by L. A. Witt
Without another word, Jesse went inside to be with his wife.
As soon as the door shut behind him, I pulled out another cigarette.
* * * *
Just as I suspected, in the days following Simone’s collapse and her release from the hospital, Jesse lunged into the lead in the polls. For the first time in my career, soaring approval ratings and spectacular poll results left me with a sick feeling in the pit of my stomach. I questioned every percentage point Jesse gained, wondering if it was Simone’s ordeal that had given him that edge. And how much of that ordeal was a result of Jesse and me? Of course the campaign itself had taken its toll, but deep down I was sure Jesse and I had contributed to her condition more than either of us wanted to admit. More than even she would admit.
And just as Jesse said she would, Simone insisted on hitting the ground running after she was released. He’d persuaded the doctors to withhold the green light for at least a few days, but within a week, she was back in the public eye, carrying the torch for her husband. The media scrutinized everything about her, from her paleness to her obvious fatigue, but for the most part, people rallied around her.
As much as I’d been reluctant to agree to put her back on the tour schedule so quickly, Jesse was right: getting back in the saddle was good for her. Though she was still tired and more on the fragile side than I would have liked, every minute she spent visiting with voters and appearing by her husband’s side definitely raised her spirits. I was still careful to look over the schedules and make sure she didn’t overdo it, of course, but I wasn’t quite so inclined to panic if she was double or even triple booked.
And with the election coming up quickly, double and triple booking were the name of the game. I was exhausted; I couldn’t imagine how she felt.
After yet another gala dinner—God, those things got old—everyone retired to the hotel. I went to my room to go over polls and see what the media had to say, and Roger hovered over my shoulder while I checked the various new sites to keep up on the latest word on the street.
Video after video showed reporters speculating on the state of the Lancaster-Cameron marriage, on Simone’s health, and where Jesse stood in terms of public opinion. Overall things were looking good. There was no shortage of commentary on Simone’s eating disorder and the possibility of an underlying drug problem or unannounced pregnancy, but the couple had handled this situation well. His image as a devoted husband—which ate at his conscience and mine—had done nothing but good things to his numbers since her hospitalization.
“Stress over his wife’s ill health and recent hospitalization have clearly taken their toll on Democratic front-runner Jesse Cameron,” a news anchor said. “The doting husband, upon being asked about Simone, was barely able to contain his emotions.”
The screen switched to the clip of Jesse getting choked up during an interview he’d insisted on doing shortly after Simone was hospitalized. I didn’t think he was ready, not when he was emotionally raw and the particular interviewer had all the tact of a sleep-deprived wolverine, but he went ahead with it. And just as that interviewer always did, she needled at his wounds until he finally cracked, providing the perfect tug-at-the-heartstrings clip for newscasters to play over and over and over again:
“My wife has always been good to me,” Jesse said in the clip. “I can’t imagine how anyone could think she would be the reason I’m passionate about anti-spousal abuse legislation. Not even… She’s always—” He paused, dropping his gaze and swallowing hard. Then he looked at the camera, and his voice shook as he said, “Simone has always been better to me than I deserve, better than I ever could have asked for.”
The anchor reappeared. “Polls have shown a dramatic uptick in Cameron’s already solid ratings, giving him a strong lead over GOP candidate John Casey.”
“Ah, I had a feeling that would happen,” Roger said.
“Of course it did,” I muttered. “The people like Jesse better than Casey. Canceling appearances doesn’t always bode well for gaining favor from voters, but under the circumstances…”
“Precisely.” His tone gave me pause.
I looked up and searched his smug, knowing expression. “What exactly are you getting at, Roger?”
He chuckled. “Oh, come on now, Anthony. You remember when Donna was ill, don’t you?”
Something twisted beneath my ribs. “Of…course I do.”
“So I’m sure you remember what happened to the polls shortly after she took a turn for the worse.” He gestured at the screen. “Voters are nothing if not consistent.”
