Just One Lie

by Kyra Davis

As soon as I get back to the hotel I call Rubén and tell him all about it. “This is fantastic!” he exclaims. “And what about your American man, have you called him?”

  “No,” I admit softly. “It’s been six years and I’ve . . . God, I’ve already given up so much. What if I meet him and it doesn’t work? What if he sees me and realizes he doesn’t want me after all? What if—”

  “Mercy?”

  “Yes?”

  “Shut up,” he says simply. “Stop thinking, stop letting your fear guide you. Find courage in your love and get your butt to San Francisco.”

  “Is that how the Latin lovers do it?” I ask.

  “Yes,” he says definitively. “And remember, we are the best. Go find him. Now.”

  “Now?”

  “Now!”

  And so I postpone my flight back to Belgium, rent a car, and get my butt up to San Francisco.

  BY THE TIME I make it to The City by the Bay it’s almost four o’clock. Hopefully that’s a good thing. I drive straight to the financial district and park my car in a ridiculously expensive parking lot on the outskirts of Jackson Square. I walk past the beautiful brick buildings that miraculously have survived both the 1906 and 1989 earthquakes that terrorized so much of this city. I peer up at the TransAmerica pyramid pointing audaciously at the sky, demanding acknowledgment and respect. But it’s Brad’s office building that interests me. It’s a skyscraper, obviously not as grand as the pyramid or as tall as the Bank of America Tower, but still impressive. People in suits brush past me, and beneath my feet the sidewalk is suspiciously clean. Almost Brussels-clean.

  It’s cool but not cold. The sun shines warmer on these industrial types than it does on the artists who tend to live closer to the ocean. And here I am, across the street from it, standing around like an idiot, chewing on my thumb as I try to figure out what to do. Do I go in? Ask to see him? Should I wait here and hope this is the exit he takes? What if he isn’t in the office today? What if I’ve gotten this all wrong?

  I start pacing. I’m wearing a lightly frayed pink gingham wool trench and dark jeans tucked into brown heeled ankle boots. My hair is touched with pink again, maybe even more pink than it was when I was twenty-two, but the highlights aren’t streaks, they’re underneath, and a softer shade that sort of melts into my light blond hair. I currently have it all piled up on top of my head. Will he like the way I look? Do I look different? The morning of my twenty-ninth birthday I had been so excited about my age. I figured I looked just as good as I did in the beginning of my twenties, but was so much smarter. But maybe I don’t look as good as I used to? Or even more likely, what if I don’t look as good as I do in Brad’s memories? Memories altered by time and lost love? What if he sees me and runs in the opposite direction?

  Or . . . oh God, what if Brad needs to feel like he’s rescuing a woman in order to be enamored of her? And now that I finally don’t need to be rescued, will that change everything? Maybe he started dating someone since our last conversation. He’s a gorgeous single lawyer, he’s got to have women lined up, right?

  And then I just . . . stop. I feel someone looking at me. I feel it.

  Slowly I pivot and . . . oh my God.

  My thoughts are all tangled up in an indecipherable heap. I’m looking at Brad. He’s right across the crowded street of Montgomery. Cars are passing between us, and yet in the midst of all this, without knowing I’d be here, he’s spotted me. And he’s standing stock-still. The messenger bag he used to have has been replaced with a briefcase that looks like a messenger bag. He’s standing next to a male colleague who is looking at him and then me in utter confusion.

  Brad. I mouth the word without making a sound. People are moving in front of me, behind me, and he’s just . . . he’s there. And then he hands his briefcase to his colleague without even looking at him and starts to walk down the sidewalk. Is he walking away from me? I look to my left and right, unsure what I should do. Oh God, he can’t walk away from me, not now after I’ve broken it off with Logan and I can’t even drown my sorrows at a bar. That just can’t happen.

  But then . . . wait . . . he’s going to the crosswalk. He’s not walking away from me at all.

  I start to walk, then stride, then run to the crosswalk to meet him, and he’s increasing his pace right along with me. When we reach the corner, the light turns green as if it was waiting just for us, and I run, not into traffic this time, but to him. I run to him!

