Where There's Smoke

by L. A. Witt

  The limo slowed, and we broke the kiss to look out the window.

  “Shit,” Anthony muttered.

  I scowled at the airport, which loomed at the end of a strip of pavement that was much, much too short.

  We separated, clearing our throats and straightening our clothes and not looking in each other’s directions. I took a few deep breaths and willed myself to calm down at least enough to hide my very visual response to Anthony’s touch. And that worked. Really well. The driver pulled up and stopped under the ARRIVALS sign, and I was still aroused. Still hard. Still losing my fucking mind.

  Shit. Shit. Shit.

  “We’re waiting outside Arrivals,” Anthony said into his phone. “Five minutes? All right, he’ll be there.” He hung up and looked at me, lips parted like he was about to speak. Instead he paused, cocked his head slightly, then reached for his notebook. “I meant to tell you about this earlier. Latest polls are in.”

  Really? Seriously? You think I can focus on this shit right now?

  Evidently he did. He flipped to a page in his notebook, and after about forty-five seconds of poring over dry, confusing numbers that made absolutely no sense, at least my body temperature and heart rate had come back down to something close to normal. Talk about a mental cold shower.

  Anthony closed the notebook and glanced at his watch. “They’ll be finishing in baggage claim right about now.” Our eyes met, and he smiled. “I’m assuming you’ll be all right going out there?”

  I laughed softly. “Yes. Thanks.”

  He winked and sat back against the seat. “Glad to help.”

  Now that I was calmed down and presentable to appear in public, I stepped out of the limo. My private security had followed in another vehicle—limos were roomy, but goddamn, they could get crowded with a couple of burly security guards—and followed me into the airport.

  The instant the double doors opened, I found her. Not that it was difficult with a large crowd trying to get close to her, and her towering bodyguard was pretty tough to miss.

  Simone grinned and stepped out of the crowd. She threw her arms around me. We embraced and made damn sure that any camera in the vicinity—and there were always a few—got a shot of us kissing like happily married spouses ought to kiss when they hadn’t seen each other in a couple of weeks. Deep, passionate, punctuated by the pause to look into each other’s eyes and smile before going back for more.

  She pulled back, and twin creases formed between her eyebrows as she ran her tongue across the inside of her lip. Her eyes darted toward the limo, and the corners of her mouth pulled up with tired amusement.

  “What?” I asked.

  Laughing softly, she shook her head and slipped her hand into mine. “Nothing. Should we get out of here?”

  “By all means.”

  We picked up Simone’s luggage and went out to the waiting limo. While the driver put everything in the trunk, my security guys got into their car and Simone, Dean, and I slid into the limo.

  “Anthony,” she said with a stiff nod as we all settled in. “Good to see you.” Whatever amusement had been in her expression a moment ago was long gone.

  Anthony smiled just as stiffly. “You too.”

  “So what’s the plan for tomorrow?” Simone asked, notes of both impatience and irritation in her voice.

  Anthony folded his hands on his knee as the limo lurched into motion. “Besides a hell of a lot of hurry up and wait? First things first, you’re both appearing at a luncheon for the San Joaquin Democratic group.”

  As he continued through the itinerary for the next few days leading up to the primary election, I tried not to look at either of them. Her involvement with the campaign had been reasonably light so far; she’d been tied up with promoting her film and had a break from that for the next few weeks. That meant she was free to be more visible on the campaign tour. Up until now, she’d gone to key events with me so we could put on a happy, united front, but she’d had to forego Anthony’s plan of grassroots campaigning—by herself and with me—until she’d fulfilled her contractual obligations for the film.

  The limo took us to the obscenely ostentatious luxury hotel where I’d checked in earlier. How it took so many people to get one couple into their room, I’d never understand, but between security and hotel personnel, I swore we had a hundred people running in and out of the room Simone and I shared.

  And just like that, they were gone.

  All of them.

  Except us.

  Simone and I stood in silence—awkward, unending silence—and stared at the bed. The only bed.

