Page 51 of Where There's Smoke

Headlights came through the rear window, and we both looked back.

“Shit,” Jesse muttered. We jerked apart and returned to our respective seats, and he quickly started the engine.

Watching the headlights approaching in the rearview, I fixed my clothes, and I wasn’t the only one to release a relieved breath as a weathered old station wagon lumbered past us. It disappeared down the winding road, and as the red glow of its taillights faded, Jesse put the car in drive. “I suppose we should get out of here anyway.”

“Probably.”

He made a U-turn, spinning the tires on the loose gravel. Then he burned rubber and peeled out onto the road, and once he was back on the highway, the glowing red needle made a rapid arc around the first half of the speedometer as he made up for lost time. I wondered if he had the same irrational fear I did, that upon our arrival, Roger and the other staffers would scowl at their watches and wonder—know!—why we were ten minutes later than we should have been. Ten minutes that could be explained with stopping for gas, food, stretching legs, buying shit souvenirs from some roadside tourist rip-off shop. They would never suspect a thing, but I couldn’t deny being a little relieved that Jesse drove faster now. Anything to cover up that guilty ten-minute stop.

Still I said, “You know a speeding ticket won’t look good.” Fuck, how was I still out of breath?

“I’ll take my chances.” He looked at me, and the dashboard lights threw a faint turquoise glow across his features. “And that?” He gestured behind us. “That was worth any speeding ticket I might get.”

“I won’t argue with that.” I slid my hand over his knee again. “I promise you, Iwillreturn the favor.”

He glanced at me in the darkness. “When?”

I couldn’t help grinning, wondering if he noticed the shiver as I whispered, “Soon.”

“I’d like to propose a toast.” Roger stood at the end of the table, raising his glass of red wine. “To the official Democratic nominee for governor of the state of California.”

Everyone at the table—Jesse’s family mostly—raised their glasses, and his brother clapped his shoulder as Jesse’s cheeks colored.

“Come on.” Chris elbowed him. “How about a speech?”

“No.” Laughing, Jesse put up his hands and shook his head. “I’ve given enough speeches. Just thisonenight, I’ll pass.”

The rest of the group laughed, and Roger nodded. “Well, I suppose he has earned his keep. Congratulations, Jesse. You’ve done your family proud.”

“The election isn’t over yet,” Jesse’s father, Michael, said.

“Thanks, Dad,” Jesse said through his teeth.

They exchanged tense, tight-lipped smiles across the table.

“Well,” I said, “just getting nominated is always an honor, even if he doesn’t win.” I threw Michael a pointed look. “Right?”

He of the three Oscar nominations glared back at me. On the other side of the table, Simone and Chris—who’d both actuallywontheir Oscars—laughed behind their hands.

Michael muttered something I couldn’t hear, and reached for his drink. I forced myself to keep a straight face. Jesse glanced at me, snickered, and picked up his own drink.

“Don’t let all this success go to your head, kid,” Roger continued. “Not yet, anyway. I wouldn’t have expected any less than a landslide against those idiots. But Casey?” He shook his head. “You’re going to have to fight for that one.”

Jesse just smiled and raised his glass in a mock toast. “Well, that’s why I have Anthony on board, isn’t it?”

Our eyes met, and we both laughed but quickly shifted our gazes away.

“Speaking of whom,” Roger said. “Let’s not forget that behind every candidate is a campaign manager.”

God, I wish…

Oblivious to my impure thoughts, Jesse’s uncle gestured at me and went on. “So I’d also like to acknowledge Anthony Hunter, who has worked tirelessly to manage my nephew’s heretofore successful campaign.”

Heat rushed into my cheeks as everyone at the table clapped politely. I’d never been fond of the spotlight, even in settings like this, and with the thoughts going through my head right now, the center of attention was the last thing I wanted to be. Not that anyone could realistically read my mind and know how badly I wanted to bend Jesse over this table, but that didn’t stop my heart from pounding.

Roger finished his characteristically lengthy speech, and the family toasted Jesse. From then on, dinner was a relaxed, casual affair, with every conversation revolving around the one man I couldn’t get out of my head. For weeks, Jesse and I had survived on stolen kisses and that one amazing back-road blowjob. Everywhere we went, someone was watching or might be watching or expected us somewhere else, and no matter what we did, we could not get time alone. I’d fucked him a hundred times over in my mind, something my right elbow could attest to, but in reality I had yet to get him into bed.

I watched him out of the corner of my eye. This campaign was about to shift gears to a degree of grueling Jesse probably couldn’t even fathom. There’d be less downtime. More media scrutiny.

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