Where There's Smoke

by L. A. Witt

  We would.

  We did.

  Chapter Sixteen

  Jesse

  At a few minutes till five on the morning of the big televised debate with John Casey, I dove into the cool water of yet another hotel’s swimming pool. Sleep had eluded me for the last few hours, so I decided to hell with it. Better to get a jump on my daily swim instead of lying there staring at the ceiling in the darkness. Wasn’t the first extra early swim of my campaign, wouldn’t be the last, and I desperately needed some turquoise-tinted oblivion before I faced the universe today.

  I concentrated on the black stripe running the length of the pool. On my strokes. On the cool water rushing past my skin. Whenever tonight’s debate—or anything relating to the election—tried to work its way into my mind, I focused on the water. The speed. The pleasant ache in my sides and shoulders as tension melted in favor of fatigue.

  I swam until that ache told me it was time to stop before I wound up with a pulled muscle to distract me tonight. Then I took a couple of slow, easy laps to cool down before getting out.

  In the middle of hoisting myself out of the pool, I glanced up, and my uncle’s presence startled me so badly I damn near forgot what I was doing and dropped back into the water. I caught myself, though, and recovered without making too much of an ass of myself.

  He was seated, casually and comfortably, in one of the plastic chairs beside the pool, his golf shirt and slacks belying the fact that it was crazy thirty in the morning.

  “You’re up early,” I said, reaching for my towel.

  He shrugged. “I’m always up early on debate days.”

  Scrubbing the back of my neck with the towel, I eyed him. “Except you’re not the one doing the debate.”

  Another shrug, this time with just one shoulder. “No, but I do have a thing or two at stake tonight, don’t I?”

  I scowled. “No pressure or anything.”

  “Get used to it.” He pushed himself to his feet. “Politics is nothing if not pressure.” He gestured at his hair. “Why do you think I’m snow-white while your father still has a few dark strands?”

  I laughed. “Well, I don’t imagine you make quite such judicious use of the best beauticians Hollywood has to offer.”

  Roger laughed. “No, I certainly don’t.” Gesturing toward the door, he said, “Why don’t we go upstairs and get some coffee?”

  “Sounds good to me.”

  I wrapped my towel around my waist. Then Roger and I walked out of the pool area, and I kept my head down as we passed the small group of bleary-eyed guests who had the misfortune of being up this early. No one said a word, and as the elevator doors closed, severing us from anyone who might recognize and hassle us, I rolled my shoulders and stretched a crick out of my neck.

  Simone was still asleep, so I slipped into the room just long enough to grab some clothes, then went down the hall to Roger’s room. While I changed clothes in the bathroom, Roger made coffee.

  Dressed and halfway presentable, I stepped out of the bathroom and sat in one of the chairs. My uncle pushed a cup of steaming coffee toward me, then took one for himself.

  As he stirred in some creamer, Roger said, “Ready for this evening?”

  “Maybe.” I sipped my coffee. “Tell me, am I the only candidate who gets nervous to the point of physical illness before a debate?”

  Roger laughed aloud and shook his head. “Every candidate handles these things differently. I assure you, the ones who say they aren’t nervous are the ones who are entirely too certain of themselves for all the wrong reasons.”

  “Well,” I said drily, “guess I don’t have to worry about that. Speeches, rallies, whatever, I can handle. These debates…”

  He nodded. “You’re not the only one, son. I promise.”

  “How did you handle them?”

  “I kicked everyone except Anthony out,” he said. “And spent hours poring over material until I was sure I had everything memorized.”

  I cocked my head. “Everyone but Anthony?”

  “Well, of course.” He casually sipped his coffee. “You want to do well in a debate? You listen to your campaign manager. Especially that one.”

  “Oh. Right.” I coughed and picked up my own coffee again. Why else would he be alone with Anthony, idiot?

  “And while I know this will fall on deaf ears,” Roger said, “let me just say that you have nothing to worry about.” He gave a quiet laugh. “Casey ought to be pouring hot sauce on his shoes right now. You just answer all the questions truthfully and thoughtfully, and let him dine on his own feet.”

