by L. A. Witt
God, Jesse, do what I told you to. Please, please, do what I told you to.
Jesse drew in a breath, smiled like he was completely at home up there in front of the cameras and reporters, and went into the speech we’d agreed on. I exhaled.
“You sound almost as nervous as he is,” Ranya said, a note of concern mixing with the lighthearted humor.
I gestured at Jesse as he effortlessly delivered the speech. “He doesn’t sound nervous in the slightest.”
“He’s just good at hiding it. He’s good at hiding most things.”
I glanced at her, and something unspoken lurked in her eyes, but I didn’t ask. I turned back to the television as Jesse continued the speech.
“I’m a resident of California just like everyone in this room,” he said at the end of it. “And I think I can speak for all of us when I say that what’s going on in Sacramento needs to change, and it needs to change now.” He paused to let the statement sink in. “Of course, I anticipate the people of California have questions about why I’m the best candidate for making those changes, which is why we’re all here today. So I’ll take any questions at this time.”
Hands shot up, and with a nod and a gesture, Jesse indicated one of the many reporters.
She stood and adjusted her jacket. “Guadalupe Hernandez, KLJN News. You and your uncle have pointed to your law degree as a qualification for the office of governor, but isn’t it true that you had some, shall we say, less than academic exploits during your college years? Can the people of California truly put their faith in the education you received during that time?”
I pulled in a breath. We’d discussed his past and how to answer this, and I hoped he’d taken my advice to heart. Tread carefully on this one, Jesse.
Jesse smiled—holy fuck, he’s got a gorgeous smile—and rested a hand on the podium. “During my undergrad years, I was a spoiled kid with no experience being anything but the center of attention. That, and…” He shrugged, and one corner of his mouth rose a little higher as he added, “I was a kid. Yes, I screwed around in school.” His expression turned more serious. “Everything you’ve heard about my early college years is true, but after my sophomore year, I got my act together and grew up. By the time I started law school, I assure you, I took my education far, far more seriously.”
I slowly let out my breath.
One after another, reporters grilled him on every topic, from political to personal. Even under the hot lights and hotter scrutiny, Jesse didn’t break a sweat. He stayed calm, cool, and collected, and his answers were smooth and unhesitating. He’d inherited his uncle’s gift for not avoiding the question but also not giving the reporter the satisfaction of letting it get under his skin.
“Damn, he’s good at this,” Ranya said quietly.
“Yeah, he is.” I kept my eyes locked on the screen. He was good at this. Really good at this.
It was impossible to say if his uncle had simply started coaching him from a young age, if Jesse had learned from his parents, or if he just had a knack for working a crowd. He knew just when and how long to pause to cue everyone in the room to lean a little closer—and likely had thousands leaning closer to their television sets—in anticipation of what was on the other end of that pause. With a playful smirk and an upturned “hey, what can I say?” palm, he sent a ripple of laughter through the room. That same palm, pressing down on the air in the same moment he tilted his head almost like his uncle often did, gave the entire room a vibe of don’t worry, I’ve got this. Like a symphony conductor, he directed every response, and everyone, myself included, listened when he commanded our attention and held our breath when he kept us in suspense.
Even Roger couldn’t hold me spellbound like this. I’d long ago developed an immunity to politicians, but Jesse worked me just like he worked everyone in this crowd. Whatever my doubts or reservations about this inexperienced candidate, one thing was for certain: Jesse was born for the podium.
It didn’t hurt that good-looking, charismatic politicians like Jesse had an advantage. A gorgeous, clean-cut candidate with a flawless smile and perfect poise had a distinctly easier time winning over the people than a grizzled, aesthetically off-putting opponent. JFK had capitalized on that in the television debates against Nixon, and while such a thing wouldn’t win an election, it certainly helped to have that point of favor in the subconscious of the public.
