Page 107 of Where There's Smoke

We hit the ground running the next day. A rally, a speech, an interview. Business as usual on the campaign trail, but I swore the weight on my shoulders was lighter today. The secrecy that had been gnawing me from the inside out wasn’t so bad now. Like it was no longer a burden, but a hot, sexy thing that no one needed to know about.

Watching Jesse engage voters, speak on stages and television, and effortlessly give interviews, it wouldn’t have surprised me if everyone could see my feelings for him on my sleeve, but if they did, no one said a word. I couldn’t help it. The man mesmerized me like no one else. Charisma and stage presence like that were sexy anyway, but knowing what I did about him, hewas even hotter. My mouth watered every time I watched him step into the shoes of Jesse Cameron, the future governor of California, because I knew Jesse, the insatiable, intense lover.

And how easily he changed between personas too. For that matter, he adapted effortlessly to anything a situation demanded. Jesse was a master at shifting from a larger-than-life leader with an undeniable stage presence to a personable, down-to-earth guy in rolled-up sleeves and tennis shoes. Sitting on the edge of the stage, one hand resting casually beside him while the other held the microphone, he looked every bit like a young instructor or an older student. Maybe a graduate who’d come back to mentor current students, but certainly not a member of one of Hollywood’s A-list dynasty or an upcoming governor.

A microphone had been set up for students to approach and ask questions. With Jesse sitting on the edge of the stage instead of standing at the podium, he was closer to eye level instead of towering over them, and that effect wasn’t lost on the kids. Some were obviously nervous as they approached him, but not intimidated. A little stage fright, perhaps. Starstruck, maybe, especially judging by the number who asked for photos with him, which he always happily obliged.

One by one, the students stepped up to the microphone, grilling him intently on every issue they could think of. A ponytailed girl in jeans and glasses approached. She took a deep breath, glanced at the note card in her hand, then looked up at Jesse. He offered a reassuring smile, and her posture relaxed.

She cleared her throat. “I graduate next spring, and my biggest fear is being a barista with a bachelor’s degree.” She glanced at the card one more time before holding it behind her back and looking Jesse in the eye. “Can my classmates and I trust you with our state’s economy?”

“Good question.” Jesse gave a slow nod, and the auditorium’s lights didn’t quite hide the blush that spread across the student’s cheeks. Alternately looking at her and the gathered students, he said, “I’d love to promise all of you that you’ll be rolling in jobs when you graduate. There’s nothing more daunting than the prospect of graduating college and not being able to find work. That said, it’s going to take time to get the economy back on its feet. Any overnight fixes you’ve heard about will ultimately end in disaster, and your generation—every generation—deserves better than that. So what I can promise you is that the economy is my absolute top priority, and I’m already working with economic experts and advisors to come up with a plan of action that we can start implementing when I’m in office. With any luck, we’ll see improvement by June, in which case, consider it my graduation gift to all of you.”

Laughter rippled through the crowd, and the students applauded.

The student returned to her seat, and another took her place. Jesse answered them one after another, staying personable and friendly while keeping his answers concise and beautifully devoid of political doublespeak.

Eat your fucking heart out, John Casey.

One student approached the microphone but had a different air about her than the others. She was nervous like they were, but somehow…different. Like there was more on her mind than just economic reform and educational funding. She clutched a small card in her hands, holding it like she was scared of both losing or destroying it.

“I don’t have a question,” she said softly, and the unevenness in her voice wasn’t the same nervous waver a number of the other kids had had. “I just wanted to say…” She closed her eyes and took a long, deep breath. The silence lingered for a moment.

“Go on,” Jesse said, his voice gentle.

She opened her eyes. “I just wanted to say thank you for everything you’re doing for victims of abuse. My—” Her gaze dropped to the card in her hand, and she ran her thumb along its edge, holding it almost reverently. “My mother was…a victim. And if what you’re doing can keep other people from going through what she did—what we all did—then you definitely have my vote.”

“Thank you,” Jesse said quietly. He gestured at the card in her hand. “Is that…”

She looked at it again, jumping like she’d forgotten she had it at all. “My mother. I—” She put a shaking hand to her lips.

The speakers around the auditorium echoed with a hollow tap as Jesse set his microphone on the stage beside him. Then he hoisted himself off the stage. No one in the room breathed or made a sound as Jesse crossed the short expanse of space to the distraught girl, and when he hugged her, I was sure I heard a few people sniffling.

Jesse released her, and as she went to wipe her eyes, he quickly did the same. Then he put a hand on her shoulder and, with his other, turned her microphone away. He asked her something, and she nodded. I guessed he’d asked if she was all right, and didn’t want it broadcast to everyone present, at least not until he was sure she had collected her composure.

From where I stood, I couldn’t hear the words they exchanged, but the student pressed the picture of her mother into Jesse’s hands. He took the photo from her, hugged her again, and she went back to her seat to the thunderous applause of her classmates.

Still holding the photo in one hand, he picked up the microphone, and I swore his voice was a little ragged as he said, “A lot of people have asked me why domestic abuse is such an important issue to me.” He paused, possibly to collect himself, possibly to emphasize the next three words he spoke: “Now you know.”

I swallowed hard. Under normal circumstances, their exchange would have moved anyone, even me. And under normal circumstances, moved or not, Anthony the Campaign Manager would have been mentally calculating the uptick in poll percentages that would inevitably follow once the footage hit the airwaves.

I had no doubt the public would love this. There would be naysayers, of course. Those who claimed it was staged, those who doubted Jesse’s sincerity. With any other candidate, I wouldn’t have cared if it was sincere or staged so long as it meant more votes.

But this time, fuck the votes. Fuck the naysayers. Fuck the election.

Because Jesse had just made me fall that much harder for him.

Chapter 22

Jesse

I’d probably never getthe hang of all this campaigning crap. Political work, I could do. Elections? Still Greek to me.

Which was why, the day after the visit to that community college, I was more than a little blown away when the story of my exchange with the student—Lisa; I’d remember her name until the day I died—hit the media like a match to kindling. I supposed I should have expected it, but it certainly hadn’t been on my mind when I’d offered her some comfort during the Q&A.

Nothing in an election gets past anyone, though.

Some said it was staged. A few commentators and critics insisted we had scripted everything, that we’d paid Lisa to put on that emotional display so I’d have the opportunity to endear myself to the cameras and, subsequently, the voters.

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