More Than A Maybe

by Monte, Clarissa

  His whispered words make me gasp; my whole body feels so achingly alive. His hand is against my inner thigh now; my legs part of their own accord and I revel in his scent. I close my eyes, and as I do I hear the crinkle of what must be a condom.

  This is real. This is happening.

  I open my eyes again and his face is suddenly wild, dangerous. He guides me once again against the fabric of the bed, leans in close, and enters me with a firm and powerful thrust.

  I feel myself stretching, the pain present but somehow manageable. I force myself to push it down into some dark corner of my thoughts, to overcome it, as the heat of Xavier’s thick member fills me completely.

  Xavier’s fingers slide down to tease my throbbing clit. In a rush of pleasure I feel the pain begin to recede, and I will it into a tiny pinprick at the edge of my consciousness. Xavier begins to move his way forward, backward, and I feel a wellspring of unknown passions gush from within me in an impossible torrent. I stare at the beautiful intensity of Xavier’s face . . . and marvel at the sensations his cock summons from my depths as our bodies collide.

  There’s no feeling of loss, none at all; I have Xavier now, this magic and beautiful creature, and as the shimmering miracle of my orgasm approaches, I can’t help but marvel at us . . . at the way we just fit so perfectly together, like music, like some vibrant and lovely duet . . .

  His face is now etched with a hard and all-consuming fervor, and I know that his climax must be very near my own. “Now, my lovely,” he says. “Together. NOW!”

  I feel the muscles of my sex squeeze around him as the force of my orgasm explodes with his own. We shatter together, the mingling forces sending us both breathless. I cry out, then — for my blinding white orgasm, for the pain, for life I’ve just stepped into, for the one I’ve left behind . . .

  . . . but more than anything, my cry is one of victory.

  I have this man, this Xavier Black . . . he is in me, and I know that he is mine.

  * * *

  He collapses next to me, sated. He holds me close.

  We lay in the bed for a long time after that. My body against his, one of his warm and toned arms supporting my head like a perfect pillow, the other arm around my waist. I marvel at his form. He doesn’t have the body of a man who is trapped behind a desk — he has the undeniably sexy physique of an athlete. An adventurer.

  But happy as I am, there’s something eating at my thoughts . . . and I really don’t want to give it voice. I don’t want to bring her into this room, into this bed, but —

  Well, I find that I just can’t help it.

  “I want to apologize,” I begin, slowly. “About earlier.”

  “About what?” Xavier asks, sounding puzzled.

  “That woman tonight,” I say. “Baby. How I sounded. I didn’t mean to come off like that.”

  “Oh, that? Don’t worry about it,” he says. “I’m sure she has to deal with those sorts of reactions all the time. No doubt she’s been on the receiving end of much worse.”

  I shift my body to look at him. “Do you think she’s pretty?”

  Xavier doesn’t even hesitate. “Of course. Don’t you?”

  My sigh is my only answer. I wonder just how transparent my jealousy seems. I feel my ears begin to redden, and find myself wondering at the lukewarm anger still inside me. I’m not sure if it’s all about Baby, really . . . but just the idea that Xavier would find any other woman attractive makes me uncomfortable. Still, the honesty in his admission is refreshing, somehow. I get the sense that he respects me enough to be straight with me.

  I say nothing for a minute, and I try to let the subject drop . . . but I find that I’m unable to hold myself back.

  “Would you think I’d look good if I was . . . well, you know. More? More like that.”

  It’s obvious I’m talking about my boobs — or rather, the ones that aren’t there. I brace myself for the usual avalanche of polite denials: No. You look fine just the way you are. Blah blah blah.

  I hear Xavier suck in his breath. “If you looked more like Baby? Is that what you’re asking?”

  “You know what I mean,” I say. “More.”

  “Well,” he says, clearly giving it some thought, “like I said, I do think she’s pretty. But do you know why I would think so?”

  “Tell me.”

  When he answers, it’s like he’s revealing some immutable rule of the universe. The little hairs stand up on the back of my neck; the gooseflesh prickles along my arms.

