by L. A. Witt
“Must you?” she asked with mock exasperation. To Julie she said, “I swear to God, I have to cut twice as much of anything since half of it doesn’t make it into the pot.” She threw me a playful glare.
I returned a toothy grin, and she laughed, shaking her head.
While she continued cutting vegetables, I went around to greet my brother and his wife.
Chris and I exchanged our customary half handshake, half hug, and as per usual, Julie and I both faked smiles before I kissed her cheek.
Simone and I made eye contact over the island. She gave the subtlest of nods, and I returned it.
To Chris I said, “Want to shoot a game before dinner?”
“Sure, why not?” He started to stand, but a look from his wife stopped him. He cleared his throat. “You, um, don’t mind, do you?”
“Oh go on,” Simone broke in, shooing us with one hand. “Then Julie and I won’t bore you with girl stuff.”
At that, Julie shrugged and reached for the bottle of wine. “No, I don’t mind.”
Yeah right. I looked at Chris, eyebrows up.
He nodded toward the hallway. “Let’s go.”
Without giving his wife a second look, I glanced at Simone, gave her an apologetic shrug, then left the kitchen with my brother. While our wives chatted in the kitchen, Chris and I went upstairs to the game room.
“Eight ball?” I asked.
He sniffed with cocky amusement. “Didn’t get your ass kicked hard enough last time?”
“Oh please.” I took a cue off the rack and picked up the chalk. “Just because you won two whole games does not make you God’s gift to pool.”
“Two whole games that night.” He picked up his favorite cue. “But then there’s the time before that. And the time before that. And—”
“Yeah yeah yeah, whatever.” I rolled my eyes and handed him the chalk. “I’ll rack. You break.”
For the first half of the game, we kept the conversation to the usual shit: the film Chris had just finished shooting, our dad turning up his nose at everything we did or didn’t do, crap like that.
Ahead by two and not about to let the SOB beat me like he always did, I gestured at the table with my cue. “Three ball, side pocket.”
As I leaned down to take my shot, Chris said, “So you’re really following in Roger’s footsteps?”
“Well, sort of.” I snapped my cue forward, and the cue ball shot across the table. When the three fell in the pocket with a satisfying thunk, I stood. “Don’t know if I’ll ever make it to the US Senate, but hey, we’ll see, right?”
Chris shrugged. “Good luck, man. I could think of worse lines of work.”
I laid my cue across the table and aimed it. “Like acting?”
“Hey. Hey. Shut up.”
We both laughed.
“Four ball, corner pocket.” I took the shot but, this time, narrowly missed. “Damn it.”
He picked up his cue. “Good thing you’re not trying to be a professional billiards player.”
“Oh fuck you.” I laughed and leaned against the wet bar. “Can you imagine Dad’s disappointment if I followed that career path?”
“Well, given how well you play…” Chris grimaced.
“Let’s hope I play the political games a little better, then,” I said, chuckling.
“No shit.” He paused. “Nine ball, side pocket.” As he eyed his cue, probably making sure he had the angle right to make the shot, he said, “Run for president, Dad’ll probably stop being butthurt about everything.”
“Only if I win,” I muttered.
“I said he’d stop being butthurt.” Chris walked around the table, looking at the available shots even as he spoke. “I didn’t say he’d be satisfied.” He glanced at me and grinned. “Even he would have to admit you’ve got a set of brass ones to try for the White House.”
I laughed and shook my head. “Yeah, well, let me start with Sacramento and we’ll go from there. I’m two days into all this campaign bullshit, and it already feels like six months.”
“And you wonder why Roger went gray so young.” He leaned over the table, lining up his shot. As he turned his head, an odd shadow peeked over the top of his collar.
I craned my neck, furrowing my brow at the shadow. “What’d you do to your neck, man?”
“What?” He reached back, his hand going straight to the bruise. “What do you mean?”
I raised an eyebrow.
His cheeks colored. He cleared his throat and shifted his attention, lining up his cue. “Just a little stunt mishap.”
I pursed my lips. “Really?”