  I laughed but said nothing.

  Roger went on. “I’m telling you, kid. You have nothing to worry about. And I must say, having watched you handle this campaign, you’re doing the family proud these days, son.”

  “If you don’t count my dad, right?”

  “Oh, I don’t know about that. Your father is proud of you.”

  I raised an eyebrow.

  “Never said he was great at showing these things,” Roger said.

  “Story of all the people in my life, right?” I muttered.

  He chuckled. “Well, I can tell you I’m certainly pleased. And the voters like you. You’ve presented yourself as a fine candidate.”

  “Thanks,” I said quietly.

  “How is the campaign treating you?” The corners of his eyes crinkled as he gave a soft, sympathetic laugh. “I did tell you elections were brutal, didn’t I?”

  I blew out a breath and shook my head. “God, yes. It’s unreal.”

  “Handling it all right, though?” His tone was gentle but didn’t offer much preemptive sympathy in case the answer was anything other than just fine, Uncle Roger.

  “I’m doing okay.” I grimaced and touched my throat gingerly. “Voice is getting a little worn, though.”

  “Oh yes, that’ll happen,” he said with a nod. “Throat lozenges are your friend, my boy. And for that matter, you can’t go wrong with a brandy nightcap.”

  “For my throat? Or just for the hell of it?”

  “Either-or.” He winked. “In this line of work, when you have a chance to have a drink or two, don’t question it.”

  “Good to know.”

  He sat back and folded his hands across his lap. “And how is your wife doing?”

  “She’s…” Dropping my gaze, I pursed my lips. Guilt gnawed at me from the inside out whenever I even thought of Simone, especially when it came to the election. “She’s not handling it well, to be honest.”

  “Isn’t she?” He didn’t sound surprised. Or fazed. He sounded as concerned as if I’d commented on the weather.

  “She’s lost more weight,” I said. “And she’s not saying anything, but I know her. I know her. If—”

  Roger exhaled sharply and put up a hand. “Son, you’re worrying yourself over nothing.”

  “Am I?” I drummed my fingers on the table beside my coffee cup. “She’s stressed herself to the point of hospitalization over lesser things, and that—”

  “Jesse. Son.” Roger put up a hand and shook his head. “Elections are stressful for everyone, and she’s a grown woman who made her choice to be involved in this. She’ll be fine.”

  “Maybe, maybe not,” I said. “But I have to admit, it’s crossed my mind more than once to drop out of the election for her sake.”

  He sat up straight and smacked the table with his palm. “Drop out of the election? You can’t do that. Not this late in the game!”

  “And if it means doing what’s best for my wife’s health?” I threw back.

  Roger sighed and shifted. “Listen, you remember when Donna was ill during one of my campaigns, don’t you?”

  I nodded. His second wife had been undergoing cancer treatments while he ran for office a few terms ago.

  “She was terribly ill, remember?” he said. “Especially during the latter half of the campaign, but she made it through. And when I suggested dropping out of the election or keeping her out of the spot
light, she nearly brained me. She didn’t want to be coddled just because she was sick, and she wasn’t about to let me compromise my career over that. Quite honestly, I think the guilt would have made her sicker than the stress.” He pointed an emphatic finger at me. “Something tells me Simone would have the same attitude.”

  Avoiding his eyes, I chewed the inside of my cheek. He had a point. Simone loathed being coddled, and few things pissed her off more than the implication she was unable to handle something. She was the stubborn type who would say to hell with backing off and laying low, and instead run herself into the ground just for spite in an effort to prove she could handle it. And if there was anything she handled worse than stress, it was guilt.

  “Okay, yeah, she probably would,” I said, keeping my eyes down. “I still don’t want to overwhelm her.”

  “She’ll be fine.” He clapped my shoulder. “As will you. These things are stressful for everyone involved, but if Donna can come through when she’s enduring chemotherapy, the two of you can get through this with flying colors.” He inclined his head just enough to emphasize that if Simone and I didn’t make it through with flying colors—and a beautifully intact charade of a marriage—there would be hell to pay.

