enmity between them. I appreciate her sensitivity, but I need her in ways I can’t even articulate. My body and my heart tell me every second of every day that she should be with me.
“Doc.”
It’s like my need for Lennix drew her to me. Her hair is sleek and long, a shiny dark curtain spilling over the red coat she wears, covering a severely cut black dress. Her mouth is red and full. My arms flex with the effort it takes not to grab her.
“Nix.” I keep my voice calm but take her hand and start walking off. “Kimba, excuse us.”
I know I was abrupt, but I need to be alone with Lennix. A few minutes where it’s just us and no one expects me to be “doing well,” “holding up” or “hanging in there.” In measured but swift strides, I pull her out of the dining room and down the hall to the nearest closed door, my father’s office. As soon as the door shuts behind us, I fold her into my arms. She’s winter sunshine, bright and warm on the coldest day of my life. I huddle into her heat and softness. Frustrated by the layer of wool keeping her shape from me, I push the coat over her shoulders and down her arms, letting it pool on the floor around her high-heeled feet, and turn her so she’s against the wall. I press into her, bury my face in the silky curve of her neck. She slides her arms around me under my suit jacket, and her fingers seek and find the tension in my back, kneading the muscles through my shirt.