More Than A Maybe

by Monte, Clarissa

  I feel safe. Maybe I shouldn’t, but I do.

  “Buckle up,” he says. I click the belt firmly around my waist. As Xavier pulls the car out of the Mirages parking lot and onto the main road, I glance back instinctively. Though it’s hard to be sure, I think I catch a quick glimpse of a worried-looking Billy pacing back and forth in the club’s parking lot, searching for his missing schoolgirl. I’ll call tomorrow and apologize, I promise myself.

  For a while we drive in silence. I can’t think of anything to say, and the idea of coming up with small talk is overwhelming after all I’ve just been through.

  Xavier breaks the ice at last, casting a look in my direction. “You might start by telling me where we’re going, Alice.”

  I feel the heat rise again in my cheeks. “What? Oh, of course, sorry. Pennsylvania Avenue and Linden. Glen Ellyn.” I’m about to give him directions — then realize that I don’t actually know the way home.

  “I’m sorry, I didn’t drive here tonight,” I say. “I don’t exactly know how . . . ”

  “It’s fine,” he says. Xavier taps a control button on the dashboard and repeats the street names aloud to the in-car navigation system. An electronic voice confirms his directions, and our route winks to life on an illuminated map.

  “We’re on our way,” he says, then lapses back into a curiously powerful silence. I can’t put my finger on why, exactly, but the quiet of the car is so complete that it’s almost oppressive. It makes me want to talk, say anything to generate some sound. I try to think of something fascinating to say — something that will express gratitude, apology, maybe even a little bit of sexy nonchalance.

  Unfortunately, the only thing that escapes my mouth is . . .

  “So . . . uh, those guys back there. They work with you?”

  I give myself a little mental slap in the forehead. Idiot.

  Xavier nods. “They’re going to be. Like I said, there’s something about gentlemen’s clubs that make it easier to get a signed contract.”

  “Makes sense. So what do you do?” I ask.

  He seems just a bit surprised at the question, like it isn’t one he’s used to hearing. “I’m a . . . ” he says, and then pauses, as if an idea has just come to him.

  “Actually, you know what? I’ll show you what I do. Are you up for a quick detour?”

  I shrug. “Sure.”

  Over the protests of the car’s navigation system, Xavier takes a right turn. In another minute, I see an onramp for the expressway. He pulls the car onto it, speeding up with a thrill of acceleration. It’s then that I realize why the silence of the car has been nagging me so much . . . even at the increased speed of the highway, the car continues its curious silence.

  “This car is pretty quiet, isn’t it? This is a . . . what, a Mercedes?” I ask.

  Xavier raises a finger, like a professor who has just been asked a particularly good question. “Ah! But no. It’s an Alfa Romeo. A Spider. Or at least, it used to be. Parts of it, anyway.”

  He smiles at me. “It was a good try, though. Go on, have a proper guess.”

  I look at him quizzically. “At what?”

  I begin to feel that he’s testing me. “At why it’s so quiet. Think about it — the Alpha Romeos have these huge, massive engines, built for power, displacement. This car is whisper quiet. Which means . . . ” Xavier opens a hand and gestures at me for some response.

  It really is a test. I take one last look around the interior of the car, trying to make some connection. I listen. There’s the sound of the road beneath our car, but . . .

  Then it hits me.

  “It’s an electric car.”

  Xavier grins in triumph, and I suddenly feel like his star pupil. “Yes! Absolutely right. Which should give you some idea of what I do.”

  It might be another test, but this time I really have no clue. I shrug. “You’re . . . you’re the CEO of Greenpeace.”

  He laughs at that. “I’m afraid not.”

  “Okay, I give up,” I say, now out of good ideas. “You test drive new electric cars, or . . . well, okay — I don’t know.”

  Xavier pauses, as if he’s weighing some important decision. “Well,” he says finally, “I’ll tell you what. You’ve taken a risk with me tonight, letting me drive you home. And I believe risk should be rewarded with trust. If I trust you with a secret, will you keep it?”

  “I . . . sure. Sure I will,” I say.

