Devi's Bliss: Books 4-6

by Mika Lane

She stuffed what looked to be the last of her humiliation into her bag. But as she went to stand back up, she smacked her head on the back of her bar stool.

  “Whoa. Slow down there, cowgirl.” Gabe reached to steady her, and his touch shot electricity through to her core. “You okay?” he asked, as he guided her back onto her bar stool.

  Geez, girl. Get it together.

  “I’m fine. Really.” She’d plastered a never been better look on her face and took a deep gulp of air to blow off the flutters that’d turned her into the world’s biggest klutz. With a discrete look down, she checked on the girls. All intact.

  “Hey, Gabe, good to see you.” Jake extended his hand from behind the bar.

  They know each other?

  “Hey, man,” Gabe said, shaking Jake’s hand. “It’s been awhile. Good to see you, too.”

  “I know this guy from windsurfing,” Jake explained to Jewel.

  A crooked smile—a stupidly, devastatingly sexy crooked smile—lit Gabe’s face, and Jewel’s mouth ran dry. He nodded at Jake. “Yeah. Windsurfing at Chrissy Field in San Francisco. Nothing better.”

  “Haven’t seen you there recently,” Jake said.

  “No, man. Too damn busy. But soon. Hopefully.”

  “I’ll look forward to that.” Jake turned to Jewel. “And what’ll you have for eats, my friend?”

  Grateful for the moment to rebuild her composure, she mumbled, “Um, I’ll have the salade nicoise, thanks.”

  “That’s all?” Jake asked, with a raised brow.

  Why does everyone keep asking that?

  “Yes, thank you.”

  He turned to Gabe. “Get you a beer?”

  “Please.” He turned to Jewel. “Seems like you know a lot of people here.”

  “Yeah, this is a regular hangout for some of the girls from Devi’s.”

  “It’s a nice little place. I should spend more time here.” He looked around at the French-bistro décor, including a giant mural of a pig wearing a chef’s hat. The French seemed to like pigs in chef’s hats. Why was anybody’s guess.

  Gaia, eavesdropping, was leaning so far in Jewel’s direction she nearly fell off her bar stool when Jewel shifted in her seat.

  “Careful there,” Gabe said. “We don’t need another casualty.” He gestured at the spot where Jewel’s head had hit the chair. “By the way, I’m Gabe.” He extended his hand to Gaia and Luke.

  “You’re Gabe? Oh, I thought you were Demian—” Gaia said.

  Oh shit. Forgot all about Demian.

  Jewel cut her off, “No, Gaia. This is Gabe.” She smiled stiffly at her friend.

  Gaia’s brows turned from furrowed to understanding. “Super, nice to meet you. And this is Luke,” she said, introducing her boyfriend. “Hey, you look familiar. Are you the client from—”

  “Hey Jewels.” Another male voice interrupted them.

  All heads turned. Gaia nudged Jewel, who popped upright on her stool.

  A tall, blond guy kissed Jewel on the temple and snatched an olive from the salad Jake had just delivered to her.

  “How’re y’all doing?” he asked when he realized all eyes were on him.

  “Hey everyone, this is Demian.” Jewel glanced around the small group. Everyone looked confused. Everyone that is, except Demian.

  “Hey man,” he hollered across the bar to Jake. “How ’bout some drinks over here, buddy?” He waved as if he might miss him.

  In no hurry, Jake approached. “What’ll it be, buddy?”

  Oh god.

  Demian proceeded to make him name every tap and bottled beer Left Bank carried, asking the for provenance of those he was unfamiliar with. Jewel watched Jake answer patiently. Knowing him, though, that patience would run out. And soon.

  “Is that douche the guy you have a date with tonight?” Gaia asked her in a whisper. “Why’s he calling you ‘Jools’? It sounds so dumb.”

  Jewel shrugged, leaning toward Gaia to make sure none of the guys could hear her. “He’s not so bad. I mean, he’s kind of hot, don’t you think?”

  Gaia looked directly at her friend. “Hot? Um, no. But he is annoying.” She looked him, still pestering Jake about beer.

