More Than A Maybe (26 page)

Mark’s glasses are too large and they bump up against the bridge of my nose, so I reach up and push them backwards onto his forehead. He gets the message and takes them off and puts them onto his desk. A moment later and he’s pulling me to the bed, and I let him; he puts one hand on my back and one hand on the inner thigh of my right leg, and I let him do that as well.

He has a nervous energy about him, and maybe in another place and at another time I’d find it a little too much but for some reason it’s what I truly need right now. I fill myself with it; it feels warm, innocent. He kisses me again, and as he moves his mouth down my neck I sigh and let him topple me backwards against his pillow.

Mark’s fingers move to my top, and though he fumbles a bit it’s soon over my head. The sight of my breasts nestled in my bra seems to do something to him, and in a flash my shorts have joined my halter on the floor next to the bed.

“You are . . . my God — you are so, so beautiful,” he whispers, and the way he says it makes me know that it isn’t something he says a lot. I can really actually
believe
him. I don’t say a word — I just look in his big brown eyes, and I move my fingers lightly over the bulge in his pants.

He takes off his shirt as I unzip his fly, and I tug at his pants until he can’t stand it anymore and he helps me take them down the rest of the way. We’re both in our underwear now, and I get my first real look at his body. He’s thin, but not too thin, and in the red glow of the chili peppers his excited energy is actually somehow
fun.

We let the moment hang in the air for a bit, and then our lips are crashing together again, and we’re kissing each other, deeply and uncontrollably, and I’m actually getting wet now, and Mark’s cock is stiffening quickly beneath his tight black boxer briefs.

Then our underwear is off and he’s on top of me, kissing my mouth and my face and my neck, one after the other after the other, and we’re young and our energy is raw and pure and incredibly sexual.

“Just a second,” he says, and he reaches over to the nightstand for a condom packet. He crinkles it in his nervous hands, and I watch him, and I’m smiling a bit as he struggles.

“Need help?” I ask.

“Ha!” he says. “I got this. I just need to . . . ”

He bites the corner of the foil and manages to get the condom out, and he places it over the hood of his penis and tries to get it unrolled for a few tense seconds.

And then a few more tense seconds . . .

Then I realize that we have a problem: the concentration of trying to unroll the condom over his cock is making him . . . well,
wilt.

“Um,” Mark says, a note of embarrassment creeping into his voice a bit, “you know what? Do you think you could maybe use your mouth for a minute? Help me out?”

I force myself not to giggle as I sit up. “Sure,” I say, bending forward to take him into my mouth. He stiffens then, a bit awkwardly, as I slide him between the warmth of my lips. It doesn’t take much teasing on my part — I hear the pace of his breathing quicken instantly.

“Oh . . . that’s good . . . ”

Easy there, Tiger,
I think, sliding him out of my mouth before he has a chance to erupt.

“That was amazing,” he breathes. “All right — let’s try this again.”

Mark gets another condom, and this time he manages to get it on. Then he’s on top of me again, I’m back on my back, and his hand is gentle against my face.

“Okay,” he says, his voice quiet. “Okay.”

Then he is inside me. The awkwardness is gone, his gentleness giving way to authority. He moves his hips, pushing in further and further now, and I put my hands on him to steady myself, to steady us both, and his speed increases with a needful insistence . . .

And then, quickly, too quickly, he comes.

“Whoa!” he says. “A little fast there. Sorry.”

“No,” I say, smiling. “It’s okay.”

“That was amazing, though!” he says, slowly sliding out of me. The absence there makes me feel suddenly more than a little disappointed.

“Actually, you know what?” he asks. “Hold on. Let me take care of you.”

Mark bends forward until his mouth meets the soft skin of my thigh. His kisses travel upward then, further and further, toward the waiting folds of my pussy, his attentions coming quick yet tenderly.

Then his lips are there, against my sex, his mouth and his tongue, and I feel my body twitch in sudden and uncontrollable spasms as he brings me at last to my shuddering orgasm.

