16. Jesse

Chapter 16

Jesse

At a few minutes till five on the morning of the big televised debate with John Casey, I dove into the cool water of yet another hotel’s swimming pool. Sleep had eluded me for the last few hours, so I decided to hell with it. Better to get a jump on my daily swim instead of lying there staring at the ceiling in the darkness. Wasn’t the first extra early swim of my campaign, wouldn’t be the last, and I desperately needed some turquoise-tinted oblivion before I faced the universe today.

I concentrated on the black stripe running the length of the pool. On my strokes. On the cool water rushing past my skin. Whenever tonight’s debate—or anything relating to the election—tried to work its way into my mind, I focused on the water. The speed. The pleasant ache in my sides and shoulders as tension melted in favor of fatigue.

I swam until that ache told me it was time to stop before I wound up with a pulled muscle. Then I took a couple of slow, easy laps to cool down before getting out.

In the middle of hoisting myself out of the pool, I glanced up, and my uncle’s presence startled me so badly I damn near forgot what I was doing and dropped back into the water. I recovered, though, and without making too much of an ass of myself.

He was seated, casually and comfortably, in one of the plastic chairs beside the pool, his golf shirt and slacks belying the fact that it was crazy thirty in the morning.

I reached for my towel. “You’re up early.”

He shrugged. “I’m always up early on debate days.”

Scrubbing the back of my neck with the towel, I eyed him. “Except you’re not the one doing the debate.”

Another shrug, this time with just one shoulder. “No, but I do have a thing or two at stake tonight, don’t I?”

I scowled. “No pressure or anything.”

“Get used to it.” He pushed himself to his feet. “Politics is nothing if not pressure.” He gestured at his hair. “Why do you think I’m snow-white while your father still has a few dark strands?”

I laughed. “Well, I don’t imagine you make quite such judicious use of the best beauticians Hollywood has to offer.”

Roger laughed. “No, I certainly don’t.” He gestured toward the door. “Why don’t we go upstairs and get some coffee?”

“Sounds good to me.”

I wrapped my towel around my waist. Then Roger and I walked out of the pool area, and I kept my head down as we passed the small group of bleary-eyed guests who had the misfortune of being up this early. No one said a word, and as the elevator doors closed, severing us from anyone who might recognize and hassle us, I rolled my shoulders and stretched a crick out of my neck.

Simone was still asleep, so I slipped into the room just long enough to grab some clothes, then went down the hall to Roger’s room. While I changed clothes in the bathroom, Roger made coffee.

Dressed and halfway presentable, I stepped out of the bathroom and sat in one of the chairs. My uncle pushed a cup of steaming coffee toward me, then took one for himself.

He stirred creamer into his. “Ready for this evening?”

“Maybe.” I sipped my coffee. “Tell me, am I the only candidate who gets nervous to the point of physical illness before a debate?”

Roger laughed aloud and shook his head. “Every candidate handles these things differently. I assure you, the ones who say they aren’t nervous are the ones who are entirely too certain of themselves for all the wrong reasons.”

“Well,” I said dryly, “guess I don’t have to worry about that. Speeches, rallies, whatever, I can handle. These debates…”

He nodded. “You’re not the only one, son. I promise.”

“How did you handle them?”

“I kicked everyone except Anthony out,” he said. “And spent hours poring over material until I was sure I had everything memorized.”

I cocked my head. “Everyone but Anthony?”

“Well, of course.” He casually sipped his coffee. “You want to do well in a debate? You listen to your campaign manager. Especially that one.”

“Oh. Right.” I coughed and picked up my own coffee again. Why else would he be alone with Anthony, idiot?

“And while I know this will fall on deaf ears,” Roger said, “let me just say that you have nothing to worry about.” He gave a quiet laugh. “Casey ought to be pouring hot sauce on his shoes right now. You just answer all the questions truthfully and thoughtfully, and let him dine on his own feet.”

I laughed but said nothing.

Roger went on. “I’m telling you, kid. You have nothing to worry about. And I must say, having watched you handle this campaign, you’re doing the family proud these days.”

“If you don’t count my dad, right?”

“Oh, I don’t know about that. Your father is proud of you.”

I raised an eyebrow.

