Where There's Smoke

by L. A. Witt

  “Fuck me,” I whispered.

  “Mmm, I fully intend to.” His stubbled jaw grazed my collarbone, and his warm breath made me shiver. “If we’re going to stay here longer than we should, we might as well make it count.”

  Oh God…

  He lifted himself off me and reached for the condoms.

  In less than a minute, Anthony had on a condom and lube, and I was on my knees. From the first stroke, as he forced himself inside me—and oh, Christ, he felt amazing—I knew there wouldn’t be any holding back this time. No silence, no discretion, no giving a damn about anything except this. One careful stroke to make sure there was enough lube, and then he fucked me. He fucked me hard, he fucked me fast, he fucked me like he didn’t care if anyone knew he was fucking me, and I didn’t care either.

  My eyes watered and my elbows shook. The bed creaked beneath us. The headboard smacked the wall. And I didn’t care. So we made noise. So someone might have heard us. I didn’t care because I had Anthony, and at least for tonight, there wasn’t a consequence in the world that mattered.

  My cell phone rang again, breaking the not-silence with its intrusive ringtone. Anthony didn’t miss a beat. I might have assumed he didn’t even hear it at all if not for the fact that he fucked me just a little harder, like he needed to tell me, the phone, the universe he wasn’t stopping for anything. The phone went quiet, but we didn’t. It rang again and we didn’t stop and I didn’t care about anyone overhearing us.

  Digging the heels of my hands into the bed, I slammed back against him and met him thrust for thrust. Anthony groaned and dug his fingers into my hips, fucking me right to the edge of what I could handle, and then his hand left my hip and he grabbed the back of my neck. His thumb and fingers bit in painfully, and I arched my neck into his hand, pressing against him because it didn’t hurt enough. He gripped my neck harder, fucked me as hard as I could take it, and a deep, primal growl emerged from his throat.

  “Oh, God,” I moaned and rocked back against him and let go and cried out a string of profanity—don’t say his name, don’t say his name, don’t let anyone hear his name—and lost it.

  Anthony didn’t hold back anymore either. He held my neck and hip painfully tight and thrust into me so hard it hurt, and then he let go of the most spine-tingling roar and came, his rhythm falling apart with every desperate stroke he tried to take as his orgasm took over.

  Moments later, while the world still spun and I still hadn’t caught my breath, Anthony released me and pulled out. For the second time tonight, we dropped onto the bed together, breathless and sweaty. He got rid of the condom, then joined me again, and when we’d both cooled off enough to get close to each other without getting too hot, he pulled me into a long, lazy kiss. My neck and hip throbbed where he’d dug his fingers in, painful reminders of how badly we’d needed each other.

  He drew back after a moment, meeting my eyes. My breath caught. Something else was in his expression now, something just as undefined and arguably more intense than before.

  “Something wrong?” I asked.

  And to my surprise, he smiled. “No. Nothing at all this time.” He slid his hand around the back of my neck, fingers drifting gently over the sore spots they’d left just minutes ago, and pulled me a little closer. “I love you, Jesse.”

  He kissed me, and the words echoed in my mind.

  I love you, Jesse.

  My whole world was made up of politicians and actors, people who said things and meant the opposite, but I believed him. I trusted him. I loved him.

  And when our lips separated, I whispered, “I love you too.”

  He held my gaze for a moment, as if searching my expression for an act or some politician’s dishonesty. Then a faint but playful smile pulled up the corners of his mouth as he ran an unsteady hand down the side of my face.

  “So much for keeping this from getting more complicated,” he said with a soft laugh.

  I chuckled. “Well, you didn’t expect it to get any simpler, did you?”

  He laughed again. “No. No, I definitely didn’t.”

  “We’ll figure things out,” I said. “Somehow.”

  His smile didn’t quite make it to his eyes this time, and as he leaned down to kiss me again, he said, “I hope so.”

  So did I.

  * * * *

  The missed calls on my cell phone were from Simone, but she didn’t leave any messages. By the time I left the seedy backwoods motel, my body aching and throbbing all over, it was way too late for me to call her back. I’d have to catch up with her in the morning.