  “Promise?” It seems a bit childlike — but Xavier’s voice is serious.

  I smile, nodding. “I promise.”

  “Then I’ll show you.”

  Xavier reaches a finger beneath the steering wheel, and I hear the soft click of a switch. Suddenly, the screen on the dashboard changes, and the GPS map of our route is replaced with a warning message:

  PROTOTYPE DRIVE MODE NOT CLEARED FOR THIS AREA. CONTINUE? Y/N

  Xavier gives me a look. “I’m going to ask you to trust me a bit further, Alice. Do you think you can do that?”

  My heart starts pounding again. “What?”

  “It’s a simple question.”

  It’s not a simple question at all! I think — but then I hear my voice say Yes.

  “Good. Touch that Y on the screen, will you?”

  I reach forward and touch the illuminated Y. The screen changes: PROTOTYPE DRIVE MODE ENGAGED.

  “Is that . . . is that okay?” I ask nervously.

  “It’s fine. Now, just do as I do,” he says. He slowly takes one hand off the steering wheel.

  And then, much to my quickly rising horror, Xavier’s other hand slips off the wheel. No part of him is touching it, and I can only stare in disbelief as he folds his hands behind his head. His seat slides smoothly back, reclines a bit . . . and he’s sitting there, looking for all the world like a businessman in a first-class cabin chair, waiting for a flight attendant to offer him a complimentary mimosa.

  This is no airplane, though. I feel a burst of panic shoot through me. “What . . . what are you doing? Xavier!” I scream. In front of us, the highway is beginning to curve to the right. My hand flies instinctively to the steering wheel to correct the car’s path, to keep us both from a fiery death . . .

  Except . . . except I can’t move it. The wheel simply will not budge.

  “We’re going to . . . we’re going to crash!” I cry — and it’s then I hear the sound of Xavier’s laughter.

  “Don't be frightened. Since you asked, this is what I do. You are looking at a finalized prototype of a vehicle of my design. Completely automated. Controlled by GPS and sensors all over the car. Oh — and you really should release the steering wheel, Alice. There’s no need for you to hurt your arm.”

  Still trying to process what I’m hearing, I slowly release my death grip on the steering wheel. Sure enough, Xavier’s right. The wheel turns by itself, and the car makes the gentle turn ahead beautifully.

  He looks totally satisfied with himself . . . but I can’t help but feel angry. Not funny, Xavier.

  “I don’t like being tricked,” I say, trying to reconcile my conflicting feelings. Even if it’s true that I wasn’t in danger, he could have at least given me some warning about what he was planning to do.

  Xavier looks a bit surprised at my choice of words. “Trick? This is no trick. This is millions of dollars of research and development.” He folds his arms, letting himself sink even deeper into the driver’s seat. “If you’re scared, it’s because you’re overthinking it. Like I said, do as I do.”

  “What, scare exotic dancers half to death?” I keep my eyes locked on the steering wheel, ready to grab it again at a moment’s notice.

  He shakes his head. “No. I mean sit back. Relax. Don’t fight the idea. Let the car do the work.”

  I’m still unsure, but I try to do as he says. It’s an undeniably strange feeling, having a car drive you . . . but I do my best to put my fear out of my head. Xavier certainly doesn’t appear to be afraid. He’s looking at me with the same calm gaze he had when I
first landed on his lap. It seems like hours ago now.

  The car glides forward in inky silence. My previous curiosity returns. “So you’re a . . . a what? A scientist?” I ask.

  Xavier frowns at the word scientist, as if the label is a suit that doesn’t fit him very well. “Not exactly. Not exactly a scientist, not exactly an engineer. I think of myself as more of an architect. I come up with ideas and design the systems that make them a reality. I refine them, perfect them, watch them take on a life of their own. That’s what I love, really . . .” he says, a note of boyish enthusiasm suddenly rising in his throat. “Seeing ideas achieve their full potential. And then there’s the prototypes — the fun of being the only one to have them . . . ”

  He pauses, retreating for a moment into some quiet corner of his thoughts before continuing. “Recently, however, I’ve had to be more of a salesman,” he says, making an unpleasant face at the thought. “I spend a lot of time these days trying to convince serious-looking government types that the auto-drive system is ready for the road — which it is, I assure you. Thus the Chinese gentlemen you saw this evening.”