“Never said he was great at showing these things,” Roger said.

“Story of all the people in my life, right?” I muttered.

He chuckled. “Well, I can tell you I’m certainly pleased. And the voters like you. You’ve presented yourself as a fine candidate.”

“Thanks,” I said quietly .

“How is the campaign treating you?” The corners of his eyes crinkled as he gave a soft, sympathetic laugh. “I did tell you elections were brutal, didn’t I?”

I blew out a breath and shook my head. “God, yes. It’s unreal.”

“Handling it all right, though?” His tone was gentle but didn’t offer much preemptive sympathy in case the answer was anything other than just fine, Uncle Roger .

“I’m doing okay.” I grimaced and touched my throat gingerly. “Voice is getting a little worn, though.”

“Oh yes, that’ll happen,” he said with a nod. “Throat lozenges are your friend, my boy. And for that matter, you can’t go wrong with a brandy nightcap.”

“For my throat? Or just for the hell of it?”

“Either or.” He winked. “In this line of work, when you have a chance to have a drink or two, don’t question it.”

“Good to know.”

He sat back and folded his hands across his lap. “And how is your wife doing?”

“She’s…” Dropping my gaze, I pursed my lips. Guilt gnawed at me from the inside out whenever I even thought of Simone, especially when it came to the election. “She’s not handling it well, to be honest.”

“Isn’t she?” He didn’t sound surprised. Or fazed. He sounded as concerned as if I’d commented on the weather.

“She’s lost more weight. And she’s not saying anything, but I know her. I know her. If—”

Roger exhaled sharply and put up a hand. “Son, you’re worrying yourself over nothing.”

“Am I?” I drummed my fingers on the table beside my coffee cup. “She’s stressed herself to the point of hospitalization over lesser things, and that—”

“Jesse.” Roger lowered his hand and shook his head. “Elections are stressful for everyone, and she’s a grown woman who made her choice to be involved in this. She’ll be fine .”

“Maybe, maybe not, but I have to admit, it’s crossed my mind more than once to drop out of the election for her sake.”

He sat up straight and smacked the table with his palm. “Drop out of the election? You can’t do that. Not this late in the game!”

“And if it means doing what’s best for my wife’s health?” I threw back.

Roger sighed and shifted. “Listen, you remember when Donna was ill during one of my campaigns, don’t you?”

I nodded. His second wife had been undergoing cancer treatments while he ran for office a few terms ago.

“She was terribly ill, remember?” he said. “Especially during the latter half of the campaign, but she made it through. And when I suggested dropping out of the election or keeping her out of the spotlight, she nearly brained me. She didn’t want to be coddled just because she was sick, and she wasn’t about to let me compromise my career over that. Quite honestly, I think the guilt would have made her sicker than the stress.” He pointed an emphatic finger at me. “Something tells me Simone would have the same attitude.”

Avoiding his eyes, I chewed the inside of my cheek. He had a point. Simone loathed being coddled, and few things pissed her off more than the implication she was unable to handle something. She was the stubborn type who would say to hell with backing off and laying low, and instead run herself into the ground just for spite in an effort to prove she could handle it. And if there was anything she handled worse than stress, it was guilt.

“Okay, yeah, she probably would.” I kept my eyes down. “I still don’t want to overwhelm her.”

“She’ll be fine.” He clapped my shoulder. “As will you. These things are stressful for everyone involved, but if Donna can come through when she’s enduring chemotherapy, the two of you can get through this with flying colors.” He inclined his head just enough to emphasize that if Simone and I didn’t make it through with flying colors—and a beautifully intact charade of a marriage—there would be hell to pay.

“We’ll be fine.” I hoped to God I was right.

Roger and I finished our coffee, and when the clock landed on a reasonable enough hour, I went back to my room to shower and face the day.

As the sun climbed higher and the world awoke, my room became Ground Zero for a slow-motion explosion of activity. The walls constricted around an ever-growing mob of people with clipboards, demands, and cell phones. Throughout the day, people came and went. Coffee came in, and empty cups piled up. With every minute ticking past, the urgency in the room intensified. The quiet panic, the unspoken certainty something had been forgotten or mishandled.

