by L. A. Witt
I can do this. I know I can. It’s not—
Out of the blue, Ranya said, “You ever wonder what it would be like if the zombie apocalypse happened during an election year?”
The look on Anthony’s face. Holy shit.
Struggling to keep from laughing, I said, “Hadn’t thought about it. Why?”
“Well, I mean, let’s say a zombie showed up tonight.” She paused. “Say…Anthony.”
Anthony’s eyebrows shot up. He may as well have had WTF? etched across his forehead at this point, and I couldn’t help laughing this time.
“Go on,” I said, chuckling.
She ran a hand through her long hair, her bracelets jingling with the quick motion. “So Anthony goes into the debates, and he bites someone. Next thing you know, there’s a bunch of groaning, mumbling, blank-eyed zombies shuffling around the place.” Her bracelets clanged again as she gestured at the venue. “But really, would anyone even notice?”
I snickered. “This is a Democratic debate, dear. I think you’ve got a GOP convention on the brain.”
“Well, true.” She shrugged. “I suppose there’s at least some chance of someone catching on before it spreads too far here.” She looked at Anthony, and as only Ranya could do, completely deadpanned, “So maybe you should save the biting for a GOP event, no?”
He eyed her. “I’ll…keep that in mind. Thanks.”
“Anytime.” She gave him a sharp, jingling salute.
He shook his head and looked out the window, but not before the faintest hint of amusement turned up the corner of his mouth.
The limo driver wove through traffic and barriers, inching us closer to the venue, and my stomach tightened. The base of my spine prickled with nerves, and my stomach churned and roiled as a million worries crowded my mind.
Desperate for more distraction, I cleared my throat and looked at Ranya. “Makes you wonder, what would happen if like half the politicians at the Capitol turned into zombies? Think they’d try and eat the others, or would they shuffle out because there are no brains in that group?”
Anthony looked at me, then Ranya, his brow furrowed as if to say are you two really having this conversation?
“Well, it depends,” Ranya said matter-of-factly. “Which half is the zombies? The Dems or the Repubs?”
“Hmm.” I stroked my chin with my thumb and forefinger. “I’m not really sure.”
“Well, that will probably make a difference, don’t you think?”
Anthony rolled his eyes and pulled his cigarettes out of his pocket. He cracked his window and took out his lighter.
“I guess it would make a difference,” I said.
“Of course it would,” Ranya said. “Think about it. The Dems are the smart ones, so if they’re the zombies, they aren’t going to want to eat the brains of the idiotic Repubs. Assuming they even have brains.”
“Oh, good point,” I said. “And if the Repubs are the zombies, they’ll be too stupid to figure out how to actually go about eating brains. And then—”
Clink.
Anthony’s lighter flicked to life, and my train of thought stopped dead on the tip of my tongue.
“I…um…” Well, apparently I was safe from zombies for the time being.
“Jesse?” Ranya cocked her head. “You all right?”
Anthony sucked in some smoke before eyeing me too, his brow furrowing with something that might have been concern if not for the smirk on his lips.
I cleared my throat. “Well, I mean. I guess I just can’t imagine a Republican’s brain would be that much of a meal. Lack of use and all that.”
Anthony’s lips contorted but then parted to release a breath of smoke out the window.
Ranya uncrossed and recrossed her legs. “You would think all the idiots’ brains would be completely atrophied from lack of use, so I can’t imagine they’d taste good.”
Some color slipped out of Anthony’s cheeks, and I thought he shuddered.
“Beggars can’t be choosers, right?” I said.
“True, but still.” She folded her hands on top of her knee. “And you know what sucks? Stupid people would escape by virtue of not having enough brains to attract zombies in the first place.” She paused. “But then of course they’ll wind up dying because they can’t strategize like smart people. They might not end up consumed by zombies, but they’ll drive off a cliff or poke themselves in the eyes with pitchforks while those of us with actual brains, those who should survive, will be targeted by the zombies like blood-marinated zebras being targeted by lions.”
