More Than A Maybe

by Monte, Clarissa

  “Perhaps I did,” he says. He looks at me with a face that suggests he’s keeping his cards close to his chest. “Still, those types of things are few and far between . . . and they must be, of course, very very special.”

  Xavier reaches over and places his warm hand across my own.

  Whatever that touch signifies, I want to explore it — more than anything else in the world. Somehow, in some way, I’m determined to get Xavier down out of the clouds and plant him on Earth where he belongs.

  It’s possible, I can tell. He may speak of being a nomad, of impermanence . . . and yet the lost look in his eyes tells me more than any words ever could.

  Xavier Black is looking for someone to bring him home.

  * * *

  Home isn’t where we end up, though.

  Naturally.

  “Oh, Xavier . . .” The sound of my passions slipping from my lips come in the shape of his name. There’s nothing I can do to contain them. I’m grateful for two things right now — the solid but yielding softness of our room’s massive bed, and the fact that our hotel room has very thick walls.

  Well . . . technically I’m grateful for more than that. Most of all, beyond anything, I’m grateful for the person who is currently sending me into naked throes of ecstasy. I’m on my hands and knees now, thick handfuls of bedclothes in my hands to steady myself. Xavier is behind me — he has me by the waist now, his strong hands keeping a steady hold on me. He slams into me, again and again, filling me utterly with his beautiful cock. I’ve never felt so entirely alive. He moves his exacting and masculine fingers around to my belly and then downward, to tease my moist and rigid clit with the hot touch of a man consumed.

  I push myself backward now, thrusting my sex toward him, as his rising growls of pleasure spur me on. While he might have been the one to push me to the bed face-first, I’m the one fucking him now . . . the subtle shift of insistence in his voice only confirms it, and I drive myself onto him with pure and unrestrained desire.

  And then I gasp; he pulls out of me in a way that’s completely unexpected. The sensation of absence makes me stare over my shoulder at him, my haunted eyes wondering if he’s playing some selfish game with me. He only stares back, his eyes meeting mine in a ferocious storm of fire . . . then he is on top of me, turning my body to face him just before his sweat-slick chest crashes against my own.

  He guides his hand between us, moving his thumb and forefinger to my nipple. I feel it redden, stiffening at his touch. He lowers his mouth to take it between the warmth of his lips. “They’re beautiful,” he says.

  “They’re small,” I say, the response reflexive. I don’t know why I say it. I just do. I feel self-conscious about them, even now — like he’s poking around at some part of me that I don’t want to think about. It’s only a shadow, however, and one that passes at the flicking of his tongue around my areola . . . it’s good . . . it’s so, so good . . .

  He lifts his mouth and speaks then — and a change sweeps into his voice. The sound of it is hollow, vulnerable, and somehow far away . . .

  “I’m worried, Veronica,” he whispers. “I’m worried that we’re going to fuck, and then I’m going to leave.”

  The words are almost cruel . . . but there’s no cruelty in the voice that speaks them. He doesn’t seem to say them to hurt me. He says them like it’s something that’s bound to happen. Like the sun setting, or the Earth spinning on its axis. Is it an apology? Honesty? Or is it just another challenge?

  I stare deeply into him.

  I challenge you, and you challenge me?

  Is that how this works?

  Fine.

  I reach my hand down and palm his still-slick erection. “Oh, really?” I ask him, hoping that the confidence I force into my voice will hold. I pull him forward, teasingly, with a gentle tug. It ignites something in him at once. Instantly Xavier, my Xavier . . . he’s back. A half-moment later and I can feel him there, between my thighs, again entering my wet sex. He’s back inside me now, and the pleasure comes with him; wave after shattering wave of blinding overwhelming erotic bliss, shooting through every corner of my body. I marvel at the expression of animalistic want on his face, and I simply know — this man is not going anywhere.

  I feel my orgasm approaching fast; my mind is lost, going giddier with each decisive thrust of his muscular hips. The look on my face says everything, everything — but before I can reach my climax, his intensity suddenly slows.

  “Not yet,” he says. “Wait for it. Not until I say.”