In the pit of my stomach, a coil of nerves tightened. Panic mingled with impatience; nervousness that I wasn’t anywhere near ready coupled with restlessness because I just needed to get this over with. I couldn’t sit still. I was light-headed enough to suggest I should eat something but queasy enough I didn’t dare.

And there were too goddamned many people in this room. Anthony. Roger. Simone. Security. My staff and volunteers. People I knew. People I didn’t. Everyone talking, everyone moving around. I wrung my hands and took a deep breath. All the noise and activity in the room drowned out any ticking clock that might have been audible enough to drive me insane, but the noise itself did a fine job of that anyway. People talking or a clock ticking; neither option offered me a chance to relax, collect my thoughts, think about the debate. Not think about the debate. Anthony had Lydia and Ranya both busy making calls and scheduling me within an inch of my life, which meant my assistant was indisposed and unavailable to distract me with talk of a zombie apocalypse.

Anthony himself was obviously stressed. Well, no. Not stressed. Intense, I supposed that was the word. His voice and gestures were sharp, but no more so than usual as he simultaneously interacted with about seventeen different people. In spite of all the activity and legions of people demanding his attention at any given second, he was calm. Calm and in control. How he did it, I’d never know. The man could keep a marching band of sugared-up squirrels in line without breaking a sweat.

Me? Not so much. Any other day, I could handle the activity and the madness. Not as well as Anthony, but well enough. With a debate on the horizon? Against John Casey? Shit. Oh shit. I needed…I needed something other than this place. This setting. All these people.

Quiet. That was what I needed. Quiet and a few minutes without people asking me questions or just being here in the room with me.

Everybody, out! I wanted to shout, but I just gritted my teeth and tried not to throw up.

“You okay?” Simone’s voice sounded distant.

I opened my eyes and forced a smile. “Yeah, I’m okay.”

She cocked her head. “You sure? You look—”

“Mr. Cameron,” someone broke in, thrusting a clipboard in front of me. “A few things for you to go over.”

I looked at Simone, eyebrows up, as I took the clipboard.

She smiled. “We’ll catch up after the debate. Good luck.”

“Thanks.”

She disappeared into the crowd—Christ, how thick could a mob get in a room this small?—and I shifted my attention to the paperwork in my hand. No sooner had I finished going over that when someone else needed my opinion, signature, endorsement, comment, attention, initials, DNA sample, firstborn, mortal soul…

“My turn.” Ranya grinned, but her brow knitted with sympathy.

“Oh, I suppose I can spare you a minute,” I said with mock exasperation.

She eyed me. “I could always make these decisions on my own and let you deal with the fallout.”

“And with that, you have my undivided attention. What’s up?”

“That’s what I thought.” She threw me a good-natured glare, then shuffled some papers in her hands. “I need to call Al Davis at Channel 4 back in the next few minutes about scheduling an interview with Patricia Barton. They want you in their studio at noon on Thursday, but you’ve got another interview with Phil Stanley at four thirty. It’ll be tight getting from one to the other, but are you okay with back-to-back interviews? They both sound like they’ll be pretty intense. ”

I nodded. “Yeah, I can handle it. Run the schedule by Anthony, though. Make sure he doesn’t have something else up his sleeve.”

“Will do.” She took a step, and the mob swallowed her up like a thick fog.

I sighed and rubbed my forehead. Interviews. More and more interviews. And of course, tonight would dictate how those interviews went. This debate would be the difference between Let’s discuss your thoughts on immigration reform and Do you really think you’re cut out to govern the state of California, Mr. Cameron?

Well, did I?

“Hey.” Anthony’s voice shook me back into the present. “Doing all right?”

“Yeah. I’m good.”

He quirked an eyebrow, the subtle change of expression screaming bullshit you are .

I put up a hand. “I’m fine. Really.”

“Nervous?”

I threw him a sidelong glance. “What do you think?”

“You’ll be fine.” His voice was low and calm—the verbal equivalent of a gentle hand on my arm. “You always nail these things.”

“Yeah, well, all it takes is that one time when I give a stupid answer or make some ridiculous Freudian slip.”

Anthony laughed. “Somehow I doubt that would actually happen.”