  And then, after pushing past the throngs of workers and their clients and shoppers, we meet, halfway through the crosswalk, and we both just stop, inches from each other. I take in his eyes, the line of his mouth, the broad shoulders that I have never stopped fantasizing about. His eyes move to my hair, my nose, my body . . .

  . . . and then we just flip a switch and in an instant we are in each other’s arms, right here in the middle of the street with all these people moving this way and that. His lips, Brad’s lips, are on mine, his hands on the small of my back as he crushes me to him and I wrap my arms around his neck, standing on tiptoe until he simply picks me up, cradling me in his arms, the kiss never really breaking.

  I’m vaguely aware of people applauding.

  As the light turns red he carries me to his side of the street. This is crazy; I haven’t seen or spoken to this man in six fucking years!

  It’s one of those days when I’m just so happy to be crazy.

  He’s walking at full stride again, just short of running. His colleague is still standing there, gaping at us, Brad’s briefcase in his hand. “Max, this is Mercy,” Brad says, his beautiful and so fabulously familiar baritone moving his words along at a rapid, clipped pace. “Briefcase, please,” he continues.

  Max lifts the briefcase, offering it to Brad as if in a daze. “Nice to meet you, Mer—”

  But I never hear him fully pronounce my name, because Brad has already grabbed the briefcase and is rushing me through the lobby of his building. He puts me down only so I can sign in at the security desk, and then he pulls me to a crowded elevator. He holds my hand so tightly it almost hurts as his eyes stay glued to the floor numbers. The damn thing stops on almost every floor. “Jesus, why does my office have to be on the top floor?” he growls.

  That’s when I start giggling. It just comes out. I’m standing here with pink hair and thrift-shop-chic clothes holding hands with a man wearing a two-thousand-dollar suit and a designer haircut on his way up to his top-floor law office . . . and it’s Brad!

  I peek up at him, the giggles still spilling from my lips, and I see his mouth twitch, which turns my giggles into a laugh. And then he’s laughing, and everyone here thinks we’re nuts, and he turns to me, once again pulling me to him, placing his laughing lips on mine, and now we’re laughing and kissing and crying in a crowded elevator while people awkwardly maneuver around us to get on and off. When we finally get to his floor he pulls me past the receptionist, making his introduction so fast that I don’t catch any of it, through a hall filled with people heading out for the day, and then he pulls me into his office. I step into the middle of the room and see he has a view of the city and the expanse of the bay. And when I turn to the walls, I see the poster of the tightrope walker. For a moment my eyes fall on the Twin Towers. We had all thought those would be there forever. Was that an age of innocence? Ignorance? Naïveté? I pull my eyes away. “It’s lovely,” I say quietly.

  “And you’re stunning,” he says, matching my low tone.

  “Are you sure you still know me?” I ask meekly. “Six years, Brad.”

  “You live in Belgium,” he says, putting his briefcase on a chair in the corner before turning back to me. “You’re in a band called Tar, which was inspired by your trip to the La Brea Tar Pits with me. You teach pole dancing classes in your limited free time . . . which, by the way, is one of the tamer jobs you’ve ever had.” I laugh and look down at my feet. “You love Brussels, but miss the surf in LA.” I look back up and he nods, taking a step forward. “I’ve seen the YouTube inte
rview,” he confirms. He takes another step. “You’ve become a big fan of Liège waffles served by street vendors, but try to keep the rest of your diet organic and healthy.” He takes another step. “You see magic in ordinary things. You’re comfortable in your own skin. And . . .” He hesitates a moment and then takes another step so that now we’re only a foot and a half apart. “You live with another man, the man who filmed that interview.” He reaches forward and tilts my head back. “But you don’t love him,” he says, his voice now hoarse. “Please . . . please tell me you don’t love him. Because it’s been six years. And I’ve been with other women, women you’ve never met and never will. And yet you have ruined every one of those relationships because I simply couldn’t stop thinking that not one of those women touched me the way you did. And they all know about you, and I’m pretty sure they all hate you.” I start giggling again but don’t look away. He smiles, his fingers now caressing the underside of my chin. “Your presence was always there. Six years, Mercy. And it’s always been you.” He takes a deep breath. “Please . . . please tell me you’re not in love with him.”