  “It’s all about appearances,” Anthony had said this morning with an apologetic shrug after he’d told me about our accommodations. “Housekeeping leaks a rumor that you two left two beds rumpled, suddenly you’re sleeping apart and there’s trouble in paradise.”

  Great. Just what we needed. Simone and I hadn’t shared a bed in the better part of a year, and I was sure the months leading up to my confession that I was gay hadn’t been this awkward or uncomfortable. They were hellish in their own right, of course. For those endless months, it was the constant fear—one that was sometimes realized—that Simone would want us to be intimate.

  Tonight? Oh, tonight was a very different story. I knew she wouldn’t reach for me. She’d probably sleep as close as she could get to the edge of the bed, just like I’d sleep as close as I could to the opposite edge.

  But this time, there’d be someone on my mind. The second the lights went off, Anthony would be at the forefront of my mind, and even now, my pulse soared just knowing he’d be a few doors away. Sleeping alone. Maybe lying awake and—

  No, best not to think about that now.

  I looked around the room. The sofa was probably hard as a rock and would be just short enough to prevent me from sleeping comfortably, but it looked more inviting than any piece of furniture ever had.

  “I’ll, um…” I paused to clear my throat. “I can sleep on the couch.”

  “You don’t think that’ll kick up rumors?” She folded her arms across her chest, hugging herself like she couldn’t quite get warm. “If the maids think we slept separately?”

  I blew out a breath. “It probably will. Fuck, I don’t even care. Whatever you’re comfortable with.”

  Simone laughed. “Well, I’d be most comfortable with a ticket back to LA, but…”

  “Sorry,” I said with a sympathetic grimace.

  She waved a hand. “Don’t worry about it. Part of campaigning, right?”

  “Yeah. Part of campaigning.”

  She rocked back and forth from her heels to the balls of her feet. “Well, I’m going to call it a night. Your call about the bed or the couch.”

  I opted for the couch. It was uncomfortable as fuck, and I suspected my back would have something to say about it before dawn, but at least it put a little distance between my wife and me. Some breathing room, if nothing else. Not that I was any more likely to sleep than I would have been if we shared the bed. This was going to be one long damned night.

  Was Anthony this frustrated? Of course he slept alone, so he could relieve the tension if he needed to. By now maybe he already had. Maybe in bed, with his forearm over his eyes and his other hand stroking his cock, or in the shower, water running down his face while he jerked off to the same thoughts that drove me insane.

  I shivered, and even that sent a ripple of panic through me. Deep down, irrational as it may have been, I was terrified that the slightest movement, the faintest catch of my breath, would scream to Simone that I was painfully aroused. And how awkward and embarrassing would that be for both of us? She’d know I was turned on, and she’d know it was someone else. Of course she knew I was gay, but she didn’t need a cruel reminder that we were only doing this for the sake of appearances while I thought myself hard about someone else.

  I focused as much as I could on sleeping. Fat lot of good that did me. I’d drop off, then suddenly be awake again. I’d crawl from one end of
a restless hour to the next before dropping off again, only to wake up without feeling like I’d gotten a single moment’s rest. Sometimes I ached with arousal. Sometimes lack of sleep had me on the verge of being in physical pain, while the couch on which I tossed and turned made sure I was always in some sort of discomfort. The night went by like a kid learning to drive a manual transmission: jerking awake, dropping off to sleep, jerking awake again.

  Eventually it leveled out into consistent, unrelenting insomnia. The body was tired but the mind was stubborn and preoccupied, and Anthony wasn’t here, and Simone was, and I couldn’t. Fucking. Sleep.

  Moving slowly and carefully, scared to death I’d wake Simone just by existing, I craned my neck and looked at the clock above the television.

  Ten minutes past four.

  Good enough. It was an unholy hour, but I didn’t stand a chance of sleeping, so to hell with it. I threw the thin blanket back, swung my legs over the side of the couch, and got up as carefully and quietly as I could.

  I went into the bathroom and closed the door before I flipped on the light. As my eyes adjusted to the bright fluorescent, I turned on the shower. The white noise of running water wouldn’t bother Simone the way a light would, so I didn’t worry about waking her up.