* * *

After that Mark lays next to me. There is only one pillow and he gives it to me, and though I don’t like how my boobs hang when I’m on my side I put up with it because he’s a nice person and nice to be next to.

His goa trance is still going strong, though. Its muted thump is steady and incessant, and it makes the whole afterglow feel somehow . . . off.

“You know what?” Mark says, closing his eyes and yawning. “I have pancake stuff. For tomorrow. And there’s a little farmer’s market that opens early like three blocks away. I’ll bike over there and grab some blueberries. We’ll have blueberry pancakes!”

I find that I don’t want to think about food, about breakfast . . . but I have to say something, so I say
Great.

In another moment Mark is asleep, and soon the sound of his snoring is mixing with the muffled low bass thumping from the stereo.

I pinch my eyes shut against the heavy red glow of the electric chili peppers, sigh deeply, and try to ignore the sound of Mark’s terrible iTunes playlist.

* * *

When I wake up Mark is gone, along with his folding bicycle, but there is a message from him on my phone:

> hey! going to get those blueberries lol

I go to the bathroom to freshen up and borrow a mouthful of mouthwash from the bottle on the sink. I dress as quick as I can.

I realize with a new morning clarity that I need to escape from this apartment as well — to get out as soon as I possibly can. I need to be away from Mark’s chili peppers, and the thumping generic bass of his endless goa . . . even away from the legendary blueberries that are supposedly on their way.

I’m out the door and down the stairs as quickly as my feet can take me. I walk until I reach a McDonald’s, and then I call a taxicab to pick me up.

> hey where are you?? are you ok

Oh, Mark. 
I don’t want to be mean to this perfectly nice and normal person who I am absolutely, definitely not going to sleep with ever again. Mark is as pure an example of a Mark as I have ever seen in my life, and this much I know: if I leave the door open for him, even just a little tiny bit of a crack, his Markishness will never let me move on.

I force myself to be direct.

> mark

> i like you

> and i love your cock, but i really hate your music.

I slip my phone into my bag and sip absently at a cup of nearly-hot coffee, and a few minutes later a taxi from LOS ANGELES TAXICAB pulls into the parking lot of the McDonald’s. I stand up and tip the rest of my drink into a formica and pressboard trashcan. Then I head back to the Ocean-View.

I realize on the taxi ride that I do not have a plan. I have a hotel room and a suitcase full of clothes and some money . . . but that is not a plan. But what is the point of having a plan or a strategy if I don’t even know what I want?

I want . . .

I want to be deciding on dessert somewhere.

More than anything, I want to be at a fantastic seafood restaurant overlooking a sparkling blue ocean full of tanned surfers trying to catch decent waves. I want Baby on one side of the table, enthusing about seeing DiCaprio wearing sweatpants at a liquor store, and Rosco on the other side of the table saying something cutting about his side salad and whether or not the romaine has been rinsed properly, and . . .

Wait.

No.

More than anything,
anything,
I want those photos I saw to be some dark mistake. Or a joke. Or . . .
something.
I want there to be a logical explanation for what I saw on Xavier’s phone — an explanation that, when I hear it, will make me forget and forgive.

I want to think
Oh! Is that all? How silly of me. I should have figured it was something like that.

I want the impossible.

I get to the motel and I give the taxi driver a handful of bills, and then I slide my key into the doorknob of my room. I want Xavier to be sitting there, on the bed . . . and I want to not trust him at first, but as soon as I hear his amazing and totally convincing explanation I want to believe him one-hundred-percent and leap into his arms . . .

I turn on the lights.

Xavier is not there.

However, my toe nudges the edge of an envelope in the middle of the room, the one that somebody has slipped under the door. It stares up at me from the burgundy carpet in a way that seems somehow mocking.

It is marked with a single letter —
V
.

It’s enough to make me realize one thing, with a sudden chill of absolute certainty:

Xavier knows where I am.

I pick up the envelope, tear it open, and sit on the bed to read:

Veronica —

Oh good God, girl . . . what have you done to my poor phone?

Still, it isn’t hard to guess at your reasons for doing something like that.