  A hand fell on Jewel’s shoulder. “Looks like you have a busy night with your friends. I hope to see you again some time,” Gabe said as he set money on the bar to pay for his beer. He waved good-bye to Jake.

  A confusing rush of both disappointment and relief washed over her with a big crash.

  Quick. Do something.

  “Yes, I’d like that.” With a quick glance in Demian’s direction, she reached into her bag, pulled out a business card, and slipped it into Gabe’s hand.

  “I’ll give you a call then,” he said, looking at it.

  Yes, please.

  “That would be great.” Her heart pounded.

  He leaned closer to her ear. She tilted her head up to hear his every word, and to also get a deep whiff of him before he took off. “Ditch the tool. You can do way better.” He gave her a wink, then headed for the door and disappeared into the night.

  Demian was still jabbering about beer.

  Gaia swooped in and whispered, “What was that? What did he say? Was that your client from yesterday? I could swear he looks familiar.”

  “Yeah, that was him. Relax. I’ll tell you the rest later,” Jewel said quietly as Demian worked his way back over, a beer finally in hand.

  “Hey, Jewels. You gonna finish that salad?” he asked, eyeing what remained on her plate. She’d consumed only a couple bites. In the craziness of the evening, all interest in healthy eating had lost its appeal.

  “Would you like it? Be my guest.”

  Demian slid Jewel’s plate over, grabbed a bar stool, and began wolfing down the salad.

  “I could go for dessert,” Jewel said to Gaia, as a passing waiter carried a famous Left Bank crème brulee. The scent of the burned caramel was calling to her.

  “I thought you said you were trying to cut back.”

  She lowered her voice to a whisper. “Yeah. Yeah, I did say that. But that was before Hot Client and tonight’s date ended up here at the same time. Before I spilled my purse and smashed my head. Before Demian irritated everyone in sight. Now I’m frazzled.”

  Be good. Don’t do it.

  But a beautiful crème brulee will make it all go away…right?

  She summoned the bartender over.

  Chapter 3

  Jewel had a plan.

  She skipped up the steps of her little Arts and Crafts bungalow, which stood only a mile from Devi’s, just north of San Francisco over the Golden Gate Bridge. She’d just left the final meeting of her writing workshop and was on top of the world. She headed straight for her bedroom, having dropped her things on the floor inside the front door.

  Tearing through her dresser, she failed to find what she was searching for in her top drawer. So she tackled the next one. Nothing. But when she reached the bottom-most drawer, she dove as far back and as deep as she could. Rummaging, she pushed aside moth-eaten cashmere sweaters and a Christmas decoration she’d thought was lost forever.

  Ah-ha.

  Grimacing, she strained to reach as far as she could, at last emerging with a triumphant handful of wadded up denim.

  Victory!

  As if she’d discovered a priceless treasure, Jewel grinned at the crumpled fabric she held. They were her long lost “goal jeans.” Her sacred, torturous, aspirational goal jeans.

  Every woman had goal jeans, at least every woman Jewel knew. And they were all bedeviled by them. Jeans that had fit at one time—meaning they no longer did. But when they had fit, they’d fit beautifully. And that once perfect fit, over time, had somehow slipped away.

  And yet, she hung on to the damn things, reluctant to let go of the hope that somehow, someday, she’d be able to fit into them again.

  Plus she’d spent nearly two hundred dollars on them.

  She shook out the wrinkled pile of denim until it resembled the overpric
ed, topstitched, five pocket pants she remembered.

  Were they always this small?

  Regardless, she was game to try them again. Miracles could happen. She’d not had a burger in…hadn’t it been several days?

  Hoisting her jersey maxi skirt, she pulled on one leg of the jeans and then the other. With a deep breath, she pulled. Hard.

  She took a deep breath and tugged again.

  Well.

  The damn pants reached her knees. And that’s where they stopped. And were going no further.

  She pushed them back to her ankles and yanked them up again, using all her strength. But it didn’t help. They were stuck at her knees, and at her knees they were going to stay.

  Damn.

