Where There's Smoke

by L. A. Witt

  I raised an eyebrow. “Simone…”

  She gestured dismissively. “Okay, fine.” Reaching for the stack of mail that had accumulated while we were both out of town, she added, “Or you could just tell me he’s awful so I don’t envy the hell out of you for snagging him.”

  “Would you believe me if I said it?”

  “Nope.”

  Laughing, I shook my head and picked up my coffee again. As I took a sip, Simone pulled a colorful tabloid magazine out of the stack of mail.

  “Must you read that stuff?” I asked.

  She shrugged. “I’m curious what they say about us.”

  “Exactly why I avoid them.”

  “Well, I’d rather hear it straight from the horse’s mouth than have someone catch me off guard during an interview or something.”

  “Okay, good point. But still…”

  She shrugged again and opened the magazine while I forced myself not to grumble about it. Not a week went by that these idiots didn’t have something to say about us. With every page Simone turned, every hiss of paper across paper, I cringed a little more, because it was only a matter of—

  “Oh, what have we here?” She flattened the paper on the counter in front of her. Resting her hands on either side of it, she scanned the article, probably oblivious to the way her collar puckered and revealed her frighteningly gaunt collarbones. With every silent moment that passed, her expression shifted from vague amusement to irritation to deep, teeth-grinding anger.

  “Simone,” I said, treading carefully, “if it bothers you, just—”

  “Jesus fucking Christ,” she growled, more to the paper than to me.

  I exhaled. “What does it say?”

  She shoved the paper across the counter. I wanted nothing more than to ignore it, maybe even set the pages on fire and forget they ever existed, but Simone was upset, so she’d interpret that as me blowing off her feelings as nothing.

  I put my coffee cup down and picked up the paper.

  BEAUTY AND THE BODYGUARD? the headline read. Below that, Shocking images of Simone Lancaster and her bodyguard! Three photos of varying clarity were plastered below the headlines. One showed Dean shielding her on the way through a crowd as they left an event, maybe with more physical contact than was necessary, but that was debatable. In another they exchanged smiles while I, looking like an oblivious idiot, faced the other direction and waved at the crowd. A third presented them having what must have been a hushed conversation; they were turned toward each other, heads inclined and gazes down, his brow furrowed as she said something to him.

  Below the pictures, a caption insinuated these were proof that all wasn’t well in la casa de Lancaster-Cameron. And of course, there was the article, which I read aloud.

  “‘Model/actress Lancaster, 34, has a long and difficult past but appeared to have found happiness and stability in her rock-solid union with husband Jesse Cameron, 32, the Democratic Party’s candidate for California’s governor. Now allegations have emerged that Lancaster is carrying on an affair with her bodyguard of three years, Dean Reilly, 36. Sources say the often troubled model/actress has found solace with Reilly during the busily campaigning Cameron’s long and frequent absences.’”

  The article went on, but I grimaced and shoved the tabloid aside. “They’re just mining for a story to tell. It—” I paused, chewing my lip. “Well, I mean, is it true?”

  “No.” She slammed her palm down on the counter. “I’m not sleeping with Dean, for God’s sake.”

  “Okay, okay.” I put up my hands. “I’m not making any accusations. If you were, I’d be fine with it, you know that. But if you’re not, then they’re just spewing bullshit.”

  She scowled and nodded sharply at the magazine. “Well, not everything they say is bullshit.”

  “What do you mean?”

  She gestured at the magazine again.

  Reaching for it like it was a snake, I eyed her, wondering if she’d elaborate rather than making me read it for myself.

  “Look at the inset,” she muttered and snatched up her coffee cup.

  In the middle of the article, an inset poured salt on Simone’s wounds: Lancaster-Cameron Baby? Medical Experts Say Time is Running Out. Dr. J. D. Ratner, also known as the OB of the Stars, says advancing age, drastic weight loss, and increasing stress could prevent Simone Lancaster from having the baby she longs for.

  I winced and pushed out a breath as I shoved the paper aside again. Of all the things they could nitpick her about, they just had to go there. “Jesus, Simone. I’m sorry.”