My heart dropped.
“Simone will handle it just fine,” Roger’s voice echoed in my ears. “You worry too much about her, son.”
“I know her,” Jesse had replied. “I don’t want this to stress her out more than it already has.”
“She’s a grown woman.” Roger made a dismissive gesture. “And besides, she’s used to red carpet events, meeting fans, all of that. This won’t be much different.”
I moistened my parched lips. “You knew. You knew from the get-go that this would be too much for her.”
He smiled, gave that JFK head tilt that made me want to choke him. “I knew Simone, yes. Her issues are as predictable as the tides, and for all he claims to be homosexual, my nephew would move heaven and earth to keep her happy.”
“To keep her safe, yes,” I said, my jaw aching as I clenched my teeth. “And ‘claiming’ to be homosexual? What the fuck are you—”
“His personal issues aren’t your concern,” he snapped.
I pinched the bridge of my nose and exhaled sharply. “Then why the hell did you put those problems front and fucking center and make them everyone’s concern? As it is, you may have sabotaged him from the beginning by drawing so goddamned much attention to his marriage, but why? Especially when you knew chances were good Simone would buckle under the stress?”
“She is, and has been from the beginning, just fine.” He inclined his head. “And she’s told me time and again how much she wants to help Jesse’s campaign.”
“Not at the expense of her health,” I snapped.
“The end justifies the means, Anthony,” he said. “You’ve been in this business long enough to know that elections are cutthroat.”
“Not that cutthroat. Not when I’m on board, anyway.”
“I didn’t expect you to like it,” he said with a shrug and a smug sneer. “But now you can see the results”—he gestured at my laptop—“so you—”
“Fuck the results, Roger. I’m not in this to have people get hurt in exchange for percentage points. It was bad enough you drew so goddamned much attention to their marriage, but—”
“Their marriage has given Jesse an edge over his competition,” Roger snarled.
“It’s a sham,” I threw back. “He’s gaining favor based on a lie.”
“And what politician hasn’t?”
I stared at Roger. He wasn’t the first slimy politician I’d dealt with, but this was his own nephew. His nephew and my lover, damn it, not to mention the man whose campaign I’d agreed to run.
“You do realize he could be impeached, right?” I asked through clenched teeth. “After he’s elected, if the public catches wind that he misrepresented himself like that.”
“I do, yes.” Roger folded his arms across his chest. “Which means the public won’t catch wind of it.”
“What do you expect Jesse to do? Just stay in the closet for his entire career?”
“If he wishes to have a career in politics,” Roger said, his tone icy, “yes. I do.” And damn if he didn’t look so fucking pleased with himself.
I threw up my hands. “So he’s gay, Roger. So the fuck what?”
“It’s inappropriate,” Roger growled.
“Inappropriate?” I blinked. “Who are you to decide that?” Before he could answer, I put up a hand. “You know what? I don’t even want to hear it. But you listen to me, you son of a bitch. You want to groom him for a polit
ical career? Fine.” I stabbed a finger in his direction. “But you have no business sabotaging his personal life. You’ve asked him to choose between a political career and being able to—”
“He made his choice when he decided to forego women for men,” he snapped. “But he always wants to work in politics, and if he wants to maintain the image he’s created, which includes being a devoted, committed husband”—Roger grinned—“then he’ll wisely continue to act as such.”
I swallowed. “You did this on purpose. You set it up so Simone would have a breakdown and Jesse would have no choice but to stay closeted for…fuck, for years.”
“He chose this career path,” Roger said coolly. “I advised him to do the right thing for his career.”
“You advised him to do what he had to do to keep your name pristine,” I snarled. “You…you used her emotional problems to further your nephew’s campaign? As something to improve Jesse’s public goddamned image and keep him in the closet? Did you think about how this would affect her? Even once? You had to know what kind of toll this would take on her. Fuck, Roger, what if Simone had done permanent damage? What if she’d had a goddamned heart attack?”
