by R. C. Martin
It’s been a few weeks since I’ve seen her, and I take her in, as is my habit. Her pale, brown skin looks smooth, beautiful, and healthy—her pallor not the least bit sickly. Her hair is still cropped short—buzzed almost bald, it’s so close to her scalp. I know that she once had long, unruly curly locks, but I can’t deny that she looks really good with her hair like it is. When my eyes finally return to her dark brown ones, she lifts an impatient eyebrow at me, and I giggle before picking up my feet. Closing the distance between us, I drop my bag on the stool across from hers as she climbs down. We wrap each other in a warm embrace, and I squeeze her delicate frame tightly.
Simone Deveraux—my mother’s pearl. They met when they were both going through chemo, and they became each other’s best friends. They understood each other in ways dad and I couldn’t; they supported each other, encouraged each other, and fought for each other. Mom lost a lot of friends when she got sick. It was as if her cancer was too hard for them, too much for their friendships to bear. She told me once that Simone was her beautiful, black pearl—her treasure found within the dark, hard, ugly confines of their clam of a situation.
“What’ll it be this time?” she asks, pulling away from me. “My treat.”
Knowing better than to argue with her, I glance at the menu before I tell her that I’d like the Colorado Buffalo and a citrus pale ale—because after I turned twenty-one, I learned fairly quickly that Über’s dogs were meant to be consumed with a cold can of beer. She nods, grabs her wallet from her purse, and goes to place our order. Since it’s already after two o’clock on a Wednesday afternoon, she doesn’t have to wait long. When she returns to the table, she’s got a tray with our baskets and drinks sitting on top. I can tell right away that she ordered The Tijuana for herself, along with a side of tater tots for us to share.
I’m munching on a tot when she says, “John called. Things with Mateo are a little rocky?”
I stall, cracking open my beer before taking a long sip. I shouldn’t be surprised that this is the reason she called me, or that dad called her and ratted me out—nevertheless, I’m not exactly prepared for this conversation.
“Blaine…”
Setting my drink down, I offer her a pathetic shrug and reach for another tot. Instead of eating it, I pull it apart and admit, “Sometimes things are great. Amazing, even. Most of the time, I like having him around. He’s my boyfriend. He’s been my boyfriend, and I wouldn’t have agreed to us living together if I didn’t love him.”
“And other times?”
“I wonder if we rushed things.”
She doesn’t say anything right away, and I take advantage of the silence. Picking up my sausage, I take a big, completely unladylike bite. She does the same, and I know she’s processing my confession.
When her mouth is empty, she asks, “Do you want him to move out?”
I swallow hard, looking at her with wide eyes. “Wouldn’t that be, like, breaking up?”
“Perhaps.”
My heart sinks at the thought. “No. I mean, I don’t think so. Things suck right now, but I still want him. We have history—we’ve built something.”
“Yes. All that is true; but are you hanging onto that history because it’s scary to let it go, or because you can’t imagine your future without him?”
“I haven’t thought about a future without him,” I state promptly.
“You haven’t thought about it or you can’t fathom it?”
I scrunch my brow, wishing I could throw a tater tot at her. I would if they weren’t so delicious. This—this, right here—it’s why dad called her. She’s never afraid to ask the hard questions. She’s never been shy about challenging me and my way of thinking, or hesitant about offering her advice or perspective. I hate it and love it simultaneously.
When I don’t answer her, she nods her head as if I’ve shouted my response from the rooftop.
“I’m not here to tell you what to do, or how to think or feel. I don’t even think that you need to know the answer today. I do, however, believe that you need to consider it. Open your mind and your heart to the question. Don’t be afraid to look into the future and realize that it doesn’t resemble your present. Don’t be afraid of the unknown, the unfamiliar, and the uncomfortable.
“Relationships are work. If Mateo is in your future, if he is a piece of your happiness, then you must come to the realization that you cannot run away when things suck. You must stay. You must fight. It is how you keep the treasures in your life that are worth keeping.”
I look down into my basket, offering her a silent nod.
“I wish only to see you happy, darling. It’s what your mother wanted.”
I force a small smile, lifting my gaze to meet hers. “I know.”
“Eat,” she demands, tipping her chin in my direction.
My smile softens into a real one as her small hand wraps around her overflowing bun. I mimic her stance before I obey.
IT’S ALMOST FOUR o’clock when I insert my key into the lock of my front door and twist it open. When I step inside, I find the loft empty. I’m not sure if I’m relieved, disappointed, or indifferent to being here alone. I don’t bother thinking about it as I set aside my things and strip down for a shower.
I take my time shampooing and conditioning my hair before I soap down my body. After I’ve rinsed myself completely clean, I’m just about to turn the water off when the shower door opens. I don’t turn around to watch him step in behind me. Neither do I speak a word of protest when I feel his hands graze down my sides before he flattens his palms against my stomach. I pull my bottom lip between my teeth as he brings me back against him, his erection pressing against the top of my ass.
“I missed you,” he murmurs, his lips caressing the tip of my shoulder. “Tell me you felt it, too.” One of his hands slides down between my legs, and I can’t stop myself from melting into him, widening my stance. “Baby?” he asks, his fingers circling around my clit.