  I parked Ranya’s car behind the hotel and made a discreet entrance through the side, avoiding the lobby at all costs. Not that I expected it to be crowded right now, but all it took was one bored desk clerk to start whispering about Jesse Cameron sneaking back in at all hours of the night.

  The elevator required walking past the potentially bored desk clerks, so I took the stairs. My back and hips twinged with every step, but I just grinned to myself. I’d be sore as hell tomorrow. Every move I made would remind me, as it did now, of everything Anthony had done tonight. Goose bumps prickled my arms and back as I continued up the stairs. In spite of the conversations we’d had, the revelations about my son-of-a-bitch uncle, all I could think about was the sex. The amazing, painful, perfect sex that we’d both needed like never before.

  “I love you, Jesse.” Anthony’s whispered words echoed in my ears, and my idiotic smile broadened. How long had it been since I’d felt this way about someone? Had I ever felt this way about anyone? Didn’t matter. I felt this way now, that was for damn sure.

  I stopped at one of the landings and realized that, in my mental haze, I’d gone right past my floor and continued up to the next one. Shaking my head, I turned around and went back down.

  Tired, distracted, and aching, I somehow remembered which room was mine and found the card key in my pocket. I swiped the key, and when the LED turned green, pushed open the door.

  The light was on. Simone? Awake at this hour? That was unusual.

  So was her tense posture and pointed glare when I stepped into the room. She sat cross-legged on the bed, hands folded in her lap and her eyes colder than I’d ever seen them.

  “Enjoy yourselves?” The venom in her tone raised the hairs on the back of my neck.

  I cleared my throat. “I…” Fuck, what did I say?

  She folded her arms across her chest and fidgeted, the movements taut like she was merely redistributing the fury that was a breath away from coming out.

  I swallowed hard. “Is there—”

  “I’m not blind, Jesse,” she said. “You think you’re all slick and subtle, but come on. You don’t think I knew where you were tonight?”

  I gritted my teeth. “Look, he asked me to meet him so we could talk about—”

  “Talk?” She threw her head back and laughed. “Oh my fucking God. Really, Jess? Really? You think I’m going to buy that?” She narrowed her eyes. “And I suppose you had a nice heart-to-heart, did you? Naked in bed, I’m sure.”

  I flinched and looked away.

  “That’s what I thought.”

  “What do you want me to say?” I asked, throwing up my hands. “I’m sorry, Simone. For everything, I—”

  “You’re always fucking sorry, Jesse.” She shook her head and made a disgusted noise. “God, why don’t you just bring him in here and fuck him while I watch? You’re already rubbing my nose in it, so why not go all the goddamned way?”

  “Why do you think we went someplace else?” I crossed the room and dropped my wallet and Ranya’s keys on the table. “I don’t want to throw it in your face.”

  “And sneaking off late at night, coming in at four in the morning, that’s your idea of being discreet?” She stood and pointed at the door. “You don’t think there’s a dozen paparazzi out there who saw you come creeping in, and will have all kinds of shit to say about it tomorrow? Do you have any idea how humiliating it is to have everyone askin
g me left and right if you’re cheating, especially when they all have that look in their eyes that says they know you’re fucking someone else and think I’m just some naive idiot wife who can’t tell when her man’s running around?”

  “You encouraged me to get involved with him.”

  “So this is my fault?” Her voice rose. Oh fuck, this was going to turn into a shouting match.

  Keeping my voice low to counter hers, I said, “No, it’s not. But for all I’ve asked you, time and again, if you have a problem with it, you’ve insisted you don’t. You practically threw me at him the night I met him.”

  “What was I supposed to do?” she screeched and took a step toward me, eyes narrow with rage. “I saw the way you were looking at him. Was I supposed to tell you to stay away from him? I don’t have any claim to you anymore, so I—”

  “But if it bothered you,” I snapped before I could stop myself, “then why didn’t you say something?”

  “What difference would it have made? Honestly, Jesse.” Her eyes narrowed. “You were done with me. And now? Now I’m done with you.”

  I drew back.