  When the water was as hot as I could get it, filling the bathroom with opaque steam, I stepped into the bathtub and pulled the shower curtain across. Hot water stung my back and shoulders, scalding drops running down my sides and hips like invisible fingernails raking over my skin.

  Now that I was alone, I didn’t even try to ignore how aroused I was. I flattened my hand against the wall and fucked my other fist, forcing my cock into my tight grip and wishing to God this came close to soothing this maddening need. I imagined myself with Anthony, on my knees and begging him to touch me, to fuck me, to make me come, to let me come. I couldn’t imagine he was a gentle lover, and in my mind, he shoved me against the side of a bed. His bed? Mine? Didn’t matter. It was a flat surface. And there was lube nearby. Lots of lube. God, he used it too. He was fucking me. Hard. Deep and fast. Growling profanity in my ear. Forcing himself inside me again and again.

  I’d never been fucked before, but I’d seen and felt how other men came unraveled when a man was inside them, and I wanted it. I wanted Anthony like that, and I begged my fantasy to be like the real thing, for him to feel as good as I’d imagined as he fucked me hard and fast and deep, until he lost control and I lost my mind.

  I dug my teeth into my lip, struggling not to groan as my impending orgasm built, as it reached maddening heights that threatened to drag a cry from my lips and force me to my knees. My breath caught, my knees buckled, and I kept stroking, my semen-slicked hand sliding easily up and down my cock as I held on to this fantasy, and I didn’t stop until I couldn’t take another second.

  I braced myself against the shower walls with shaking arms. Closing my eyes, I let my head fall forward, and scalding water raked over the goose bumps on my back and shoulders.

  The heat and the orgasm relieved my hard-on, but now I was wide-awake. Way more awake than I should have been after jerking off at four in the damned morning. I wanted that postrelease fatigue to settle in, but it refused, and I was no closer to relaxing enough for sleep than I was before my shower.

  Simone was still asleep—oh, I envied her—and I didn’t want to wake her, so I put on my swim trunks, grabbed a towel, and left the room to go get my morning swim out of the way. In theory I should have roused one of my security guards and been escorted downstairs, but…not today. I avoided taking security with me whenever I could, but especially now; I needed to be alone. That included evading the people who were there for my own safety, but also provided a constant, undeniable reminder that I lived under a goddamned microscope. Once in a fucking while, I needed a little time to myself, even if it was more or less in public.

  Keeping my head down, I slipped past the sparse early crowd in the lobby and into the pool area. Just as I’d hoped, the pool was open and still deserted at this hour. Still, my skin crawled with that undeniable sense of being exposed and conspicuous. Like no matter how empty the place was, someone was watching. Someone with an agenda and a camera.

  I usually opted for something less ostentatious than this high-profile hotel, but Roger insisted on five-star accommodations everywhere we went. Keeping up appearances and all that shit. Personally I’d have preferred a sun-warmed swim behind a no-name hotel off the main drag of some small town, diving into a pool with chipped tiles and the odd floating leaf instead of this perfectly maintained Olympic-length pool. This kind of place just felt too damned much like a fishbowl.

  But it was what was available, so I dropped my towel in a rumpled heap on the footrest of one of the poolside chairs, tucked my room key into its folds, and pulled on my swimming goggles. Then I dove in.

  The cool water shocked my skin after my hot shower, but I adapted quickly. I started slow to work some stiffness out of my muscles, and on the second and third laps, I picked up speed. Once I’d found my usual comfortable, sustainable speed, I focused on nothing more than swimming. Follow the black stripe on the bottom of the pool until it became a T at the end, turn around, follow the stripe the other way. Back and forth. Up the lane. Turn around. Down the lane. Turn around. Again. And again. And again.

