by L. A. Witt
Just like I’d quit smoking before Election Day.
I dropped my exhausted cigarette and crushed it on the pavement, the subtle twisting motion igniting a vague twinge in my hip. I debated pulling out one more smoke just for good measure, but as other staffers meandered toward the door, I decided against staying out here longer than I absolutely had to. No sense risking any snafus with security or any other delays on my way back in.
The debate would be starting soon, so I went across the street to the venue and joined Ranya backstage. The room was quiet and mostly deserted, fortunately. I always preferred to watch things like this on the monitors rather than being out in the audience. Better sound, less crowded, fewer cameras that might accidentally point my direction at an inopportune moment.
Such as, say, when the mediator introduced Jesse.
Jesse stepped onto the stage, and the tinny applause almost drowned out my heartbeat as I watched him approach his podium. He was perfectly together, not a crease in his clothes or a hair out of place, but in my mind, he was still disheveled and breathless. Everyone in California saw the professional and confident Democratic candidate, not the man who’d almost cried while he begged for release less than an hour ago. He stood in front of them, ready to give them every reason to let him lead them, and not a soul knew that while they’d parked their cars outside and found their way into this auditorium, Jesse was on his knees and at my mercy.
Ranya nudged me gently. “Breathe, Hunter.”
I released a long breath I didn’t realize I’d been holding, and it was only when she gave a soft laugh that I realized she’d probably expected a smart-ass retort. I glanced at her, and she smiled but didn’t say anything, so we both turned our attention back to the screen.
The debate kicked off, and after some back-and-forth between the two candidates, the mediator folded his hands on the podium and turned to Jesse. “Mr. Cameron, your platform rests heavily on new legislation that would offer more protection and legal recourse for victims of domestic abuse.”
Jesse nodded once. “Yes, that’s correct. The safeguards in place right now for abused family members are appalling.” At the mediator’s request, Jesse outlined in detail his plans to give law enforcement more clout to enforce restraining orders, give victims more safe havens, and give offenders longer sentences. The crowd—even some of Casey’s supporters, judging by the sound—approved.
As the people quieted, the mediator turned toward John. “Mr. Casey, your take on this?”
Casey shifted his weight. “Well, I certainly believe our people should be protected. What good is a government if it allows harm to come to the very people it’s elected to serve?” Applause rose, as did the corners of his mouth. When the crowd had quieted, he went on. “And I’m not discounting the need for protection and legal recourse. That said, we can’t ignore the fact that California is facing some of its worst economic, social, and environmental issues in decades. Decades, folks. This state’s problems must be prioritized, and I hasten to add they also need an experienced touch.” The faintest suggestion of Casey’s trademark sneer worked its way into his expression. “This isn’t amateur hour.”
The comment didn’t visibly faze Jesse at all. Controlled as I was, I’d have had to fight the urge to smack the son of a bitch across the face, but Jesse made it look easy to stand there and calmly wait for his turn for a rebuttal.
When that turn came, Jesse rested his hand on the right side of the podium as he so often did, cocking his hips just enough to add a relaxed-but-confident air to his posture. “I agree with Casey. California’s in worse shape than it’s been in my lifetime.” Perfectly timed, perfectly calculated pause. “Which tells me it’s time for some new faces to come in and try to fix that which has been neither prevented nor resolved by the experienced professionals.”
I grinned as the applause rose. Jesse kept the backhanded comments to a minimum as a rule, but damn if he didn’t know just when and how to deliver them. And if Casey’s scowl was any indication, the barb had found its mark.
The mediator gestured at Casey as the crowd quieted. “Mr. Casey?”
Casey cleared his throat. “Well, I can see Mr. Cameron’s point that those in office now haven’t done a satisfactory job, but if your mechanic screws up your car, you don’t take it to your dry cleaner and hope for better results.”
“I don’t know,” Jesse said with a vaguely smug head tilt and the ghost of a grin. “Some of the best mechanics I know work out of their own garages in between other day jobs.”