  “We’ll be fine,” I said, and I hoped to God I was right.

  Roger and I finished our coffee, and when the clock landed on a reasonable enough hour, I went back to my room to shower and face the day.

  As the sun climbed higher and the world awoke, my room became Ground Zero for a slow-motion explosion of activity. The walls constricted around an ever-growing mob of people with clipboards, demands, and cell phones. Throughout the day, people came and went. Coffee came in, and empty cups piled up. With every minute ticking past, the urgency in the room intensified. The quiet panic, the unspoken certainty something had been forgotten or mishandled.

  In the pit of my stomach, a coil of nerves tightened. Panic mingled with impatience; nervousness that I wasn’t anywhere near ready coupled with restlessness because I just needed to get this over with. I couldn’t sit still. I was light-headed enough to suggest I should eat something but queasy enough I didn’t dare.

  And there were too goddamned many people in this room. Anthony. Roger. Simone. Security. My staff and volunteers. People I knew. People I didn’t. Everyone talking, everyone moving around. I wrung my hands and took a deep breath. All the noise and activity in the room drowned out any ticking clock that might have been audible enough to drive me insane, but the noise itself did a fine job of that anyway. People talking or a clock ticking; neither option offered me a chance to relax, collect my thoughts, think about the debate. Not think about the debate. Anthony had Lydia and Ranya both busy making calls and scheduling me within an inch of my life, which meant my assistant was indisposed and unavailable to distract me with talk of a zombie apocalypse.

  Anthony himself was obviously stressed. Well, no. Not stressed. Intense, I supposed that was the word. His voice and gestures were sharp, but no more so than usual as he simultaneously interacted with about seventeen different people. In spite of all the activity and legions of people demanding his attention at any given second, he was calm. Calm and in control. How he did it, I’d never know. The man could keep a marching band of sugared-up squirrels in line without breaking a sweat.

  Me? Not so much. Any other day, I could handle the activity and the madness. Not as well as Anthony, but well enough. With a debate on the horizon? Against John Casey? Shit. Oh shit. I needed…I needed something other than this place. This setting. All these people.

  Quiet. That was what I needed. Quiet and a few minutes without people asking me questions or just being here in the room with me.

  Everybody, out! I wanted to shout, but I just gritted my teeth and tried not to throw up.

  “You okay?” Simone’s voice sounded distant.

  I opened my eyes and forced a smile. “Yeah, I’m okay.”

  She cocked her head. “You sure? You look—”

  “Mr. Cameron,” someone broke in, thrusting a clipboard in front of me. “A few things for you to go over.”

  I looked at Simone, eyebrows up, as I took the clipboard.

  She smiled. “We’ll catch up after the debate. Good luck.”

  “Thanks.”

  She disappeared into the crowd—Christ, how thick could a mob get in a room this small?—and I shifted my attention to the paperwork in my hand. No sooner had I finished going over that when someone else needed my opinion, signature, endorsement, comment, attention, initials, DNA sample, firstborn, mortal soul…

  “My turn.” Ranya grinned, but her brow knitted with sympathy.

  “Oh, I suppose I can spare you a minute,” I said with mock exasperation.

  She eyed me. “I could always make these decisions on my own and let you deal with the fallout.”

  “And with that, you have my undivided attention. What’s up?”

  “That’s what I thought.” She threw me a good-natured glare, then shuffled some papers in her hands. “I need to call Al Davis at Channel 4 back in the next few minutes about scheduling an interview with Patricia Barton. They want you in their studio at noon on Thursday, but you’ve got another interview with Phil Stanley at four thirty. It’ll be tight getting from one to the other, but are you okay with back-to-back interviews? They both sound like they’ll be pretty intense.”

  I nodded. “Yeah, I can handle it. Run the schedule by Anthony, though. Make sure he doesn’t have something else up his sleeve.”

  “Will do.” She took a step, and the mob swallowed her up like a thick fog.

