True Devotion

by Liora Blake

  But in order to be properly, thoroughly, fully satisfied, you shouldn’t ache for more. “Satisfied” implies that you’re fulfilled enough to not need any more. That you’re sated. Gratified. Content. Thirst quenched. Unfortunately, none of these words applies. Instead, I’m frustrated and needy.

  With a sigh that sounds nearly like a groan, I shut off the water and step out to dry off. I’ve barely gotten my sopping hair towel-dried when the doorbell rings. Quickly, I run my fingers through the wet strands and shake it out for good measure, then tug on a pair of sleep shorts and a tank top. Hopefully whoever is at the door won’t mind my state of dress.

  The doorbell rings again just as I stride across the hallway and yank the door open. When I do, my first instinct is to slam it shut just as quickly.

  Simon is standing there, clearly pissed, the crinkle of tension around his eyes giving so much away. He shoves one arm up and leans into the door frame with his forearm, peering around me into my house.

  “Huh.” His gaze returns to mine. “That’s interesting. Your house looks intact.”

  My forehead tightens in confusion. “What?”

  “See, I was pretty sure your house caught on fire last night. Or that one of your neighbors called you to say you were being burgled.”

  “Burgled? Is that even a word?”

  “Yes. Burgled. As in the act of being burglarized.” He tips his head forward a bit, leaning closer. “Because that kind of thing is the only good goddam excuse you could have for slithering out of my house in the middle of the night.”

  When I don’t respond, his expression hardens, his nostrils flaring just a bit. Even though I want to slam the door in his face, right after I offer up a few choice words that make it clear that one night of spectacular sex does not entitle him to judging me, I can’t seem to do any of that. Whether it’s the way his eyes hold evidence of hurt, or the way he smells so good that I want to rub up against him like a stray kitten, I’m not able to do anything but stand here, mute and slightly wobbly on my feet.

  His shoulders relax a bit, and he drops his arm from the doorjamb. “I was totally up-front with you, Devon. I told you not to start something with me unless you meant it. Then last night . . .”

  After looking away for a moment, I can see his eyes go soft, focusing on anything but my face. He takes a long breath and manages to find my gaze again. “Tell me why you left.”

  I stifle all the ridiculous answers that threaten to tumble out if I’m not careful: Because you gave me a present? The best present I’ve ever received? Because you were talking about adoration and saying nice things about what you like about me? Or that you gave me two of the best orgasms I’ve ever experienced? Because you have a goldfish named Scully and Star Wars glassware and when you touched me it felt perfect? Shit like that, all those things, plus a million other reasons.

  Blurting any of that out isn’t an option, so I go for a more mundane answer.

  “I woke up at three and couldn’t get back to sleep. Then I was thirsty, I needed a drink of water—”

  “Which required you to get dressed and leave? Maybe you didn’t notice, but I have running water. You just needed to trot your ass out to the kitchen and turn the tap on. Then get back in bed with me.”

  The tiniest snippet of annoyance flares inside me. Enough to make my spine stiffen and my jaw go taut. Before I can use those cues to manifest the right words to go along with it, Simon reaches out and grasps one strap on my tank top, untwists it to make it lie properly against my skin, and lets his fingers rest there for a few seconds. After that, all the annoyance vaporizes in a flash. I decide to offer up the words I know he wants. The best way to explain away what I did last night.

  “I’m sorry.”

  Those words are hard to say, always. Whether you’re telling the truth, or lying, or placating, it doesn’t matter. Right now, I’m telling the truth, because when I say it, my body relaxes. Honestly, I was sorry for leaving the second I got in my car and started the engine. If I hadn’t known that getting back in his bed would have required knocking loudly on the door so he could let me in again, I would have gone straight back inside and snuggled under the covers next to him. Beyond that, just seeing him on my stoop, obviously hurt, is even worse.

  Simon’s hand continues to trace along the bare skin of my shoulder. “Tell you what. You can make it up to me.”

  I resist grabbing a fistful of his shirt and pulling him into the house to offer up a very specific brand of atonement, just as his fingers move away. When his touch disappears, I have to stifle the embarrassing impulse to actually whimper.