  I laugh a bit at that. “They came all the way from China to go to an Illinois strip club?”

  Xavier chuckles. “Well, they came for a demonstration of the car’s functionality. Most of my time these days is spent at my new headquarters in Los Angeles, but I show off the prototype right here in Chicago for safekeeping. I have a little satellite workshop downtown. A trusted employee keeps the car under lock and key for me.”

  “Chicago is a long way from California. There’s nobody you can trust in Los Angeles?” I ask.

  Xavier’s voice turns frosty. “It’s the people five hours north of Los Angeles that I can’t trust. Silicon Valley — never again.” He breathes a sigh. “I trusted too many people with too many good ideas, all in the same company. This new venture of mine is different. I’m distributing the risk. Spreading out my plans. Los Angeles, Chicago, Boston . . . hell, I’ve even got something cooking in Johannesburg.”

  “South Africa? You’ll have to tell me all about the strip clubs there.”

  Xavier laughs. “I probably won’t be going to many more strip clubs in the near future — I doubt my friends from Beijing need another test drive. Our little detour to Mirages tonight was very much their idea. Practically a demand. Not to my face, of course . . . but the expectation was there. Cultural differences, you see.”

  He looks pensively at the gentle sway of the steering wheel, allowing his eyes to drift to the road ahead. “Funny how those differences work. For them, going to Mirages was about experiencing a taboo together as men. It’s as if we share a secret now . . . because we’ve been to a place that they can’t mention to their wives, they feel like they can trust me more in business matters. We’re partners in crime. Or something like that.”

  That actually makes a lot of sense. Some part of me had wondered why anyone would pay so much money to look at the girls at a club, when they could see all the nekkid ladies they wanted on the Internet.

  Obviously I don’t know everything about that world. Not yet.

  And not ever. I realize that I’m never going back to that club for another round of humiliation. My little foray into the world of exotic dancing is over for good.

  The realization is somehow sadder than I might have expected, though. For a few minutes, I just listen to the deep velvet silence of the Alfa Romeo. I focus on staying relaxed, rather than how some unseen mechanized ghost is doing all the driving.

  Gradually, though, I feel a dark suspicion creeping over me — and I take a breath to help me give it voice.

  “Okay,” I say, looking straight at Xavier. “Fine. So now I know what you do. But what about me? You never asked.”

  His eyes widen a bit, and he gives a little pause before answering. “Well, I just assumed that since you were dancing exotically at a gentlemen’s club that you are an . . . exotic dancer.”

  You just assumed. I feel my arms fold in front of me. I can’t be sure, but I’m beginning to wonder if all the silences on this trip might be related to more than just the car. I wonder if it’s actually a lack of interest on Xavier’s part. Maybe he thinks he knows enough about me. It reminds me depressingly of growing up with my mother — the way she’d just assume that she knew the kind of person I was, how she just assumed what I was going to do with my future.

  I can hear the irritation beginning to creep into my voice. “Is it really fair to assume that, though?” I ask. “That just because I was dancing tonight, that’s what I am? Just a dancer?”

  Xavier taps a thumb against his chin. “Just a dancer?” he says. His face is calm; his voice carries the same quiet authority as when he’d first spoken to me at the club.

  “Those are your words, Alice. Not mine,” he says, his voice growing hushed. “I have no contempt for you, nor anyone else at that club tonight. None whatsoever.”

  His words give me a hollow feeling in the pit of my stomach. Even so, I’m not going down without a fight. “Maybe not,” I say, “but still, it’s not like you exactly approve, either. You said so yourself. ‘Not my cup of tea,’ you said.”

  “And it’s true,” he says. “But don’t mistake my dislike of crowds for my dislike of women. I just have a preference for more . . . intimate settings.”

  An intimate setting. The way he says it sends a tingle through me. I find myself wondering for a moment just what that phrase might mean to a man like Xavier Black.