  With a loud humph, She yanked the pants off. In her haste, they turned completely inside out, the last bit of them catching on her foot. She lost her balance, falling onto the bed. When she’d finally untangled herself from the offending garment, she crumpled it into a ball and, neither turning it rightside out nor folding it, crammed it back into the drawer where it had been hidden for a good five years or so.

  Or had it been more than that?

  No matter. They fueled her plan. She was going to get back into those goal jeans, which were so much more than an impetuous splurge from long ago. They were every little insult her mother had thrown at her, the teachers who’d had no faith in her, the guys who hadn’t called for a second date, and even the jerks who cut her off in traffic.

  She’d show them all.

  Starting right now.

  Chapter 4

  It had been a long day, with many massage clients, but Jewel’s energy was running high. She stripped off her kimono robe and headed for a quickie shower. Today was the first day of her new creative writing class, the one with serious writers—and not people who just loved to hear their own voices. She’d not expected to make the cut, but someone, somewhere must have liked her writing.

  Fresh, clean, and newly made up, she checked herself in the staff room mirror as she finger shaped the waves in her long brown hair. She’d been on her new commitment to lose weight—refusing to call it a diet—diets were scams—for just under a week. She didn’t see any difference yet, not that anyone did after a week, but she did like the way her tank dress glided over her curves.

  She might have been “voluptuous,” but she was well proportioned, and she generally liked the way she looked in clothes. Most of the time, anyway. The guys she knew always told her they liked a woman with some meat on her bones, not the skinny-skinny girls running all over Northern California. She slipped into her platform sandals, grabbed her bright pink pashmina shawl, and pulled open the staff room door.

  Tits and ass—in spades.

  “See ya, Dev,” she said as she paused at the reception desk.

  Devi, her boss and the spa’s namesake, looked up from her computer where she spent the better part of every day working on schedules and appointments. Her reading glasses were so low on her nose they threatened to tumble off.

  “Miss Naphine. You off for the evening?” Devi pushed her specs onto her head where they got lost in her short, graying hair.

  Jewel leaned on the counter. “I am heading out for my first creative writing class.” Every time she said that, goose bumps ran up her neck.

  “Well, isn’t that fantastic! Sounds like fun. And a lot of work,” Devi said.

  “It will be a lot of work. But I love it.” Jewel smiled, and added, “Well, not as much as I love working here.”

  “Hey. I expect you to have a life outside work. I also expect you to have a long-term plan. All you girls need that. You can’t do massage forever. ’Course, if you play your cards right and save, you’ll retire very nicely like the older girls have.”

  “I know that, Devi. I appreciate your support.” An unexpected lump formed in Jewel’s throat and her eyes flooded with threatening tears. Devi was the mom she’d never had. Hell, she was the mom no one had ever had. The boss loved her girls like family, and they all loved her back.

  Devi cleared her throat. “Now, now. No theatrics, please. You know how I am about that stuff.”

  Jewel did know. Every one knew. The boss put on the world’s best “crabby old lady act.” But it was just that—an act. She was soft as a marshmallow on the inside, and everyone adored her for it.

  “Have a good class tonight,” she added. “Can’t wait to hear about it.”

  As Jewel headed for the door, Devi called after her. “Hey, and as fascinating as I am, I don’t want to see myself in one of your novels. Nor do I want to see the spa in one.” She wagged a stern finger.

  “Don’t worry Devi,” Jewel called over her shoulder as she pulled on the spa’s heavy front door. She smiled. “All names will be changed to protect the innocent.” She let out a purposefully evil chuckle and slipped into the cool California evening.

  The drive to class was a quick one, but nonetheless fabulous, thanks to Jewel’s sleek new five-speed coupe. Working as a massage therapist at Devi’s Bliss was paid well, and while she was committed to putting aside a nice chunk of change for a rainy day, she’d broken down and treated herself to the kind of wheels she’d always dreamed of.

  She downshifted as she entered Marin College, a campus jam-packed with so many redwood and eucalyptus trees it resembled a campground. Students weighted with books and the promise of new and exciting knowledge swarmed the streets, sidewalks, and relaxed on the grass with friends. No big surprise, the scent of marijuana floated through the air. Evening classes there were very popular; some students were seeking a second career while others just were looking for some personal development. The college offered everything from nursing to computer programming to art history. And of course, Jewel’s pursuit—fiction writing.

