Staying True - A Contemporary Romance Novel (10 page)

“I’ll read it. Right now I need to go
back to a meeting.”

“Okay.” she said. “I love you.”

“I love you, too.” I lingered,
feeling guilty. “I really do.”

“I know, Butterfly.”

“I’ll call you later on after the
meeting.” I hung up and then took a nap.

* *

A few hours later, I visited Shawna.
I avoided the foyer area. I didn’t want Ruby to think I was checking up on her.
I couldn’t help but to sneak a peek at her as I snuck around the backside of
the lounge. She sat in her chair looking up at the grand lights above with a
look of awe and joyful curiosity.

I snuck one last peek and entered the
lounge.

I sat at the bar. Shawna fed me three
glasses of iced tea within half an hour. “You seem lighter tonight. Doesn’t
have anything to do with that cute blonde Ruby does it?”

“I’m married. Remember?” I arched my
eye at her.

She laughed. “Yeah. Yeah. You’re a
good girl. I remember.” She refilled my glass again.

I chewed on my straw. “Jessica asked
me if I read the bible passage she emailed to me.”

Shawna plucked a shot glass down from
the back counter and poured some Sambuca in it. “Girl, you need this.”

I picked it up, eyed it and tossed it
back. It burned and tasted horrible. “Another please.”

She refilled it and watched as I
downed that one too.

“Careful, too many of those and you
might do something wild and crazy like get a massage that you won’t run away
from this time around.” She winked and walked away.

An hour later, back in my hotel room,
numb from three shots, I decided I wanted to enjoy this great night.

I deserved a great night.

I deserved to relax after all I’d
been through over the past year.

I deserved a massage.

People got massages all the time.

I worked hard.

Her hands could certainly help put
some of my stress at bay.

It was just a massage.

She was a masseuse.

She massaged people.

I needed a massage.

Fuck it. I called her.

“Have you left the building yet?”

“I was just getting ready to close up
for the day.”

“Can you take on one more?”

“Depends,” she said.

“On?”

“Is it you?”

My insides rolled. “Yes,” I
whispered.

“Are you coming down now?”

I lingered on her question, telling
myself to go down to the foyer. I closed my eyes for reason to set in. I only
saw her long blonde hair tickling my back as she leaned over it, pouring her
attention onto my skin, into my soul. “I was hoping you’d come up.”

Not more than ten minutes later, I
paced my hotel room, sobering up and wondering what the hell I had just done. I
should cancel. I should not bring a beautiful girl into my hotel room and let
her massage me. This was wrong on so many levels. I imagined her soft hands
kneading my tired muscles, oil slick between our skin, her lovely, fresh scent
sprinkling the air, her petite body all curled up around mine to get a good
balance, a good grip.

My head swirled. My inner thighs moistened.
A most delicious dance stirred in my tummy.

And then Ruby knocked, and my heart
pounded clear out of range.

It’s just a massage, I repeated in my
head as I stood staring at the door. I envisioned her silhouette on the other
side, curvy and well-balanced, her long hair waving around her shoulders and
her breasts, and her soft curvy hips, hugging the air.

How would this play out? We’d greet
each other with easy smiles, hearts pounding, imaginings of bare skin slicked
with oil and gentle breezes filtering through the window? Would we be able to
restrain ourselves? Would our self-control disintegrate before us like cotton
candy on a wet tongue? Would emotions flow in and rupture the dam of mental
fetters and moralities, increasing our heartbeats, causing our breaths to levy
against our lungs in a fight to stabilize?

Ruby knocked again.

What the fuck was I thinking?

Chapter Eight

Ruby

Golden accent lamps adorning the
outside of each door lit the hallway, adding a cozy, sophisticated vibe. I knocked
on her door with a skip in my heart. I shifted my portable massage chair higher
up under my arm. I knocked again, staring straight at the peep hole, smiling in
case she was staring back at me.

At last, Nadia opened the door.

She curled up against the door
looking sexy, teasing me with her cat-like eyes. “Thanks for coming.”

I wrestled with my massage chair
until it fell to the ground. “The pleasure is all mine.”

She stooped down to pick up my chair
and handed it back to me. “Please go on in.”

I entered. The room smelled of roses
and carnations, transporting me to a tropical island where romance and beauty
soothed reckless nerves. The suite was bigger than my old attic apartment. A
flat screen television hung on the wall above a credenza that housed all the
necessary fixings for a relaxing evening: a corkscrew, a crystal ice bucket,
two glass tumblers, and a set of napkins folded up like fans. On the TV, a news
reporter’s hair blew in her face as she stood on the side of the road
recounting details of a horrific car crash on Interstate Ninety-Five.

On the opposite end of the room sat a
blue suede couch and a matching recliner, complete with a coffee table adorned
with
Overture, Rhode Island Monthly
magazine and the
Providence
Journal
undisturbed, still cocooned in its delivery plastic wrap.

