As we get to her front porch, the rear door of a black SUV with tinted windows parked at the curb opens. And out steps David Prince—dark sunglasses on his face, his brown hair perfectly sideswept and visibly hair sprayed.
Though I’m annoyed that the bastard hasn’t even given Kennedy the morning to process, I’m delighted that I’ll be around for this little exchange. ’Cause I really want to watch her tell him to screw off. And if she’s not feeling up to it, I’ll do it for her.
I follow Kennedy through her door and Prince slips in behind me. He closes the door and they square off a few feet apart in the middle of a tastefully decorated living room. I position myself next to the beige couch, far enough away to let their confrontation play out but close enough to step between them if needed.
Prince looks predictably unhappy, but far from brokenhearted. The grin that graces his campaign posters is replaced with an ugly scowl. He throws his arms up from his sides, “What the hell, Kennedy?”
Kennedy’s shoulders are back, her chin high—the same stance she takes in court, fearless and brash, ready to throw down.
“I could ask you the same thing, David.”
“You humiliated me last night!”
“You humiliated yourself. The sympathy you’ll garner will only help your polls—and we both know that’s what you’re really worried about. If you had bothered to ask me what I wanted—”
“I thought we were on the same page.” He takes a step toward her.
But she holds her ground. “No, you didn’t—otherwise you wouldn’t have ambushed me.”
“It was a surprise! A gesture of my affection.”
“It was a sound bite!” Kennedy shoots back. “We both knew what this relationship was about. I was a pretty, professional face to smile next to you in your photo ops, and you—”
“Yes,” he interrupts, stepping even closer. “What was I?”
“You were convenient. Someone I enjoyed spending time with, but didn’t care enough about to be upset about your screwing the intern.”
He pales just slightly and his eyes narrow. Then he moves to grab her arm, but I move faster. I wrap my hand around his wrist. And squeeze.
“If having a functioning wrist is important to you, you’re going to want to step back. And calm down.”
Dave drops his hand and I let him go.
He glares at me from head to toe, then he turns back to Kennedy and spits, “This is what I’ve been replaced by? A cripple?”
As Kennedy opens her mouth to tear into him, I throw my head back and laugh.
“Cripple, Dave? That’s the best you’ve got? Not even gimp or stumpy or quarter-man? If you’re going to insult someone, have the decency to make it a clever insult. Otherwise, you don’t just look like an asshole—you look like a dumb asshole. Also, go fuck yourself, you entitled, parasitic, two-faced, bloodsucking prick.”
David does his best to ignore me and looks at Kennedy with an expression that tries for persuasive, but falls short.
“We’re good together, Kennedy.”
She shakes her head. “Not good enough.”
“We could’ve gone all the way to the White House. We still could.”
How romantic. Does this douche want a girlfriend or a running mate?
“I like this house just fine. We’re done, David. Good-bye.”
And just like that, he gives up. If putting your fingers up in front of your forehead in the shape of a capital L was still a thing, I’d do it right now—’cause this guy is a loser.
He turns toward the door, but he only takes two steps before he turns back around. “I know you didn’t sign an NDA, but if you even think of speaking to the press—”
“Are you serious?” Her tone is biting. “I’m not going to be speaking to anyone. I have important matters to deal with—airing your dirty laundry isn’t one of them.” She raises her arm, pointing at the door. “Now get the hell out.”
To help him along, I open the door wide. “Bye-bye, Dave.”
I let it swing closed with a bang after he walks out.
I move toward Kennedy, stretching my arms above my head. “Well, I certainly feel better now that that’s out of the way.”
I thought she’d giggle; at least smile. But she just kind of collapses onto the couch—elbows on her knees, head in her hands.
I kneel down in front of her, rubbing my palms up her legs. “You okay, Sparkles?”
Weary eyes meet mine. “Sparkles?”
With two fingers I trace her collarbone, then show her the residual glitter from last night’s festivities. That gets me a small smile as she says, “I’m exhausted.”
I stand. “I’m sure you are. So . . . relax, take a bubble bath, take a nap, recharge—then be at my place tonight at six. I’m making you dinner.”
Kennedy’s eyes drag closed. “Brent . . .”
“I’m not as talented in the kitchen as Harrison, but I can hold my own.” Lifting her chin gently, I tilt her head up. And my voice goes soft. “I want to feed you, Kennedy. I want to talk to you—and I want to kiss you again for a long time, knowing you’ll actually remember it in the morning.”