True Devotion

by Liora Blake

  Groaning, I shut the door completely, and it does nothing to stifle the sound of his sputtering laugh.

  Halfway through, once he turns over to face up, he falls asleep. I suspect he hasn’t been sleeping very well, from the way his body holds knots in a million places to the way his red-rimmed eyes have dark circles hovering underneath. He behaves like a complete grown-up the entire time, without making a single rude comment. Perhaps it is just the pain keeping him quiet. A few times, I have to remind him to exhale. When his body fights my touch, I can feel it, the way his muscles tense and he holds his breath until I coach him through it.

  With the exception of running my fingers through his hair when I leave the room, I have zero problem doing what I always do and keeping every touch as professional as usual. Every twitch of him reacting in pain reminds me why he’s here in the first place. The hair, though? I can’t stop myself. It’s as soft and perfect as I’ve reluctantly imagined it to be.

  While I wait for Simon to wake up, I flop down on the couch out in my little waiting room and grab a magazine from the pile I’ve amassed for clients to peruse. Now that I’m reading the damn magazines, I realize they are all crap. I have to get some better reading material in here. Who really wants to know what shenanigans some D-list reality star is up to right before they lie down for a massage? Everything those morons do is bound to make a sane person’s neck bunch up.

  Checking my watch, I toss down the gossip rag and grab a Cosmo, flipping through it until I find myself reading “Friends to Lovers: How to Make That Guy Lose His Mind in Bed” with far too much interest. Just as I heave the magazine down on the coffee table, the door to the treatment room creaks open and with the dopiest relaxed face I’ve ever seen, Simon strolls out, still buttoning and zipping up his pants. It only takes a moment for me to get lost in his expression, the one I’m sure looks a lot like his Simon-just-had-an-orgasm face or his waking-up-with-Simon-after-a-night-of-naughty-mischief face.

  Oh God. I like that look. I really, really like it.

  “Hey.” Lifting his arms over his head, he twists a little from side to side. “Sorry I fell asleep. I’m sure you have shit to do. I just haven’t slept much in weeks, so I’m like a zombie these days.”

  I refuse to tell him that I cleared my schedule today. That tidbit of info might make it sound like I wanted to see him and only him, without having to worry about how another client would interrupt my Simon time. A little white lie in response won’t hurt a bit.

  “No worries. You’re my last client today.”

  “I can’t tell you how much better I feel. Thank you, Dev. I might be able to walk down those stairs without crying now.”

  Before I do something insane, like walk over there and kiss him, I pause to straighten the piles of magazines.

  “I’m glad. I want you to drink tons of water today. Gallons of it, OK? You should ice your shoulder tonight, too.”

  “Will do, Doc. How much do I owe you?”

  “Nothing. Don’t worry about it.” Shaking my head, I stand up, pretty sure that I won’t lunge at him and unravel all my hard work by pushing him against the wall with my fingers buried in his hair.

  “No way. How much, Devon?”

  “No.”

  “Why are you being so nice to me? It’s unsettling. I can count on a very few things in this world. The sun rising in the east, the way ice-cold PBR makes everything better, and the fact that you will verbally rip me to shreds at every given opportunity.”

  He tilts his head to the side and doesn’t waver in his gaze. Apparently, I’ve spent so many years being a bitch to him that when I’m not, he doesn’t know how to process it. Anger bubbles up inside me, although I can’t figure out if I’m pissed at him or myself.

  My fists ball up at my sides. “I’m not being nice. I’m being professional. Jesus Christ, can’t you tell the difference?”

  His face erupts in a grin. “There’s my girl. Thank God. I don’t like it when you get all Miss Manners on me. I love every second of you rattling my cage.” He pauses, his eyes turn darker, and he winks at me. “We’re out here now. Can I mention how your hands are like fucking silk? I fell asleep thinking about how they would feel wrapped around my d—”

  Two quick steps and I’m in front of him, with my hand up to silence him as I lightly press my fingers to his lips. “Don’t.”

  My focus shifts to where my fingers rest against his mouth. “Just don’t.”