  “Get dressed and come to my place in a couple of hours. I want to take you out, proper-like. Because when I woke up and you were gone, it made me feel cheap, sunshine.”

  The Simon I’m accustomed to returns to life as one eyebrow raises and a sliver of a grin hitches up one corner of his mouth. “Fucking tawdry, really. I actually felt compelled to look on the dresser for some cash, but nothing. Guess I should have made you settle up before we got started.”

  The grin I’m fighting breaks free. “It’s bad business not to.”

  Simon steps off the stoop and starts down the walkway toward his truck. I call out to him. “Where are you taking me? What should I wear?”

  He doesn’t turn back, continues walking. “It’s a surprise. Wear whatever you would on a date, because that’s what this is. A proper-ass date. I vote for a short skirt of some sort, but it’s up to you.”

  When he pulls away and his truck disappears from view, I fully grasp what’s happening. I’m going on a date with Simon. A date. And if the way my heart is thumping wildly means anything, then evidently I’m excited about the whole thing.

  Well, shit. I never saw this coming.

  Arriving at Simon’s, I take a moment to check my reflection in the visor mirror, then find myself fluffing up my hair. When I catch sight of him trotting down the sidewalk toward my car, I slap the visor shut, hoping he didn’t see me doing any of the things a giddy woman anticipating a big date might engage in. My car door swings opens and Simon goes to lean on the open door frame, his arm propped on top.

  Not sure if it’s the way he’s actually styled his hair for once, or the way the plaid shirt he has on fits wonderfully close to his body, but he’s shined up so well I end up looking him over, not even remotely surreptitiously, either. I’m caught off guard by it all, the way the shirt is untucked except on one side, where it’s sloppily shoved in at the waist, all casual hotness in the style. If we weren’t going for proper on this date, I might tell him to forget the “going out” part of the equation.

  “Stop drooling and get out of the car. We’ve got a bit of a drive and I want to get going.”

  I roll my eyes and step out. When I’ve cleared the car door, I pause to smooth down my skirt. He may have requested a short skirt, but I can’t have him thinking I’ll do exactly what he says all the time. In truth, I did start out wearing a short skirt. Short and tight and leather, for God’s sake. But then I realized I would never normally wear that on a first date. Two more costume changes later, I ended up in a pale blue midi skirt, in a soft A-line shape, paired with flat sandals. Because he’s already seen me naked, I decide that a loose sweater cropped enough to offer a peek at a little bare skin on my stomach would be just sexy enough to remind him of that fact.

  Simon shoves my car door shut and takes one step closer to me, eyes zeroing in on the sliver of belly on display. It’s only an inch or so, but he seems disproportionately interested in that small space.

  “Nice.”

  One word. That one word, spoken softly, somehow manages to sound both like a provocative come-on and polite flattery. Which is why I start to blush. The terrible thing about blushing is that you can’t stop it, no matter how hard you want to. Even when it’s the last thing you want to happen, you can’t stifle it, and if you think too hard that only makes it worse. My only option is to turn this moment back on him.

 
“Stop drooling. I thought you said we needed to get going.”

  Simon grins, eyes coming to meet mine. I get a wink, just before he takes my hand in his and leads us over to his truck. When he opens the door for me but keeps my hand in his until I’m properly seated, I know I’m in a heap of trouble.

  An hour later, he pulls off the road and parks in a dirt lot. A squat stucco building painted bright teal sits in front of us. I peer out the windshield and take in the large, hand-painted signage. At the top it says “Taqueria Jalisco,” with a little cartoonish-looking sombrero painted to sit jauntily off the edge of the letter J, and, under that, small but rimmed in neon, the words “Miniature Golf.”

  Simon drums his fingers on the steering wheel and when I turn to see him, he raises his brows a little. “Just so you know, not to brag, but I’m a helluva minigolf player. I wanted to do something that would ensure I could demonstrate all my manly prowesses properly.”