A quiet moan spills from my mouth as I twist my neck and tilt my head back. Reaching up to bury my fingers into his long hair, I gently tug him closer as I whisper, “Mateo.”
He grunts as he closes his mouth around mine, and then he fucks me.
He fucks me like he missed me.
Michael
“GOVERNOR CAVANAUGH?” HEIDI knocks on my open door, peeking her head inside of the office. I close the folder in front of me, looking up at her in time to see her smile as she says, “You’re feeling better. Admit it. It’s been a long forty-eight hours, but things are looking up.”
“Marginally,” I admit on a grunt.
“I’m headed home,” she says, rolling her eyes. “I hope you are, too.”
Flipping my wrist, I note that it’s almost seven-thirty. I exhale a heavy sigh and dip my chin in a nod. “Right behind you. Have a good night.”
“You, as well. See you tomorrow.”
Before I start to gather my things, I pick up my phone to check for any missed messages. I notice that I have three texts from Veronica—the first of which was sent nearly three hours ago. I’m quick to open them.
I’m going straight from a committee meeting to my book club. I was planning on leaving dinner in the oven for you, but the afternoon got away from me. There’re some leftovers in the fridge, but you might prefer takeout. I know how you like your salmon fresh.
Sorry I’ll miss you. Should be home by nine.
Oh—and don’t eat the cheesecake bites, sweetie. They’re for the party.
I know how to cook. There was no way in hell my mother was letting any of her children leave the nest without the skills to cook a decent meal. Arroz con pollo was the first dish I ever remember learning how to make. Her favorite is bolon de verde, which is more of a breakfast food, and we all know how to put that together, too. My favorite has always been empanadas. They’re simple, but they hit the spot. And while my Ecuadorean palate is quite defined, mom has her American favorites, as well; which basically means I don’t h
ave to resort to takeout.
It’s been a while since I’ve found myself in the kitchen for any considerable amount of time. When I was dating Vee, I used to cook for her frequently. Now it’s the other way around—or takeout. While working a long day is a poor excuse for avoiding the task of throwing something together for dinner myself, it’s become a hard habit to break. I would blame it on fifteen years of marriage, but it’s more complicated than that. In my household, we each have our roles to play—and I let Veronica play hers as she wishes.
As I shrug my suit jacket over my shoulders, my stomach growls, and I try to think of someplace close to stop before heading home. It isn’t until I switch off the overhead lights that I remember the little brunette trying to convince me that I couldn’t go wrong with a medium rare steak and a side of macaroni and cheese at the Prohibition Lounge. A small smile tugs at the corner of my mouth when I recall the look of disbelief on her face when I informed her of my current office. Now curious as to whether or not she ended up searching the internet for proof, I decide that steak and macaroni and cheese is exactly what I’d like for dinner tonight.
IT DOESN’T OCCUR to me, until I walk into the establishment with Clay, that the little brunette might not even be working tonight. When I spot her behind the bar as I approach the hostess station, it’s relief that I feel spread across my chest at the sight of her. She looks different today—her hair pulled up into a little bun on top of her head, a couple lose strands dangling by her ears. I watch as she laughs with one of her fellow bartenders—a tall guy that I don’t recognize from my last visit—and I’m immediately cognizant of the fact that whatever was bothering her the other night, she looks not to be concerned with it now. That, too, fills me with relief. I don’t have an explanation as to why, other than the fact that I like her real smile better than her false one; and the look on her face now, as she grabs that guy’s elbow and throws her head back with a laugh, it reminds me of how beautiful she really is.
My name is Blaine…
As if being in the atmosphere of the lounge is what I needed to trigger the finer details of our previous encounter, my memory plays back her introduction. Looking at her, I decide that hers is a name I doubt I’ll let slip away. I shake a lot of hands and meet a lot of people in my line of work. I won’t deny that some names are easier to forget than others. But hers—Blaine’s—I doubt I’ll be forgetting it anytime soon. Like her smile, it’s not hard to remember.
Clay clears his throat before he mutters, “Governor,” under his breath. I look back at him from over my shoulder. He jerks his chin and replies, “Where would you like to sit tonight?”
It isn’t until he asks that I realize the hostess must have been trying to get my attention. Finally offering it to her, I smile politely before I inform her that I’d like to sit at the bar. Just like last time, I’m invited to occupy any available seat, while Clay stays behind to request a table for one.
Making my way over, I see that the front of the bar is almost full of patrons. On the far side, where I sat Tuesday night, there’s only one man seated on the corner, while the three remaining stools are left empty. I choose to sit in the middle spot, draping my jacket over the back of the seat before I sit down. Blaine looks over at me as I’m getting settled, and I watch as her eyes widen before her cheeks warm in a blush. She then tries to disguise her smile as she drops her forehead into the palm of her hand and shakes her head.
I grin, certain of two things.
She googled me.
And steak for dinner was the right choice.
Blaine
MY STOMACH TINGLES at the sight of him, and I bite down hard on my lower lip, willing the blush on my face to go away before I walk over and greet him. It isn’t until this very moment that I realize I harbored a desire to see him again. That said, I had no idea he would be capable of making me blush like a little girl.