“Glad you’re so confident,” I muttered. “How are you always so calm and together before these things, anyway?”

He shrugged. “You’ll notice I’ve never run for office myself.”

“Stage fright?”

“Not quite.” He chuckled. “But these things aren’t as nerve-racking for the campaign manager.”

“Lucky you.”

His perpetual calm annoyed me on a few levels—why couldn’t it be contagious, goddamn it?—but mostly I was grateful for it. As long as he wasn’t panicking, I was good. If he panicked, I’d fucking lose it.

Inclining his head a little, he said, “Anything I can do to help?”

Just stay calm, Anthony. Please, please, stay calm.

“No, it’s okay.” I glanced around the room. “Just…kind of difficult to focus with…” I gestured at the crowd.

“Hmm. Yeah. I can understand that.” He faced the gathered staff and supporters. “All right, everyone out. I need to run through some things with our future governor to make sure he wins this debate, and we need a little peace and quiet.”

I closed my eyes and exhaled, not sure what relieved me more: the fact that everyone would be out of this room in no time, or the fact that Anthony had taken charge. I rested my hands on one of the dressers and closed my eyes, listening to everyone shuffling past me and out of the room .

The click of the door silenced the remaining noise of the mini mob, and I pushed out a breath.

“Thank. God. ”

“Well,” Anthony said, “you don’t have to call me that .”

I laughed, and damn if that didn’t get the air moving. “That shouldn’t surprise me, coming from you.”

“Hey, you said it, not me.” Anthony laughed softly, but when our eyes met in the mirror, my nerves came back. He stepped up behind me and wrapped his arms around my waist. His lips brushed my neck as he whispered, “Relax. You’ll do fine. You were born for this, Jesse.” He kissed beneath my ear. “Casey doesn’t stand a chance.”

Closing my eyes, I put my hands over his. I wanted to tell him that was easy for him to say and we’d see what happened and all of that, but his warm breath on my neck brought an entirely different set of words to the tip of my tongue. Debate? Casey? What? As Anthony drew me closer and his hardening cock pressed against me, I didn’t have to ask if his mind had gone down the same road.

Hotter breath on my skin told me his lips were close, and I tilted my head, exposing as much flesh as possible a second before he touched me. He kissed just above my collar. Then a little higher. I opened my eyes, watching his reflection as he moved from one long, soft kiss to the next, his eyes closed and brow furrowed like his entire existence was concentrated on those moments of warm contact.

Then he paused, lips still against my neck, and exhaled hard. His shoulders sank. His eyes stayed closed. His arms loosened just slightly around me, and I realized the breath he’d released was one of resignation. When his lips lifted off my skin, the words that followed were no surprise:

“Damn it, this isn’t… This is such a bad time to do this.

“We’re not doing anything.” I tightened my grasp on his hands just enough to counter his reluctance.

“Yet.” His eyes met mine in the mirror, but he didn’t pull away. Not completely, anyway. “God, Jesse, I want to…”

I moistened my lips. “We have time.”

“Not enough.”

“I’ll take what I can get.”

He growled—groaned, maybe—against my neck, and used a shiver as an excuse to pull me closer. “You don’t even know how tempting it is.”

“I do.” I reached back and ran my fingers through his hair, closing my eyes as he kissed beneath my ear. “I know exactly how tempting it is.”

“We shouldn’t…” He trailed off and kissed my neck again as his fingers laced between mine across my stomach.

“We always shouldn’t do this,” I breathed, startling at the sound of my own voice. “But I want you to fuck me. Please, Anthony. ”

“Rest assured,” he murmured between gentle kisses and warm breaths across my skin, “that I have every intention of fucking you again, but not until we have the time and privacy to do it right.”

I shivered. “You make it sound so easy to not do anything now.”

“Easy? Oh, I promise you, it’s anything but easy. I want…” His voice fell to a sigh, and he pressed his lips to the side of my neck.

“We’re alone in a hotel room.” I closed my eyes and licked my lips. “I have condoms with me.”

“Do you, now?” He dragged his lips along the side of my neck, working his way up to my jaw, and another shiver pressed his body against mine.

“Yes. I do.”

He raised his head, and I opened my eyes, meeting his in the mirror. Then I turned around in his arms, facing him instead of his reflection.

