True Devotion

by Liora Blake

  I’m sure Trevor will start getting whiny in the next few minutes and I’ll have to do something to distract him. Sure enough, after five freaking minutes, he’s grumbling and gritting his teeth. I knew that if I came by the studio, I would end up practically acting as his Lamaze coach.

  “Could somebody remind me why the fuck I’m doing this again?”

  Stacia smiles and continues her work. “Because you fell in love with a girl, silly. It will be so worth it, trust me.”

  Trevor somehow laughs without moving his chest. “Oh yeah. The girl.”

  “You are such a wuss,” I say by way of comfort. “Does Kate have to kill the spiders in your house? Do you need her to check for intruders when it’s dark out?”

  I get no response from Trevor except for a few choice curse words, so I flop down in a chaise lounge behind Stacia’s workstation and settle in to watch. The room falls silent for a bit: just the steady hum of Stacia’s machine moving over his chest, pausing occasionally for her to wipe at his skin. After a while, Trevor closes his eyes and his breathing finally stops sounding so choppy. I stand up and wander into Preston’s gallery for a few minutes, walk around and look at the new paintings he’s done, before ambling back to stand behind Stacia and check her progress.

  Trevor’s eyes pop open and he looks at me. “Shit, I almost forgot, I need you to do me another favor.”

  “Do you need the lid on a pickle jar loosened? Since Kate isn’t here to help your candy ass?”

  Sighing, Trevor closes his eyes again. “No, you pain in the ass. I told Simon to call you. I need you to work your voodoo magic massage therapy thing on him.”

  It’s been a couple of weeks and one sex sleepover with Tate since I saw Simon in my mom’s driveway eating my cookies. Unfortunately, the time—and the sex—hasn’t done anything to smother the way my belly gets all topsy-turvy at the thought of him. If anything, the not-so-hot sex with Tate has made the idea of Simon’s lips, torso, and dirty mouth even more appealing. Now Trevor wants me to put my hands on a naked Simon in a professional manner? Not a surefire way to stifle my hormones, I’m guessing.

  “What? Why? I’m really busy these days, Trevor. I’m not even taking new clients.”

  All of this is technically true. The only problem is Trevor and I are both aware that I always make exceptions, especially for people I know.

  “He’s not a client; he’s Simon. I know you two are in some long-running competition to outwit each other’s sarcasm or whatever, but I need him a hundred percent. He wrecked his dirt bike, dislocated his shoulder, and tweaked the shit out of his back. We’ve got some club dates in a few months and I can’t take him out on the road the way he is now. The kid can barely get through one song without looking like he might pass out.”

  My belly tumbles at Trevor’s words, along with a completely unexpected plummet at the news of Simon being hurt. Instantly I know that I’m going to end up with a tempting and alluring Simon on my table very soon. Without allowing that idea to take any specific shape in my mind, I demand more information as a mental detour.

  “How long has he been like this? I bet he’s freaking out without being able to work. What if he has to prostitute himself? He would be the world’s most irritating male escort.”

  Trevor snorts. “It happened three weeks ago, but I don’t think you need to worry about him going without any meals or working it on the streets. I’m sure his trust fund will get him through. You know, to make ends meet.”

  When Trevor first started talking, I had turned away, hoping to hide my expression so nothing about it could betray me and expose my inappropriate thoughts about Simon. Now my head has snapped back to him involuntarily.

  “What the fuck are you talking about? Trust fund?”

  Trevor looks up and furrows his brows together.

  “The kid’s loaded, Dev. How do you not know this? Have you guys never had an actual conversation?”

  Evidently not. From the first time we met, Simon and I have not conversed as much as engaged in sardonic repartee, which sometimes also includes inappropriate contact between my ass and his hands. Conversation? With complete sentences and no innuendo? Not so much.

  The night I met Simon, I was backstage at one of Trevor’s concerts. I knew he had a new guitarist, because his last one left in a blaze of alcoholic glory a few weeks earlier, destined for the ninety days in rehab Trevor paid for. Curled up on one of the couches backstage, I was talking to the wife of Trevor’s manager about their plans for summer vacation. It was a normal, boring, innocent conversation. A typical day, right up until I felt someone tap my shoulder.

