More Than A Maybe

by Monte, Clarissa

  “Nice to meet you,” she says. “It’s Veronica, right? Ooh — what kind of martini is that?”

  I can only blink. “Pomegranate,” I offer lamely.

  “Oh man, I need one of those yesterday. Randy, get the waiter over here!”

  “I’m on it,” he says, chuckling and raising his hand a bit higher. At last a member of the staff takes enough pity on him to come over and take his order.

  I attempt to keep the smile on my face. “Did you say your name was . . . ?”

  “Like he said — Baby. Nice to meet you!”

  Baby? That’s not just a nickname?

  She has got to be kidding.

  Baby extends an intricately manicured hand. Her nails are an undersea montage of incredibly detailed aquamarine starfish and frolicking seahorses. I give her fingers a quick shake. Her friendliness seems sincere enough, but it does nothing to quell the intense dislike I feel.

  On second thought, definitely NOT Brigitte Bardot. I refuse to let someone like her take up any pages next to the monochrome Goddesses in my mental Book . . . and as Baby casually begins to chat with Randall and Xavier I find myself making a little Fake Checklist for her in my head:

  Fake lashes, check. Fake nails, check. Collagen lips — maybe? And those boobs . . .

  I refuse to entertain the idea she was born with them. I take a sip of my martini, giving them a surreptitious glance over the rim of my glass. This woman has got the most naturally gorgeous breasts I’ve seen . . . or she’s got one hell of a plastic surgeon waiting in the wings.

  I look over at Xavier. I somehow expect him to have the same reaction of dumbstruck lust as Randall — eyes locked on Baby, practically panting like a dog . . .

  But I couldn’t be more wrong.

  Just like at Mirages, Xavier apparently isn’t watching the show. Instead, he’s looking directly at me. His face is an expressionless blank, and yet I think I detect a gleam in his eye. Is he enjoying this? Does he think this is funny?

  He’s not laughing, though. He’s judging my reaction. Challenging me.

  He wants to see how I deal with this.

  I decide to make like a young Brigitte Bardot myself and rise to the occasion. Alice White may shrink from a challenge . . . but Veronica Kane? Not on your life. The next instant, any trace of hesitation is gone, and my smile suddenly becomes far more convincing.

  “So . . . Baby,” I say, hoping my voice sounds cheerful and nonchalant, “Randall was just telling us that you used to dance.”

  She nods enthusiastically. “I did! Ages ago, though,” she says. She holds up a hand and wiggles the gold-and-diamond wedding band on her ring finger. “Ended up with a bit of a career change.”

  I nod. “Right. Homemaker?”

  Baby’s baby blues suddenly look anything but vacant. Her brows furrow a bit. “Actually, no. I’m the head of neurosurgery at UCLA,” she says, her breathy voice suddenly deadly serious.

  The table falls silent.

  My mouth hangs open — I can only stare at her, trying to make some sense of what I’ve just heard.

  Baby sees the look on my face, and then . . . well, she just can’t hold it in any more. Her dazzling white smile breaks into a massive grin — and then she erupts into a fit of violent giggling. Randall leans his head back and gives a massive roar of laughter, long and incredibly loud.

  I stare at Xavier. He’s smiling now, too.

  “It’s a joke, Veronica,” he says. “You’re allowed to laugh.”

  A . . . joke!?

  In spite of my surprise, I suddenly do find myself smiling. “Okay, okay . . . ” I say, raising my hands in mock defeat. “You got me.”

  Like it or not, that was pretty good.

  “Ha! I completely got you,” says Baby, slapping a high five at the still-laughing Randall. “But okay, seriously: I’m a beautician. I know, right? Surprise, surprise.”

  She produces a business card from her clutch, and sure enough, there it is:

  BEAUTY WORLD

  SPA TREATMENTS — NAIL CREATIONS

  IMAGE CONSULTING — AROMATHERAPY

  BABY

  “Uh . . . thanks,” I say, pinching it between my fingers.

  Randall’s recovered enough from his laughing fit now to take a sputtering sip of scotch. “To be fair, Baby does make a pretty good home.”