  You challenge me, I challenge you — and back again. I allow my eyes to swim in his gaze as I look at him, nodding, trying to match the shallow gasps of my own desperate breathing to his own. Not until he tells me. Not until he tells me. Not until he . . .

  “Now,” he says, and I come with a force that rocks me, bends me — my back arches and I see light, I actually do — the sweet release of my body pushing me, driving me, and we slip together over the swirling edge of a breathless infinity . . .

  He collapses against me in a wet heap of satisfaction, the both of us more than a little spent. His arms are around me then, holding me in a cradle of protection. I lean backward into him and bask in our shared glow, feeling the soft steady rhythm of his breath on my neck.

  After a few satisfied minutes, I feel the warmth of Xavier’s fingers on my back. They move in curious little flourishes — little backwards C-shapes that feel delicious against the sensitive glow of my skin.

  “I love that,” I say.

  “Hm?” he says. I feel his hand stop suddenly, resting motionless against my back.

  “Oh, don’t stop,” I say. “It’s wonderful.”

  His hand begins to move again. The motion is a bit different now . . . more aimless, yet still undeniably erotic.

  I sigh, letting myself fall helplessly under the spell of his touch.

  I’m beginning to let myself believe in him, I realize.

  And not just in him.

  In us.

  And I think that maybe, slowly . . . Xavier is beginning to believe in us, too.

  Chapter 9

  The next few weeks blur by so quickly it makes me dizzy. One day seems to blend its way into the next, somehow. It’s all I can do to keep up with the pace.

  My days are filled with the sights of the city. I visit the LACMA on a couple of different days and drink my fill of the wonders of art. I take long drooling looks at the classic cars at the Peterson Auto Museum. Baby is always ready to hit the shops with me, naturally, and push me to buy anything that catches my eye for more than two seconds. She doesn’t have to push too hard. Shoes and sandals, halter tops and balloon minis . . . in short order, my side of the hotel closet begins to look distinctly more cheerful and colorful.

  My nights I spend with Xavier, whenever he can get away. Usually that means dinner — at the hotel, or one of the endless variety of exclusive restaurants he always manages to have a reservation for. Sometimes when Xavier comes to meet me his work comes with him, and his attentions are divided between the food, yours truly, and the endless irritations of his phone. Sometimes he leaves for what he claims will be “just a second” and goes to take calls that stretch into fifteen or twenty minutes while our entrees get cold.

  Sometimes he just shuts off the phone altogether, and these are the best times, and the minutes stretch into lazy hours, and we talk about stupid things that make us both laugh.

  I’m worried that we’re going to fuck, and then I’m going to leave.

  And then those words come back to haunt me.

  I’d tried to soothe myself with the fiction that it was just another challenge, or bit of rough pillow talk on Xavier’s part . . . but as the days speed by I learn how much those words have chilled me. It was a strange, terrible thing to say. Perhaps it was just the most honest way for him to express his fears about commitment. Still, thinking about it makes me feel incredibly sad.

  We’re eating breakfast one morning in the lobby of the hote
l — scones and coffee, jam and clotted cream. When we’re done, Xavier takes a quick glance at his phone.

  “Gotta run, I’m afraid. Headhunter’s sending some possible recruits to our new office space, and then I’ve got another patent party with Randall,” he says, making a face. “I’d rather shoot myself, but what are you gonna do . . . ”

  “I could shoot you,” I say, smiling helpfully.

  He grins. “Maybe later.” A kiss on my cheek and a cheerful wave later, and he’s out the front door of the hotel.

  I sigh. This can’t go on, I realize.

  It can’t. Not really. Though it’s still a dream on the face of it, I can already see a pattern beginning to emerge, and I’m not at all sure that I like it.

  We’ve plateaued.

  What exactly does he expect me to do with myself? Is this it — tour the city on Xavier’s credit card, wait for him to show up from work, make moon eyes at him through an amazing gourmet dinner, have a night of passionate sex in one of the city’s most beautiful hotels, and then . . .

  . . . hm.