“Be that as it may, the state is in shambles,” Casey said. “I suggest we focus time and resources on resolving current problems rather than introducing new costly, time-consuming legislation. Let’s fix the brakes before we address the windshield wipers.”
If I were Casey’s campaign manager, I’d have been ripping out my hair right then. Open mouth, insert foot, idiot. Even if it did give my candidate an edge, the comment still made me cringe.
Jesse’s eyes narrowed as he turned his head toward his opponent, but fortunately when he spoke, he kept his tone level. “I wouldn’t call domestic violence a defective windshield wiper. While there are certainly problems that must be addressed as soon as possible, and they will be, I can’t imagine looking a battered spouse or a beaten child in the eye and telling them they have to wait for long-overdue safety measures to—”
Roaring applause drowned him out.
When the crowd quieted once again, Casey said, “I’m certainly not in favor of keeping abuse victims in dangerous situations. Good heavens, no. But the fact remains, the state government’s plate is extremely full. We need to resolve these pressing issues before we can add any more straws to this camel’s back.”
“Then perhaps the state needs to get its priorities straight,” Jesse shot back. “Because if we can’t make it a priority to keep the people of California safe in their own homes, then something is very, very wrong in Sacramento.”
Casey shifted his weight, and I couldn’t help chuckling to myself. Nothing like seeing the new kid on the block get under the experienced professional’s skin. Especially when that new kid on the block was my candidate. And my partner.
The debate went on, with Jesse and Casey sparring over every issue currently facing California. I could see why Casey had so much support in spite of being a corporate bitch and general idiot. The man had charisma. He was charming. Admittedly he was good-looking, but—and I may have been biased—he looked like a shriveled toad compared to his opponent. Still, charisma carried him where shitty policies should have weakened him. An eloquent answer and well-timed smile brought applause even when it had been mere minutes since his last foot-in-mouth moment. Either he really charmed the shit out of people, or the voters had the memory of a goldfish. I liked to give the public a little more credit than that, so I assumed it was that charisma.
Which was exactly why he’d met his match. Jesse had charisma in spades and lacked the used-car-salesman vibe. For all his ivory-tower-and-silver-spoon upbringing, Jesse was firmly grounded and genuinely gave a shit about the people, not just the corporations.
Still, no one was handing Jesse this election. Besides inexperience—something he’d brilliantly turned into a positive point—Jesse had one glaring disadvantage where Casey was concerned. Illegal immigration was a touchy issue, and with employment becoming a luxury for anyone, Californians were anything but keen on throwing down the welcome mat. When it came to this issue, Jesse was at best indecisive, at worst too lax.
Naturally Casey capitalized on that.
“Illegal immigrants can find another way into the United States, because they won’t be crossing in through California.”
The crowd applauded. A few people whistled, and fists pumped in the air.
Jesse swallowed. So did I. Neither of us expected him to mop the floor with Casey on every issue—truth be told, I’d been just as afraid as Jesse that Casey would somehow best him—but any one weakness could be turned into th
e biggest issue of the election. Candidates had watched entire campaigns crumble beneath the weight of a badly executed answer or comment.
In the grand scheme of the debate and election, though, Jesse came out looking like the superior candidate. In my eyes, anyway. The public could go either way, especially if the media spun some of the sound bites around to make Casey look good or Jesse look bad. Raw and unedited, Jesse’s performance ran circles around Casey’s. I made a mental note to remind my staff to get an unedited video and transcript of the debate and make sure those went online ASAP.
Afterward, while Jesse shook hands with important and self-important supporters, I exhaled and shook the nervous tension out of my shoulders. I should have known Jesse had this, but debates always made both of us nervous. They were just way too easy to fuck up.
Someone clapped my shoulder, and I damn near jumped out of my skin.
“Hunter, I knew you could do it,” Roger said, oblivious to how much he’d startled me. “The polls are looking good, and I suspect they’ll look even better after this.”
I gave a tight smile. “Well, we’ll see. Just depends on how much creative editing the network does.”