  “I’m not in love with him. I’ve never loved him the way I love you,” I whisper. “It’s why he and I broke up just a week after I got your let—” But I don’t get the rest of the sentence out, because he’s kissing me again, and now the passion and joy is at a whole new level. I won’t ever let him go. Never, ever, ever! He’s my Brad, my walking, talking, rebellious Ken doll. My frat boy with a James Dean complex. My white knight, my love.

  He’s my love.

  And so I unbutton that ridiculously expensive jacket of his and pull it off as he works on my pink gingham coat. And then he’s lifting me up in the air again and I’m wrapping my legs around his waist. As he presses me up against the wall, my hair falls free and around my shoulders. I feel his hands going up the fitted heather-gray T-shirt I’m wearing as his lips find my neck. I reach down, making quick work of his tie. And then my fingers are woven into his perfectly groomed hair, messing it up as I try to pull him closer than is even possible, because I don’t just want to feel him against me. I want him inside me. I want that now. And when my shirt comes off I make sure the buttons of his are undone, all the way to his waist.

  Good God, did he always look like this? How does anyone make their body look like this without spending their whole life working out?

  And it’s Brad.

  He slowly lets me down to my feet as he runs his fingers through my hair, kissing me again and again, his fingers moving to the back of my bra. And . . . oh, he’s crying, and so am I.

  When my bra falls away he can see that my nipples are already hard and reaching out to him, calling to him. He bends his knees and kisses them while I run my hands along the length of his shoulders; my head falls back, basking in this feeling. “I love you,” I whisper even as my body shudders. “I love you.” And he rises and again his lips are on mine. My skin is pressed against his and I can hear his heartbeat even as my own thunders in my ears.

  “Don’t leave me again,” he whispers.

  “Never.”

  He searches my face, sees the truth of it, and then lifts me up again, this time placing me on his desk as he gets down on one knee and pulls off each one of my boots and then, unable to contain himself, stands and moves between my legs, pressing me hard against him, his tongue opening my lips, skin to skin, tears mingled with tears.

  Oh, this isn’t just Brad. This is everything.

  I start working on the button of his pants and he works on mine. And we’re giggling again as we wriggle out of the things that separate us, only slowed down by our inability to stop kissing each other. Now he’s wearing nothing but his Calvin Kleins. He hooks his fingers into the waistband of my tiger-print panties and slowly, oh so slowly pulls them off me, letting the silk caress my skin, making me shudder. And when I’m wearing nothing he takes a step back, his eyes caressing me with every bit as much intimacy as his hands had. “Look at you,” he says, shaking his head. “Here with the entire city at your back . . . how can anyone be this beautiful?”

  “Don’t just look,” I say quietly with a playful smile. I reach my hand out to him. “Feel.”

  And again he’s moved against me, another kiss, more heartbeats, his breath against my skin, I pull down those boxer briefs . . .

  Oh wow, my memory hasn’t been exaggerating.

  I run my fingers up and down over the length of him. He’s looking in my eyes, breathing hard. I lean back, slowly, controlling my movements until I’m propped up on my forearms. “Now,” I whisper.

  He leans over, an arm on either side of me, his palms pressed against the desk, and then, with a single thrust he’s inside me, filling me, and—oh, to be connected to this man again! He moves inside me with force and need, and my head falls back again. I’m looking at the upside-down city, loving the beautiful chaos of it all. And then he’s straightening as he lays my back flat against the wood surface of the desk and lifts my hips, keeping our connection, until my back is lifted and it’s now only my shoulders and neck on the desk, both my legs over his shoulders. And he rotates his hips, grinding himself into me, touching me differently now, driving me absolutely insane. I’m not just trembling—I’m shaking. He’s using his strength to support me, holding me up with no effort at all as he gazes down at me, moves against me, I can’t contain myself for much longer . . .

  And the orgasm is so strong it tears me apart . . . but in the most wonderful way. I bite down hard on my lower lip. I don’t want to alert the whole office to our passion . . . but then, part of me just doesn’t care. As long as I’m here, as long as I’m with him.

  And then, almost magically, he has me against the wall again. His legs are bent as he thrusts up into me again and again, and I’m biting his shoulder. I want to taste him, I want to possess him, I want to be possessed. I want all of it!

