True Devotion

by Liora Blake

  “Look familiar?”

  Stepping toward the mirror, I can see the new ink better. Once I do, I recognize it immediately. The intricate tangle of rope that now weaves around at the base of the tree on my back is a match to that which surrounds the traditional anchor tattoo on Simon’s left bicep. Whether it’s Stacia’s eye for detail, or simply that I’ve spent too much time gaping at and getting lost in learning every inch of Simon’s skin, I only have to get a glimpse to know exactly what I’m looking at.

  My eyes rise to meet Stacia’s in the mirror. I nod and grind my teeth together.

  “When he showed up here on Friday, he sat in that chair and begged me to give him something you have. He said he didn’t care what, he just wanted something of you to carry with him.” Her eyes harden into mine. “I gave him Orion. Same place as yours.”

  Stacia cocks her head, and as her jaw tightens into a hard line, I stiffen because I know she isn’t going to pull any punches. Whatever she has on her mind, she’s about to set my ass straight with it.

  “Don’t screw this up, Devon. Show the fuck up in your own life. Decide you deserve to be loved by a man who already loves you. Decide to stay put when things get less than perfect.”

  “I stayed put before. For three years, that’s what I did: I stayed put. All I got was the shit beat out of me.”

  Stacia raises one finger and points at me. “Don’t even go there. This is nothing like that, and you know it. He is nothing like Kyle. Your mistake then was you chose feeling worthless. Now? You have to choose being loved. And I think we both know that scares you more than anything else.”

  Stacia glares until she’s satisfied that I’ve heard every word; after that her features soften. She puts her arms around me and hugs me tightly. Drawing back, she rests her hands on my shoulders and gives them a little shake.

  “Roll up your goddam sleeves, Devon. Get dirty if that’s what it takes, dig down as deep as you need to, but just show up.”

  In my darkening bedroom, I sit on the edge of my bed and stare at the framed photograph he gave me. The last of this evening’s sunset light is pouring in through my west-facing windows. The orange glow casts a glare on the glass for a bit, and I can’t make out much when it does. Then there is a point when I can see everything—the curve of my body, the details of the tattoo, the dark wood frame, the ivory mat that surrounds the photo. After those moments pass, the light gives way to murky shadows and eventually, everything surrenders to darkness.

  I’m starving for his touch, thirsting for his body next to mine, and in the darkness, I could easily surrender to that need. When the light comes in the morning, it will be harder. When he is looking at me, without the shelter of nightfall, doubt will try to crush me. If I thought he was home, I would have gone tonight and given myself to him.

  When he left me on the sidewalk in front of my house, he said I would know where to find him.

  I do. I knew exactly where he is.

  He isn’t at home in those ridiculous unicorn sheets. I will find him in the one place where he believes true love and heartache exist in equal parts.

  Which means I have a long drive ahead of me.

  28

  On the drive to Big Sur, I vacillate between speeding and dawdling. People probably think I’m a DUI in the making, talking to myself animatedly, trying to figure out what to say when the moment comes, and getting all herky-jerky on the gas pedal. Not to mention the way I keep jabbing at the radio to find something that suits me. If the song is too maudlin, it puts me too close to tears. If it’s too peppy, I want to pound the steering wheel in frustration. If it’s too bittersweet, I stare out the windshield aimlessly, dangerously distracted by my own inner monologue.

  In the moments when I’m buoyed by bravery or a decent rock anthem, I break the speed limit so I can get there more quickly, hoping all that chutzpah will stick with me. Then, usually when an emo-sap-alternative-ballad draws me in, I slow down and drift to the far lane, probably subconsciously looking for an exit so I can turn the car around.

  When those convenient exit signs taunt me—five miles away, two miles away, one mile, half a mile—I grip the steering wheel in my hands and lock my fingers so I can’t touch the blinker. Old Devon, I tell myself. The woman who runs is the old Devon. This Devon, the one who ran away for the last time five years ago, she doesn’t run.

  Which means I have to pull into that steep driveway, make my way down the craggy path leading to the house, and be prepared to tell him I fucked up. That I chose weakness over everything else and let the idea of us dictate the reality. I let a girl wearing the right clothes and the wrong attitude make me feel like I wasn’t good enough. I let the sound of two giggling groupies become the imagined soundtrack of betrayal. I let the man who once beat me come into my home, and when he was there, I nearly lost sight of where I truly belonged.

  Still, when I pull in the driveway and see Simon’s truck, all that goddam talking to myself and lecturing disappears. By the time I step out of the car and smell the salt of the ocean, I’m clutching the door handle, afraid to let go.

  Show up, Devon. Just go down there—show up—and tell that annoying, hilarious, amazing, beautiful boy you love him. One foot in front of the other, sunshine.

  With that little directive, I start walking. At the bottom of the path, a small patch of grass surrounds a stone walkway to the front door. When I arrive at the door, I turn to take one good look at the ocean before knocking, and I see the top of his head. He is sitting on the couch facing the ocean, slumped a little into the cushions, with his hands propped on top of his head. I let my hand drop from the knock I was about to place on the door and walk around the side of the house.

  I stand there on the deck, a few feet behind him, and try to remember my opening line. As usual, when I’m figuring out how to apologize to Simon, my words jumble and nothing happens.

  “That better be you, sunshine. I was starting to wonder if you got lost.”

  He doesn’t turn to see me, simply drops his hands from the top of his head. My shoulders sag. I’m lost, all right. Lost and found, and everything in between.

  “It’s a long fucking drive up here. Don’t give me shit about it.”

  Simon laughs and shakes his head, but still he faces the other way. I want to see him, see the expression on his face, hoping to discover a look that tells me everything I need know.