He chuckled and shook his head. “Ever the pessimist, aren’t you?”
“I’d scare people if I suddenly turned optimistic,” I said with a dry laugh.
“You certainly would.”
And maybe I would have. People didn’t expect such things out of me, after all. But as I looked up at the screen and caught another glimpse of Jesse, I couldn’t pretend I didn’t feel that optimistic tug in my chest.
But I wasn’t sure if it had anything to do with the election.
Chapter Eighteen
Jesse
No one, not even Anthony, could have understood just how much of a relief it was to wake up the morning after the debate. I’d been so wound up over that stupid debate, there was no better feeling than waking up and realizing it was fucking over. Of course it wouldn’t be the last, nor would it be the most nerve-racking part of this campaign, but it was one obstacle that I didn’t have to worry about anymore.
Lying in bed, staring up at the hotel ceiling with my fingers laced together behind my head, I indulged in one luxury I’d missed since this whole thing started: laziness. Simone was already up and gone, probably making use of the hotel’s gym facility, and I had nowhere to be for at least a couple of hours. No one demanding anything of me until I had to make myself presentable for…whatever the hell we were doing today. An interview, I guessed. Those always seemed to be on the agenda after any televised appearance.
Whatever. For now I wasn’t doing a damned thing. I didn’t even bother getting up for my morning swim. I fell asleep. Woke up. Fell asleep again. Glanced at the clock and didn’t even care.
Eventually, though, about the time the need for coffee had descended on me in the form of aching temples, my morning of sloth had to come to an end. I threw off the covers and sat up. For a moment, I just rubbed my head, mentally plotting the fastest and easiest route to the nearest caffeine supply. Cup of black coffee here in the room to tide me over, then downstairs, outside, across the street, and the worship of the espresso gods could begin.
A knock at the door drew a groan out of me. Great. I’d lazed around so long people were coming to look for me before I could go get caffeinated.
And with that, a new day begins.
“Hang on,” I called out and fumbled around in my suitcase for a shirt and a pair of jeans. No sense throwing open the door in nothing but a pair of faded boxers. The media would love that.
Once I was relatively decent, I went to the door. As I glanced through the peephole, I smiled to myself. Some company was definitely more welcome than others.
I opened the door and gestured for Ranya—and the two huge cups of coffee in her hands—to come in.
“Morning, sunshine,” she said, almost chirping.
“Morning.” I reached for one of the coffee cups, but she held it out of my reach.
“Magic words, darling?”
“Please?”
“Nope. The other ones.”
I rolled my eyes, trying not to laugh. “You’re the greatest personal assistant on the planet, I’d be lost without you, and I’ll give you a raise this year because I’m not a stingy bastard.”
“That’s more like it.” She handed me the cup. “Venti triple shot, just the way you like it.”
“You’re a saint,” I said, taking the coffee in both hands. It was too hot to drink yet, but just having it here, in my hands and at the ready, was enough to preemptively soothe some of the throbbing in my head.
Ranya dropped into one of the chairs beside the table. “So, you ordering room service for us?”
“Us?” I raised an eyebrow. “You have a room. Go order your own.”
“What?” she scoffed. “I thought that was one of the perks of being a celebrity’s PA.”
“Nope.” I carefully took a sip of my coffee. It wasn’t quite hot enough to burn my tongue, but close. Just the way I liked it.
“Humph.” She scowled at me. “Well, fine. Just let me know when you’ve had enough of that”—she pointed at my coffee—“to go over the reams of schedules and crap for today and tomorrow.”
I just groaned and took another sip.
Someone else knocked.
“That had better be room service,” I muttered and set my coffee on the table.
“Or Anthony.” Ranya smirked. “Same thing, really.”
“Brat.” I shoved her shoulder as I walked by, and she swatted at my leg.
I turned the deadbolt and pulled open the door, and my humor instantly faded. I knew the second our eyes met that Anthony had something on his mind. Something that fell into the category of DEFCON Not Good. His stoic, almost stern expression, coupled with the palpable tension in his shoulders, didn’t bode well for any continuation of my easygoing, relaxing morning.