  “Hey there, sunshine.”

  Yes, a stupid, cutesy pet name was one of the first things out his mouth. Granted, he’d probably called four thousand other blondes by the same name that night alone. I ignored him because without even turning around, I knew he was just some idiot hitting on what he assumed was an easy piece of ass backstage at a Trax show. He wouldn’t shut up, though. He kept tapping my shoulder and whispering “sunshine” in my ear. Finally, I had enough.

  I whipped around, crawled on his lap, and shoved my hands against his chest, thinking I could make this moron’s balls shrink and then he would leave me alone. Unfortunately, that’s when I got a look at him. Then it was a lot harder to crush him the way I planned. All I could focus on were his charcoal eyes, that obnoxiously sexy grin, and a heap of dark brown hair that looked perfectly messy. Once I was able to think straight, I curled my fingers into his chest and leaned forward.

  “Don’t call me ‘sunshine.’ ”

  When I heard him let out a little grunt, I almost lost it. I’d been without for too long, and when his hands shot out to grip my hips instead of backing off, I nearly kissed him. Then Trevor happened to walk by and see us. He whacked Simon on the back of the head and told him to get his hands off his sister. Simon’s head dropped back onto the couch and all he said before I crawled off him was one word. Long and drawn out.

  “Fuck.”

  Not much has changed since then. We basically have some version of that same interaction every time we see each other. He hits on me, I shoot him down, we stare at each other inappropriately, and then I walk away. Apparently, had I stuck around for some conversation or paid a bit more attention, I would have known that Simon isn’t exactly the guy I thought he was.

  Trevor lets out a small growl and the sound draws me back from my recollection. I clear my throat in hopes my voice won’t crack. “How is all that even possible? He’s an idiot.”

  “He’s actually supersmart. I mean, yeah, he acts like a moron, but he went to UC Berkeley. He’s classically trained and shit. Plays piano, guitar, and the goddam violin. Thank God the kid can’t sing, otherwise he might run me out of a job. He’s got a master’s degree in some kind of save-the-world public policy thing, too. When he and Kate are in the same room, talking about some crap they heard on NPR, I kind of want to kill myself.”

  Trevor stops talking, winces, and then glares at Stacia for a second. “Ouch.” He refocuses. “It’s family money, though. His dad is a techie genius who invented something that goes in cell phones. Sold it back in the nineties to . . . Shit, I can’t remember. Intel, maybe? Doesn’t matter. Boom, he’s a billionaire.”

  I have to sit down. If I don’t, I’ll end up swaying unsteadily on my feet before falling on Stacia and ruining Trevor’s tattoo. Sucking in another pained breath, Trevor keeps talking. At this point, I think he’s just trying to sidetrack his own mind from the assault on his skin.

  “After his mom died, they started a family foundation in her name. You know that midnight charity bike ride they do in the summer that goes all through downtown?”

  I nod my head, even though I don’t have a clue what he is talking about. All I can think about is me and Simon in the driveway, that fleeting look on his face when I brought up his mom. Shouldn’t you be torturing your own mother with your mere existence? God, I’m such an asshole.

  “That�
�s the Ellie Cole Foundation ride. Mostly cancer charity work. She was Simon’s mom. Simon Cole.”

  Finally, Trevor stops yapping and closes his eyes again. Stacia, on the other hand, is narrowing her eyes in my direction and giving me a stiff stare while she wipes Trevor’s skin again.

  Once I saw this movie with Kevin Spacey where he plays a guy who was supposed to be a victim of some complicated crime spree. I don’t remember all the details, but he has this limp, a serious one where he really drags his leg behind him all the time. Then at the end of the movie, it all comes together and, wham, all of a sudden you realize he is actually the bad guy. The final scene shows him shuffling his way out of a police station, but when he gets on the street, he stands up straight and the limp is gone. Kapow, you’re sitting there all shocked, because of the limp thing.