  “I think she is pretty,” he says, “because she thinks she is pretty.”

  The sentence hangs heavy with the sound of truth. There’s no irritation in his voice. It sounds matter-of-fact, as if it’s something anyone should know. “The reason she’s pretty isn’t the way she’s decorated herself. It’s the confidence behind it all. So: would you look good if you looked more like her? I doubt it. I think you’d look good if you looked more like you.”

  “But . . . but I am me. I mean, right?” My eyebrows furrow as I search Xavier’s face for an answer.

  Xavier just twists the corner of his mouth into a cryptic half-smile.

  “When you’re sure of that, Miss Veronica Kane, you’ll have all the confidence you’ll ever need. And that, I assure you, will be entirely beautiful,” he says.

  He kisses my forehead softly, then closes his eyes.

  I’m completely speechless — but it begins to dawn on me that I actually understand what Xavier means. Whatever I’m doing in this city, whatever I’m going to become, it has to begin with me. Even the Goddesses in my Book had to start somewhere.

  I make up my mind then and there: I’m staying in LA until all this starts to make sense. What’s more, Baby might just get that phone call. I hardly know anyone else here, and she seems like a person who might know exactly what it takes for a girl to reinvent herself in a new city.

  The sound of Xavier’s rhythmic breathing forces me to admit the true depth of my exhaustion, and I feel my lids begin to grow heavy. In the thin space between minutes, I am asleep.

  Chapter 7

  When I wake in the morning I’m confused at first.

  The ceiling isn’t mine, for one thing. The color is all wrong, and the light brown Florida-shaped water stain above my bed, the one I’ve always woken up to — it isn’t there.

  I sit up in alarm, scanning the room for something familiar. My textbooks, my stuffed panda Wrinkles — they’re all curiously absent. The room is far too clean, far too luxurious to be my own.

  It’s then that I remember where I am — I’m at the hotel, and the steady breathing of Xavier’s sleeping form next to mine confirms it. I realize with an ick that I’m still in last night’s makeup, and I skip to the bathroom to do a removal with the little bottle of liquid the hotel’s thoughtfully provided. I do a quick hop into the warm bubbly foam of the whirlpool tub, and then finally into the shower, letting the steam and water sluice away any last bits of travel stress.

  I emerge in one of the hotel’s luxuriant terrycloth bathrobes. I watch Xavier sleep for a gentle moment or two, the bedsheet rising and falling in time with his peaceful breathing. I check the clock — it’s getting late, almost eleven. It makes me wonder how often a man like Xavier gets to sleep late.

  I snuggle next to him into the folds of the comforter. The motion of my body makes him stir and then open his eyes, slowly. He sees me and gives a sleepy smile.

  “Good morning,” he says. There’s a new warmth, a familiarity in his voice that I’m sure I haven’t heard before, and it makes me feel glowy all over. He places a hand on my leg. “How are we today?”

  I’m still a bit sore between my thighs from all the excitement last night, but it’s more an erotic memory than actual pain. “Fine. Maybe a little tender, but good,” I say. As soon as the words pass my lips, though, my stomach lets out what can be only described as the world’s most insistent growl.

  Xavier raises an eyebrow at that. “I’ll call for breakfast,” he says
, reaching for the room’s phone on the table next to him.

  A sumptuous breakfast soon arrives for us both. Toast and marmalade, Eggs Benedict with fresh slices of avocado, flaky croissants . . . some little merengue sweets that taste like a cloud melting against my tongue. Xavier pours me the best cup of African roast I’ve ever had the pleasure of drinking, and I dig in. He polishes off his plate ravenously, then steps into the shower himself.

  He returns in a few minutes, rubbing a towel briskly against his head. He pops a lump of meringue into his mouth and begins to chew thoughtfully as he checks his mysterious cell phone.

  Xavier’s face changes to a sour expression as his eyes scan the lines of text. He sighs. “Apparently Randall is having trouble clarifying some of the details of one of our provisional patents. I trust you’ll manage to entertain yourself on your own today?”