He was the flawless package deal: a confident, smooth talker with a stunning smile, the perfect stage presence that came from a lifetime under the camera’s scrutiny, and youthful good looks that promised “fresh, new, something different from the old” to the public. That was why I was staring. Only that. No other reason.
Oblivious to me, Jesse gestured as he spoke, and a light glinted off his wedding ring. I couldn’t help a quiet, self-deprecating laugh.
A straight, unavailable man? Again? Really, Anthony?
I’d never broken up a relationship or tried to “convert” someone, but for whatever reason, the men who piqued my interest were always either taken, hetero, or both.
Sighing, I kept watching Jesse. I mean, the press conference. I kept watching the press conference.
When everything wrapped up, Jesse walked off the stage to resounding applause. I released a relieved breath as I watched him disappear from the screen, heading back toward the room where Ranya and I waited. Obviously I had severely underestimated the man. He was inexperienced in terms of holding an office, and I intimidated the fuck out of him, but he had the art of wooing voters down pat.
All he had to do now to secure the Democratic primary was not blow the debates, and I suddenly had much, much more confidence that he wouldn’t do that. With the public attitude toward the other potential candidates, I predicted Jesse would be the favorite horse in this race. If he could keep from breaking a leg in the big race against John Casey, he was in.
The door opened, and Jesse walked in with Roger. As soon as it closed behind them, Jesse’s shoulders dropped, and he pushed out a relieved breath just as I had a moment ago.
“Great job!” Ranya threw her arms around him. “You’re going to have California eating out of your hand.”
Roger put an arm around Jesse’s shoulders. “I knew you were cut out for this, kid. Keep it up until November, and the voters will be falling all over themselves to vote for you.”
Jesse laughed, his cheeks coloring. “Let’s not jump the gun. I could still fuck this up.”
“I wouldn’t recommend it,” I said, and Jesse’s eyes widened. I swore he drew away from me a little, but then I clapped his shoulder. “Nicely done out there. You might pull this thing off yet.”
He smirked, relaxing a little. “Thanks. I think?”
Roger laughed. “That’s the best you’re getting out of him, son. Trust me.”
Jesse chuckled. “Well, in that case.” He looked right at me. “I’ll take what I can get.”
* * * *
With the Democratic debates on the horizon and the primary coming up quickly as well, I ran Jesse ragged. Dinners. Events. Filming ads. Interviews. Every kind of public appearance he could think of and then some. He handled it all without complaint or getting a single hair out of place, but we were only a few weeks into this. It remained to be seen how he handled it after a few months of nonstop bullshit and baby kissing.
A little over two weeks after the press conference, Roger hosted a gala dinner at one of the premier five-star restaurants in the heart of Los Angeles. He invited every politician—retired or sitting—he knew and respected and made sure every media outlet in California caught wind of just how many prominent names were there. Half of them probably couldn’t have cared less about Jesse’s campaign, but their presence was as good as a televised endorsement.
And just as Roger expected, the press turned out in droves, hovering around the posh restaurant’s front doors for a glimpse of the Democratic Party’s front-runner and his glamorous wife on their way out.
Rather than stepping i
nto the throngs of reporters ourselves, Ranya and I left through the back and came around the side, leaving Jesse and Simone to make their exit. We made it to the car—another limo, as Roger demanded—about the time the couple emerged through the gilded, tinted doors of the restaurant.
Dean, Simone’s bodyguard, followed them, and the three private security guards Jesse had hired at his uncle’s insistence kept some distance between the couple and the reporters. All the way from the door to the sidewalk, just like they were on the red carpet at the Oscars, Jesse and Simone paused from time to time to smile for the cameras. Luckily this was one of the rare evenings where we didn’t have someplace else to be and nowhere near enough time to get there, so I didn’t try to rush them out. Besides, voters loved this sort of thing.