  I sighed and rubbed my forehead. Interviews. More and more interviews. And of course, tonight would dictate how those interviews went. This debate would be the difference between Let’s discuss your thoughts on immigration reform and Do you really think you’re cut out to govern the state of California, Mr. Cameron?

  Well, did I?

  “Hey.” Anthony’s voice shook me back into the present. “Doing all right?”

  “Yeah. I’m good.”

  He quirked an eyebrow, the subtle change of expression screaming bullshit you are.

  I put up a hand. “I’m fine. Really.”

  “Nervous?”

  I threw him a sidelong glance. “What do you think?”

  “You’ll be fine,” he said, his voice low and calm like the verbal equivalent of a gentle hand on my arm. “You always nail these things.”

  “Yeah, well, all it takes is that one time when I give a stupid answer or make some ridiculous Freudian slip.”

  Anthony laughed. “Somehow I doubt that would actually happen.”

  “Glad you’re so confident,” I muttered. “How are you always so calm and together before these things, anyway?”

  He shrugged. “You’ll notice I’ve never run for office myself.”

  “Stage fright?”

  “Not quite.” He chuckled. “But these things aren’t as nerve-racking for the campaign manager.”

  “Lucky you.”

  His perpetual calm annoyed me on a few levels—why couldn’t it be contagious, goddamn it?—but mostly I was grateful for it. As long as he wasn’t panicking, I was good. If he panicked, I’d fucking lose it.

  Inclining his head a little, he said, “Anything I can do to help?”

  Just stay calm, Anthony. Please, please, stay calm.

  “No, it’s okay.” I glanced around the room. “Just…kind of difficult to focus with…” I gestured at the crowd.

  “Hmm. Yeah. I can understand that.” He faced the gathered staff and supporters. “All right, everyone out. I need to run through some things with our future governor to make sure he wins this debate, and we need a little peace and quiet.”

  I closed my eyes and exhaled, not sure what relieved me more: the fact that everyone would be out of this room in no time, or the fact that Anthony had taken charge. I rested my hands on one of the dressers and closed my eyes, listening to everyone shuffling past me and out of the
room.

  The click of the door silenced the remaining noise of the mini mob, and I pushed out a breath.

  “Thank. God.”

  “Well,” Anthony said, “you don’t have to call me that.”

  I laughed, and damn if that didn’t get the air moving. “That shouldn’t surprise me, coming from you.”

  “Hey, you said it, not me.” Anthony laughed softly, but when our eyes met in the mirror, my nerves came back.

  His humor faded. “You sure you’re okay?”

  I nodded, avoiding his reflected eyes. “Nervous.”

  He stepped up behind me and wrapped his arms around my waist. His lips brushed my neck as he whispered, “Relax. You’ll do fine. You were born for this, Jesse.” He kissed beneath my ear. “Casey doesn’t stand a chance.”

  Closing my eyes, I put my hands over his. I wanted to tell him that was easy for him to say and we’d see what happened and all of that, but his warm breath on my neck brought an entirely different set of words to the tip of my tongue. Debate? Casey? What? As Anthony drew me closer and his hardening cock pressed against me, I didn’t have to ask if his mind had gone down the same road.

  Hotter breath on my skin told me his lips were close, and I tilted my head, exposing as much flesh as possible a second before he touched me. He kissed just above my collar. Then a little higher. I opened my eyes, watching his reflection as he moved from one long, soft kiss to the next, his eyes closed and brow furrowed like his entire existence was concentrated on those moments of warm contact.

  Then he paused, lips still against my neck, and exhaled hard. His shoulders sank. His eyes stayed closed. His arms loosened just slightly around me, and I realized the breath he’d released was one of resignation. When his lips lifted off my skin, the words that followed were no surprise:

  “Damn it, this isn’t… This is such a bad time to do this.

  “We’re not doing anything,” I said, tightening my grasp on his hands just enough to counter his reluctance.

  “Yet.” His eyes met mine in the mirror, but he didn’t pull away. Not completely, anyway. “God, Jesse, I want to…”

  I moistened my lips. “We have time.”