Where There's Smoke

by L. A. Witt

  * * * *

  Ah, Malibu. Home of the rich, the privileged, and the has-no-business-in-politics. My favorite place on the fucking planet.

  I drove past huge houses and immaculate yards. Not a leaf or a roof tile out of place in this area. After all, everyone paid—if one could call it that—Mexican immigrants to do all their dirty grunt work. Landscaping, housekeeping, raising the kids they’d produced for Christmas card photos.

  That thought twisted the knots in my gut a little tighter. Every person on Jesse’s payroll damn well better have a green card and an I-9, or he was on his own. I wasn’t going to be at the helm of a campaign that sank over an illegal immigrant scandal, and I sure as fuck wasn’t busting my ass to get a man elected if he exploited the poor.

  I reached the end of the driveway with the address that matched the one on the card Roger had given me. He’d also given me a five-digit code, so I punched it into the keypad and the black metal gate groaned into motion, sliding out of the way so I could continue up the driveway.

  The house wasn’t one of the gargantuan, palatial homes I was accustomed to in this area. It wasn’t exactly small, but it was closer to the modest end of the spectrum than I’d anticipated. Stucco, of course, though it had been painted an unusual brown with rust-colored trim. Hardy desert-dwelling plants lined the curving driveway and surrounded the pale stone fountain at the center of the roundabout in front of the house.

  Several cars and a white van were parked along one side of the roundabout. Producers and crew for SoCal Tonight, I guessed. Any vehicles belonging to Jesse or his wife were undoubtedly behind the four doors covering the garage. I couldn’t imagine someone of his stature owning anything as proletariat as the everyday cars and plain van lining the driveway.

  I parked behind a lackluster blue sedan. Then I followed the stone walkway that wound through a cactus garden to the front door.

  I took a deep breath and rang the doorbell.

  Well, here goes nothing.

  Sharp, solid footsteps approached on what must have been hard floors, and when the door opened a beautiful black-haired, brown-skinned woman greeted me. East Indian, I guessed from her features. She was dressed casually but carried herself like she wore a power suit, and she made the kind of unflinching eye contact I usually scared out of people.

  “You must be Anthony.” She extended her hand, a couple of silver bracelets jingling in the otherwise quiet doorway. “Jesse’s uncle said you’d be coming.”

  I cleared my throat and shook her hand, noting she had quite the firm grip. “Yeah, Anthony Hunter. And you are…?”

  “Jesse’s assistant,” she said. “Ranya.”

  “Ranya,” I said. “Do you have a last name?”

  “I do,” she said with a slight nod, releasing my hand and gesturing for me to come in. “Most people pull a muscle or three trying to pronounce it, though, so just call me Ranya.”

  I laughed and followed her inside. “And you’re his assistant, so I can count on you to keep him in line?”

  “Well, I wouldn’t go that far,” she said, a hint of a conspiratorial giggle in her voice. “But I do make sure he gets wherever he needs to be on time.”

  I chuckled. “You and I will get along just fine, then.”

  Ranya closed the door behind us. “For the sake of Jesse’s sanity, let’s hope so.” Her bracelets jingled again as she gestured down the hall. “This way. They’re out on the back deck.”

  She started walking, and I followed. Her high heels cracked emphatically on the floor with every step, the sound echoing boldly through the cavernous hall. She was no church mouse, this woman, and right off the bat, I liked her. She radiated confidence, like she had it together and wouldn’t take crap from anyone. Not me, not Jesse, not anyone. Out on the campaign trail, a personal assistant like her was a godsend.

  On the way down the hall, I asked, “Has he been interviewed yet?”

  “Not yet.” She glanced over her shoulder. “The photo shoot should be wrapping up soon, and then they’ll be doing the interview in the living room.”

  “Good,” I said quietly. At least then I’d have a chance to talk to him before the interviewer.

  Ranya led me through the living room, which was already full of people and equipment, and to the glass doors leading out to the expansive deck. She reached for the door but halted. She pulled a softly chirping cell phone out of her pocket and threw me an apologetic glance. “I need to take this. Do you mind?”