He glanced over his shoulder at me. Then he exhaled and shook his head, turning back to the game. “Quit worrying so much, Jesse.”
“Why should I?” I tapped my index finger on my cue. “Every time you’re here, you—”
“Jesse.” He stood and faced me. “Stop worrying. I’m serious.”
I chewed the inside of my cheek, my stomach winding into knots.
Evidently satisfied I wasn’t going to press the issue—when didn’t I back down on this subject?—he returned his attention to the game.
I exhaled and looked out the window at Julie’s gleaming Maserati parked beside the fountain. Gnawing on my lip, I glanced at Chris, at the car, at Chris again. Bring it up? Don’t bring it up?
Heart pounding, I cleared my throat. “Didn’t bring the Porsche tonight?”
“Nah.” The cue ball cracked sharply against another ball, and something dropped into a pocket. “In the shop.”
I turned around, eyeing him. “Again?”
“Yep.” He focused extra hard on lining up a shot. “Twelve, side pocket.”
“What happened this time?” I asked. “Severed brake lines?”
He glared at me. “That’s not funny.”
“Who’s laughing?”
He locked eyes with me for a moment but then looked back at the balls on the table. “Twelve, side pocket,” he repeated and took the shot. The twelve missed its intended pocket by a good two inches, and Chris stood, pushing himself away from the table. “Your shot,” he muttered and reached for his wineglass.
“Chris, what’s going—”
“Let it go,” he growled. Gentler now, almost pleading, he added, “Jesse, please.”
We locked eyes again. I tried to work up the nerve to keep at it. He silently dared me to and begged me not to. I swallowed.
Then I cleared my throat. “It’s…um…my shot?”
“Yeah.” He brushed past me.
Gut in knots, I picked up my cue.
* * * *
I dropped onto the couch and held my soda can to my forehead. “Jesus Christ, they are exhausting.”
“Not ‘they.’” The cushion shifted as Simone sat beside me. “She is exhausting.”
“Good point.” I rolled my eyes, then took a drink. “I don’t know how you put up with her.”
She chuckled. “Well, it’s not like you leave me much choice when you drag him off to the game room.”
“Sorry,” I said. “You know I don’t like inflicting her on you.”
“I know.” She smiled. “Otherwise I wouldn’t have let you two run off like that.”
“Let me?” I snorted. “Woman, please. Let me, my ass.”
She elbowed me. “Whatever. You know if I told you to stay in the kitchen with the grown-ups, you would.”
“Yes, dear.” I gave her my most sheepish look, and we both laughed. As my humor faded, the knots in my stomach twisted and tightened.
Simone squeezed my arm. “You okay?”
I watched myself play with the tab on my soda can. “I’m worried about him. I really am.”
“I know you are,” she said. “Me too.”
Still playing with the tab, I said, “He had a bruise on his neck.”
Simone forced out a sharp breath. “God, another one?”
I nodded. My throat ached, and I gritted my teeth. “And his car’s in the shop again.”
�
��Shit.” She sighed, shaking her head. “Did he say what’s wrong with it this time?”
“He didn’t think it was funny when I asked if the brake lines were cut.” I took a drink as an excuse to swallow the lump in my throat. “She probably smashed a window or something. Who knows?”
Simone ran her hand up and down my forearm. “He knows he can come stay with us anytime he needs to, right?”
“I’ve told him time and again. But…” I gestured with my drink. “Everything’s fine.”
“Of course it is,” she whispered.
We both fell silent for a long, long time. Every time my brother and his wife left after having dinner with us, Simone and I found ourselves just like this: exhausted, depressed, with no idea what to say or do. We’d both long since stopped trying to come up with a solution, never mind convince Chris to implement it. Next week we’d do this all over again. Same bullshit, different week. Such was the price we paid if I wanted to see my brother on any kind of a regular basis, because he sure as fuck wasn’t allowed to come visit me alone.
Eventually I set my empty soda can on the coffee table and leaned back against the couch.
“So, besides having to spend the evening with Julie,” I said, “how was your day?”
She shrugged and pulled her feet up under her on the cushion. “I spent most of the day cooking.” She smiled. “So, not a bad day.”