  “I have nothing to lose,” she snarled. “Not a goddamned thing. Give me a reason why I shouldn’t walk out of this room”—she pointed sharply at the door again—“and blow this all open for the media. Because the way I see it, I’m being called an attention whore and a cheating slut and all manner of other shit, and you know what? I’m gaining nothing through this, and I have nothing to lose.”

  I swallowed. Deep down I knew Simone, and I knew this wasn’t her. She’d have maintained this happy wife charade for me if it put her in the grave, even if I begged her not to. But when she was this upset, when rational thought deserted her and left her in this kind of near-blind fury, anything was possible. And could I begrudge her one little bit if she called a press conference or put up a billboard or just shouted it from the rooftops that my entire campaign centered around a fraudulent front?

  “Simone,” I said quietly. “Tell me what you want me to do.”

  “What do I want you to do?” She waved a hand, knocking a vase off the table. It crashed to the floor, but neither of us looked at it or moved to pick it up. “What the fuck do you think I want, Jesse?”

  “Tell me, then,” I threw back just as loudly. “I’ve asked repeatedly. I’ve tried, for fuck’s sake. But if you don’t tell me, then—”

  “I want you to act like you care about something besides getting elected to—”

  “What? You honestly think all I care about is the election?”

  “Of course that’s all you care about,” she snarled. “If you gave a fuck about me, you’d divorce me and let me move on instead of keeping up this bullshit act. You’re not the only one involved in this, Jesse.”

  “I know, Simone. But you agreed to this. You knew going into this that—”

  “And I didn’t know what I was really getting into, did I?” She put up a hand as if to tell me not to bother responding. “I’m going to pack my things and get the fuck out of here.” She wasn’t shouting anymore, but her anger hadn’t cooled in the slightest. “I need to…just go home for a while.”

  I nodded. “Okay. Whatever you need to do.” I immediately regretted my snide tone and sighed. “Simone, I’m sorry. It’s—”

  “You’re always sorry,” she hissed. She turned away from me and stepped around the vase. As she snatched a suitcase off the floor, I took a deep breath, forcing myself to calm down.

  “Do you need any help?” I asked quietly.

  “No.”

  While she shoved things into her suitcase, I changed into my swimming trunks, grabbed a towel and goggles, and went down to the pool. She needed to be alone. I needed to get my mind off everything. A swim was the nearest escape, so I took it.

  On the way down the hall, I kept my head down, avoiding the stares of people who peeked out of their rooms and whispered to one another. We weren’t the first couple to have a loud, early morning fight in a hotel. Maybe the first who’d told the universe what a solid, happy couple we were and placed ourselves under a microscope before having such a blazing argument, but still.

  Were there always paparazzi in hotel lobbies this early? Lurking behind cameras and making shitty attempts at stealth as they followed me toward the pool? Maybe, maybe not. They were here this morning, though. Maybe four or five of them, all keeping a distance that was no doubt compensated for with their arm-length telephoto lenses.

  Let them watch. Let them take their pictures and speculate about the noise that had come from the room my wife and I shared. Let them read what wasn’t there and what was there.

  I just dove in and tried not to think about how much I’d hurt my wife.

  Chapter Twenty-five

  Anthony

  I made it back to the hotel around five thirty and knew as soon as I stepped into the lobby that something had happened.

  The obligatory paparazzi and reporters were in the lobby and parking lot, most on cell phones or otherwise milling around like they were waiting for something else to happen. The hotel lobby was abuzz with rumors, and Jesse and Simone’s names were on everyone’s lips. Shit. Not good. Not good.

  I hurried out of the lobby and upstairs and ran into Ranya outside the elevator.

  “What’s going on?” I asked.

  Ranya gestured down the hall. “Jesse came in at oh dark thirty, and then he and Simone got in a fight that I think everyone in the building heard.”

  I cringed. Definitely not good. “Where’s Jesse now?”

  “Asleep, I guess.” She shrugged. “He left the room, swam for a while, then went back after Simone left. Haven’t seen either of them since, and he’s not answering his phone or door, so I assume he’s asleep.”