  That’s how I feel now. Kapow’d over Simon. My previous version of him was simple. Let’s take an inventory. Simon 1.0?

  Wisecracking moron. Dirty-minded manwhore. Guitar-playing idiot.

  Simple and straightforward. Now? Simon 2.0?

  Wisecracking brainiac. Guitar-piano-violin-playing musician. Filthy-rich, saving-the-world charity leader. Motherless stray. I’m keeping “dirty-minded manwhore” on the list since Trevor made no mention about Simon becoming a born-again virgin or a monk.

  Behind me, Trevor groans in relief and I can hear the shuffle of him standing up. Stacia hums to herself as she moves to clean up, the way she does when she’s finished something she’s pleased with. When I turn back, Trevor is smiling softly in front of the mirror.

  In the reflection, I see an antique compass in black and gray with four distinct spires for each direction and tiny degrees outlined in between. The kid looks like he might bawl, and I’m not sure if it’s from the art or the pain. I want to call him a wuss again, but he looks so pleased, I stop myself.

  “You want to tell me about it?”

  Trevor catches my gaze in the mirror and shakes his head. “It’s a thing of mine and Kate’s. Let’s just leave it at that.”

  It must be the single best feeling in the world to have a “thing” with someone, the kind that makes a guy who once insisted women were a curse get an obviously sentimental tattoo. The kind that makes two people invincible in the world. To say I’m jealous is an understatement.

  I nod my head. “Does she know about it?”

  “Nope.” A shit-eating grin covers his face. “That’s why I did it while she’s gone. When she gets back from her trip, I intend to let her discover it on her own.”

  A gagging noise erupts from my throat instinctively. “Gross.”

  Trevor continues to let Stacia finish bandaging him up. As he pulls on his shirt and turns to leave, he stops in the open doorway.

  “So you’ll help Simon, right?”

  In part because I’m a pushover, but mostly because deep down a part of me really wants to put my hands all over Simon’s skin, I don’t even think before responding.

  “Of course.”

  4

  When Simon finally calls me, I realize that even though we’ve known each other for two years, and he’s been to my mom’s house a hundred times, groped my ass, and mentioned a million lewd things he would like to do to me, the man doesn’t know where I live. Perhaps it was a subconscious thing, making sure that the creepy stalker can’t follow you home. Or maybe Simon has always been in a certain part of my life but nowhere else. He’s Trevor’s friend, not mine, and I’ve expended a good deal of energy trying to keep it that way.

  The workspace I use is above my garage. It sits a few yards away from my house, a Spanish-style bungalow in a neighborhood of artists and weirdos. But the right kind of weirdos—the type of people who have barbeques to celebrate National Talk Like a Pirate Day. The kind who get married in the backyard while their cousin plays the accordion in a kilt and a top hat. It’s the suburbs, but for people who ride skateboards to work, even when they’re thirty-five.

  I perch myself at the top of the stairs that run up the side of the garage, just in front of the door leading into my carriage house. I fiddle with my hair a bunch, pushing it around and twirling my fingers through it for no good reason. I’ve left it down, even though I know I need it up to work, somehow thinking that the length might act as a shield or a distraction.

  When his truck pulls up, I immediately cease the hair-fiddling and sit up straighter to watch him walk gingerly up to the front door of my house and knock. After a few minutes, he knocks again. Then he steps off the stoop and peers around, pulling back the limb on a potted miniature citrus tree to peek in the sidelight next to my front door. Every second I watch him makes it easier to believe I’ll be able to act normal in front of him, even if a million thoughts are at odds in my brain. He’s wearing his typical uniform, a pair of loose tan pants and a worn white T-shirt, and looking so stupid cute in it that I want to scream.

  Finally, when it seems I’ve gotten all my confused, fascinated, lusty reactions under control, I stand up from my perch and give a wolf whistle to get his attention. When he looks up at me from the sidewalk, he grins and makes his way over to the staircase.

  “Are the stairs for my tortuous benefit or do you always work up here? Because every single step I manage these days is a miraculous yet painful experience.”