Believe me when I tell you — part of me does understand. I am not the most forthcoming person, I suppose, and though looking through my phone was very much an invasion of privacy I suppose curiosity can sometimes get the better of anyone.

You looked where you looked, and you saw what you saw. And while you may say to yourself, “my God, what is wrong with this person,” perhaps you should also ask yourself a couple of questions. Why would you destroy a priceless piece of my company’s research? Why would you see fit to hit the road before even giving me the courtesy of hearing me out?

When you are ready to give me that opportunity — well, you know where I live. Otherwise, this will be the last time that you hear from me.

In any case, do not be alarmed about my knowing your whereabouts, Veronica. I assure you, there is very much a difference between looking for someone and knowing where they are. If you truly want your freedom from me, then you may have it.

X

I feel my eyebrows furrow in anger. The only thing that the motel had going for it was that it I could be hidden away from Xavier here, out of his sight and control. Apparently even that was too much to hope for.

How does he know? He’d pushed Baby until she told, maybe. Or Baby had told Randall and Randall told him. Or he’d hired a private eye. Or . . . hell, the guy is all about tech. He might be tracking me through my iPhone, for all I know.

Or maybe . . . maybe he’s just so good at keeping track of details that nothing is left up to chance for him.
I think back to the first gift I’d gotten from Xavier, that first black dress. How well it had fit — like it had been made for me.

I reach over then, and I turn my iPhone off.

Who knows?

It doesn’t matter.

I now understand that when a man has the money and resources that Xavier does, knowing every detail about a person must be completely trivial. If I’m alone right now, it must because Xavier is allowing me to have my own space.

He might even know all about my little tryst with Mark.

This thought makes me angry — physically furious. Ocean-View isn’t a place of escape any more . . . it’s a place of punishment. For me, not him. The letter has flipped the situation completely. I feel like a child that’s been sent to the corner for not playing well with others.

Fuck that.

I can’t trust my iPhone now, apparently. Instead, I collect up all the stray coins I can find, and I walk to the lobby of the hotel to find a payphone.

The voice on the other end of the line is sleepy. “Hello?”

I’ve never been happier to hear Jayla’s voice. “Hey . . . ” I say, the emotion raw in my throat.

“Veronica! How’s my favorite California girl?”

I take in a deep lungful of morning air and I close my eyes. “I am . . . not too good, actually.”

“Aw, no. What’s wrong?”

“Yeah . . . I am actually going through a thing with Xavier right now. I think . . . I think it’s over.”

“What!? Why?”

I tell Jayla about the whole mess. The line goes quiet.

“That is . . . shit, that is
really
messed up,” she says.

“I know, right?” I say. “So . . . look, I don’t know what to do, and normally I wouldn’t ask, but . . . ”

“Oh, come on now. The answer’s yes, you know that.”

“I . . . haven’t asked yet.”

“’Can you stay with me?’ That’s the question. ‘Of course you can stay with me.’ That’s the answer. The place isn’t huge, and you’ll have to put up with Dom, but . . .”

“Dom?”

“Dom. Domino. My new cat. Black and white thing. When I got him from the cat shelter his name was Oreo, but that’s what they used to call me in grade school and it used to piss me off, so . . . ”

“Jayla?” I can’t help but interrupt her, because even though her voice is making me smile I’m beginning to cry again.

“Yeah?”

“Thank you.”

* * *

Soon I am on my way back to Chicago. I manage to get an economy seat on standby. There are no aisle seats available and there are no window seats either, so I wedge myself in a center seat. I’m between a nervous, poofy-haired businesswoman who makes stinkeye at me and a gentle giant of a man with large sideburns and a wedding ring. He introduces himself in a soft British accent as James, then leans back in his seat and steals furtive sideways glances at my boobs until he falls asleep.

Halfway through the flight the an attendant offers to sell me something called a Skyfateria! tomato/pesto/mozzarella sandwich for $8.75, and though I am actually hungry enough to buy one there is a problem. They don’t take cash, and I have only one valid credit card: Xavier’s, the one that I absolutely cannot use . . . and, somehow, cannot throw away.