Where There's Smoke

by L. A. Witt

  As soon as she was close enough, I said, “What’s going on? What’s wrong?”

  “It’s Simone,” she said, her voice echoing the panic in her eyes. “She collapsed at an event. They’ve—”

  “Let’s go.” I flew to my feet but paused, glancing at Chris.

  He put his hand on my arm. “We’ll talk more soon. I’ll take care of the tab; you go take care of Simone.”

  Numbly I nodded, and my brother and I exchanged a quick hug. As he took off to settle up the tab, I looked at Ranya. “How is she?”

  “She’s stable,” she said. “Dean said they’re transporting her by ambulance to an emergency room in San Diego.”

  “Where’s Anthony?”

  “He’s on the phone.” She gestured with her chin toward the restaurant, where Anthony spoke quickly into his cell. “Making travel arrangements.”

  “And she’s all right?” My heart pounded and my mouth went dry. “I mean, they’re not concerned that she’s…that…”

  Ranya smoothed the air with both hands. “It doesn’t sound life threatening. From what Dean said, she passed out and they just want to take her in to make sure everything’s all right, but it doesn’t sound like a heart attack or anything serious.”

  I took a deep breath and let it out slowly. That was encouraging, but not as much as I desperately needed. If Simone had passed out, I’d have bet money it was a direct result of her eating disorder, which meant she hadn’t been eating much, if anything. Or at least not keeping much of it down. What effect might that have had on her kidneys? Her liver? Her heart? Passing out could have been the worst of it, or it could have been the tip of the iceberg.

  Movement out of the corner of my eye turned my head just as Anthony strode into the bar.

  “We’re better off driving,” he said. “San Diego’s only a couple of hours away, so by the time we get to the airport and through security, we could be halfway there.”

  I tried and failed to moisten my lips. “Okay, let’s go.”

  “I’ll drive,” Ranya said. “My car’s got a full tank of gas and has more room than either of yours.”

  I didn’t make any of my usual comments about her piece-of-shit car this time. I just followed her and Anthony out to the parking lot, got in her car, and hoped to God we didn’t run into any traffic.

  Chapter Twenty-three

  Anthony

  Considering Simone collapsed at a public event, it was no surprise that word spread like a wildfire. By the time we arrived at the hospital at a quarter to midnight, news vans swarmed and cameramen lurked outside the hospital entrance like circling vultures.

  “Want to find a side entrance?” I asked as we approached the mob.

  “This is fine,” Jesse said flatly. “They’ll move.”

  They did move…closer to the car. Once someone caught a glimpse of Jesse, we were surrounded. They backed off enough to keep me from running over anyone’s feet, but a side mirror clipped a microphone, which didn’t seem to faze the reporter in the slightest. I didn’t guess Jesse was in the mood for jokes about the zombie apocalypse, but I swore these idiots reminded me of a pack of zombies pawing and groaning around a bunch of survivors. One glance at Jesse’s expressionless, ashen face, and I kept that comment to myself.

  I slowed to a stop in front of the emergency room entrance. Now that the car wasn’t moving, they were even more aggressive. I was surprised no one jumped up on the hood or something, the fuckers, and I wondered if we should have stayed in Malibu for the twenty or thirty minutes it would have taken for Jesse’s private security to join us.

  No matter. We were here now.

  Of course, the reporters backed off to allow us to open the car doors. After all, they couldn’t talk to Jesse through glass and steel. I got out first, handed the keys off to Ranya so she could park the car, and went around to Jesse’s side.

  “Back off,” I barked at the gathered reporters. “Give the man some goddamned room.”

  They took a collective half step—and that was being generous—back, and I opened Jesse’s door. As soon as he stepped out, the noise and activity around us intensified like a nest of pissed-off hornets. Cameras flashed and microphones waved and voices bombarded us, dozens of people shouting over each other to ask Jesse a million questions, but he ignored them. He ducked his head, and I put an arm around his shoulders—making it obvious I was shielding him, not being affectionate—as we hurried into the hospital.