  I could only relax so much when I was on a schedule, though. If I’d had the entire day to myself with nowhere to be, I could have spent an hour or more just going back and forth, back and forth, watching that long black stripe while I cut through the cool water. With a schedule to keep, I had to stay aware of the time. The muscles between my shoulders always insisted on tensing up when I was under the gun, and no matter how much I swam, they refused to relax. They refused to let me forget, if only for a few minutes, that a world existed above this one.

  But it helped. It was better than nothing, anyway.

  I completed my last lap, then hoisted myself out of the pool and took off my goggles. Chlorine stung my eyes, and as I rubbed them, I yawned. Fatigue set in, turning my legs to putty and pushing down on my shoulders. Maybe now I could get some sleep after all.

  Keeping my head down, I once again slipped past the handful of people in the lobby and took one of the back stairwells up to my room. I keyed myself back into the room, quietly changed into a pair of boxers, and eased myself back onto the couch. Between the shower, the orgasm, and the swim, sleepiness finally took over, and in no time flat, I drifted off.

  Muffled coughing—more like choking and gagging—drew me out of the fog of sleep. I lifted my head, blinking my vision into focus.

  I knew that sound all too well. Few other things could wake me up at—where the hell is that clock?—seven fifteen in the morning, and my heart sank even as I looked around to take in all the facts and make sure I hadn’t just heard it in my dreams.

  The bedside light was on, and Simone wasn’t in bed. Craning my neck a little more revealed the bathroom door was closed, and slivers of light glowed at the top and bottom. As I scanned the room, Simone coughed again right about the time my eyes tracked to the platters—one covered, the other uncovered and mostly empty—on the table. When the toilet flushed, I closed my eyes and swore.

  I didn’t know which was worse: when she ate and puked, or when she just didn’t eat at all. And if I said a word about it, she’d get defensive. Then she’d get angry like only Simone could, and she’d either eat less or puke more just for spite. Maybe the divorce made it worse, maybe pretending to stay married made it worse. Maybe both. The election sure as hell didn’t do her any good.

  The bathroom door opened, and Simone startled when she saw me. Her cheeks colored, almost matching the redness in her eyes, which darted toward the platters. She was dressed in a pair of sweats and one of my old T-shirts, which hung much too loosely over her shoulders.

  Casually taking a seat in one of the chairs next to the table, she said, “Enjoy your swim?”

  “Yeah. Definitely needed it.” I pause
d, pretending not to notice the subtle movements of her jaw as she chewed a piece of gum like she always did after one of her episodes. “How’d you know I went swimming?”

  “You were stressed and out of bed at oh dark thirty.” She paused, then added with a weak smile, “And you smell like chlorine.” Before I could say anything else, she gestured at the pair of platters beside her. “Room service came by while you were asleep. I wasn’t sure how long you’d be, so I already ate.”

  I gritted my teeth. “I’ll get to it. Not quite hungry yet.”

  “Well, don’t leave it,” she said with a hint of bitter humor. “God forbid the housekeepers see an untouched plate of food in this room.”

  I rubbed my eyes, hoping she took the gesture as one of tiredness or a reaction to chlorine, not frustration. Couldn’t say I was all that hungry now. Not after a sleepless night in a room with the woman who’d just spent ten minutes using her digestive system to, if I knew her, rebel against all the stress I was dumping into her life. The guilt and helplessness were bad enough when I wasn’t the catalyst for her downward spirals.

  I got up off the couch and sat across from her. My appetite was MIA, but I lifted the lid on the untouched platter. Better to eat than discuss food, because discussing it would lead to arguing about it, which would only make things worse.

  At least breakfast was a strawberry-covered Belgian waffle. If anything involving eggs had been sitting there for any length of time, I might have had to risk housekeepers gossiping about an empty plate. This, I could deal with.

  I poured myself some coffee, then started on the waffle.

  Simone pulled her feet onto the chair and hugged her knees to her chest. “Can I ask you something?”

  I shrugged as I cut a square off the corner of the lukewarm waffle with my fork. Just before I took a bite, I said, “What’s on your mind?”

  She hugged her legs tighter to her chest, then tilted her head and rested her cheek on her knee. “Are you and Anthony, like…”