He closed his eyes and exhaled sharply. “I thought—” He kissed me hard, gripping the back of my neck. “I thought waiting to fuck you the first time was bad.”

I barely kept myself from grabbing handfuls of his shirt and wrinkling the hell out of it. “I think it’s going to get worse every time. The more I get, the more I want.”

“Mm-hmm. It’s all I can think about,” he breathed. “I’m supposed to be concentrating on your campaign…and…you don’t…you don’t know what you’re doing to me, Jesse.” He kissed me again, and the whispered echo of my name melted me from the inside out.

But then he broke the kiss and pushed himself back. He gripped my shoulders, forbidding me from coming closer, or maybe forbidding himself from crossing that narrow, tempting distance. “Shit, Jesse. We can’t…we really can’t do this now. There just isn’t time.”

I licked my lips. He was right, but when he was like this—shaking, inarticulate—nothing else mattered. Not even my campaign. I looked at my watch, then at him. “We have time. Not much, but please. I can’t…I can’t wait.”

Anthony said nothing. He drew me into a kiss that screamed neither can I , and my knees shook as he slid his hand over the front of my pants. I pressed my cock against his palm, groaning into his kiss as he squeezed me just right.

When he broke the kiss this time, he was out of breath. “Condoms. Get them.” He released me, and while I grabbed my suitcase to search for the carefully hidden necessities, he brushed past me and strode toward the door.

I found the condoms and lube. Anthony turned the deadbolt with a quiet click .

From across the room, our eyes met.

Locked in. Everything we needed in hand. Just enough time.

And all at once, we were in motion. Buttons, belts, zippers; there wasn’t time for games or foreplay. We both knew what we wanted, and we wasted no time getting out of our clothes. One day foreplay wouldn’t be a rare luxury, but right now? Who knew how much time we had?

Anthony tore the condom wrapper with his teeth. The tremor in his hands made me shake; I loved it when he unraveled like this. When he dropped that perfect, ever-present control in favor of letting himself fall to pieces. I needed him in control for the debate, but in bed?

Oh, God, fall apart with me.

As he rolled on the condom, I slipped off my ring and set it on the bedside table so I didn’t cover it in lube. I gave the gold band a glance, cringing at the pang of guilt in my gut, but then reminded myself for the hundredth time that I wasn’t breaking any rules, and turned to pick up the bottle. My hands shook more than they had the first time we did this, more than his did now. It wasn’t nerves this time, though. Far from it.

I poured lube in my hand, and as I stroked it over the condom, Anthony kissed me. Oh, there was no turning back now. No deciding this was a bad idea (which it was) or that we shouldn’t risk being late (which we shouldn’t) or raising eyebrows (which we would) because Anthony’s kiss was too damned breathless and demanding. The more I stroked his cock—and it wasn’t just to apply lube now—the more furiously he kissed me and the tighter he held on to me.

Nerves dissipated in favor of excitement and…calm. Inexplicable calm in light of how much he turned me on. Like the mere knowledge that we were going through with this satisfied enough of my hunger to keep me from losing my mind.

Anthony grabbed my wrist, halting my hand in mid-stroke. In a low growl, he said, “Get on your knees.”

I obeyed without a second’s hesitation.

Behind me the lube bottle clicked. I looked over my shoulder. “Didn’t I put enough on?”

“Of course.” He grinned as he poured some onto his fingers. “Just didn’t put any on my hand.”

“On your—” I stopped when I realized what he meant. A second later, his cool, slick fingertips met my entrance. “Damn it, I want—”

“I know you do.” He circled gently with his fingers. “I’ll get there.”

“We don’t have much time.”

“We have enough.”

“Just fuck me,” I said through my teeth.

“Oh, I will.” His fingertip teased more earnestly, pressing in slightly, backing off, pressing in again. “I don’t want to hurt you.”

I screwed my eyes shut and just breathed. This was a necessary step, of course, but an aggravating one. Okay, an incredibly erotic and arousing one, but still aggravating because I needed Anthony’s cock buried inside me. We hadn’t done this enough—yet—for me to take him easily without a lot of preparation, so he teased me with one finger. Then two. Sliding in, sliding out, stroking and stretching me until I was ready to break down in tears, begging him to just fuck me already .