  As soon as we walked through the door, people noticed. Jesse’s face wasn’t hard to pick out of a crowd, and patients and staff alike whispered behind their hands. The triage nurse’s eyes widened, but bless her heart, she stayed professional and, after checking the computer, quickly directed Jesse to the next floor.

  The triage nurse must have called upstairs, because when we stepped off the elevator, the doctor assigned to Simone was waiting for us.

  “How is she?” Jesse asked, and I swore I could hear his heart pounding.

  The doctor glanced at Simone’s chart. “She’s stable, but I’d like to keep her overnight for observation.”

  The color drained from Jesse’s face. “How bad…I mean, what’s…” He closed his eyes and took a breath. “How bad is it?”

  “She’s not in any apparent immediate danger,” the doctor said. “But she’s severely dehydrated and her blood pressure is quite low. Keeping her overnight is just a precaution.”

  Jesse exhaled. “Can I see her?”

  “Of course.”

  “She’s asleep.” Dean’s voice broke in, turning all our heads. “She tried to stay awake until you got here, but…”

  Jesse swallowed. “I won’t wake her then. She needs to rest. How was she feeling when she was awake?”

  “Better.” Dean paused. “She…the fact that you were on your way helped.”

  “Did it?” Jesse whispered.

  Simone’s bodyguard nodded. “Seemed to make her feel better.”

  Jesse exhaled. “Thanks. Listen, it’s late. You don’t have to stay. If you want to take the rest of the night—”

  “I’d, um, I’d prefer to stay.”

  “Are you sure?” Jesse gestured at the door. “The hospital has their own security to—”

  The two men locked eyes. Neither spoke; neither moved.

  Then Jesse nodded. “All right. I’ll make sure the night staff knows you’ll be staying.”

  “Thank you,” Dean said quietly.

  The doctor left to make his rounds, and Jesse asked the charge nurse to let us know when Simone was awake. In the meantime, we moved to the deserted waiting area at the end of the hall.

  Jesse sank into a chair. He rested his elbows on his knees and let his face fall into his hands, and I thought he whispered a string of profanity into the mostly quiet room.

  I held on to the armrest just to keep myself from putting a gentle hand between his shoulder blades. “You all right?” I asked. Christ, that sounded so useless and stupid.

  “I don’t know,” he said. “Fuck, I just don’t know. God, she’s run herself into the ground for a campaign for a man who’s going to leave her, and I didn’t even have the decency to be in the same city with her when she finally buckled.”

  Dean shifted in his chair. His lips tightened into a thin, straight line, and he focused on the tank of tropical fish rather than looking at me or Jesse.

  Footsteps and a familiar jingle came down the hall, and I looked up as Ranya stepped into the waiting area. She jumped when she saw Jesse, and looked at me.

  “Is she—”

  “She’s sleeping,” I said. “We’re just staying out here until she’s awake.”

  “Oh.” Her shoulders dropped. “Good, good. And she’s doing all right?”

  I nodded. “They’re just keeping her overnight for observation.”

  “That’s good.” Ranya took the chair on Jesse’s other side and put a hand on his shoulder. “Hey, you okay?”

  Jesse nodded but didn’t speak.


  “Come here.” She hugged him, and he sank against her. At least someone could offer him some physical comfort. Fuck, I had never felt so damned useless in all my life.

  But what could I do?

  Around five in the morning, after the four of us had each been through every magazine on every table, watched the fish swim hypnotic ovals around the tank, and channel-surfed a few hundred times just in case something interesting was on, a nurse appeared in the doorway.

  “Mr. Cameron?”

  Jesse had been nodding off but snapped to attention. “Yes?”

  “Your wife is awake,” she said. “She’d like to see you.”

  “Thank you.” Jesse stood. He and Dean exchanged another look, and when Jesse gave a slight nod, Dean rose too.