  “Do you think they’re right?” Her coffee cup rattled on the countertop as she put it down. “That I might be too old to have a baby?”

  “I don’t know,” I said. “My mom was almost forty when she had me, but…” She was healthy. She wasn’t so dangerously thin. God, Simone, I’m so worried about you. I swallowed hard and shook my head. “I just don’t know.”

  She laughed bitterly and looked into her coffee cup, holding it as still as she could with two unsteady hands. “I suppose it doesn’t really matter. Takes two, after all.”

  Ouch. I shifted my weight, resisting the urge to drum my fingers nervously on the counter. “For the record, the offer I made before still stands. If you—”

  “I am not having a baby with you,” she said with unexpected venom.

  I drew back a little, eyes wide, and showed my palms. “All right, all right. I’m just saying the offer is there.”

  “Great,” she muttered and picked up her coffee cup. “So if I can’t find someone who will stick around long enough to have kids, I can have IVF with someone who won’t fucking touch me.”

  My throat tightened around my breath. It didn’t matter how much I told myself this was her defense mechanism, that she was lashing out and didn’t mean any of it, things like that still stung.

  Simone exhaled hard. “I’m sorry, Jesse.” She ran a hand through her hair. “I didn’t mean…that was…”

  “Don’t worry about it,” I said quietly.

  We stood in awkward, prolonged silence. Her coffee cup scraped on the tile. My fingers tapped out a subtle beat of nerves and discomfort. We had long ago perfected the art of throwing each other uncertain glances and timing them just right to avoid making actual eye contact.

  Simone broke the silence, and in spite of her apology a moment ago, she spoke through clenched teeth. “At least they’re leaving the two of you alone.” I looked at her across the kitchen island, and she narrowed her eyes. “But then I suppose the media wouldn’t dare accuse their golden child of being a gay cheater, would they?”

  I stared at her. “You don’t—”

  “Save it,” she snapped, waving her hand. “They make me look bad, and everyone can be all sympathetic toward you.” She laughed bitterly. “Just imagine how many votes that will score you. Poor Jesse Cameron and his infertile whore of a wife. In fact, just think, if I got hit by a bus tomorrow, they’d probably skip the whole fucking election and declare you the winner.”

  “What?” I shook my head and came around the kitchen island. “Don’t talk like that, Simone. I’m sorry for the things the press is saying about you, but that’s them. Not me.” I put my hands on her shoulders and took a breath to go on, but hesitated. Gaze darting to my hands, I gently squeezed, my heart dropping into my feet as I realized just how thin her shoulders were.

  “Simone, are—”

  “I’m fine,” she snapped and wrenched away from me.

  “You’re losing weight,” I said.

  “Is that a problem?” she growled.

  I sighed. “Yes. It is. You can’t afford to lose any more.”

  “Yeah,” she threw back. “God forbid I lose enough to give the press even more ammunition to blame me for not giving you a goddamned baby.”

  My lips parted. “No, I’m worried about you, that’s all.”

  “You’re just worried how it’ll reflect on your fucking campaign,” she snarled.

  I
blinked, taking a half step back. “What? Simone, you know that isn’t true.”

  She folded her arms across her chest and refused to look at me. At first glance, her posture was defensive, but she hugged herself tighter and stayed focused on the floor between us. We’d had fights like this before. She lashed out, realized she’d crossed a line she didn’t mean to cross, and now she didn’t know how to uncross it. Something told me this wouldn’t be the last time we played this game between now and the divorce, but could I really blame her with everything I was putting her through?

  “I can talk to Anthony,” I said softly. “Maybe we can reduce the stress put on you during the campaign.”

  She met my eyes, and for a fleeting second, her expression said nothing if not please? But pride kicked in, and her lips hardened into a straight line. “It’s only a few more months.” She stepped back. “I can handle it. But no more delays. As soon as this election is over, so are we.”

  Before I could reply that we already were over, Simone turned on her heel and stormed out of the kitchen. Sighing, I kneaded my stiff neck with both hands.