  Anxiousness clouds his expression, but he tries to cover it with his typical goofiness. Nonetheless, he’s doing a shitty job at acting like he isn’t dying while standing on two feet.

  “I know it seems like a cruel trick I would devise, but no, I always work up here.” Stretching my arms out to the railings, I lean forward at the waist and give him a smile in concession. “If you really can’t manage it, we’ll figure something out.”

  A trademark glimmer hits his eyes as he takes the first step. “Just keep bending down like that. That’s all the motivation I need.”

  I figure out right then that my posture, bent over toward him, exposes a serious amount of cleavage in the tight scoop-neck T-shirt I have on. Of course. It only took him two minutes to go there. Although, this would illustrate how much pain he must be in, because it normally would have taken less than thirty seconds.

  “Usually that would earn you a comment about your stupidity, maybe a sock in the jaw, but because you’re clearly suffering I’m willing to throw you a bone today.” I stand up and tug the already-low neckline down a bit more before resuming my original posture. “How’s that? Better?”

  The pain on his face disappears. He moves his focus entirely to my breasts, blatantly enjoying the view with a quirked-up smile.

  “Stay right there. I’ll be up with that bone you just mentioned. It may take me ten minutes or so. Be patient with me, sunshine.”

  About halfway up his trek, I want to stop the poor kid because he looks close to tears. I consider telling him to turn around but figure going down will be worse, so I hold my tongue and wait it out. As he nears the top step, I move back and he lets out a pent-up breath.

  “You OK?” I rest my hand on his elbow and start to steer him toward the door.

  “Just don’t ask me to lift anything heavier than a fork, bend over, or square dance, and we should be fine.” His hand goes to the small of my back, lightly. “Thanks for the motivation, though; it almost made the searing pain worth it.”

  Walking into the front room of my workspace, I turn back to him. “Almost? Come on, I practically flashed you, Simon. That was a very generous action on my part.”

  A small snort leaves his lips. “Sweetheart, the amount of discomfort I’m in these days, you would have to be topless to really get me distracted. And you would have to have promised me I could tease you for hours with my mouth and my hands once I got up here.”

  With his voice hoarse and tight from the pain, the words are too enticing, even though they shouldn’t be, given the context. My mind snaps into gear and I realize immediately that I can’t let us behave as we normally would. Here, where I work, we can’t throw a bunch of sex talk around. T
ime for some boundaries.

  Moving across the room, I open the door to my treatment room and gesture for him to follow me. Once he makes it in, I step toward him and put my hand to his chest. Immediately, he looks down at my hand and then back up at me. Before he can fill the quiet with something inappropriate, I clear my throat and lower my voice.

  “Time for some ground rules. When we’re in this room, it’s not the usual Simon and Devon show, OK? It’s all professional. No happy-ending jokes, no tossing insults, no asking me to help you work out your kinks. I’m sure you wouldn’t believe it, but I like what I do and I’m good at it. I’ll help you, but we have to keep it all aboveboard in here. Got it?”

  His forehead grows tight as he knits his brows together. “I’m not a complete caveman, Devon. I don’t drag my knuckles on the ground all the time. On occasion I’ve even been told I’m a gentleman. And I know you’re good at what you do; I wouldn’t be here if I didn’t believe in you.”

  The tension slowly fades from his forehead and something like hurt crosses his eyes. I realize that I still have my hand against his chest and it has drifted down a few inches so my palm is against his stomach, where I can feel the breath moving in and out of his body. Turns out, I’m the one doing inappropriate things already. The placement of my hand is not one I would have used on any other client. Ever.

  “Good. Glad we’re on the same page, then.”

  The room is too small all of a sudden, the light too muted, the scent of lavender and sage from the massage oils too intoxicating.

  “I’ll step out for a minute and then we’ll get going. Let’s start facedown.”

  Just as I step out of the room, with the door almost closed behind me, Simon calls out. “Hey, Dev?”

  “Hmm?”

  “What about out there? Can I talk about how great your ass looks if we’re out there and not in this room? I just want to make sure I understand exactly what the rules are.”