  Baby gives a little false-modest nod. “Naturally.”

  “And Veronica here,” says Randall, his eyes falling on me, “is a dancer, isn’t that right?”

  “Er . . . right,” I say, suddenly wishing I could go back in time and change my earlier answer.

  “Good for you!” says Baby. “I did that for a while. Where do you dance?”

  I feel a slight pricking of panic. “Um . . . Mirages.”

  Baby cocks her head to one side. “Hm . . . not sure I know it. Is that up north?”

  “Er . . . Chicago. Uh, area. Chicago area.”

  “Really? My nail artist is from there, I think. Somewhere around there, anyway . . . ”

  The minutes tick by as we talk. Part of me keeps hoping for that smile of hers to fade — to see some hint of condescension coming from her, some trace of sarcasm in her voice . . . anything to justify my feelings about her . . . something, anything . . .

  Infuriatingly, there’s nothing. Baby is as warm, friendly, and genuine a human being as I could possibly imagine. Damn it.

  I feel terrible — my initial irritation at Baby’s appearance has now been replaced by something far worse . . . a gnawing sense of guilt.

  It makes me wonder. Maybe she’s not just prettier than me. Maybe she’s kinder, too.

  Maybe . . . just maybe . . .

  I am not a nice person.

  * * *

  We talk together for almost an hour, Randall and Xavier and Baby and I, about everything and nothing. Or, at least, Randall and Baby do. They’ve got an incredible dynamic together — a real chemistry that’s impossible not to envy. What’s more, they just never seem to shut up. It’s all I can do to keep up with the rapid-fire flow of their conversation.

  Xavier, for his part, seems content in his role tonight as the strong, silent type — not that I mind him like that, exactly. Except for the occasional business remark, he is quiet . . . but I can see from his eyes that he’s completely engaged. His piercing gaze flicks back and forth between Randall, Baby . . . and invariably back to me. I start to have the very real suspicion that there’s a lot more at stake tonight than a few cocktails.

  Still, it’s a relief when Randall and Baby at last make to leave. “The nanny was expecting us a half-hour ago, and I’ve got an early morning myself,” says Randall. “Gotta crunch a few numbers, make sure our patent apps are good to go . . .” he says, his voice sounding a little unsure of itself. Randall’s center of gravity seems to be playing a bit of havoc with him; he’s swaying, and I strongly suspect he’s had one too many glasses of Glenfiddich.

  “You are drunk, mister,” says Baby. “Looks like I’m driving us home tonight.” She grabs his arm to steady him. I find myself amazed at her stability — despite her heels and her curves, she seems to have no trouble balancing the both of them.

  She turns to give me one last Aquafresh smile. “I’m so glad Xavier brought you out here tonight! I’ve got a feeling about you two. Anyway: my number’s on my card. Give me a call, okay? Seriously.”

  Seriously. Something about the way she says the word makes her sound . . . well, serious.

  “I will,” I say, realizing that I almost mean it.

  Xavier and I finish saying our goodbyes to Baby and Randall, and we watch as the two of them sway their way between the tables and out the door.

  Then it’s just the two of us. There are still a few straggling club members chatting here and there, laughing and knocking back cocktails, but the overall feeling in the room is now subdued. It’s like the air has been removed from the room by Baby’s departure. One one hand, it’s a relief not to be next to her . . . comparing myself to
her.

  On the other hand, the spotlight is now on me.

  Xavier still says nothing, but I don’t mind the silence, exactly. I’m trying to make sense of my feelings now — a muddled mix of guilt and jealousy are bubbling to the surface, and at first I’m not really sure what to make of them.

  Finally, though . . . finally I manage to make shape of my emotions, to give them a name.

  It’s anger.

  “She can’t be serious.” I say it quietly, and I don’t mean it to sound like it does, but the edge in my voice is all too real. My eyes move to Xavier, searching his features for some kind of explanation.

  He tilts his head to one side. “I’m not sure I follow you.”

  “Oh, come on,” I say, the exasperation flooding into my voice. “That Baby person. Is that how she normally dresses for a night out? I mean, really?”