He laughed and gestured dismissively. “She isn’t foolish enough to kill herself over her ‘issues.’” He emphasized the last word with a sneer of contempt and disgust. “Simone has used all that nonsense to manipulate my nephew and those around her. She knows exactly what she’s doing.”
My jaw dropped. I clenched my fists at my sides to keep from reaching out and strangling him, but then realized I was now conveniently poised to throw a long overdue punch into his smug face. I quickly uncurled my fists. Which meant I could strangle him.
I forced out a breath and took a step back. “I…I’m done with this conversation.”
Roger called after me. I couldn’t for the life of me repeat what he’d said even before the slamming door cut him off. All I could do was get out of this room, out of this hotel, and…out. Just out of here. So I could think. Clear my head. Process what he’d told me, what I’d completely missed from day one of this campaign.
The elevator took its sweet time getting to this floor, but the doors finally opened and I stepped inside. I pressed the button for the ground floor, then hit the “close doors” button. It usually annoyed me when people hit a button repeatedly, since it didn’t actually help things happen faster, but this time I couldn’t help stabbing it a few times and cursing when the doors stayed open for long, maddening seconds.
Eventually they closed, and I leaned against the wall. I rubbed my eyes with my thumb and forefinger as the conversation replayed over and over in my head. I needed a smoke. I needed to smoke the whole pack. Maybe two. I didn’t even care if I started chain-smoking; I just needed way too much nicotine.
The elevator dumped me out on the bottom floor, and I hurried out of the hotel and into the parking lot. My mouth was dry as I numbly dug my cigarettes and lighter out of my pockets, and when I tried to light the cigarette, my hands shook. Flicking my lighter, a smooth motion I’d perfected years ago, took three tries, and the third was barely successful. I took a drag, held it, then released it into the cool evening air.
I’d seen and heard it all in politics, but this? From a man I respected, and at the expense of Jesse and especially Simone? With my help?
I cringed, guilt burning hotter in my chest than the smoke in my throat.
Simone was an innocent in all of this. She’d bent over backward to help this campaign, and I wouldn’t have her jeopardizing her health for the benefit of the election again. If Roger got to gloat about Simone’s ill health improving Jesse’s standings in the polls, so be it. He could take that up with God. I would not allow this election to harm her any further than it already had, and I had no doubt Jesse would agree.
And he’d also want to kick Roger off the campaign. Keep the bastard as far from Simone and everyone else as possible. Keep him away from me so I didn’t choke him.
But we couldn’t. Voters may not have given two shits if Roger endorsed his nephew, but if he suddenly didn’t endorse him or was suddenly absent from the campaign trail, they would notice.
I suppose we could cite his health problems. I tapped my cigarette and watched a couple of glowing coals swirl their way to the pavement. Hell, maybe that would gain us another sympathy lead. Imagine how much the polls would jump if the man fucking croaked.
No, we were stuck with Roger. I’d just keep a tight leash on him and advise Jesse to take campaign advice from me and me alone.
Just like he had from the beginning. When I’d agreed with Roger and kept Simone out on the campaign trail. Kept her in the spotlight, in the public eye, until she’d collapsed.
I exhaled sharply.
Anyone sabotaged my candidate’s campaign, there was hell to pay. That was a given. I worked too fucking hard for someone to kill a candidate’s chances before the election. But that wasn’t what had me worked up now. I was torn between going back to the room where I’d left Roger and ripping him a new one or saying to hell with public images and going up to Jesse’s room. The professional fury was tepid irritation compared to the deeper, hotter rage burning in my chest. The fierce need to protect Jesse. Not the need to defend my candidate and keep my work from going down the toilet, the need to protect him. Jesse. My lover.
And with that fury came more deep, caustic guilt. I hadn’t caught on to Roger’s MO, and unwittingly or not, I’d been a part of this. All of it. From the beginning. I was as cutthroat as any campaign manager, but not when people actually got hurt.