  My mouth snarls up a bit and I turn my gaze back to the windshield. Great. Here we go, this should be good, because when Simon finds out I’m a novice, he’ll eat up the opportunity to needle my inexperience.

  Without looking at him, I mumble the admission. “I’ve never played.”

  “Seriously? How is that possible?”

  “Not a lot of miniature golf establishments where I’m from.”

  His voice drops. “Don’t you worry, sunshine. This just gives me the opportunity to do that thing we guys love: getting all up behind you and pretending to show you how to hold the putter and shit. Then you can do that thing girls do so well. You know, bend forward just enough to make it interesting.”

  The charade of helping me with my putter starts within minutes of Simon paying then pocketing a scorecard and a tiny pencil. He insists on ensuring I’ve selected the right size putter by handing a series of them to me, then standing behind me and slipping his hands around my hips, fingers grazing the bare skin about the waist of my skirt. Finally, he decides the putter with the red grip and matching head should work. Since we’re dealing with implements that look to be at least a decade old and seem to be crafted of the finest crap-grade aluminum, I know that my customized fit session was all for show.

  I grab a ball as he instructs, in bright blue, because it seems like the best choice to stand out against the fake grass at each hole.

  Simon nods his head slowly. “Not matching your ball color to the putter? Bold choice. I like it.”

  “Does it matter?”

  “Not a bit.” Simon grabs a green ball to match his putter. Green upon green upon green. It seems he’s not concerned about losing track of things amongst all this artificial green. Grabbing my free hand in his, he pulls us toward the first hole, and for whatever silly reason, I start to feel nervous. Not sure if it’s being here with him and the way things feel too relaxed between us, or a completely asinine fear of making a fool of myself at miniature golf, but the fluttering sensation in my body won’t yield.

  By the time we play through ten tedious holes, it’s official. I’m absolute shit at minigolf. Despite the way I can massage people and bread dough with a skillful touch, I lack the inherent finesse required to tap a golf ball appropriately. Already I’ve had to retrieve my ball from great distances because I whacked the thing too hard. Mimicking the swing style I’ve occasionally seen when Trevor is parked in front of the television watching golf has not been the way to go. On hole seven, Simon ends up wading into a sizeable water trap to retrieve my ball. Whoever claimed chivalry is dead didn’t have to listen to a guy’s waterlogged shoes squish with every step as he walked beside them.

  Even when I slow down and try to temper my swing, I overcompensate, and the ball barely inches forward, usually coming to a sad stop in the middle of the “fairway”

  This time, when the ball does exactly that, I start to get frustrated. Nothing about this game is fun, I decide. Taking a few steps forward, I sigh and sidle up to try again. Before I can rear up and knock this tiny insanity-inducing ball to kingdom come, Simon drops his putter to the ground and grips my hands to force me to drop my own putter. Once it thwacks to the fake turf, he wraps his arms around my waist.

  “No pouting, sunshine.”

  “I don’t like this game.”

  He gives up a snort. I drop my head forward and let it rest against his chest. Now I really feel stupid, sulking like McKenna does when things don’t go her way. I can feel Simon’s body twisting a bit and when I look up, he’s glancing around. The place is quiet, late on a weekday afternoon isn’t exactly high time, so only one other group is here, a family that’s just now finishing up. Simon takes my hands and starts to walk toward two sheds that sit off to the side of the course. He pulls us between them and presses me against the side of one.

  “Here. Kiss me—just a couple, but make ‘em good. You need a distraction, a reboot to save your game, and I’m willing to offer up my mouth to help you out.”

  I slap my hands up to my face and cover my goofy pout-grin combo. “No amount of kissing can save my game. It’s unsaveable. I’m the worst.”

  Simon starts to kiss my fingertips where they still press against my face, and with each one, my entire body loosens. My hands drop and the tender expression I find on his face when I do nearly muddles me into a heap of giggles or tears, not sure which. I let my head drop back to meet the wood wall on the shed behind me and the posture invites him forward into one perfectly-acceptable-in-semipublic kiss that doesn’t last nearly as long as I’d like. No tongue, no groaning, no hands wandering, nothing but our lips pressed together in the best way imaginable.