I smiled back, wishing I hadn’t noticed she’d barely touched her plate during dinner. “Good. Glad to hear it.”
“What about you?” She rested her elbow on the back of the couch. A playful grin tugged at the corners of her mouth. “Have fun with your campaign manager?”
“Yeah, something like that.” I exhaled. “Concentrating around him is going to be a bitch and a half.”
“I don’t doubt that for a minute.” She whistled. “He is fucking gorgeous.”
“Tell me about it. One of these days, I just know I’m going to make an ass of myself in front of him. He’ll ask me a question, and I’ll say something exceptionally stupid, and…” I gestured sharply.
She laughed. “I can imagine. As hot as he is…”
“It’s not just that,” I said. “He’s… God, I can’t even describe it. He’s just…distracting.”
She cocked her head, grinning. “Are you sure it’s not just because he’s, you know, a good-looking guy?”
“I have no idea.” I ran a hand through my hair. “I really don’t.”
Simone giggled. “You know, you are so adorable when you’re twitterpated.”
“Twitterpated?” I laughed. “Oh come on. I’m not that bad.”
She nudged me with her elbow. “You so are. Jesus, Jess, I’ve seen you around guys who make me trip over my own feet, and this is the first time I’ve ever seen someone have this effect on you.”
I glared at her, but when she giggled again, I couldn’t help chuckling.
“That’s what I thought,” she said, snickering.
I rolled my eyes and tried not to laugh. “Whatever.”
“Or maybe it’s not just him.”
“What do you mean?”
Simone shrugged. “Maybe it’s you. I mean, maybe you just need to get laid.”
My cheeks burned, but I couldn’t really argue with her. “Okay, maybe.”
“Just a thought,” she said, some of the humor fading from her voice.
“You might be right, but…” I sighed. “I think I’ve used enough people, don’t you?”
She smiled weakly. “Just part of getting into politics, I guess. But if you find anyone who interests you, you know you can…”
Our eyes met, and the hurt in hers cut deep.
I sat up and pulled her to me, wrapping my arms around her so she could rest her head against my shoulder.
“The same goes for you,” I said. “You know that. If someone interests you.”
“I know,” she whispered. “Kind of hard to meet people when I can’t let a single soul know about this, though.”
“Yeah, no kidding.” Closing my eyes, I released a breath as I stroked her hair. “I’m so sorry about all this. I really am.”
“It’s only for a few more months. I’ll manage.”
“Yeah, but…” Pulling back, I looked her in the eye and took a breath. “Anthony wants you out on the campaign trail with us. On your own, even.”
“What?” Her eyes widened and her lips parted. “But I…Jesse, I don’t know the first thing about—”
“I know.” I put a hand on her arm. “The campaigning will be up to Anthony and me. All you’ll have to do is smile for the crowd, maybe visit some schools and things like that.”
Her thin eyebrows climbed as she sucked in a breath. “Visiting schools? I-I wouldn’t even know what to do. Or say. Or—”
“Simone.” I touched her face. “Anthony will let you know what you need to do and say. He just wants you as visible as possible because of how we’re presenting our marriage.”
She scowled.
“I promise,” I said, “he knows what he’s doing. I’ll ask him to keep your involvement to a minimum if you’re not comfortable, though.”
She released her breath and put her hand over mine. “I’ll manage. Whatever I can do to help you get elected.”
“I just don’t want you to overdo it.” I tried not to notice how cold her fingers were against mine. “If you’re not sure, or—”
“Jess.” She smiled, though it obviously took a lot of effort. “I’ll be okay. You’ve got an election to win. Don’t worry about me.”
“You know I’ll worry about you.”
“Yes, I know you will.” She took my hand from her face and laced her fingers between mine. “But I’ll be okay. I promise.” Turning our joined hands, she looked at her watch. “And it’s late. You’ve got an early day tomorrow.”
I exhaled. “Yeah, I should get some sleep. God only knows what Anthony’s got in store for me tomorrow.”
Simone giggled again, and more heat rushed into my cheeks.