I dropped my half-smoked cigarette to the pavement and crushed it under my shoe. I pulled out my phone and scrolled to Jesse’s number. For a long moment, I just stared at his name, my thumb hovering over the Send button. I wasn’t even sure what I needed to say or why I was suddenly so desperate to talk to him, but I was. My mind was such a scattered mess of anger and guilt, I couldn’t think straight. All I could think was that I needed to talk to him. See him. Something.
I hit Send.
And waited.
Chapter Twenty-four
Jesse
My cell phone buzzed on the table beside me, and I almost jumped out of my skin. God, now what? Was there no downtime that couldn’t be interrupted?
Scowling, I picked up my phone, but my heart fluttered when Anthony’s name appeared on the screen.
“Hey,” I said.
“Hey.” He paused. “Listen, um…”
Something twisted in my gut. “Something wrong?”
“Not really.” Another pause. “I mean, no. Nothing’s wrong.” A long, tense pause. “I… Would now be a bad time to, I guess, meet somewhere?”
“Where?”
“Anywhere,” he whispered. “I can…I’ll…” He paused for a few nerve-racking seconds. When was Anthony ever at a loss for words like this? Finally he said, “Another hotel. Somewhere other than here.”
I shivered. Didn’t take a genius to figure out what he wanted if it needed to happen in a different hotel than the one we were already in, but something in his voice unsettled me. “Tell me where,” I said quietly. “I’ll meet you.”
“All right. I’ll text you when I find a place.”
After we hung up, I chewed the inside of my cheek and absently tapped my silent phone on my knee. My gaze drifted toward Simone’s luggage, which was stacked neatly beside mine, and I stared at it like it was an effigy of her. She was out for the evening with some friends in town. Any other night, I’d have called Anthony back and said we ought to hold off. Wait until we were somewhere without Simone so she didn’t have to suspect anything.
But as our brief conversation echoed in my head, along with that odd undercurrent in his voice and that uncharacteristic difficulty figuring out what to say, I couldn’t justify bailing on him. Not now. Not even if it meant all but announcing to Simone that I was leaving to do what I’d promised myself I wouldn’t throw in her face.
It was almost an hour befo
re Anthony texted me with an address and a room number. With guilt and nerves and arousal vying for dominance, I silently begged Simone for forgiveness as I picked up my wallet and room key. I glanced at her luggage once more, that still, silent symbol of the woman who deserved better than this.
Please forgive me, Simone. He needs something. Something’s wrong. I have to go to him.
On my way to the elevator, I paused. I didn’t have a rental car this time, nor did I have my own with me. We were only a couple of hours out of LA, and I’d ridden in this morning with Ranya since her car was less conspicuous and used less gas than mine.
I went to her door, hesitated, and then knocked.
When she answered, I said, “You mind if I borrow your car for a couple of hours?”
Her eyebrows shot up. “You? Drive my car?”
“Oh, come on. All that stuff I said about your car, I was kidding.”
“It’s not that. I’ve just seen the way you drive.” Her eyes narrowed. “But you have said some pretty unflattering things about my car…”
“Please?” I lowered my voice. “You know I wouldn’t ask unless—”
“Jesus, Jesse.” Her eyes widened. “You okay?”
“I’m fine.” I waved a hand. “I’m fine, I just…I really need to get out of here. Discreetly.”
“Okay, okay.” She glanced over her shoulder, then looked at me again. “Why don’t I go get it instead of having you walk out there?” She grinned. “I’ll park it out back by one of the service entrances. Then you can leave all incognito and James Bond-like.”
I snorted. “Yeah, okay.”
She giggled. “Let me get my keys.”
As promised, Ranya brought her car around to one side of the hotel, and I slipped out through an employee entrance.
Pressing the keys into my hand, she gave me what almost passed for a stern look. “Be nice to my car, Cameron, or there will be trouble.”
“So no drag racing, peeling around corners, and—”