After a couple deep breaths through my nose, I free my lip, smooth my hands down the front of my black shirt, and stand up as tall as my height will allow. As I head to the far end of the bar, I find him grinning at me knowingly, and I do nothing to silence the giggle that spills from my lips.
Wishing to play off my moment of embarrassment, I offer him a shallow curtsy before I say, “Good evening, Governor Cavanaugh.”
He chuckles, the sound doing mysterious things to my belly, and replies, “I do believe we can dispense with the formalities. If I remember correctly, you and I are on a first name basis.” Titling his head in a subtle nod, he goes on to say, “Good evening, Blaine.”
“You remembered my name,” I blurt out stupidly.
“And you learned my last. It appears as though I have some catching up to do.”
“You should actually be impressed with how much I know about our state’s governor,” I say teasingly, folding my arms across my chest.
Leaning back in his chair, he mimics my stance, folding his arms across his own chest. It makes the fabric of his shirt hug his muscles even tighter, and I can’t prevent my eyes from admiring his sculpted biceps, his massive shoulders, and his now bulging chest. His shirt cuffs are rolled up over his forearms, and the top button of his collar is undone; but his pale yellow tie is barely loosened.
“School me,” he insists, pulling me from my thoughts. My eyes snap back up to meet his, and I have to fight another blush. I was totally just checking him out. Again. Fortunately, he doesn’t seem to have noticed, an observation I pick up on when he lifts one of his thick, dark eyebrows and smiles. “I’m ready,” he assures me patiently.
Before I can utter a word, I hear Dodger guffaw from beside me. I look up, surprised to see him there, but he doesn’t pay me any mind.
“Well, I’ll be damned,” he says, as if in awe. “We don’t get the political elite in here often, but that’s never stopped me from imagining one day we might.”
Dropping my arms, I look from Dodger to Michael, and then back to Dodger again. “You know who this is?” I ask, hooking my thumb at Michael.
Dodger coughs out a laugh, looking at me as if I’ve got two heads. “Of course I do. Don’t you vote?” he answers.
I clamp my jaw closed, shooting a wide-eyed look at Michael. He catches my eye, laughing softly as he winks at me, and then shifts his attention back onto Dodger, who proceeds to introduce himself.
“Dodger,” he says, holding out his hand. Michael reciprocates, and they exchange a handshake as Dodger goes on to tell him, “It’s nice to meet you, Governor.”
“You as well, Dodger,” Michael says politely.
“I was at Coors Field when you threw the first pitch of the season for the Rockies. You weren’t messing around. You ever play?”
Michael grins, shaking his head as he looks down at the bar. It’s as if the question has taken him back, and he’s allowing himself a moment to remember. He lifts his gaze with a nod, informing the both of us, “I did. In high school, and for a couple of years in college.”
“Why’d you stop?” asks Dodger.
“I got hurt,” Michael replies with a shrug. “I was disappointed at the time; but in a lot of ways, I see now that it was meant to be. Baseball was never my career path.”
“Well, you’re kicking ass in office. Looks like it worked out for the best. Anyway—I don’t mean to hold you up.” Dodger claps a hand on my shoulder and waves at Michael before he says, “I’ve got to get back to it. You’re in good hands, Governor.”
I watch him as he leaves my side to attend to his customers, wondering how it escaped my knowledge that he’s into politics. We’ve been friends since I started working here. We met when I was in my last year of school, while I was working part time. Two years, we’ve been getting to know each other, and I had no idea my tatted up, seemingly liberal compatriot was a Cavanaugh supporter.
“I like him,” says Michael, earning my attention. “An active participant in the liberties of democracy. Hang around him enough, you might learn a few things.”
I press my lips toge
ther, fighting a smile. “Ha, ha,” I jib mockingly, setting a menu in front of him. “What can I get you tonight?”
He slides the menu back toward me, and I assume I’ve been presumptuous in my assumption that he had an interest in the dinner menu. That is, until he tells me, “I hear the steak is good—so long as I enjoy my cut medium rare. I’d like to try it. With a side of macaroni and cheese and broccoli, please.”
This time, I don’t even attempt to hide my grin, returning the menu back behind the bar before I assure him, “Coming right up.”
Michael
“ARE YOU SURE I can’t get you anything to drink besides water?” she asks, clearing away my empty plate.
I check the time, noting that it’s a few minutes after eight thirty, and decide that I can spare a few extra moments for a nightcap. I order bourbon, and she gives me another smile before she sets aside my plate for pick-up and pours my drink.
When she sets it in front of me, I remind her, “I’m still waiting for you to school me on Colorado’s governor.”
“Oh, that’s right. I am a wealth of knowledge, you know?” she says teasingly, propping herself against her palms on the edge of the bar.
Enjoying the ways in which she banters with me, I raise my glass and insist, “By all means.”
“Well, he’s a Colorado native, which I appreciate. Who better to represent our state than someone who not only grew up here, but wished to come back after spending some time away. Which he did, by the way.” She arches a knowing eyebrow at me, and I force my mouth to remain straight, as if I’m really learning something at the moment.