  In the silence of the kitchen, I glared at the tabloid. This wasn’t what I’d bargained for. I knew going into the campaign that it would be hell for both of us, and I’d wondered time and again if Simone could handle it. But somehow, maybe because I was eternally optimistic or ridiculously naive, I hadn’t thought it would be this bad.

  I turned my head toward the kitchen doorway she’d disappeared through. Simone was an amazing, intelligent woman, but she was not equipped to deal with emotions. Emotional stress could either send her into a rage or a near-catatonic depression, and asking her to play the happy wife while the clock quietly ticked down to the divorce was asking a lot of her. Too much. Far too much.

  But whether either of us liked it or not, or if we could handle it, the show had to go on. With the primary behind us, the show was just about to get even more intense too.

  Oblivious to the problems between my wife and me, Ranya arrived right on time at a quarter after nine. She’d barely stepped through the front door when she scowled at me.

  “Is that really what you’re wearing?”

  “This?” I gestured at my suit. “No. This is a hologram. I’m going completely naked.”

  “Smart-ass,” she muttered. “Anthony specifically said business casual for this one.”

  “Business casual?” I rolled my eyes. “Fuck, I thought today was suit and tie, tomorrow was business casual.”

  “No, today is business casual, tonight is suit and tie, and tomorrow is…” She paused, furrowing her brow. “Oh hell, I can’t even remember what tomorrow is. But today?” She gestured at me and shook her head. “Casual, darling.”

  “This shit is way too complicated sometimes,” I said.

  “Yeah, well, your complicated life keeps me employed, so I’m not bitching.” She nodded sharply down the hall. “To the bedroom so we can get you dressed, Your Highness.”

  I chuckled and led her to my bedroom. “All right, what do you suggest?”

  “I’d go with khakis,” she said. “Or at least light gray. Something that’s less funeral chic.”

  “Funeral chic?” I glanced at her. “Really?”

  She shrugged. “Hey, I’m not the one who’s a sad face away from fitting in next to a grave site. Now get out of the way and let me find something.”

  I moved aside, and she stroked her chin as she peered at the clothes hanging in my closet. Hangers squeaked and clattered as she shoved things aside.

  “Here.” She turned around and handed me a pair of khaki slacks and a dark blue shirt. “Put these on.”

  “Yes, ma’am.” I took the hangers from her and toed off my shoes.

  She turned around so her back was to me. “Just keep the suit handy. You’ll need it for this evening.”

  “We’ll throw it in the garment bag.” I slipped off my black slacks and reached for the khakis. “I suppose Anthony would shit kittens if I showed up in shorts and a ripped T-shirt?”

  “Well, he’d probably get a hard-on first,” she said. “But yeah, probably.”

  I rolled my eyes. “Cute, Ranya.”

  “What? I’m just saying.”

  “Uh-huh.” I zipped and buttoned my slacks. “All right, I’m decent.”

  “That’ll be the day,” she said as she turned around. “You know, it’s a crime that I’m picking out clothes for a gay man. You should be picking out mine.”

  As I unbuttoned my shirt, I said, “You’re the one who told me to step aside and let you choose.”

  “Only because you have the fashion sense of a blind man,” she said.

  “Just trying to break the stereotype.” I took off my shirt and picked up the blue one she’d selected.

  “Well, break a different one. I need someone to take me shopping. Ooh! Maybe I should ask Anthony.”

  The very mention of his name made my stomach flutter. Laughing halfheartedly, I said, “You go right ahead and ask him, my dear.”

  She laughed but eyed me. “You all right, boss man?”

  Rubbing my temples, I nodded. “Fine. Tired.”

  She gave a quiet laugh. “Oh, I don’t doubt that.”

  I shot her a look, one eyebrow up, and she snorted.

  “Please,” she said. “It was only a matter of time before you two got it on. Dinner with everyone last night? Some downtime afterward? You looking like hell this morning?” She threw me a significant look.

  I couldn’t help chuckling. “I don’t know why I ever try getting anything past you.”

  “Neither do I.” She clicked her tongue and sighed melodramatically. “And yet you do. I guess you get an A for effort, at least.”

  “Funny. That’s what Anthony said.”

  “What? What are—Oh my God. Damn you, Jesse Cameron.”