A harmonica, black, silver and shiny,
gleamed on the arm of the recliner, along with a half-filled glass of red wine.
Two cushy slippers snuggled up to the leg of the recliner, and a knitted coffee
brown blanket was balled up in the seat.

Her laptop sat unopened on the coffee
table alongside a leather portfolio with notes scribbled on the memo pad.

A beautiful oil painting of a wooded
pathway going nowhere draped the wall above the blue suede sofa. Fresh flowers
sat on an end table on the side of the couch, and they bathed the room in a
light summer scent and brightened up the cherry wood furniture.

A small kitchen sat at the far end of
the living room. A full-sized, white refrigerator and a full-sized stove filled
its small space leaving barely enough room for the small, round table. It held
a basket of apples, oranges, and grapes.

Past the living room, a long hallway
with a mirrored closet led into a bedroom. A silk robe draped over the edge of
a King-sized bed.

I dropped my chair, and my pocketbook
followed. I walked into the space mesmerized. I’d never been in a hotel room
this extravagant before.

Nadia walked into the kitchen and
plucked up an apple. “Hungry?”

I followed her. She leaned against
the door opening. Her erect nipples, bare of the shelter of a bra, stood firm
against her pink t-shirt. The shirt clung to her taut waist, hugging it and
going on forever down to her curved hips. A perfect silhouette. I crawled my
eyes back up to meet her amused eyes. I took the apple from her and bit into
it.

Sweet juice filled me. “Amazing. Even
the apples taste decadent.”

Nadia rolled out a soft chuckle, the
kind that curled my toes and sent delightful ripples through my system.

I walked out of the kitchen and headed
back into the enormous living room.

She strolled over to my pocketbook
and picked it up off of the floor. “You should never leave a pocketbook on the
floor.” She placed the strap over my shoulder, tucking it in close to my neck.
Her fingers tickled my skin. “It’s very bad luck.”

I cradled the strap to my shoulder,
watching as she leaned against the credenza, admiring the perfect profile of
her perky breasts, her lean waist, and the soft curve of her butt. “I never
worry about bad luck.”

Nadia bent over and picked up my
chair this time. She revealed to me her bare breasts as they dangled behind the
curve in her t-shirt. She placed my chair on the couch and paused before it.
Her shoulders rose and fell hard, her breath determined and strong.

“So you stay in Rhode Island all by
yourself?” I asked.

She placed her hands on her hips and
spoke to my chair instead of me. “I do.”

“So no girlfriend or boyfriend?” I
bit into the apple again.

She rolled her eyes off to the side,
towards the television, confusion blanketing every square inch of her face.

“It’s not that difficult of a
question.”

“No, I suppose it’s not.” She still
planted her eyes on the television, twisting her mouth a bit. Then, with a
dismissive shake of her head she said, “No, I’m not dating anyone.” She crossed
her arms over her chest, stretching her long sleek neck and showing off her
beautiful skin, not taking her eye off of me.

We stared in silence, our eyes
reflecting a rising passion. The room curled in around us, enveloping us in a
sweet, private moment where we silently confessed a mutual attraction. I loved
independent women. They seemed less crazy, less complicated, and less scary to
be around. They knew what they wanted, got it, and called it a day. I admired
that— a woman who knew what she wanted. Right then, her eyes bore into mine and
told me she wanted more than a massage, more than this nonsense talk about
dating and apples. This woman was hungry, and not for fruit.

I cooled us down by pitching a banal
statement. “So, you must be some star sister-in-law to have the hotel grant you
this sweet place.” I looked around the room feigning interest over the artwork
and furniture, but could only reflect on how beautiful her nipples looked
against the pink of her t-shirt.

“My sister upgraded my room this
week.”

“Oh?” I dared closer.

“She sometimes digs a little too
deeply, and when she does she always swings into savior mode. She goes all
extreme, sending me fruit baskets, flowers, and booking me the executive suite
when it’s available.”

I rested on the intensity in her
eyes. “I’d get her to piss me off more often. Is she the reason you looked
upset that first night I met you?”

Nadia arched her eyes at me and
walked over to the credenza. “My sister attempts to overpower me. She needs to
stand tall against me. I let her have fun with this most times, but not always.
That night you and I first met, she took things a little too far.” She opened
up the ice bucket and spooned some ice into each glass. “Sangria?” She picked
up the full bottle. Her cheeks reddened like little apples of their own. Her
lips were dewy and pink.

She caught me staring at them, and a
tease played out on her face. So I just kept right on staring.

The wine filled the silence with a
refreshing, cascading, flowing sound, adding to the sexy vibe swirling around
us. My mind wandered, imagining the two of us bathing underneath a waterfall,
clinging to each other’s naked bodies, and kissing each other like two famished
virgins in need of nourishment.

Nadia handed me my glass. We clanked
them together and downed them like water. I handed mine back to her, and she
refilled without a question. We drank three glasses just like this. After the
fourth and final, I followed her over to the couch. She sat first, in the
middle seat. I reciprocated this bold move by sitting close to her, facing her,
facing those lovely, perky breasts smiling at me from under the thin cotton.