  He takes a deep breath. “I didn’t see you as just a dancer tonight. Or just anything. I saw you as a dancer. If you truly see the other girls at that club as just dancers, you’re suggesting that they’re doing something silly, or stupid, or wrong. Is that how you see them? Or whoever took the time to teach you all those moves I saw tonight?”

  “No,” I admit. “I don’t see them like that.” I think about that cellphone snap I took with the other girls. Just a few hours ago, we’d all been on the same team, ready to take on the world. Now I’m trying to dismiss what they do to make myself feel better about my failure tonight. It might be a totally different kind of dancing, but somehow I doubt that Ginger Rogers would approve of my attitude.

  Still, any pricking of guilt is balanced by another realization, and I feel a wicked thrill shoot through me. He’d noticed my routine after all. It made sense — certainly he’d had no trouble catching me when I took my tumble off the stage. He must have been paying more attention than I’d realized.

  Xavier looks forward at the rushing gray blur of the oncoming highway . . . wherever we’re now going, we’re getting there awfully quickly. And then, in the next moment, he turns, and his gaze is suddenly locked directly with my own.

  It’s like he’s communicating with my very soul.

  “Tell me, then . . .” he says, his voice now sharp. “Who exactly are you?”

  The question is unexpected — and it’s one I don’t have an answer to. It’s like a sudden pressure on my shoulders. Nobody has ever asked me that before . . . not my mother. Not Jayla.

  Not even myself.

  The tears are coming again, and now I’m not sure that I can hold them back.

  “I . . . I don’t know,” I say.

  Xavier says nothing, but somehow I sense his understanding. He moves his hand to the inside pocket of the coat around my shoulders. The back of his hand brushes lightly against me, and for a moment I can feel the soft touch of his skin. He produces a beautiful handkerchief of royal purple silk, and presses it into my palm.

  “In that case,” he says, “tell me who you were. And perhaps a bit of who you would like to be. I will take you home.”

  ***

  I open up to Xavier. I tell him about growing up under the constant demands of my mother, how she died. The medical school, the waitressing. I tell him about all of the fantasies in my Book; all those long nights huddled with the Goddesses on Turner Classic Movies. I tell him about Jayla, that first interview at Mirages . . . I even tell
him about Kiki on the DVD and my living room practice with the broomstick. That makes him smile.

  He says nothing, but this time I feel like his silence has a different purpose. He takes it all in, nodding from time to time. I have no idea why it should be so interesting to him . . . but it is. And then, when I’ve finally gotten it all off my chest and made generous use of his handkerchief, he speaks.

  “So that’s who you were,” he says, opening his strong and elegant arms in a wide gesture. “So how about now? What will you be?”

  It’s a question I’ve had since my mother’s death, but here in the car the answer finally comes to me. The words seem to crackle with danger, and I force them out of me before I have time to reconsider.

  “I want to be beautiful.”

  The sentence seems to suck the air from the car.

  I find myself awaiting some response from Xavier — one of those cheerful, polite reassurances that men always keep up their sleeves for moments like these:

  Oh, I think you’re very attractive!

  You don’t have anything to worry about!

  You just need to have a little more confidence!

  But he doesn’t say anything — not for a long time. When he finally replies, all he has for me is a single word.

  “Why?”

  It’s another question with no easy answer. But even if it isn’t easy to put into words, I want Xavier to understand. I need him to understand.

  I feel a tingle of gooseflesh; little hairs begin to raise along the back of my neck. My breathing quickens involuntarily as the words tumble out:

  “Because I need beauty, Xavier. I need to see it all around me — in the mirror in the morning and everywhere else. I need to wake up and just know when I do that every new day will be packed full of wonderful things. Love. Energy. Excitement. I want to have fun, Xavier, days and weeks of actual jaw-dropping fun. I want fascinating friends, and delicious food, and back-to-back months of impossible sunsets. And when I get there, I want people to notice me. Look at me. Take one glance and know why I should be there. They’ll see me and they’ll whisper: She’s right where she belongs.”