  When I drag my gaze away from his mouth and turn up to meet his eyes, I feel a tiny grin moving across my fingers for a split second, just before he opens his mouth and bites down ever so gently on the ends of my fingers, letting the tip of his tongue graze lazily behind it. Then he releases his teeth and places a featherlight kiss to the tips.

  Every part of my body betrays me. My mouth drops open a few inches, my heart speeds up into wildly aerobic beats, my nipples tighten under my shirt. Each of these things he can see: my lips parting, the pulse pounding in my neck, and those traitorous nipples straining against my tee. His inventory of all of these things happening is obvious, as he draws his gaze over my body from top to toe.

  Then he ambles out the door, shutting it quietly behind him without a word, and I can hear him stomping heavily down the staircase. Behind the closed door, I slump to the floor and consider a career change.

  5

  Great. I just wasted twenty bucks.

  That’s my first thought as the little old lady in her huge black Caddy plows through the red light and T-bones me in the intersection. I just dropped a twenty at the full-service car wash and, up until this point, was enjoying the way the inside of my Jeep smells of coconut and car soap.

  Once our vehicles come to a screeching halt in a mass of twisted metal and broken glass, I don’t need anyone to tell me that heavy hulk of a car just totaled mine. At least the insurance company will be able to enjoy all that cleanliness when they inspect the damage and write me a pathetic check for my twelve-year-old trusty steed.

  Between the air bags going off in my face, the seized seat belt digging into my hips ruthlessly, and the impact shoving my ribs straight into the armrest, the EMTs are adamant I take a ride to the emergency room with them. I try really hard to convince them I’m fine, but, apparently, they hear that a lot and don’t seem to care.

  Once there, the ER nurse pokes and prods at me in a way that borders on hateful. She has cold fingers to boot. Not a bit of warmth in her touch, physically or emotionally. After all the poking, she stares at me with cold assessment in her gaze and announces that I have a contusion on my elbow, some bruised ribs, and a welt on the back of my head. I stifle the urge to look her dead in the eye and say, “No shit, Sherlock.”

  Because, unfortunately, I’ve been on the receiving end of a few broken ribs before. I remember in acute detail exactly how agonizing it felt and this knowledge allows me to use my incredible deductive reasoning skills to determine I’m only bruised this time, instead of broken.

  After the nurse makes her insightful assessment, I’m instructed to wait for the ER doctor to make rounds and charge me a few hundred bucks more before determining I can go home. She asks if I have a ride coming. I lie, nodding my head decisively.

  Pulling my phone out of my bag, I try to figure out who to call first. My mom is volunteering at McKenna’s school today. Stacia is working. Trevor becomes the next-best option. If he isn’t around, I’ll call a cab, or hop the nearest bus if I have to.

  I shift on the exam table, then dial Trevor’s number, taking a deep breath as I wait for him to answer. With every second that passes, I can feel those bruised ribs really starting to settle, the ache spreading from a localized few inches into a wider, radiating pain. In a few hours, the pain will probably have me holding my breath and gritting my teeth.

  “Hey, Devon.”

  I stiffen a little at the sound of his voice. It’s huskier than usual; maybe I’ve caught him at the wrong moment. Great. One overpriced cab ride coming up.

>   “I need you to give me a ride. Are you busy?”

  There is silence on the other end for a little longer than I was hoping for. Then his voice comes through, but lower this time, with a small groan that prefaces his words.

  “Oh, hell, yes. You have no idea how long I’ve waited to hear you say those words to me. I am absolutely available to give you a ride, sweetheart. Tell me where you are and I’ll be right over.”

  I pull the phone back from my face and stare at the display, confirming that I called the correct number. My face quirks up into a grimace. “Gross, Trevor. This isn’t your wife, you dumbass. I’ve had a shitty day and the last thing I need is incestuous dialog with my brother.”

  A thunderous laugh courses through the phone and the sound is so instantly recognizable it’s infuriating.

  “Simon?”

  His laugh trails off, then his breathing becomes choppy, so I can picture him doubling over and giggling from his belly. “Oh, shit. That was classic.”