  Maybe I just don’t care anymore, or maybe his amazing mouth can revive the last breath of the worst round of minigolf known to man, but by the time we get to the last hole, I deftly avoid the windmill’s turning blades and sink it on the first try.

  Simon drops the tailgate on his truck, grabs a sweatshirt from the backseat, and drapes it over all the dirt, then pats it to prompt me to hop up on it. One kiss to my temple and he disappears into the taqueria to procure dinner. Thanks to my average of ten swings per hole, the sun is nearly set and a few exterior lights on the stucco building snap to life just as Simon pushes the door open, two Styrofoam containers perched in one hand and two bottles of beer clasped in the other.

  He makes it a few more steps into the parking lot when the taqueria door flies open again and the tiniest, stockiest little dark-haired woman comes bustling out, calling his name. She’s probably in her fifties, soft everywhere, and clearly delighted to see him.

  “Simon! Ven aqui, hijo!”

  With a grin, he turns back and starts to greet her, but I can’t understand a word, because he’s speaking Spanish. Between the two of them, there has to be at least a foot in height difference, maybe more, but she’s doing her best to rise up and grasp at his cheeks, patting gently and sweetly fussing over him with every one. Simon nudges his head in my direction and her gaze drifts to me, a smile creeping across her face, then she swats his arm playfully and offers some obviously cheeky comment. In a move I’ve never observed from him, he turns a little bashful in his body language, just before he stoops enough that she can clasp him in an awkward hug he can’t return because his hands are full.

  When she heads back inside, Simon comes to the tailgate and sets everything down, then swings up onto the tailgate opposite me.

  “You’re a popular guy. You bring all your dates here or what?”

  He shakes his head, flips open the two containers, and uses the bottle opener on his key chain to flick the caps off the beers, then hands me one. “I’ve known Marta and her family for years; they own this place. But, no, I’ve never brought a date here. That’s why she was giving me shit about it.”

  “How do you know her?” The containers are filled with small corn tortillas, piled with shredded meat, diced red onion and cucumber, pickled jalapenos, and wedges of lime. I grab a lime, squeeze it over one taco, and dig in.

  Simon falters as he brings his beer up, an
d I can tell he’s not sure how to answer. I raise my brows for a moment, then take another bite and wait.

  “My family—well, our foundation, really—helped them out when she was sick. Ovarian cancer. It was ugly at first, but she’s been healthy about a year now. When she had to have surgery and was out of commission for a while, I pitched in here for a couple of weeks.” He grins and looks away. “Her husband was smart enough to ban me from the kitchen, since they don’t serve cereal and that’s about the only thing I can make with any real proficiency. Mostly I ran the cash register and washed dishes. I try to stop by every couple of months and check in on her, see how the family’s doing, all that.”

  In two bites, Simon claims his own taco, wiping his mouth with a paper napkin. When he looks up at me, he sees that I’ve hesitated with my beer pressed to my lips, trying to process him this way. As a Spanish-speaking, taqueria-dishwashing do-gooder who checks in on people and pinch-hits in their time of need.

  Not entirely sure, but I think Simon and I are having our first genuine conversation, because I want to ask a hundred different follow-up questions and just sit here as he answers them. I try to remember today’s date. That seems important to note, because this is big, huge. Monumental.

  “Go ahead and breathe, there, sunshine.” He gives a side-glance. “I know it’s essential to your whole can’t-take-Simon-seriously worldview to think about me in a certain way, Devon. Manwhore. Idiot. Etcetera. But no one’s that one-dimensional. Nobody. Myself included.”

  Right then, with Simon squeezing a lime wedge over a taco and purposefully not looking at me, I swear I can see all of who he is. Three-dimensional and wonderful. Fascinating and petrifying.

  Back at his house, a will-we-or-won’t-we anxiety looms unspoken as he parks in the driveway then comes around to usher me out of the truck. While I feign looking in my purse for absolutely nothing and smooth my hair pointlessly, Simon shuts the passenger door and grabs my hand.