  I try to keep the expression on my face from crumbling in disappointment. Part of me had been expecting him to say something like that, of course, but hearing the actual words makes my heart sink a bit. I try not to let on though, and I wave the idea off in a way that I hope looks nonchalant.

  “Of course, I’ll be fine, I’ll just go to the . . . um . . . ”

  Go to where — a park bench? I wonder, panicking in my head. You’ve got an overnight bag, a birthday-party dress, two maxed-out credit cards . . . and maybe twelve dollars in your bank account!

  Xavier holds up a hand, halting my worries before they can manage to take hold. “I’m aware of your situation. You were quite candid with me last night.” The look on his face is infinitely reassuring. “I’ve prepared a few things for you. Let’s take a look.”

  He walks over to the room’s large closet and opens it. I get out of bed and stand up to see better. My eyes go wide.

  The closet is full — hanger after hanger of dresses and tops in a neat row. On the floor is a low dresser, and I hurry over to go through the drawers one by one. There’s everything, all in my size . . . including, embarrassingly, panties — and small-enough-to-be-training bras.

  He’s got my size down, that’s for sure.

  “I can’t believe you know what fits me so well,” I say, still looking through the marvelous garments.

  Xavier chuckles. “Something of a childhood curse, I’m afraid. My mother was a seamstress. She taught me how to tell sizes at a glance. At any rate, I had Mr. Yoshida send over these for you,” says Xavier. “If they all fit you like that other dress does, you’ll look fantastic.”

  They’re beautiful — I’ve never seen anything made with such slavish attention to detail. Still, something nags at me a bit, and I find myself giving voice to my thoughts despite myself.

  “They’re . . . quite dark, aren’t they?”

  It’s true — though the pieces are far from identical, I notice a common theme. The colors are absolutely, definitely grim. The lightest color I can see is a rich, regal purple . . . and the darkest is so very black that light seems to be swallowed up by it completely. I start to think about the depressed-looking goth kids I used to see smoking something-not-quite-tobacco around back of my high school.

  The comment seems to take Xavier by surprise — but the sound of his voice when he replies isn’t angry at all. It seems to carry a curious note of pleasure, like I’m confirming something he’d been hoping to hear.

  “I . . . well! I suppose they are,” he says amiably. “Yoshida-san’s tastes tend to run toward the dark — as do my own. Less time in the morning. Everything mixes and matches. Simplicity.”

  I nod and look back at the closet. It makes me somehow doubtful — it’s my first day in a city of sunshine, and I want it all to feel like A Star Is Born, not Dark Shadows. From the look of the closet, Xavier had been keen on dressing me for a funeral.

  Still, I’m not at all ungrateful, and I certainly don’t want to sound as if l am. Everything in the closet is certainly a great deal more elegant than the dress I’ve brought with me, which must by now be a mess of wrinkles in my overnight bag. I thank Xavier with genuine enthusiasm, and select a pair of midnight blue hip huggers and a black satin bra top as my ensemble for the day. Grim, maybe, but they actually do look great together.

  “There’s something else,” says Xavier. He walks near the entrance and slides open a small false cupboard near the door, revealing the room’s electronic safe. He unlocks it with a few precise taps on its keypad, then removes a box.

  He hands it to me. “From me. For you. For today — and for however long you choose to remain my guest.”

  I open it. The thin patent leather of the purse inside isn’t quite black, but it’s a blue so close to black that most would be hard-pressed to tell the difference. It’s undeniably lovely, but before I can say thank you or anything else, Xavier taps it with a finger.

  “Open that as well, if you would.”

  I slide open the clasp. Inside is a slim wallet and a glossy black rectangle. I recognize the rectangle — it’s the same type of mysterious phone as Xavier’s.

  I hold it up. “I’m guessing this isn’t an iPhone?”

  Xavier smiles. “It’s a phone that might just make those boys in Cupertino nervous. Could replace the iPhone someday. It’s the same model as my own — a prototype I put together with some very clever friends of mine.”

  “So . . . this is an xPhone, then,” I say.

