Page 128 of Where There's Smoke

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 had to be explained away carefully, becauserough 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.

“How bad is it?” he asked again.

I sighed. “I’d love to tell you they could be blamed on a smudge of something or…” Or what? What else could someone blame a mark like that on? “The media’s all over it already anyway.”

Jesse faced me. When our eyes met, the guilt cut deeper, and I dropped my gaze.

“Christ, I am so sorry, Jesse,” I said.

“It wasn’t your fault. It took two.”

“I know, but I should have…” I made a sharp, frustrated gesture in the air. “I got carried away and didn’t think. God, I am so—”

“Anthony.” He touched my face and leaned in to kiss me gently. “This wasn’t. Your. Fault.”

I rested my forehead against his and closed my eyes. “I still feel terrible.”

“We can’t change it,” he whispered. “But whatdowe do?”

I exhaled. “At this point, I’m not sure. The media’s jumping all over it and calling it spousal abuse, so—”

“What?” He jerked back and stared at me. “Spousal abuse? You’re not serious.”

“I’m afraid so,” I said. “After people overheard you two fighting, and then saw the marks…”

“Oh, God. Simone.”

“Where is she?”

He swallowed and ran a hand through his hair. “She left. After we fought this morning, she was pissed, so she left. She’s…fuck, she’s probably heard by now.” Exhaling sharply, he stepped away and picked up his phone off the table. “I need to talk to her,” he said as he speed-dialed her. “She’s probably…shit, this is going to put her over the edge.”

I said nothing. Panic mingled with the guilt, and I silently prayed she hadn’t been driving or anything when she heard the news.

Jesse put the phone to his ear, and he paced across the floor, his brow furrowed as he muttered, “Come on, come on, pick up…”

I drummed my fingers just to keep myself from pulling out my lighter, because if I did that then I’d want to light a cigarette. The media, we could handle. Somehow, someway, I’d figure out how to do damage control, and this could be brushed off and glossed over just like any sensational story theydug their claws into. But placating the media was part of my expertise. Dealing with Simone? Not so much. She wouldn’t handle this well. Of that I had no doubt. And how could we help her? How could we even take the sting out? She’d probably never forgive either of us for this, and really, could I blame her?

Jesse cursed and tossed his phone on the bed. “She’s not answering. Fuck, I…I need to get home.”

“Go,” I said. “I’ll handle the media and everything here. Just go. Take care of her.”

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