  “Not at all,” I said.

  She smiled and stepped away, discreetly answering the phone as I showed myself out onto the deck.

  Lights, camera equipment, and about half a dozen people surrounded the patio furniture on which the Jesse sat with his wife on his lap.

  I’d been wound up since yesterday’s conversation with Roger, but now that I was in Jesse’s presence, reality was sinking in fast. I was going to campaign him? The washed-up actor-turned-wannabe-lawyer cuddling his trophy wife for the cameras behind a house in fucking Malibu?

  I ground my teeth but forced my expression to remain neutral. No sense making him nervous and screwing up the whole “look how happy my wife and I are” atmosphere. Jesse’s rival candidate was notorious for his womanizing and string of broken marriages. Every candidate who’d ever run against him made sure to capitalize on that, and I had no doubt Roger had advised Jesse to use this article to do the same.

  I hung back behind the crew and equipment, watching from a more or less comfortable distance. In spite of my irritation with the situation, I had to admit the two of them really were the picture-perfect couple. Simone Lancaster was a former model and two-time Oscar-winning actress, and she looked both parts. Tall. Slim. Flawless. When the gentle wind off the ocean played with her long hair, she still maintained a look of perfection, as if every hair blowing in the breeze was supposed to be like that. She looked just as amazing now in jeans and an understated yellow blouse as she did on the red carpet or the silver screen. I was one hundred percent unshakably gay, but I could certainly see why legions of men coveted her.

  But her husband. Holy shit. The Camerons were a blessed family when it came to good looks and quiet charisma, and Jesse had inherited both in spades, not to mention the sizeable helping that came from his late mother. In his youth, he’d usually sported long, sun-bleached, “I don’t give a fuck” surfer hair or something wild, but now his look had mellowed to short, dark, and neatly groomed. Even from this far away, it was clear the magazines and such over the years hadn’t doctored his photos: his eyes really were that green.

  It wasn’t like I hadn’t seen him in photos or on television, and I’d met him very, very briefly in the past, but now, even from a distance, he was almost disarming. He had a playful, youthful air about him, laughing like a kid when his wife made some joke only they heard. But then a moment later, when he looked up at her and brushed a strand of perfectly displaced hair out of her face, his whole aura changed to one of intense quietude. Then Simone made another comment, and they both erupted into laughter again. They weren’t goofing off and ignoring the photographer, they were just relaxed and comfortable with each other. With the whole situation.

  At least he had some dignity and control. That was more than I could say about his brothers or his father. Not enough to effortlessly win him an election, but it was a damned good start. For that matter, he had a boyish smile that would melt the hearts of voters. Okay, so maybe Roger was on to something with this whole photo spread. When the voters saw the adoration in Jesse’s eyes whenever he gazed at his wife, the entire state of California would collectively swoon over him. Maybe I’d just been single too long, but I’d have killed for a man to look at me like Jesse looked at Simone.

  “All right,” the photographer said, pulling his camera strap over his head. “I think that’s enough.” He handed the camera off to his assistant.

  Simone and Jesse both exhaled. She rolled her shoulders and got up off his lap. He stood, stretching like he ha
d a kink in his neck, before extending his hand to the photographer.

  Now was my chance. I started toward him, hoping to catch him in time to introduce myself—and maybe offer some strongly worded advice before the interview—but a man in a suit elbowed past me and beat me to Jesse.

  Damn it.

  “Before the interview,” I said, “any chance I can have a minute with Mr. Cameron?”

  “No time,” the man said tersely, herding the happy couple toward the house. “We’re already behind schedule and need to wrap up this interview.”

  Jesse and I made eye contact as he was half dragged past me, and for the first time, the cracks in the surface showed. He’d been smooth and confident sitting in front of the camera with his wife, but now? Now the nerves were there in the creases of his brow and the tightness of his lips.

  Shit. Now he wasn’t just going into the interview without talking to me. He was nervous too.