  Part of me feels glad to say exactly what I’m thinking — to speak the words out loud, rather than keeping them bottled up. On some level, though . . . it makes me feel like Baby’s won something. That whatever my reaction is right now, whatever I’m feeling, it’s all playing into her immaculately lacquered hands.

  It’s confusing.

  But if the words that have just slipped out of me cause Xavier any injury, he certainly doesn’t show it. Instead, his response is even and measured. He finishes his drink, stands, and holds out his hand to help me up. As I grasp it, I feel any remaining anger melt away in a beautiful instant.

  “I want to show you something,” he says.

  Chapter 6

  I get an inkling that wherever we’re going is most definitely off-limits, even to club members. However, a few whispered words and a nod from Xavier is all it that it takes for the captain to make a rare exception. We take the club’s gilded elevator as high as it will go, then slip behind an access door and up a short flight of stairs. We pause at the end of a dimly lit hallway at what looks like a very dead end. I turn and look at Xavier questioningly, but he says nothing — he simply slips that mysterious black phone from his pocket again, and holds it against the wall.

  I hear the mechanical click of an unseen lock, and the wall in front of us swings open onto a beautiful rooftop garden. I tighten my hold on Xavier’s arm. We walk forward along a neatly-cut cobblestone path and up a few more steps onto a large raised dais in the garden’s center. Here the path ends, at a little woven-iron alcove with tangles of sweet-smelling ivy, set with a recessed bench of some mirror-shined stone.

  We sit. I’ve missed my first LA sunset, but the sparkling canopy of stars above my head more than makes up for it. Below us we can see the twinkling of a billion lights in a city that never quite manages to go to sleep completely. The night air is warm against my face.

  “There,” says Xavier, and he touches the smooth fabric of my dress, right between my shoulders. I breathe in at his touch — it sends a soft wave of glowing pleasure radiating all the way down to the place between my thighs. I press my legs together. Partly to guard against the feeling, partly to make it last.

  Xavier turns me gently, pointing at a row of illuminated letters high in the darkened hills:

  H O L L Y W O O D

  I’ve seen it countless times — always in movies or on TV, of course. Never in person. The sign is an all-too-real reminder that I’m half a world away from the place I was this morning. It’s a realization as exciting as it is scary.

  Xavier speaks, and his voice sounds heavy with the wisdom of experience. “Veronica . . . when you see that sign, what do you think about? What goes through your head?”

  I take a long, slow look at it. I have to admit, it does conjure up a startling number of vivid images.

  “Well,” I begin, trying to put my thoughts neatly into words, “I think of movies. The classics. And movie stars, and television . . . and American Idol, these days, I guess. The whole fame and fortune thing.”

  Xavier nods. “And what do you think that really means to all of the people here? That ‘fame and fortune thing’, as you put it. Why do you think they come to Los Angeles? Why not just try to be famous somewhere else?”

  I look up at him. I honestly don’t know the answer to his question.

  “People come to Los Angeles to become people,” he says, staring at the Hollywood sign with a remarkable intensity. “They come here because they know that this is the one place on the planet that they can completely let their aspirations take over. They can define themselves, Veronica . . . not just as who they want to be, but as what they want to be as well. They can do so here without fear of judgement. Without fear of reprisal. So they come. And so they change. And so they bloom.”

  He falls silent again. I’m not sure if it’s the words or if it’s just the way he says them, but the sense in them is obvious. A sudden realization hits me: Whatever that Baby person is, whatever I’m tempted to think about her . . . when she wakes up in the morning, she’s exactly who she wants to be.

  I give myself time to think about that. I can’t think of a time when I’d be able to confidently say the same thing, no matter how far back in my life I go. The closest would be —

  Mirages.

  On stage. Just before I took my fall.

  The wind picks up a bit, and I find myself pressing into Xavier instinctively. He places his hand down firmly at the small of my back and rests it there, forcing neither me nor the moment. The sound of my sigh gives him all the encouragement he needs to pull me closer, and I lean my head against the finely-textured cotton covering his strong arm.