He withdrew his fingers, and I dug my teeth into my lower lip. The lube bottle clicked again, so he must have been putting more on his cock, which meant…

Oh, God, yes…

Please, please, Anthony, please …

His hand materialized on my hip. His cock pressed against me, and as he pushed into me, he whispered, “Oh, fuck, Jesse…”

I willed myself to relax so I could take him easily, but anticipation had me so wound up I could barely breathe. Closing my eyes, I convinced myself to draw a slow, deep breath. As I released that breath, Anthony pressed harder, and the head of his cock slid past the tight ring of muscle. In an instant, my entire body relaxed. Almost liquefied.

He eased himself into me—giving an inch and pulling back, giving another inch and pulling back—and with every careful stroke, I anticipated that intense instant when he’d hit that spot deep inside. We’d only fucked a few times, and already I was addicted to that sensation. Craved it. Waited for it. Silently begged for it.

His cock slid across that spot, and my elbows almost buckled beneath me. Electricity radiated up my spine and out to my fingertips, my toes, my scalp. Any place that could have goose bumps did, and every stroke electrified all those nerve endings again…and again…and again. He picked up speed, going from slow and gentle to forcing himself into me. Pleasure and pain mingled until they amplified each other, until they were indistinguishable from each other. Everything was intense—so goddamned intense—and I rocked back against him, trying to drive him deeper, desperate for more even when I was sure I couldn’t handle any more.

“Like that?” he asked, almost panting.

I nodded.

“Answer me, Jesse,” he growled and slammed into me hard enough to knock the breath out of my lungs. “You like that?”

“Yes.”

“Do you?” He thrust faster, gripping my hips tighter, almost painfully tight, and fucking me harder. “Do you like that, Jesse?”

Somehow, Lord knew how, I choked out: “ Yes. ”

My fingers curled around the comforter, clutching the fabric like it might keep me in the here and now while Anthony’s cock threatened to send me into oblivion.

“Touch yourself,” he ordered.

I put my weight on my left arm and lifted my other hand off the bed. For a moment, I hesitated, making sure I could balance like this. Reasonably convinced I wouldn’t fall on my face, I wrapped my fingers around my cock, and…fuck…that first stroke.

I groaned, especially as my hips moved of their own accord, intensifying every motion of my hand and Anthony’s cock. The maddening ache deepened. The need for release intensified. My entire world condensed itself into this building tension, the contradictory need to let go and hold on as long as I could.

“Don’t you dare come yet.” He thrust into me even harder. “Do you hear me, Jesse? Don’t you dare.”

“I won’t.” I dug my fingers into the mattress. “I…oh, God…” I’d never been to this edge and lingered there, never forced myself to ride this brink, and I held my breath and gripped the bedsheets, and I stroked my cock and ground my teeth. Every thrust he took inside me drove me closer to that inevitable breaking point, to that moment when an act of God couldn’t keep me from surrendering to the orgasm Anthony’s body demanded and his voice forbade.

“Anthony…you… please .” The words shook just like my arms. I screwed my eyes shut, squeezing out hot tears. “Fuck…”

Anthony groaned, his fingers twitching on my hips. “Oh my God, Jesse, this—” His voice caught.

Tears slid down my cheeks, and I couldn’t breathe, couldn’t beg him for release, for an orgasm like the one that must have been closing in on him too, and—

“Come, Jesse. Now. ”

The instant he said my name, slick, hot semen shot across my palm and my hand moved faster over the lubricated skin and I couldn’t stop, couldn’t breathe, couldn’t take any more, couldn’t fucking stop …

Anthony released a strangled cry, and his rhythm fell apart as he fucked me and came and tried to keep fucking me and finally slumped over me, panting and shaking.

He kissed the back of my neck. “Fuck, I needed that.”

“Me too.” I turned my head until I could see him in my peripheral vision. Grinning, I said, “Think you can do this to relax me before every appearance?”

Anthony laughed and craned his neck to kiss me. “Only the ones that count.”

“I thought they all counted.”

“Hmm.” He kissed my cheek. “So they do.”