Jesse stopped, and Simone turned toward him, resting her hand on his chest and leaning in close. He had his arm around her waist and put his hand over hers. Cameras flashed and flickered, especially when the loving couple turned to each other and exchanged a brief, perfectly-polite-in-public kiss. It didn’t take a genius to figure out what image would be splashed all over every Web site and magazine by daybreak.
One thing was becoming very clear: They were no longer Hollywood’s golden couple. Jesse and Simone were now California’s golden couple, and from here on out, every exit they made would be akin to a bride and groom leaving a church. I wasn’t yet sure if that was a good thing or a bad thing where these two were concerned. It was endearing to voters, but the second a crack showed, the instant a photographer caught them looking at each other without stars in their eyes or so much as glancing in someone else’s general direction, the rumor mill would start churning in earnest.
At the car, Jesse held Simone’s hand as she went in ahead of him. Then Dean got in while Jesse paused to smile for the press once more before he slid into the car himself. Ranya and I followed, and the driver shut the door behind me while we all got situated inside the spacious car.
After we’d all made ourselves comfortable and the car was on its way to our next destination—the campaign office to wrap things up for the evening, thank God—I half expected Jesse and Simone to be cuddled up together. It seemed only natural to carry over some of that public affection with some closeness and exchanged looks. But instead they sat a few inches apart. Simone played on her smartphone while Dean watched over her shoulder. Jesse and Ranya discussed something in Ranya’s ever-present leather-bound day planner. The doting couple barely seemed to notice each other now.
My phone vibrated. When I looked at the screen, it was a text from Lydia, my assistant.
Flights confirmed for 14th and 18th. Itinerary sent to your e-mail. Waiting on Kim re: event/Mendocino. Will advise.
I quickly sent back an acknowledgment, then forwarded the e-mail to Ranya. As I put my phone away, I said, “Ranya, I just sent you a couple of itineraries and reservation confirmations.”
She nodded and took out her phone. “Goddamn.” She looked at Jesse. “You’re going to be busy.”
He laughed. “Well, I didn’t exactly expect this to be a cakewalk.”
“She’s right, though,” I said. “The next week is going to be busy as fuck. And it’s not going to let up until after the election.”
“So what’s on the agenda?” Jesse asked.
I took a breath. “Tomorrow morning you’ve got reshoots for one of the ads we filmed last week. In the afternoon, you’re shooting an interview with Dale Maret of Bay Area Nightly, and a panel discussion with Capitol Round Table. Be ready for that panel. Those fuckers are goddamned piranhas, especially when it comes to Democrats.”
Jesse responded with a subtle nod. He glanced at Ranya. “You getting all this?”
“Already have it.” She gestured with the planner. “Anthony and I went over it all earlier.”
“Good.” He looked at me. “Anyway, go on.”
“All right, after the panel, you’ve got a dinner, and you’re going to need to bow out of that one early because we’ve got a plane to catch to the Bay Area and an early morning the next day. You’re visiting a few Democratic groups in San Francisco and Oakland, there’s a rally in the afternoon, and then we’re going to have to haul ass back to the airport to catch an eight o’clock flight down to San Diego.”
Another subtle nod. Not even fazed. I may as well have been telling him the latest major league baseball scores for all the concern he mustered.
I raised an eyebrow. “Are you even paying attention to this?”
“Of course I am.” He shrugged. “We’re reshooting ads tomorrow, plus an interview and a panel discussion, and then a dinner that I have to bow out of so we can fly out to the Bay Area for a rally, some Democratic group visits, and another flight to San Diego.” He looked at Ranya. “I miss anything?”
“Nope. You’ve got it covered.”
He turned to me again, eyebrows up as if to say well?
“Mm-hmm.” I tapped my fingers on the armrest beside me. “And you’re not in the least bit flustered.”
Another shrug. “There’s a schedule. I’m happy.”
“Yeah well,” I muttered. “Just wait until this schedule gets shot to shit, and it’s cancel, reschedule, double book, cancel, reschedule.”
“You’re handling that part, right?”