  “Great.” I was way too tired to do anything remotely resembling damage control, but I’d made part of this bed, so I had to lie in it too. I pulled out my cell and muttered, “Guess we should see what word on the street is…”

  “I’ve been afraid to look,” Ranya said. “Don’t even want to know what these idiots have to say.”

  Scrolling through my browser, I said, “I don’t either, but—”

  Oh. Fuck.

  The first headline stopped my breath in my chest, but I got just enough air moving to murmur aloud, “‘Cameron: Abuse Crusader—or Victim?’What the hell…” I clicked to another news site and read, “‘Golden Couple, Iron Fist?’”

  “What’s wrong?” Ranya craned her neck to look at my phone, and we both tensed as I scrolled farther: “‘Simone Lancaster’s Notoriously Violent Temper—Shocking Twist!’”

  “Oh no,” I breathed. Heart in my throat, I continued down to the article. My exhausted eyes could barely make sense of the microscopic text, but it was the photo that almost knocked my knees out from under me.

  Someone had snapped him walking down to the pool with his towel draped loosely around his shoulders, and like the shots of his bare ring finger, they’d zoomed in on his neck.

  Ranya leaned in closer. “Is that…”

  My throat constricted. Furrowing my brow, I stared, my heart pounding. That wasn’t just the light or some oddly placed shadow on the side of Jesse’s neck. No, there was no mistaking it:

  A bruise.

  An obvious, eyebrow-raising bruise.

  Ice water filled my veins, and I damn near dropped my phone. Oh. Fuck. I knew we’d gotten carried away last night—that was, after all, the point—but I’d left a visible goddamned mark.

  “I need to talk to him.” I started down the hall toward Jesse’s room.

  “Do you want me to tell the press anything?” Ranya called after me.

  “No,” I said over my shoulder. “I’ll deal with them after I talk to Jesse. Just…” I stopped in my tracks. Looking back, I said, “Tell them Jesse isn’t available for comment yet. Leave it at that for now.”

  She nodded. “Will do.”

  As she went downstairs, I continued to Jesse’s room. When I knoc
ked, I said, “Jesse, it’s Anthony. Open up.”

  Movement on the other side of the door ratcheted up my heart rate. Did he know already? Had he heard? Had he seen the pictures?

  The deadbolt clicked, and Jesse opened the door. He was dressed, but his eyes were red and his eyelids heavy, his damp hair disheveled, so he must have fallen asleep after his swim or a shower.

  “What’s up?” he asked.

  “You don’t know?”

  His eyes widened. “Know what?” He held my gaze for a moment, then cringed. “Fuck, I should’ve known this day would only get worse.” He stepped aside and gestured for me to come in. “I’m almost afraid to ask, but what’s going on?”

  As soon as the door was closed, I said, “We’ve got a problem. I…left marks.” I glanced around, making doubly sure we were alone in this empty room. In spite of being certain no one was around, I lowered my voice as much as I could. “I bruised your fucking neck.”

  He reached for the side of his neck but kept his gaze locked on mine. “Where?”

  I gestured around the back of my own neck. He reached back, mirroring me, and felt around with his fingers. When they brushed over the bruise, he flinched, and his lips parted. “Shit…”

  “Yeah.”

  “How bad does it look?”

  “I don’t know. Let me see.”

  Jesse took off his shirt and stepped into the light.

  “Turn around,” I said.

  From a distance, the one on his neck could be anything. On closer inspection, though, the thick, curving line definitely resembled the imprint of someone’s thumb. We’d have to get damned creative to convince the media and the voting public that the bruises came from anything other than a tight grip on his neck. Bruises that couldn’t be explained away, because rough sex with his boyfriend would go over about as well as a physical altercation with his wife.

  And as my gaze drifted down his back, guilt burned hotter and hotter in my gut. Some marks were red, some starting to turn black and blue, and all were too distinctive to brush off as a trick of the light or a camera seeing something that wasn’t there. Especially the one on his hip. Just above his waistband, right where I’d gripped tighter and tighter while I’d fucked him just hours ago, the mark was undeniably a bruise.