  I blew out a breath and looked skyward, silently asking the smog-tinted clouds for the serenity to not choke anyone before this day was over.

  Then I followed everyone inside.

  Chapter Two

  Jesse

  Once the photographer finished with us, the producer shuffled Simone and me into the living room where Francine, the interviewer, had everything set up and waiting. Simone and I clipped on microphones and sank onto our huge couch, sitting close together with my arm around her shoulders.

  While the crew adjusted lights and fussed with overhead microphones, I swallowed the nausea that tried to rise in my throat. We’d made it through this part of our little charade. Now we just had to get through the interview.

  The first of many, Jesse. Deal with it.

  Movement caught my eye, and when I turned, I shouldn’t have been surprised to see Anthony Hunter lingering in the background with Ranya. He stood back and watched everything, just like he had during the shoot, observing like he expected it all to happen according to his orders. For that matter, his posture had noticeably tensed since the producer shot down his request for a brief word with me before the interview. Something told me he wasn’t used to hearing the word no.

  It had been years since I’d seen the man. We’d only met in passing, and I really hadn’t paid attention to him whenever I was at campaign functions with my uncle. Now I wondered how I missed him. He certainly had an unavoidable presence that I didn’t recall from meeting him before. Maybe I just hadn’t been paying attention back then, but he was…intense. I couldn’t decide if he had a chip on his shoulder, somewhere else he’d rather be, or was just one of those reserved, poker-faced types who only let people see what he wanted them to see.

  Right away, he unsettled me. I couldn’t read him, but I was unnervingly certain he could see right through me.

  God, I hoped he couldn’t. The last thing I needed was my damned campaign manager catching on that in spite of his intimidating presence, he was also attractive as all hell. His features were as sharp and rigid as his presence, and I wasn’t sure I was ready to find out what it was like to be the center of his attention, even for the span of a conversation. There were people who could make someone feel like they were the only person in the world. I had a funny feeling Anthony Hunter could make someone feel like they were the only suspect in the world.

  And this was the guy who’d be running my campaign. Between drooling over him and being intimidated by him, I was fucked.

  But wheels were turning, I was campaigning, and if I wanted to win, I needed him, so—

  “Okay,” Francine’s squeaky voice startled me back into the present. “Are we ready?”

  Simone glanced at me. I nodded, and she said to the interviewer, “Ready when you are.”

  And in no time, the cameras were rolling in spite of how much Anthony distracted me.

  “So, Jesse and Simone,” Francine said with a plastered-on smile. “You’ve just passed your fifth wedding anniversary. The two of you make a happy, rock-solid marriage look so easy. Tell us, what’s your secret?”

  Wishing I were anywhere but here, I smiled. “I just do what she tells me to.”

  My wife laughed. “Unless it’s laundry or dishes, right?”

  “What?” I feigned offense. “I did the dishes the other night.”

  She shot me a playful scowl. “Rinsing a coffee cup does not count as doing the dishes.”

  Exhaling melodramatically, I rolled my eyes. “Yes, dear.”

  Francine laughed. She continued with the usual mundane questions about married life, our relationship, our careers, our family. God only knew what kind of profound, quote-worthy answers she wanted. At least Simone and I had nervously rehearsed this interview every night for the last week, coming up with answers to any question we could think of so nothing caught us by surprise. So there wouldn’t be any stammering or throat clearing while we improvised alibis and cover stories.

  Francine shuffled her note cards. “Now, your marriage hasn’t been without its obstacles.”

  My stomach tightened. Here we go…

  She went on. “Simone, you’ve been in the news several times because of your struggles with an eating disorder. How has that affected your marriage?”

  My wife’s shoulders turned to steel against my arm. I gave her a gentle squeeze.

  Simone coughed quietly, then produced a smile that probably looked easy to anyone but me. “It’s been a struggle, but what marriage isn’t?” She glanced at me, the smile broadening as if a director had just told her to look even happier, and at the same time, her eyebrows lifted in an unspoken help me out here.