I nodded. “Well, the part about telling you where to be and when to be there, anyway.”
“Good. We’ll get along just fine.”
I watched him for a moment. “Does anything fluster you, Jesse?”
He met my eyes. “Should it?”
“Well, it would behoove me to know if something does,” I said. “You know, before I do something to set you off.”
“So you can avoid it?”
“No,” I said. “Just so I know.”
Jesse chuckled, but he didn’t elaborate on what flustered him.
Beside him, Simone looked up from her phone and smothered a laugh behind her hand. She glanced first at Jesse, then at me. Then she just shook her head and focused on her phone again. Jesse and Ranya slipped back into their conversation, and Simone and Dean took playful jabs at each other while she, I assumed, played a game.
I shifted my gaze back and forth between Jesse and Simone. Those two unnerved me. It wasn’t unusual for public figures to put on an exaggerated show of love and unity for the cameras, but something about this pair didn’t sit well. They were like two actors on a set. Onstage they were Mr. and Mrs. Jesse Cameron, the fairy-tale couple with the enviable marriage. Backstage they were Jesse Cameron and Simone Lancaster, two separate entities who didn’t even seem to exist on the same plane half the time. They flipped like a damned switch. They had the public facade down to an art form. Backstage, though, when they didn’t realize I was looking, they did nothing but set off red flags in my head.
I might have bought their display if they cold-shouldered each other in private. When Roger’s second marriage was on the rocks, they put on a show for the public, but as soon as they were in private, they either avoided each other like the plague or fought. Hot or cold. No middle ground. By contrast, when he and Janet appeared together, they put on a deliriously happy front before retiring backstage and interacting with the mellow dullness that comes with the end of the honeymoon phase.
Out of the public eye, these two reverted to something that was neither icy distance nor marital boredom. Simone was about as cozy with Dean as she was with Jesse, or Jesse was with Ranya. The two of them interacted sometimes, and still seemed to enjoy each other’s company, but struck me as something closer to roommates. Or “you’re like a brother to me” friends.
Husband and wife? Nuh-uh.
Under normal circumstances, it was none of my business, but these weren’t normal circumstances. It was just a question of figuring out if I was imagining things, reading too much into their interactions, or if there really was something to be concerned about. Personal troubles and marital issues were par for the course with politicians, but voters didn’t respond to th
em well. Especially not when they’d been led to believe they were supporting a golden couple like Jesse and Simone.
Please let me be wrong, Jesse.
If you want to win this, please let me be wrong…
Chapter Six
Jesse
Of all the things I dealt with on this campaign, the debates unnerved me the most. On the way to the venue, I couldn’t sit still in the back of the limo. I couldn’t remember the last time I was this twitchy, and it only got worse the more I thought about how this evening would go.
“You all right?” Anthony asked.
Looking out the window, I nodded. “I’ll be fine.” Having him here didn’t help at all. He either distracted me to the point I nearly forgot to breathe, or just by being here as my campaign manager, he created an undeniable pressure to get it right tonight. This could make or break my campaign, but every time my mind wandered down the “what if I blow this?” path, it was Anthony’s disapproval—not the voters’, not my uncle’s—that had me extra sick to my stomach. Fuck if I knew why, but since when did anything in my head make sense?
“Hey.” Ranya prodded my knee with her planner. “Space cadet.”
“Hmm?”
“You sure you’re okay?”
“I’m fine.” I forced a smile. “Just nerves.”
“Uh-huh.” Her eyes darted toward Anthony, and she smirked.
I glared at her, and the smirk turned into a full-on snicker. Anthony threw us a puzzled look, but thank God he didn’t seem to read between the lines. That would be just what I needed: my damned campaign manager knowing he was as distracting as the debates, if not more so. And wouldn’t I have some ’splaining to do about my marriage…
The limo pulled off the freeway, and through the tinted windows, the venue came into view. I swallowed hard.