  I lower my right leg, touching my foot to the ground as I keep the left wrapped around him and then, as he eases his rhythm, I further lift my left leg, placing the flat of my foot on his shoulder, his hands now firmly supporting my lower back. Wrapping my arms around his neck, I slowly slide my foot over his shoulder so I’m in a vertical split.

  He blinks, clearly shocked and impressed.

  “It’s all the pole dancing,” I say.

  His smile turns to a grin and he slowly moves inside me, his eyes on mine, his hand keeping me in place. I can see he’s barely able to hold back his own explosion now, and when his lips touch mine, it’s all I need to be brought to the brink again.

  “I love you, Mercy.”

  And that’s when my second orgasm comes as I quickly lower my leg, wrapping it around his waist once more, pulling him as far in as possible as he buries his head in my shoulder to muffle the sound of his cry and I bite down on my lip once more, this time so hard that it bleeds. He lifts his head, pressing his cheek to mine, keeping our connection so I can feel him throbbing inside me, giving me everything, making me feel that love.

  “I want this to be forever,” he whispers against my skin.

  I know it’s crazy. We haven’t so much as gone out to coffee in six years. I’m going to have to get reacquainted with his daughter. I’m going to have to move back to this country, and even then I’ll be at the other end of the state for a while. It’s totally insane to agree to forever right now, in this moment.

  Sometimes I just love being crazy.

  CHAPTER 42

  I SUPPOSE IN A normal relationship this is when the challenges would begin. We’d get to know each other, realize that we had grown in different directions, June would have a hard time accepting me, he’d tell me that my pink hair and pole dancing won’t go over well at the firm’s Christmas party, whatever. But for the most part that’s not how it works at all. I know Brad and I have grown in different directions, but our differences are complementary. As for June, God, the first time I see her I don’t recognize her! Brad reintroduces us at a restaurant, and on her tiptoes she’s a
lmost as tall as me. She has her mother’s hair, and her almond-shaped eyes and delightful smile have stayed the same.

  “Hi, Mercy,” she says, offering me her hand in a formal handshake.

  And I stand there, trying not to gawk. “Hi, June, I guess you probably don’t remember me,” I say.

  “Of course I remember you!” She laughs. “I remember your hair.”

  I laugh, too, and then restrain myself from hugging her. She leans forward and in a soft voice asks, “Are you really in a rock band?”

  And right then and there I know we’re going to be just fine. Although if I’m going to be completely honest, as the weeks and months go on, we do have some touch-and-go moments. Having her mother disappear on her, well, it was hard, and now she’s wary of the possibility that I might disappear the way Nalla did. But we make progress, and thanks to Brad, she actually remembers quite a bit about me and our brief time together. Apparently he’s talked about me over the years . . . a lot.

  As for what his firm will think of his dating a rocking, pink-haired pole dancer, it never really becomes a problem. Everyone he works with is actually pretty cool.

  And every once in a while Brad and I jam together, him on his drums, me on the mic. He’s not as good as he used to be, a little out of practice and all. But even so, he’s still pretty great, probably the best drumming lawyer around.

  Of course, I’m living in LA for the first six months of the relationship while I record the album. Then I’m playing in as many of LA’s hot spots as possible, getting my name out there before the release. In a way, that just adds to the excitement of everything. When your boyfriend meets you for lunch, that’s cool. But when your boyfriend takes an hour-long commuter flight just to have lunch with you and you end up sneaking into the restaurant’s bathroom for a quickie before he has to fly back . . . that’s hot.

  Toward the end of my stint in LA I manage to book a San Francisco gig on a Saturday night and fly up on Friday to spend the whole weekend with Brad and June. On Saturday afternoon the two of us hike through Land’s End, holding hands and looking at the pure awesomeness that is the San Francisco Bay. The hike treats us to views of the boats sailing under the Golden Gate Bridge and the sloping lines of the hills as they rise from the choppy waters of the bay. Brad spends the first ten minutes of the hike trying to talk me out of getting a nose ring, but by the time we’re out of sight of the golf course we’ve slipped into an easy silence.