  I reached up and tucked a strand of hair behind her ear. Still looking at her, I said to the cameras, “We deal with that just like anything else. One day at a time.” I faced Francine and the camera that peered over her shoulder. “You marry someone, you roll with their punches as well as your own.”

  Simone relaxed against me, the change in her posture so subtle I doubted anyone else noticed, and I ran my fingers up and down her arm for a little more reassurance. This wasn’t the first time either of us had been grilled about her eating disorder, and we’d both had a feeling it would come up this time. Anything for a little drama and sensationalism.

  Fortunately Francine let the subject go. Evidently she had the sound bite she wanted, so she moved on.

  “Tell us,” she said, clasping her hands around her knee, “is it true, Jesse, the rumor that you’re considering pursuing a political office?”

  At the edge of my peripheral vision, Anthony shifted his weight. Though I couldn’t see him directly, the tension in his posture made it to the hairs on the back of my neck. I swallowed hard, trying not to look at him.

  I cleared my throat. “Yes. Yes, that rumor is true.”

  Her pencil-thin eyebrows climbed her makeup-caked forehead. “Would you care to elaborate?”

  Anthony didn’t move. The hairs on the back of my neck didn’t lie down.

  I took a breath. “There’s a…” I couldn’t resist letting my gaze dart toward Anthony for a fleeting second, but quickly returned it to the inquisitive reporter. “There’s a very strong possibility I’ll be throwing my hat in the ring for governor of California.”

  Francine blinked, drawing back slightly. “Is that right?”

  “Yes.” Why was my mouth suddenly dry? “There’s a press conference scheduled for the fifteenth, so I’ll answer anyone’s questions about the election at that time.”

  “And Simone,” Francine said. “How do you feel about possibly being the first lady of California?”

  Simone forced another tight smile, this one probably taking even more effort than her neutral expression in the face of the eating disorder questions. “I’m looking forward to it.” She put her hand on my knee and offered a stiff squeeze. I turned to her, returning her smile and affectionately smoothing her hair just to remind the cameras how happily married we were. Damn, maybe I really was cut out for the “lying through my teeth” side of politics after all.

&nbs
p; The interview finally wrapped up, and Simone shooed me into the kitchen while she saw the producers and crew out. I owed her big-time for that, but she must have known I was nearing the end of my tether. The interview would have been easier if we hadn’t already done the photo shoot. By the time Simone and I had taken our seats on the couch to smile our way through our well-rehearsed little act, we’d already spent half an hour or so faking the affection that the cameras wanted. The whole thing had left me nauseated, and smiling for the other set of cameras gave me a more in-depth understanding of the phrase “straw that broke the camel’s back” than I ever wanted.

  And it’s only just beginning. I closed my eyes and rubbed a phantom headache out of my temples.

  “He’s right in here.” Ranya’s voice preceded two sets of footsteps coming into the kitchen, and the skin on the back of my neck prickled a split second before she added, “Jesse, Anthony Hunter’s here to see you.”

  I exhaled, put on the closest thing I could still muster to a pleasant expression, and turned around.

  Oh. Holy. Fuck.

  The man was gorgeous. No two ways about it. He didn’t have the flawless, lineless perfection that show business or California high society demanded. Instead he looked like a man who’d worked his ass off and wore every subtle groove of fatigue, wear, and tear with pride. I guessed he was in his late thirties, maybe early forties. At least a few years older than me, probably. A few gray hairs peppered his temples like thin, sharp hash marks. They reminded me of notches on a gun stock or the silhouettes of enemy aircraft drawn on the fuselage of the plane that shot them down, like a tally of everyone he’d ever taken down with a single look.

  Up close, his sheer intensity was magnified. His dark eyes pulled no punches, boring right into—through—me, and his jaw was as firmly set as his broad shoulders. We were roughly the same height, but I couldn’t shake the feeling I was looking up at him. Or, more specifically, he was looking down at me. Christ on a cracker, I’d met Hollywood overlords and shaken hands with sitting presidents, and I’d barely batted an eye. This guy had my knees threatening to collapse right out from under me.