  As the two of them followed the nurse to Simone’s room, I leaned back in my chair and exhaled. It hurt like hell not being able to be openly supportive in any capacity beyond Jesse’s campaign manager. I also didn’t want to rub anything in Simone’s face. Even if she’d given us her blessing, she didn’t need this right now, so I stayed out of her room and out of her sight. I probably shouldn’t have even stayed here; the campaign was still ongoing even if Jesse was here, and there were calls to make, polls to pore over, and staffers to be assigned to hundreds of tasks. Most of that could be done by phone or e-mail, though, and I couldn’t bring myself to leave. Maybe I couldn’t be openly supportive like I wanted to be, maybe I felt more useless than I ever had in my life, but I needed to be here.

  Out of sheer boredom and frustration, I picked up the remote and clicked through the channels again. Big shock: Jesse and Simone were all over the news.

  “Simone Lancaster is said to be in satisfactory condition after her health scare at the Coastal Environmental Activists’ dinner last night and is expected to be released within the next twelve hours,” an anchor said, and the screen shifted to footage of a worried Jesse striding into the hospital. “Upon learning of his wife’s collapse last night, Jesse Cameron rushed from his home in Malibu to San Diego to be at his wife’s side and, for the time being, has canceled his appearances for the next seventy-two hours, including postponing the greatly anticipated interview with Patricia Barton.”

  The anchor appeared on the screen again. “While those close to the couple have had little comment, dozens of questions have arisen. Is Simone’s collapse merely the result of exhaustion? Or is there more? Some say her recent extreme weight loss and notorious eating disorder are to blame. Others suspect a not-yet-announced pregnancy, even an undisclosed drug addiction. Still more speculate that the A-list actress, dissatisfied with playing a supporting role for her campaigning husband, may be seeking attention by—”

  I clicked off the television.

  “Ugh, thank you,” Ranya muttered. “I don’t know how he lives with those people”—she gestured at the TV—“commenting on every move he makes.”

  I shook my head. “No idea. I think I’d have committed a felony by now.”

  She laughed. “Yeah, really.”

  I drummed my fingers on the armrest. Glanced at the fish. At the magazines I’d already read. At the darkened television that promised either more mindless bullshit or speculation about Jesse and Simone. Fish. Magazines. Television. Couldn’t. Sit. Still.

  “I need a smoke,” I said and damn near jumped out of my chair.

  “Have one for me, will you?” Ranya called after me.

  In spite of myself, I laughed and turned around just long enough to give her a thumbs-up. She smiled, then buried her attention in a magazine.

  There was a terrace at the opposite end of the hall, and judging by the ashtrays and lack of NO SMOKING signs, tobacco wasn’t forbidden out here. Not that I gave a shit. I usually paid attention to antismoking laws, but today? Today anyone who told me not to smoke could go fuck themselves.

  I fished the pack out of my pocket before I even reached the door, and by the time I’d stepped outside, I already had my lighter out, ready to bring the cigarette in my mouth to life.

  I paced back and forth on the terrace, smoking and thinking, smoking and thinking. I made myself focus on the campaign. Calls I needed to make. Schedules that needed adjusting. Staffers who could be assigned to this or that task. Events coming up. Percentage points. Polls. Jesse. Jesse. Jesse.

  Holding my cigarette between two fingers, I rubbed my forehead with the heel of my hand and blew out a stream of gray smoke. The nicotine was helping. Slowly. Barely. Not a hell of a lot. But at least I was doing something. Not that pacing and smoking were productive, but it beat the hell out of sitting and not smoking.

  I crushed the exhausted cigarette butt in the ashtray and then pulled another from the pack, not even realizing what I was doing until the fresh one was in my hand. I paused, staring at the cigarette between my fingers. Did I give in and smoke it now? Or did I wait? Two in a row? There’d been an awful lot of that lately. As the distance shrank between now and November, there would be more moments like this, even in a normal campaign. And this wasn’t a normal campaign, was it?

  Why did I even bother resisting? This election was going to drive me to chain-smoking. That was all there was to it. With as much as I had on my mind today and as little sleep as I’d had, I didn’t care, and I lit that cigarette the fuck up.

  The door opened behind me. I glanced back in case it was Ranya, but to my surprise, it was Jesse. He had dark circles under his eyes, and his shoulders sagged. The campaign had worn him down just like it wore us all down, but today he was the very picture of stressed and exhausted.