We lingered over our wine. “So,” she
said, her lips dark pink and full. “Where was I?”

My head spun, dancing with the vapors
of the Sangria. “I’m your massage therapist,” I said, my words slurring, my
body moving in even closer. “Tell me your worries.” I toyed with my hair,
enjoying the flirt in her eye.

Our eyes sealed into this moment,
exchanging an energy that magnetically pulled me to her. “I don’t think you
want to hear my worries.” She lowered her eyes like a shy damsel, innocent to
her power.

“Sure I do,” I whispered.

She inhaled. “Well, my family drives
me crazy.”

I braved my arm against the back of
the couch so it rested near her shoulder. “Go on.”

“My sister and I pretend to get
along, but I don’t think she really likes me.”

“How can she not like you?”

“You don’t have a sister, do you?”

I shook off this question with a
quick tilt. “I would’ve loved a sister.”

Nadia resigned to this on a sigh.
“She’s got her good side.”

“But…?”

She rubbed her fingers together.
“But, she’s also got her not-so-good side.”

“Like how?”

“Well, she can’t handle when
something good happens to me.”

I studied the small patch of burden on
her face. “So she’s the jealous type.”

Nadia looked at my arm grazing close
to her shoulder. “The fact is that we get along better when I’m the one failing
and she’s the one rising. She can’t stand as number two, ever. She’s always
counted on me to be the number two. It’s like attention breathes life into her,
like if she doesn’t have it, she’d die.” She folded her legs underneath her. “I
find it easier to just let her step up and take the front stage. I just sort of
blend to mend.”

I mirrored her position, folding my
legs. Our knees brushed one another’s. “Blend to mend. I love it.”

She smiled, and her eyes sparkled.
“Listen to me ramble. I’m sorry. Let’s talk about you.”

I touched her knee. I couldn’t help
myself. “I’m enjoying this. Keep talking. Tell me all about this sister of
yours.” I wanted to hear it all. I didn’t want her to stop talking.

She plowed right in. “She’s a
show-off. That’s why she hated me for a while before I learned that stealing
the front stage hurt more than helped me. It set me up for one torture session
after another.” She paused and dropped her hand near my leg.

I brushed up against it. She blinked
heavily and gulped.

“Go on.”

“So, being a few years younger, I
always wanted her attention. I thought if I impressed her she’d let me hang
with her friends or invite me to walk to school with her or something, you
know?”

“You were feeding the fire.”

Nadia tilted her head and gazed into
my eyes. “I fed that hungry fire, yes.”

Fire sparked in her eyes. The blend
of Sangria and soft lighting added to the chemistry igniting around us.

“So, here I was this scrawny
ten-year-old kid trying everything to get my sister to congratulate me, take me
into her social circle, and introduce me as her friend. I tried everything to
make her like me. I bought her little bottles of nail polish and stuffed
animals. I made her bed for her. I folded her laundry. I shared my games with
her. I let her have the top bunk bed. Still, nothing. She hated me.”

I traced my fingers along the couch
just inches above her shoulder, wanting so badly to land on her skin. “That is
so sad.”

“I would try extra hard to impress
her with knowing all of the lyrics to hard songs or getting high grades on
school tests that most of the kids failed. I just wanted her to look at me and
say, ‘Hey, great job’.”

“She couldn’t.” I repositioned myself
to lean against the couch, closer to her.

“Exactly. The more I bragged, the
more she hated me. Then, one day I won a short story contest. I couldn’t wait
to tell her. I had worked so hard on it. Mine won first place. She couldn’t
even bring herself to say congratulations.” She flipped her hair, and some of
it landed near my fingers. “It hurt.”

I inched closer to the piece of hair,
finally playing with it, rubbing it between my fingertips, intoxicated by the
intimacy of the moment. “Keep talking,” I whispered.

“She said to me, ‘What do you want
from me? Do you want me to tell you Mom and Dad view you as the golden child?
Do you want to hear how pretty you are? Do you want me to follow you around and
do everything you do because only you know how to do it best?’ I had hurt her.”

I twirled her hair around my index
finger. “You didn’t mean to.”

“Up to that point, I wanted to
outshine her thinking she’d respect me more. Yet, my successes turned into her
failures.”

“But, they were your successes.”

“I didn’t need to flaunt them in her
face. One-upping my own sister proved the worst thing to do. No wonder she
hated me so much.”

The more I heard Nadia speak, the
more my desire to stay in this moment intensified. “Hmm.”

She leaned into my hand.

I massaged her hair.

“My sister is vulnerable,” she said,
sinking into the massage. “She needs to shine. This is what defines her. So,
one day when she dressed up for a school dance, I told her she was so much
prettier than I was. I’d never seen a smile light up a face like that before.
After that she accepted my help in fixing her hair and makeup. Next thing I
knew, she invited me to the movies with her friends and even treated me to some
popcorn.”