  Xavier laughs at that. “The xPhone! I might just use that when we go to market. Could look good on a billboard. Anyway, keep it with you. I’ll contact you on this from now on. It’s a secure line, right to me. We’ll be able to stay in contact, and you’ll be helping me test it at the same time. Here, let me show you how it works . . . ”

  Xavier gives me a quick but enthusiastic primer on how to use the xPhone’s basic functions — calling, texting. The number of apps is pretty sparse, but I get a giddy thrill when he shows me one that will summon a limousine just for me, whenever I wish.

  The rest of the xPhone seems elegant and fairly straightforward. The biggest difference is a security feature Xavier calls a Pattern Lock: to unlock the xPhone, I have to draw a special shape on the surface of the glass with the tip of my finger. He lets me practice it a few times until I’m sure I have the hang of it.

  Carrying it seems like a heavy responsibility, though. “Are you sure it’s okay that I’m taking it around?” I ask, glancing at my nervous reflection in the phone’s dark polished surface. “If I drop it, or . . . or if it gets stolen . . . ”

  Xavier winces just a bit at the thought of something happening to the xPhone . . . but he forces a shrug. “It needs to get out in the real world sometime, Veronica. We can disable it or wipe the memory remotely if it ends up going astray, and it’s too late for our competition to copy the design. And anyway, I trust you.”

  I trust you. I’ve never heard a voice more sincere, and I know that he means what he says. The proof of it is right in the palm of my hand.

  “That phone is your best best for getting in touch with me,” Xavier continues, “but don’t be too put off if I’m impossible to reach. As for the wallet, there’s a card inside. I’ve taken the liberty of putting the name Alice White on it — it should take care of any expenses you may incur during your stay. And I do mean any and all expenses. It’s meant for you to use, and I will be very disappointed if you don’t.”

  I open my mouth to protest, but shut it again at the look on his face. I make a little smile, and I nod again.

  “Good,” he says. “Now I’m afraid I’ve really got to run. Stay here as long as you like; the facilities here are all first-rate. Hit the gym, hit the sauna, go out and see the city . . . come back whenever you wish. Any questions?”

  So many are running through my mind. What exactly am I supposed to do? Where exactly am I supposed to go? I push the thoughts aside, though, trying to muster up some of the confidence that got me on that airplane yesterday.

  “I think I’ve got it,” I say, hoping my voice sounds convincingly relaxed. “I’ll see you . .
. well, when I see you.”

  “Good girl,” he says, leaning in for a far-too-brief kiss. “I’ll be in touch.”

  A moment later he’s out the door.

  Xavier is gone.

  * * *

  I take a few minutes to get myself properly ready for the day. I apply an appropriately less-dramatic version of the makeup Jayla taught me, then choose a pair of high-heeled sneakers from the collection in the closet. While they’re not exactly made for jogging, I think I’ll be able to walk around in them for an entire day. Even better, they make my legs look amazing.

  I go through my overnight bag next, pulling out whatever necessities I think I’ll need. My eyes fall on my aging iPhone. I’m one of those people with two cell phones now, I realize with a sigh. I pick it up and slide it into my new slim purse next to the black xPhone.

  The sight of my poor wrinkled birthday dress at the bottom of my overnight bag makes me feel suddenly sad. I decide to give it the dignity of a spot in the closet. I grab a hanger, but as I pull the dress I catch sight of my Book beneath.

  I’m here, I realize. California. Where all my silver screen Goddesses made their dreams come true.

  It’s too much. I’m feeling overwhelmed. I’ve got to talk this out with somebody. Besides, I don’t really want to be in the room right now. It seems oppressively empty at the vacuum caused by Xavier’s absence. I feel the need for company — or at least the sight of other people.

  I take the elevator down to the first floor and find a corner booth at the hotel’s bakery café. It’s a bustling hive of morning activity, wrapped up in the mouth-watering scent of just-from-the-oven baked goods. I order myself a cool glass of iced Earl Gray. I think that I’m ready to deal with the digital chaos of my iPhone now, and I reluctantly switch it back on.