  It really doesn’t sound too bad when I think about it like that, but I can’t just wave away all the feelings I know are perfectly valid. The entire thing seems too controlled. Too tidy. Too . . . temporary. I need to talk this out. Before I know it, my fingers are finding my iPhone and calling Jayla.

  She picks up. The sound of her sleepy voice puts me at ease immediately.

  “How’s my California girl?” she says, yawning just pointedly enough to remind me that I’ve woken her.

  “Still good. Still sunny. How’s class?”

  “Aw, you know, same old thing. Dr. Laredo’s sick — he’s been sending his TA to teach. He’s nice and all, kind of cute . . . but shit, is that boy ever dumb. He assigns us like 10 pages from the wrong chapter, and then he tries to give us a quiz on all the stuff he forgot to make us read. Guy just stands there turning red for like five minutes, then puts on some old DVD about how to set up an IV line. Then he just leaves.”

  “Ha! That sucks,” I say. “Oh, by the way — did everything go okay with my apartment?”

  “All taken care of,” Jayla says. “Landlord put your stuff in storage, just like you wanted.”

  I sigh in relief. Xavier had insisted on taking care of my back rent and other bills, and I’d told my landlord that I was moving out — it was time to move on. There had still been the problem of all the stuff I’d left in my apartment, though.

  “I’ve got the key to the storage. You need?” Jayla asks, stifling another yawn.

  “No . . . if you can keep it for me, that would be awesome. Thanks,” I say, my voice suddenly slipping into a whisper.

  Those words come floating back to me: We can never throw away what hurts us most.

  Jayla can obviously hear the weight of my emotions in my voice. “What’s wrong?” she asks. “Xavier treating you okay out there?”

  “Well . . . yeah. I mean, it’s kind of perfect,” I say.

  “Hey girl, perfect is good. Don’t try to argue with perfect.”

  I let out a long sigh, trying to find the right way to explain how I feel. “Good things are real, Jayla. Perfect is perfect.”

  She listens as I vent about the past few weeks. She lets me do most of the talking. Nothing is resolved, really, but saying everything out loud helps me process my thoughts — helps me get the questions swirling around my head into sharper focus.

  It is perfect . . . but for how long?

  How much longer is Xavier going to continue to find me interesting?

  How much longer is he going to want this same endless date to continue?

  Darker thoughts creep up in my mind — the ones I’ve been trying to push away.

  What am I to Xavier? A girlfriend? A temporary convenience like his hotel room? Like the bed or the furniture? And if that’s how it is . . . if that’s how he sees me . . . when does it end?

  Jayla waits for me to finish unpacking it all . . . and then she’s quiet for a few long seconds.

  “Look,” she says finally. “This Xavier guy seems like he’s got his work taking up most of his mind. If he’s the kind of man you say he is, then money isn’t the most valuable thing to him. It’s time. So every minute he’s spending with you is a minute he’s not spending on building all of his new digital futuristic bullshit.”

  “I know,” I say.

  “I don’t know what Xavier wants out of his relationships, exactly. Maybe he wants love. Maybe he wants distraction. But whatever it is, he saw a little of it that night you fell ass-first into his lap.”

  I can feel my eyes rolling at that. “So he wants a stripper? One that can’t stay on a stage?”

  Jayla laughs. “I don’t think so. Or if I understand what you’re telling me, anyway, that’s not exactly what he wants. It sounds like he’s into you for what you want to become. That stripper he saw wanted to try something new, no matter whether it would work out or not. I think he saw this little bitty seed of confidence growing in you, and wanted to see what it would turn into.”

  I think about that first big reaction I’d gotten from Xavier — how he’d looked at me when I’d shown up for dinner in that dress I’d gotten with Baby. Xavier is a hard man to surprise, no doubt about it. It was great to see him looking pleasantly shocked like that.

  And then in a flash the pieces come together in my head, and I know what I’m going to do.

  The excitement in my voice shoots right through the phone. “I’ve got it! Oh, Jayla — you are the absolute BEST.”

  I can almost hear her smiling on the other end of the line. “Of course am, bitch! And don’t you forget it.”

  I say my goodbyes to Jayla. My heart is pounding. I’ve already made the decision.