  I laughed. “You asked for that.”

  “Eww, Jesse.” She grimaced and shuddered. “Just…eww.”

  “Oh whatever.” I nudged her with my elbow. “Oh ye of the gory-slasher-film obsession, and you’re really all squicked out at the thought of two men engaging in consensual—and rather hot, if I may say so—anal sex?”

  “Jesse!” Ranya shuddered and shook her head vigorously. “It’s not that. It’s that I don’t want to think about my boss having any kind of sex, never mind that kind.”

  I shrugged. “Well, then, think about Anthony having it.”

  She furrowed her brow and seemed to mull it over for a second.

  “With me,” I added.

  “Fuck. You. Though I have to say, aside from all the—” She paused, looking me up and down. “Hmm. Still a bit formal. Ah, roll your sleeves to the elbows. It’ll look more casual.”

  I unbuttoned the cuff. “Glad one of us has some fashion sense.”

  “Well, as long as they don’t put the governor in charge of the fashion police, there might be hope for California.”

  I laughed and rolled up my sleeve. “Anyway, you were saying?”

  “About?”

  “Aside from all the…”

  “Oh right.” She folded her arms across her chest, watching me roll my other sleeve. “I was just going to say that aside from all the squicky mental images your unholy union with Anthony has produced, I had a feeling from day one that if you guys didn’t kill each other, you’d eventually end up fucking each other.”

  I laughed. “Guess this is the lesser of two evils, then.”

  “Absolutely,” she said. “Considering the alternative would leave me unemployed.”

  “Heaven forbid.”

  “Exactly. But hey, when it comes to Anthony, I can’t really blame you. The man’s smoking hot.” She paused. “Literally smoking, in his case.”

  “Glad he meets your approval.”

  “Well, aside from the smoking.”

  “I don’t know,” I said with a shrug. “I usually don’t like it, but when he does it, it’s kind of…” Sexy. Distracting. Hypnotic.

  �
�Man, you’ve really got it bad, don’t you?”

  “No, I don’t.”

  “Liar. Everything he does makes you swoon. You’d probably get turned on watching him do dishes.” She paused, her eyes losing focus. “Though I admit, a man doing dishes is pretty sexy.”

  I laughed and rolled my eyes. “Let me guess, you also like them shirtless and doing yard work?”

  “Absolutely.”

  “Shallow much?”

  “I didn’t say those were the only things I liked a guy doing. Jesus, Jesse. But I have my purely shallow fantasies just like the next person.”

  “Apparently.” I chuckled.

  “I just can’t believe you like it when he smokes.” She wrinkled her nose. “That is so gross.”

  I shrugged. “I don’t know why. He just makes it look good.”

  “Now I’m the shallow one?”

  “Did I say that’s the only thing I like him doing?”

  “No, and I don’t want you to elaborate.” She put up both her hands. “Please, for the love of all that’s holy.”

  “I wasn’t going to go into detail,” I said. “But I’ll have you know, it’s not just the shallow stuff. He’s a pretty good guy too.”

  “D’aww,” she said with a grin. “Someone’s not just in it for the hot booty.”

  I raised an eyebrow. “Hot booty? Really?”

  “Look, if you’re going to make me picture it, I’m going to give it immature nicknames. Accept this. It’s happening.”

  “Yeah, that’s news.” I tried to laugh, but thinking about Anthony made my stomach twist in simultaneously pleasant and unpleasant ways. I wanted to relive last night as often as we were physically capable, but guilt had set up shop in my head and wasn’t leaving anytime soon.

  “So what’s wrong?” Ranya asked.

  I sighed. “Look, stupid as this sounds, I swear I’m just setting myself up to get hurt. Or hurt him.”

  “How do you figure?”

  “The stress of the campaign. Having to keep things quiet if I get elected. Plus Simone’s still in the picture.”

  “Yeah, she’s still in the picture on paper.”

  “On paper,” I said with a nod. “But I can’t imagine it’s easy for him to watch Simone and me play the happy couple while he’s the skeleton in my closet. Any more than it’s easy for Simone to play the happy wife while I’m with Anthony.”