  “Hey,” I said.

  “Hey.” He managed a weak smile. “Just needed some air.”

  I held up my cigarette. “Same here.”

  “Guess even that’s better than the air in there.” He gestured over his shoulder at the hospital.

  “No shit.” I tapped the ashes in the ashtray. “How’s she doing?”

  Jesse leaned on the railing, looking out at the garden below us instead of at me. “She’ll be fine. Just tired, dehydrated.” He pursed his lips. “They want to keep her for a few more hours. Maybe even one more night.”

  “Why?”

  He shrugged. “Observation. Make sure she’s recovering. Blood pressure. Money. Fuck if I know.”

  I said nothing and took another drag off my cigarette. The fatigue must have been wearing on him if he couldn’t or wouldn’t quote the doctors verbatim; I was dead on my feet, so I could only imagine how exhausted he was.

  “What about you?” I asked.

  He looked at me. “Hmm?”

  “Are you doing okay?”

  He sighed and faced the garden again. “Yeah. I just…” Closing his eyes, he forced out a breath. “Fuck, I am so…”

  “Jesse,” I said, keeping my voice low. “This isn’t your fault.”

  “Isn’t it?” His tone held a mixture of pain and anger, and when he looked at me again, his eyes were wet.

  “No, it isn’t,” I said, wishing we were someplace private so I could offer even the most basic platonic physical comfort.

  “Yeah, well…” He trailed off, looking out at the scenery with unfocused eyes for a long moment. Then he cleared his throat. “Whatever the cause, she refuses to reduce her involvement in the campaign. I’ve tried to talk her out of it, but she won’t hear of it.”

  “If it’s for her health, though…”

  He laughed drily. “You try convincing her.” The weak humor in his expression dimmed. “She knows what caused this. She said when she came to, she knew exactly what had happened.”

  “Eating disorder?”

  Jesse winced and nodded. “The thing is, it’s spiraled out of control. Worse than it has in a long time. She is absolutely emphatic that we don’t give the media the opportunity to call her weak or accuse her of doing this to get out of being involved in the campaign, or for attention.”

  I cringed and didn’t tell him they were already on top of that particular theory.

  He rubbed his eye
s. “She wants to get back out on the road with us as soon as the doctors give her the green light.”

  “Okay, but wanting to bounce back like that is easier said than done.”

  “You don’t know Simone,” he said. “Honestly, as much as it scares the hell out of me to have her doing anything in the near future, getting her back in the saddle is probably the best thing for her.”

  I blinked. “Are you insane?”

  “I know her,” he said quietly. “She needs to feel like she’s not being handled with kid gloves, or else that downward spiral is just going to continue.”

  “Okay, but there is a time and a place for kid gloves.”

  “Yeah, and that time and place is not when Simone is in this state of mind.”

  I released a sharp breath. “Jesse, this isn’t—”

  “I know my wife, damn it,” he snapped.

  Our eyes met. He didn’t speak. I couldn’t.

  I turned and crushed my cigarette in the ashtray with more force than was necessary.

  Jesse tapped his fingers on the railing. “God. I’m sorry, Anthony. I didn’t—”

  “Don’t worry about it.” I faced him. Before he could apologize again, I took a step toward him, barely resisting the urge to reach for his arm. “You’re stressed. More than you probably thought you would be on this campaign.”

  He looked me in the eye. “I am, but I didn’t mean to imply—”

  “You didn’t. It’s okay.” I glanced around. Certain we were alone, I put a hand on his shoulder, and that shoulder sagged beneath my touch.

  Jesse closed his eyes and exhaled.

  When he looked at me again, I nodded toward the building behind him. “Go be with Simone. She needs you.”

  “Thanks,” he said, barely whispering. “And I’m sorry for what I said.”

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

  We held each other’s gazes for a moment. What I wouldn’t have given to be able to pull him into a gentle, reassuring kiss right then, but I couldn’t and it tore me up like he couldn’t possibly know.