“Lovely,” Anthony muttered more to himself than us.
“So essentially,” I said, furrowing my brow like this was truly serious stuff, “the zombie apocalypse would wind up targeting the fit and the healthy like a walking, groaning version of the Spanish influenza.”
“Except stupid people do have brains,” Ranya countered. “They just don’t use them. So I guess it’s less a question of whether idiots like congressmen would be edible. More of a question of what kind of dining that would be for the zombies.”
Anthony grimaced and looked away.
“Good point,” I said.
“So I guess in that sense,” she went on, “it could be argued that a brain that’s had some use could be tough and gamy, while someone who doesn’t use theirs would have something a little more…” She snapped her fingers a couple of times, eyes losing focus as she presumably searched for the word.
“More like veal, I guess,” I said.
“Oh my God,” Anthony groaned, grimacing like he was about to puke.
Ranya laughed behind her hand. “You all right?”
“Fine,” he croaked.
I coughed, trying really hard not to laugh. “Not a zombie fan?”
“Or not a fan of veal-like brains?” Ranya asked.
Anthony wrinkled his nose. He eyed me, his face still a little green, but then chuckled and shook his head. “I guess this beats the hell out of you being too stressed to handle the debate.”
“Anything to distract him,” Ranya said with a triumphant grin.
Shrugging, Anthony extinguished his cigarette in the door’s ashtray. “Whatever works.”
Moments later the limo pulled up to the venue. As soon as the three of us got out, my security team joined us, and a few members of the venue’s staff herded us inside and down a hall. They showed us to an empty conference room marked CAMERON & STAFF.
“Someone will come get you ten minutes before you go on,” a staff member said. “You’ve got forty-five minutes until then.”
“Thank you,” I said, pretending my heart hadn’t just gone into double time. Forty-five minutes. Oh fuck.
Breathe, Cameron. Breathe.
“I’m going to go get some food,” Ranya said. “You guys want anything?”
“After that conversation in the limo?” Anthony snorted. “No, thank you.”
She shrugged. “Suit yourself. It kinda made me hungry.”
Anthony grimaced again.
“What about you, Cameron?” She looked at me, eyebrows up.
“No, I’m good.”
“All right. I’ll be back.” As she shuffled away, she adopted a low, moaning voice. “Brains, braaaains…”
After the door shut, my pulse jumped. Oh, God. I was alone with Anthony. Wasn’t the first time, wouldn’t be the last, but anytime I found myself encased inside walls with no one but him, my pulse went crazy. Even when he was quietly engrossed in something else. Especially when he was quietly engrossed in something else.
Like, say, right now.
I looked at him out of the corner of my eye. He leaned against a white plastic table, stroking his chin with his thumb and forefinger as he stared intently at something on his cell phone screen.
All this nervous energy conspired to make me twitchy, so I shifted my weight. Again. Then walked to one side of the room to read an incredibly dull poster about administering CPR. To the other side of the room for an equally boring ed
ucation in emergency exit procedures. Back to the CPR poster. Then across again, this time not even paying attention to what was on the wall. My steps on the hard floor gave me something to think about besides the ticking clock or my pounding heart, and at least I was moving.
“You all right?” Anthony’s voice startled me.
I glanced up and forced a smile. “Yeah. Nerves. You know how it goes.”
“You’re ready for this, though, right?”
“Absolutely.”
He watched me for a moment, his eyes tracking my nervous pacing. Then, evidently satisfied I was ready enough he didn’t need to grill me, he nodded and returned his attention to his phone’s screen.
He didn’t need to know I was nowhere near ready. Deep down, I knew full well I’d be one hundred percent ready the second I stepped up to the podium. But right now? Backstage? With what may as well have been a doomsday clock on the wall counting down the seconds until I’d damn well better have the answers to all of California’s social, economic, cash flow, education, and environmental problems? Fuck. Fuck. Fuck.
About twenty minutes after she left, Ranya returned with a bag from the Kentucky Fried Chicken a block or so away.