  I breathe in the captivating musk of his scent that mingles so beautifully with the night ivy of the garden, then tilt my head so I can see his gorgeously sculpted face. He’s not looking at me, not yet. His eyes are still flicking back and forth along the shadowed treeline of the darkened hilltops, and I sense that he’s weighing a powerful decision in his mind.

  And then he makes it. Firmly yet effortlessly he pulls me still nearer, and I feel myself bend to him, yield to him, all the day’s jumbled puzzles resolving themselves into a perfect picture . . . a picture of us. His hand finds the side of my face now; it’s hot, a bit rough against the soft flesh of my cheek. It carries with it an invitation. No, a demand. A demand for something more.

  My heart leaps, willing him to capture from me all that he desires — I need to accept him, and I tilt my head further back as my lips part slightly. My breath is coming fast, but I somehow find my voice. It rises in my throat, and I say his name —

  “Xavier . . .”

  The ivy-sweetened night air seems to catch the name and hold it, frozen, for a bouquet of beautiful seconds. It doesn’t sound like a name when I say it, though . . . it sounds like something deeper.

  A confession. A wish.

  If his touch is a demand, then the sound of his name escaping from me is a pure and total consent to it. Xavier's other hand takes its place at the side of my face, and he lifts my lips to meet his own at last . . .

  I feel the sensation of infinity spinning away inside me — an impossible rushing expanse that knows no bound, knows no end. I want more, I need more . . . I feel the wetness of my tongue flick outward to taste his own, driven now by some indistinct animal instinct that seems to grow more and more certain as each angelic moment slips past.

  He buries his hand in my hair now and he grips me there, holding me fast as his perfect mouth continues to sate its potent thirst. His warm fingers then find the crook of my neck, and I can only wonder at it — at this incredible raw power that suddenly holds me so effortlessly within its thrall.

  I am taken. I am charmed. I need that first kiss to last forever — hours, days, a million and one perpetual lifetimes . . . but it cannot. Xavier’s lips slip from my own, and a gasp escapes some crack in my soul, fluttering from my stunned and still-open mouth. Still, I have his face, and his eyes, and I stare at them in unbounded awe as I wait for what comes next . . .

  “I want you,” he says, staring past my eyes to some unknown corner of my heart
. I nod as if spellbound.

  “Do you know why?” he asks, smoothing the edges of my hairline with the wonderful authority of his fingertips. “It is that core of strength I see in you. It is the way you want to love yourself. So many people just wait for life to love them — hoping against hope that the march of time will charm some affections out of a cold and indifferent universe. But you, Veronica . . . that’s . . . not . . . you.”

  His second kiss is more gentle, more exquisite somehow, but in every way the equal of the first. I feel lost in him . . . and yet found. I wonder how my body has managed to contain such desires for so long. They’ve all burst forth from me in a torrent now, and my arms reach for him in a thrill of instinct. They surround him, and I feel myself grasp needfully at mad handfuls of his shirt. Even through his clothes, the warm heat of Xavier’s body is here, it’s right here, and I will it to swallow me completely.

  His lips leave mine once again, and he rests his forehead against my own, breathing hard before he speaks.

  “It’s late,” he says, his fingers brushing against my face. “It’s time that I put you to bed.”

  * * *

  Xavier’s touch against the skin of my inner thigh is pure honeyed electricity.

  I’m now thankful for the privacy afforded by the screen separating us from our new limo driver. He’s younger than the one that brought me from the airport earlier — a bit more boyish, maybe. While he’d seemed like a discreet enough person when he’d opened the door for us at the end of the club’s red carpet, I wouldn’t be comfortable with him seeing me in the state I’m now in. While the matte-black interior of the limousine is indeed deliciously cool, it isn’t the recycled breeze of the A/C that’s causing the gooseflesh to ripple along my arms and legs.

  “Look at me,” Xavier says, his voice commanding. “Keep your eyes on me. Only on me.”

  I can’t help but obey, and I lose myself in the heat of his storm-swept eyes. My lips yield open, my breathing quickens, my head begins to swim. I feel warmth spreading throughout me as his hand slips beneath the soft black folds of my dress, tracing a path up my leg to the already-dampened silk of my panties.