  Running late, she checked her campus map to get her bearings and scurried to what she hoped was the correct classroom building. After asking a couple other students for directions, she found the right place and ran up the stairs.

  Once in the classroom, she was relieved to have arrived before the teacher. There weren’t many empty seats left, but her fellow writing friend, Monika, had saved her one. She waved Jewel over, pointing to the empty desk just beside her. She cleared her backpack from the seat so Jewel could sit.

  “Whew. I wasn’t sure I was going to make it on time,” Jewel said quietly, trying to catch her breath as she adjusted her top. So far, the girls were behaving even after her bouncy dash up the stairs. Was her heart pounding from her quick exertion, or in anticipation of the new class?

  Monika shrugged. “You can be a few minutes late. No big deal.”

  “I guess, but I don’t want to walk in after class has started. Makes me feel like a loser,” Jewel whispered.

  Monika clicked the ringer off on her phone and set it in her bag. “Was just texting my mom. She’s so excited I got into the class.”

  Jewel’s heart thumped and a light sweat broke out along her hairline. But she chased away the memory of her mother’s words.

  You can do this.

  “That’s so cool.” Jewel leaned closer to her friend and lowered her voice. “I wasn’t encouraged to go to college. But look at me. I’m here now!” She glanced around the room at her fellow students—a mailman, an executive in a suit, a ready-to-pop pregnant woman, and everyone in between. How many of them had been told something similar? And yet, here they were. Not only did she belong here, everyone did. And that felt damn good.

  Monika reached over and squeezed Jewel’s hand. “You are gonna tear this class up. Wait till everyone finds out how good your work is.”

  “Thanks, Monika.” She looked down at her hand. “I appreciate that.”

  A hush fell over the classroom as all heads turned to the front of the room. The instructor had entered and was making his way to the front of the class He leaned over the big wooden desk at the front, digging papers out of his backpack.

  Jewel’s phone vibrated in her coat pocket. She took it out to find a m
essage from Gaia.

  Good luck tonight. Knock ’em dead.

  What had she done in a previous life to deserve the awesome friends she’d made at Devi’s? Shaking her head, she flipped through her notebook to a blank page, where she made notes about story ideas.

  The instructor cleared his throat. She lifted her head from her scribbling, and her pen promptly clattered to the floor, bouncing and rolling out of her reach. Her mouth went dry. She couldn’t swallow.

  Holy shit.

  The instructor. She knew him. Quite well, in fact.

  At the head of the class was none other than Mr. C from Devi’s Bliss—Gabe Corrigan. Her hot, blue-eyed, silver-haired client and Left Bank friend of the week before.

  She stretched a shaking foot in an effort to retrieve her only pen, while he turned to the white board.

  What the hell?

  She frowned as he wrote his name in big, black letters.

  He did not write Gabe Corrigan.

  He wrote Gil Carter.

  Who is Gil Carter?

  She glanced at Monika, who seemed unbothered by her new instructor’s name. After all, in the schedule, he’d been listed as G. Carter. She looked back at Gabe—or was it Gil?—as a wave of confusion rained over her, leaving her dizzy and hot. Her thighs were beginning to stick together—always a hazard for anyone with fleshy legs like hers, but doubly dangerous when stress arrived on the scene.

  Whatever his real name was, he dove into his lecture, sitting with half his ass on the corner of the desk, looking every bit the wise professor with a rock ’n roll streak, thanks to a faded Widespread Panic T-shirt and his silver bed head. With twenty-some odd students in the class, his gaze hadn’t yet landed on Jewel. But she knew it was just a matter of time.

  Somehow, fifteen minutes into the class he still hadn’t noticed her. But at the sixteenth minute, he did.

  “So what we’ll do is break up into groups and read each other’s work once a week—”

  Bingo.

  His face brightened. He smiled at her, and the crinkles around his killer blue eyes jumped into action.

  “Jewel! Good to see you.” And he carried on, as if he’d just said hello to his next-door neighbor.