“My God,” she said, dropping into a folding chair. “Do you have any idea how hard it is to get in and out of this place without being firmly attached to some politician’s coattails?”
I laughed. “And you thought it would be easy?”
“No.” She reached into the bag and pulled out a few cardboard and Styrofoam containers, pausing to lick a stray drop of gravy off her thumb. “But Jesus Christ, I thought they were going to give me a body cavity search or something.”
“You wish.”
“Fuck you, Cameron.” She shot me a playful scowl, then pulled open one of the cartons.
The scent of fried chicken made my mouth water. I hadn’t been able to stomach the mere thought of food for the last few hours, and now I was fucking hungry.
Anthony, however, wasn’t nearly as envious of Ranya’s hard-earned cache of food. He pocketed his phone and pushed himself away from the table on which he’d been leaning. “I’m going to go have a cigarette. I’ll be back in a minute.”
Ranya gestured at him with a piece of chicken. “That’s a disgusting habit, you know.” The comment might have been offensive from anyone else, but she had just enough of a mischievous sparkle in her eye, it was obviously intended in good humor.
“Uh-huh.” Anthony pulled his cigarettes out of his pocket. “And you’re eating the fried remains of a dead bird, so I’d say we’re even.”
“You’ve got me there,” she said with an unrepentant shrug and took a bite.
Anthony chuckled, but I thought he might have shuddered too. Then, cigarettes in hand, he left the room. The door shut with a heavy thud and an emphatic click, and I exhaled hard.
“You okay?” Ranya asked, raising an eyebrow.
“I’m fine.” I eased myself into one of the folding chairs. “Just nerves.”
“I’m sure.” The eyebrow rose a little more.
I cocked my head. “What?”
“What?”
“I asked you first.”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about.” She shrugged innocently, then held out the box of chicken strips. “Want some?”
“God, yes.” I took one, holding it carefully to keep from burning my fingers. “Thank you.”
“Anytime.” She dipped another chicken strip into the tiny container of ranch sauce. “So how much do you know about this guy?” She nodded in the direction Anthony had gone as she took a bite of the chicken strip.
Leaning forward to get some of the sweet and sour sauce, I shrugged. “Not much. Roger swears by him as a campaign manager, but that’s about it.”
“Do you know if he’s…”
I threw her a sidelong glance. “Single?”
“Well, that,” she said. “But I was going to say gay.”
“Gay? Not that I know of. Why?”
“Um, because he’s obviously got a thing for you.”
I stared at her. “What are you talking about?”
She rolled her eyes. “Dude, are you that clueless?”
“Apparently so. He’s just putting up with me because he’s getting paid to manage my campaign, though. I don’t think the man even likes me.”
Shaking her head, she laughed. “Jesse, honey, does he have to push you into the sandbox to get your attention?” She gestured down the hall. “If he was into me, he’d be yanking my pigtails.”
“Oh come on.” I waved a hand. “No way. Besides, it’s not like I’d even register on his radar.” I held up my left hand and pointed at my wedding ring. “That usually tells people I’m not available, you know.”
“Maybe so,” she said. “But he’s pegging my gaydar something fierce, and he wants you. Just because you’re not on the menu doesn’t mean he can’t look.” Leaning in closer, she dropped her voice to a conspiratorial whisper. “And you didn’t see him drooling over you during that press conference a few weeks ago.”
“What?” I laughed. “No way.”
“Trust me on this one.” She grinned. “I know what I saw. And that man?” She gestured at the door, her bracelets emphasizing the sharp motion. “One look at you and he’s got floaty hearts above his head.”
I snorted. “Now that would be a sight.”
She shrugged. “I’m telling you…”
“Thank you, Ranya,” I said. “Now it’ll be even harder to concentrate around him.”
“Yeah, I’ll bet it’ll be harder…”
I rolled my eyes. “You’re seriously twelve, aren’t you?”
“Well, yeah.” She shrugged. “Isn’t that why you hired me? Since I’m about four years ahead of you on the maturity scale?”