  “Fuck off, Simon. I need to talk to Trevor. Why are you answering his phone? Didn’t anyone teach you it’s rude to touch other people’s stuff?”

  Another small chuckle. “We’re at the studio and he’s in the booth, laying down tracks. His phone was lying here and I saw it was you, so I answered because I couldn’t help it. You know I’d never miss an opportunity to talk to you, Dev.”

  “Fine, I’ll call Kate or my mo—”

  “Hold up, hold up. You said you needed a ride. Free of all innuendo, I was just getting ready to take off. I’ll come get you.”

  No damn way. This situation can’t handle another layer of weirdness. With a headache the size of Texas brewing at the base of my skull, the idea of seeing Simon makes it roar into a tidal wave across my temples.

  “No, thank you. I’d rather hitch a ride with a band of dirty gypsies in a converted school bus. Even if they’re singing Phish songs for hours on end, still less grating than your voice.”

  Simon’s tone turns serious. “Devon, come on. Let me pick you up.”

  “No.”

  “Why? Are you someplace embarrassing? A strip club? A tent revival? If you’re in jail, I need to know how much your bail is so I bring enough cash.”

  “None of the above. I’m . . .”

  “Spit it out, Devon. Just tell me where you are.”

  My evasiveness seems to have finally hit a limit with him, because for the first time ever, Simon sounds annoyed with me. Before I can process that reaction or simply hang up and call a cab, the hospital PA system crackles to life from the speaker mounted just above my head. A woman with a high-pitched, nasally voice launches in with code blue for Dr. So-and-So, then repeats the whole thing twice more. Finally, there is a loud click through the speaker before it goes silent.

  “What the hell?” Simon raises his voice, confused. “Are you at a fucking hospital, Devon?”

  I manage to grumble out a response, admitting to my current location.

  “Goddammit. You shouldn’t screw around about that kind of shit.” He lets out an exasperated sigh. “What happened?”

  “Small car accident with Driving Miss Daisy. I waved good-bye to my Jeep as the nice tow truck man drove it away to what I’m guessing will be its final resting place. I’m fine, I just need a ride.”

  I let out a sigh, dropping my forehead to rest into one hand. A few seconds of silence hang between us, nothing but the faint sound of breathing, but if it’s possible to hear someone grinding their teeth through a phone, I swear that’s what Simon is doing.

  “Stay put. I’ll be there in ten.”

  I wait patiently for what feels like longer than ten minutes, but lose track after realizing how terrible I must look right now. My hair is limp and dry, my eyes burning from whatever the dust is that erupted from the air bags, and my jeans suddenly seem baggy in an unflattering way. Without a hair tie to tame the mess of my mane, or even the mercy a decent lip gloss might offer, I’m feeling damn rough at the moment. Despite the fact that I know it shouldn’t matter, having Simon see me this way makes everything worse. I’d give anything right now for a rewind button, one that has me dialing a cab company’s phone number instead of Trevor’s. That way, only some nameless taxi driver would see this raggedy mess. Not Simon.

  And when he rounds the corner, pushing back the curtain to my exam room, then cranes his neck to peek in, I want to claim amnesia and shout for security so I won’t have to go anywhere with him. I’m too tired to manage it all, simply weary of him looking so good, and beaten down by the faded adrenaline of the last few hours. With a hat tugged on over his messy brown hair, grown out a little too long so that tendrils push out around the edges, and black sunglasses propped on top of the bill, his expression goes into relief followed by an eye roll when he sees me.

  “You are a certifiable pain in the ass, sunshine. Not cool to go and get yourself into an accident.”

  I flop my head into the safety of my upturned palms with a groan, trying to hide some portion of my hideousness from his view. “Gee. Thanks. That’s just what I needed to hear right now.”

  Pushing the curtain back further, the screech of it dragging across the rod doing the same to my brain, he stands in front of me but I refuse to look up. I had previously pulled my legs up onto the exam table to sit cross-legged on the crinkling paper, and his nearness has me shifting a little in unease, even when I vaguely want to just lean forward until my head rests against the safety of his chest. His hands come to either side of my face, pressing gently until I yield and lift my head up. Pausing to push a strand of hair off my forehead, he draws one hand down the side of my face and lets it rest at the back of my neck. His hand is just cool enough to offer a small amount of relief from the pain settled there.