“That’s not what I meant,” I said, laughing.
“Whatever.” She released my hand and patted my arm. As she stood, she said, “I’m sure you wouldn’t complain if that was what he had in mind.”
Chuckling, I rose. “No, I can’t say I would.”
“Big shock. All right, you. Get some sleep.”
“You too.”
She hugged me, and we both held on a moment or two longer than we usually did. Then she went upstairs to the bedroom we used to share, and I went down the hall to the guest room that was now mine.
Between Anthony…and Chris…and Simone…and the election, I didn’t sleep for shit that night.
Chapter Five
Anthony
Three weeks later, I stood between Jesse and Ranya, staring up at a flat-screen television in the back room at the news station. As the weatherman gave his predictions and the sports anchor discussed the latest basketball highlights, Jesse fidgeted beside me. Ranya shifted her weight, her ever-present bracelets jingling whenever she absently played with her hair or flipped open her cell phone to look at the time.
Finally the camera zoomed in on a blonde anchor, and above her shoulder, an inset image read Election Update. Jesse pushed out a breath. Ranya’s bracelets jingled again. I chewed a pen and tried not to think about the cigarette I wasn’t smoking.
“Jesse Cameron,” the news anchor said with manufactured interest. “Heir to Hollywood’s Cameron dynasty. Nephew of a prominent senator. Son of late musician Margot Ashwood.” Images of Jesse’s family members flashed across the screen, and the anchor continued speaking as footage appeared of Jesse himself. “He was bred for greatness in the public eye, but after favoring the pursuit of a law degree over trying to further his lackluster acting career, it seemed Jesse was destined for obscurity, leaving half brothers Nathan and Chris to soak up their inherited limelight.” The image changed to one of Jesse and his A-list half brothers. Then it switched to the famous wedding p
hoto—Jesse and Simone exchanging a tender kiss in front of a white Rolls Royce—that had once graced dozens of magazines. Jesse flinched and looked away.
The anchor continued. “His marriage to once-troubled model and Oscar-winning actress Simone Lancaster cemented rumors that he was content to let that limelight shine on those around him, preferring to remain quietly in the background.” A clip of Jesse and Simone on the red carpet appeared. In the video, her hand was on his elbow, but everyone’s attention and lenses were on her and her vivid purple dress while her husband blended in with every other black tuxedo in the background.
When the anchor spoke again, Jesse shifted his attention back to the screen. “All that speculation changed today in an explosive interview with SoCal Tonight’s Francine Jarvis. Jesse Cameron has revealed his intention to take on a very public role, that of California’s next governor.”
The door opened behind us, and we all turned as a gentleman wearing a headset leaned in. “Mr. Cameron, your uncle’s on in sixty seconds. You’re up in three minutes.”
“Thank you,” Jesse said.
The three of us looked at the screen again as the anchor went on. “Just another celebrity dabbling in politics?” She furrowed her brow in that contemplative way reporters often did. “Or does Jesse Cameron have what it takes to beat GOP front-runner John Casey and govern the state of California? We now go live to a press conference in Los Angeles.”
“Ready for this?” I asked Jesse.
He nodded. “Ready.”
Ranya smiled and hugged him. “Good luck.”
“Thanks,” he said as she released him. He straightened his jacket, brushed away some phantom pieces of lint, and took a deep breath. “Here goes nothing.”
Jesse left, and Ranya and I watched the live feed of his press conference going on in the next room.
On the screen, Roger gave his JFK head tilt and smiled. With the slightest of nods, he said, “California, you’ll be in good hands.” He gestured stage left. “Ladies and gentlemen, my nephew, and hopefully the next governor of the state of California, Jesse Cameron.”
The very picture of confidence, not a hint of nerves, Jesse strode out to the podium to join his uncle. They shook hands, smiling and posing for the flashing cameras. Then, as the polite, if uncertain, applause died down, Roger moved aside to let Jesse take the microphone. I held my breath, not sure what I expected. Would nerves suddenly get the best of him? Would he decide to nix the speech we’d gone over a hundred times in the last twenty-four hours?