“Touché.”
Ranya elbowed me playfully. “That’s what I thought.”
We kept bantering as we often did, but I couldn’t get the image out of my mind of Anthony with floating hearts over his head. Or at least, I couldn’t stop trying to conjure up that image. It wasn’t a thought easily reconciled with the Anthony I knew.
Gay or not, single or not, he was icy and abrasive. Sexy as all hell, but controlled to the point of intimidating. I swore he gave off an impenetrable aura of stay the fuck back. If anyone had little hearts floating around his head, it was me. Oh, if Anthony only knew how difficult it was to keep up my little charade with Simone when he was around.
“Hey.” Ranya tapped my arm with the back of her hand.
“Huh? What?”
She laughed, rolling her eyes. “My God. You are a space cadet today.”
I chuckled in spite of the warmth in my cheeks. “What can I say? I’ve got a lot on my mind.”
“Uh-huh. I’ll just bet you do.” Ranya winked.
More heat rushed into my face.
At least I wasn’t stressing about the debates.
Chapter Seven
Anthony
Jesse nailed the debates. The other candidates had their strengths and weaknesses, but Jesse easily came out ahead. A businessman from Palo Alto gave him a run for his money on solutions for California’s economic issues, but Jesse was still a strong voice in that part of the debate. Then he promptly owned the businessman when it came to social reform and education.
The icing on the cake was Jesse’s proposed legislation for domestic abuse. We’d carefully kept that card up his sleeve until now, and he played it with a gambler’s precision, throwing it down and leaving the other candidates scrambling to find a reason to oppose it or give their own better solution. Surprise, surprise, after the debate concluded, informal polls on news sites showed Jesse with a substantial lead in the primary, and commentators speculated he had a much stronger than anticipated shot at not only securing the primary, but beating Casey.
After another week of appearances and interviews in the wake of the debate, we finally had an evening of downtime. Naturally we spent it going over s
peeches and campaign strategies. At least this time we were in Jesse’s living room instead of on a plane, in a car, or in a hotel room. This was the closest thing to relaxation either of us would get until the election was over, so I wasn’t about to complain.
As Jesse and I pored over speeches and calendars, Simone appeared in the doorway.
“You guys ever going to take a break?” she asked with a tired smile.
“A break?” Jesse said. “What’s that?”
She laughed. “Anthony, you’re not running him into the ground, are you?”
I wish. I coughed, then smiled. “No more than any campaign manager should.”
Jesse shielded his mouth with a piece of paper and, in a stage whisper, said to his wife, “Help. Me.”
She giggled. “You’re on your own. I, however, am going to call it a night. Don’t work too hard, boys.”
“Tell that to him,” Jesse muttered, gesturing at me.
I chuckled and shrugged. “You’re the one who wants to be governor.”
“Damn it.” He clicked his tongue and shook his head. “If I’d known there was actual work involved…”
Simone laughed. “Well, it keeps you busy and out of trouble. Anyway, I’m going to bed. Good night.”
“Good night,” Jesse and I both said.
And with that, Simone left us to our papers and schedules. No kiss good night. No I love you. More sparks had flown between my cold fish of a college roommate and me when one of us said we were turning in for the night. Ever since they started raising my suspicions, I’d tried to brush it off as nothing, but something didn’t add up. I probably wouldn’t have noticed with any other couple. Married life was hardly sparks and fireworks after a few years, but the difference between their public appearance and private life was so pronounced it stood out. More and more, their happy front read like the all too perfect alibi of someone with a guilty conscience.
I thumbed the edge of a spiral notebook. “The two of you seem pretty happy together.”
Jesse smiled, but it was that damned podium smile. “Yeah, we are.”
“Are you?”
The smile faded, and he eyed me suspiciously. “I beg your pardon?”
“Are you two as solid as you look?” Yes, Jesse, I’m direct. Get used to it. I inclined my head. “As solid as you’re appearing in front of the public and cameras?”