  I’m going to do it. Maybe Xavier would like it. Maybe he wouldn’t.

  Maybe I’m kind a mess . . . some patchwork of half-formed identities and Goddess aspirations, flailing around for some definition of who and what I am.

  Maybe it doesn’t matter. I don’t have the energy to keep justifying my desires to myself anymore. But I do know what I want . . . and I’m ready to get it.

  Another few minutes later, and I’m sweeping out the door of the hotel lobby.

  My Book goes with me.

  * * *

  There are two stops on my schedule today.

  The first one is at a place called Bettie’s Retro on Hollywood Boulevard.

  It’s a place I’d been wanting to visit since I got to LA, but I’d kept chickening out. Part of me had been terrified that I would fall in love with something there, only to have it fail to fit due to lack of boobage. The other part of me was worried that I’d fall in love with simply everything, and I’d end up turning Xavier’s credit card into a melted slab.

  The second worry ends up being the more likely; it’s all I can do to restrain myself. Bettie’s Retro is the closet of my dreams. There are more beautiful clothes there than I can even count. I’m stunned by all the color — I’d spent so many hours watching my Goddesses on my little black-and-white screen that I’d sometimes forgotten just how vivid their world had been.

  It takes nearly three hours, but I finally settle on two pieces I can’t live without: an aquamarine button-down circle frock with white pearl buttons, and a slinky red silk cocktail dress with a black lace bolero. I manage to make both of them work with the padded strapless brassiere I’ve brought along with me.

  I wear the aquamarine out of the shop. Beauty World is my next stop, and I’ve decided to show up unannounced. I want to be the one to take Baby by surprise this time — and I don’t mind a wait if it comes right down to it. It’s not like I have anything else to do today.

  The limo drops me in front of a charming little salon. It’s set into a modern-looking brick building that blends solid architectural traditions with California chic. The exterior has been designed with a subtle flair — tasteful yet decidedly current, with a tiny floral wonderland blooming in neatly landscaped rows alo
ng either side of the entrance. The front edifice is curved slightly, like a bubble; the windows here reflect the noon sun against my face. It looks almost like a greenhouse for people.

  As I walk in I see a nicely golden man with a bald head, a neatly-trimmed beard, and a laconic grin on his face. I hazard a guess: “Rosco?”

  The man springs to life. “Uh-oh — we’ve got a walk-in!” he shouts over his shoulder. “Rosco, that’s me. Welcome to Beauty World! No appointment today?”

  “No — sorry. Actually,” I say with a smile, “is your oiran around here anywhere?”

  Rosco throws his head back and lets out a booming laugh at the sound of the word. “Oh, you want the boss lady,” he says. “Sure thing. Baby, love — you got a visitor!”

  Baby’s head pops around a mirror at the far side of the salon and gives me a big smile. “Veronica! Do you think you could maybe just have a seat for me? I’ll be just a sec.”

  Rosco shows me to a chair. I flip absently through a magazine. A few minutes later, an elegant-looking older woman appears from behind the mirror. She settles up with Rosco, then slips past me out the door.

  The shop is now free from customers; a couple of Beauty World employees straighten up a multicolor rainbow of moisturizers, nail polish, and miniature aromatherapy bottles. I’m amazed at the variety. It seems like Beauty World is set up to do everything from hair extensions to nail art to relaxation treatments.

  Rosco points at me and looks at Baby. “This is her? The Chicago girl you told me about?” he asks, all smiles. “You told me she was cute, but you didn’t tell me she dressed to kill, too. Ouch. Anyway, nice to meet you — I’m Rosco. Recovering midwesterner.”

  I blush at the compliments as I shake his hand. “Veronica Kane. Look, I’m sorry I don’t have an appointment . . . is this a bad time?”

  Baby shoos away the suggestion with a flutter of her fingers. “No way! It’s fine — we had a cancellation. Our next appointment isn’t for hours.” Her eyes fall on my dress; the whites of her baby blues get big. “Did you just get that today? I love it! Very you. But anyway, what’s up? Are you just here to make me jealous? Or to watch Rosco try and drink me under the table?”