  “No bullshit, now. Are you OK?”

  I start to nod my head, but before I can back up the motion with words, a doctor glides through the open curtain and flips a few pages on a clipboard without looking up. When he eventually does, his eyes flicker over me, and over to Simon. The doctor suddenly smiles broadly, deep wrinkles settling around his bright blue eyes. Shoving the clipboard into the crook of one arm, he shoves out his other hand toward Simon.

  “Simon! How are you, son? I just saw your father at the foundation charity auction last week. Sorry we missed you.”

  Through the haze of my muddled mind, I realize that the fancy-pants doctor has something to do with the rich Simon, and here in this tiny room, all the versions are colliding in front of me: rich Simon, snarky Simon, sexy Simon, nice Simon. Too many Simons in one room, that’s for sure. It has a fun house–mirror effect that is a tad overwhelming when my head feels like it’s about to explode.

  Simon’s hand drops from behind my neck and I want to protest, demand that I am the one in the ER and I need his cool fingers somewhere to soothe me. As if he can hear every thought in my head, he lets his other hand settle on my knee before reaching toward the doctor.

  “Doc Anderson, nice to see you. I’m good.” Simon releases their handshake and then gestures back toward me. “My girl here, though, not so hot.”

  I don’t have the energy to holler about not being his girl or even to shake my head and negate it without words. Honestly, I don’t give a shit, because I don’t want to speak to the doctor anyway. At this point, I want someone else to do all the talking. Someone should write down the date and time, because this is a historic moment: the one time I want Simon to do the talking.

  “Well, I think she’ll be just fine.” The doctor scribbles a few things on a sheet and proceeds to rip off a page and hand it to Simon. “A few bruised ribs, heck of a knot on the back of her head, but nothing broken.”

  Simon’s posture relaxes in front of my eyes, his shoulders falling a few inches and the hand on my knee easing in a way I haven’t felt before when someone touched me. Looking down at the paper, he scans it for a few seconds and then looks back up at the doctor.

  “Anything else? Can I take her home?”

 
; “Just keep a close eye on her tonight. I don’t think a concussion is likely, but if she gets dizzy, confused, nauseated, not making sense, bring her back in right away.”

  Never has the fact that two men are talking about me like I’m not even in the room been so not a problem for me. Usually, if something like this happened, I would have stormed out, immediately after I told them both to fuck off. Right now, I only want to go home and crawl under the sheets until the pounding in my skull ceases.

  “Got it.”

  After few other pleasantries, the doctor rattles his papers and disappears. Simon turns back to me and pulls both his hands to the back of my neck again so I can look up at him.

  His head tilts a fraction, settling his steady gaze on me. “Ready?”

  “Yeah.”

  My voice sounds too quiet in the small room, but even if I had the strength to seize my power back, I might not take it this time. I might let my usual need for absolute independence hang in the background for a while, because it seems like a perfectly reasonable idea to have him be in charge right now. Taking my hand, he helps me down off the exam table until my feet behave and withstand moving forward. Then he wraps his arm around my shoulder and guides us out into the darkness of the night.

  At home, Simon pulls his truck in front of the house, and when I finally lurch the car door open, he is already standing there with his hand out to me. The air is too cold outside the cab of the truck, sending a light shiver running through my limbs as I step out and start to dig around in my bag for house keys. The moment my hands touch the metal and I hear the jangle of the key chain, I desperately want to get inside and stop everything. Once in the house, Simon finds a light switch in the kitchen without needing any cue. The dim light is not enough and too much all at once.

  He strolls into the kitchen and looks about the room. “How about some tea? Are you hungry?”

  A series of cabinet doors softly thuds closed, one after another. When he finds the one packed full of small tins of tea, he pulls them out one at a time and inspects the labels. “I’ll warn you that the repertoire of edible things I can make is limited. But if you like cereal, I can make the shit out of that.”