“Something wrong?” I asked as I shut the door.
“This is an election,” he said flatly. “There’s always something going wrong.”
Our eyes met, and he silently added, Some things worse than others.
I reached for my coffee. This morning was definitely going to require more caffeine than usual.
Ranya glanced at me, then Anthony, then me again. “You know, I think I’m going to go grab a shower.” She got up. “Do you need more coffee when I come back?”
I glanced at the coffee cup in my hand. “I think this bucket will last me, but thanks.”
“Good. I’ll catch up with you guys later.” She left the room in an enviable hurry, leaving me to whatever news was etched in the lines of Anthony’s furrowed brow.
I took a longer swallow of coffee and turned to him. “So I’m not sure I want to know, but what’s up?”
“Check this out.” He slid a piece of paper across the table. It was a printout from a news site, and I didn’t even have to look at the text or the photos to know it was about me.
Groaning, I picked it up and read the headline aloud:
“‘Missing Wedding Rings: Trouble in Paradise?’”
“Missing?” I muttered, more to myself than him. “What the…”
“Read it,” Anthony said.
“‘While Jesse Cameron dominated last night’s debates,’” I went on, “‘mowing over John Casey to become the favorite for November’s gubernatorial election, many viewers may have noticed something missing: The devoted husband was missing his ever-present wedding ring.’”
Below the text, an image showed me during the debate, frozen in time with my left hand up in midgesture. In an inset, the image was magnified, zoomed in on my third finger with a red circle to emphasize the absence of my wedding ring.
“Really?” I put the paper down and pinched the bridge of my nose. “Am I the first man in the universe to leave his wedding ring off for an evening?”
“No, but your marriage is under the microscope,” he said. “Take off your ring when e
veryone’s looking, they’ll notice.”
I sighed and glanced at the gold band still sitting on the table beside the bed. “I suppose it wouldn’t help if I told people I took it off to avoid getting lube under it.” Or because it bothered me to let a man fuck me while I wore my wedding ring.
“No, that wouldn’t help. Keep reading.”
“‘Curiouser still, Cameron’s wife, actress Simone Lancaster, has also been seen without her ring recently. Unlike its owner, the distinctive two-carat emerald cut has made few public appearances in the last month.’” Three photos were lined up like crime suspects: one of Simone eating lunch with a friend, one of her greeting voters at an event, and a third of her leaving the house with Dean behind her. Just like the photo of me, each image included an inset with a red circle highlighting her bare ring finger.
I exhaled. “Jesus Christ.”
“It’s all about perception,” Anthony said quietly. “Fuck, I’m sorry, Jesse. If we hadn’t been—”
“No, don’t apologize.” I shook my head. “It was my choice as much as yours, and I could have left my ring on anyway. Or put it back on afterward. Either way, we can’t do anything about it now.” I rolled my shoulders and stretched some stiffness out of my neck. “So how do we do damage control on this?”
“Well, any idea why Simone hasn’t been wearing her ring?”
Lowering my voice, even though there wasn’t a soul around to overhear, I said, “My guess is it’s because she’s losing weight again. It’s…” I swallowed hard. “She probably stopped wearing it because it’s too loose.”
“Then it’s only a matter of time before the press picks up on that part, especially if she keeps the ring off. If she suddenly starts wearing it again, it’ll look like you two are just trying to counter what the press is saying.” His eyes lost focus for a moment. Then he snapped his fingers. “Got it. Hopefully she’ll be on board with this, but have her yank one of the…the…” He rolled his hand in the air. “The prongs or whatever the fuck they’re called. The things that hold the diamond in place. They’re usually not too hard to bend or break. Simone’s been so busy lately, it won’t take much to convince people she just hasn’t had time to take it in and get it fixed. Have her drop it at one of the jewelers downtown, and make sure she’s seen. Instant cover story.”