  “I’m here waving the white flag, Simon. I’m not strong enough to fight this anymore. I surrender. To this whole thing, to us.” He doesn’t say anything. His head drops back and he looks at the sky above him. “This is the part where you say you forgive me.”

  “Jesus Christ. Nobody’s keeping score here but you, Dev.”

  I’m going over there. I need to see his face because he can’t lie if I see his eyes. Walking slowly, I round the arm of the couch and stand directly in front of him, nudging my body into the space between his legs. His hands are on his thighs, resting gently, but his fingers twitch and curl intermittently as if he wants to touch me.

  “But I need you to forgive me for letting Alyssa and Kyle and the groupies and the old Devon get in the way. Instead of worrying only about the people who matter: you and me.”

  He scrubs one hand down his face. “I don’t want to be in some relationship that’s just about trading apologies when things get hard. Doing that won’t make it all OK, you know? So, no, I don’t forgive you. But I fucking accept you, including all the shit you do that tests my patience. Because I love you.”

  Simon’s eyes are on mine and there, he hides nothing. He is every bit as open as he has always been; even when I’m holding back, it never changes him. His hands come out and tug at the backs of my knees, and I crawl over him, letting my legs straddle his waist. Once I settle in, he immediately slides his hands to my hips.

  “Just tell me you figured things out, Devon. I have to know you’re in this for good. No hesitation, no second-guessing, no questioning if we deserve each other. All or nothing
.”

  I try to answer him with a kiss, which he takes, our lips moving over each other tenderly at first, then spiked by the way he bites my bottom lip gently. But he won’t take that as my answer; he lets us kiss, then leans back and raises his eyebrows at me.

  Sighing, I let my hands trace over his chest, then over his shoulders and arms.

  “All or nothing? I choose all. I’ve saved the good stuff for you, Simon. Because I’m in love with you, I’m giving you the parts of me I don’t show anyone else. Good and bad, so I hope you’re prepared. Because when I move in with you, I’m bringing all my bullshit with me.”

  “Duly noted.”

  “Can I make few requests?”

  He smiles and mumbles a groan. “Here we go. Is this where you demand I get rid of my unicorn sheets?” His hands begin roaming slightly, moving up under the hem of my shirt, pressing his warm fingers to my skin and letting his thumbs circle just above my hipbones.

  I shake my head. “Unicorn sheets can stay. Can I reorganize your kitchen cabinets?”

  His hands still and he looks at me with his brow furrowed, then rolls his eyes. “Have at it. Just tell me where to find my Star Wars glasses and we’re fine. If we’re trading requests, I’ve got a couple.”

  With a little grin, he waits for me to give him a nod. “Can I screw you over the back of my dirt bike sometime?”

  Oh, hell. Simon and his to-the-point dirty talk. So good, so him. Giving that up would have been hard.

  “Sure. Can I throw out the nutritionally worst of your cereal choices?”

  A little growl escapes him and he narrows his eyes in thought for a moment. “Fine. No more than three boxes. Will you please do the slutty Girl Scout thing for me that I’ve mentioned? With the cookies?”

  “How come all of your requests are sexual favors?”

  Simon moves his hands to the front of my shirt and starts to unbutton it. “Because it’s been sixty-three days since I fucked you. Pardon me if I can’t think about anything else but getting you naked. I’m a man with simple needs.”

  His hands part my shirt, then he slides his callused fingers slowly from my shoulders down to my breasts. When he stops there, gently tracing the edge of my bra, I let my head fall back and give up a sighing groan.

  “Anything else, sunshine? I already made my decisions about the big stuff. The second I met you, I gave in. I decided a long time ago to love you and lose my goddam mind over you. I didn’t need your permission to do any of that. The filthy things on my Devon wish list? I need your permission for those.”

  I hear the words and feel his touch when he says them, but without his face on mine, it still doesn’t feel real. If I don’t look him in the eye, if I let the heat of how of our bodies interact be the thing that brings us back together, it won’t be enough. When I let my head come forward, I stare until he stills his hands.

  “Simon.” He hears the plea in my voice and, when he does, pulls his hands from my breasts and shifts underneath me. Then he puts his hands around the back of my neck and gingerly traces my jawline with his thumbs. My mouth goes dry, because my last request is the hardest. If ask him for this, and fully accept him giving it to me, that will mean I’m handing him the power to break me in a way that would hurt more than any black eye or broken rib could.

  “Ask me for anything, Devon. If it helps, the answer will be yes. No matter the question, the answer is yes.”

  “Will you give me what I deserve? Love me that way? No exceptions?”

  When Simon looks at me, his eyes are all I can focus on. The dark gray of them, the honesty there, the way I swear he might be holding back some very unmanly tears. Then he pulls my neck forward gently and presses our foreheads together.

  “Yes. Always. No exceptions, sunshine.”

  After he puts a sweet kiss to the tip of my nose, all of it surrounds me. All the things that make Simon who he is. All the things that make me who I am. The acknowledgment of us dragging all that bullshit into a relationship should have sent me running. But Simon is living proof that two people who don’t make sense can yield a love so devoted those differences would never matter, across loss and time and grief. Knowing just that is enough to ground my body to his.

  I let him carry me into that tiny house, where I watch him strip every stitch of clothing off his beautiful body, just for me. When he asks me to do the same, I do. Because we’ve been apart so long, because we’re broken but mended, we should make love. Tenderly and slowly and passionately. With a bunch of goofy tantric breathing and relentless eye contact.

  Instead, we do what we do best.

  We say dirty, loving, hilarious, honest things to each other and go at it until everything that came before us is merely an ancient narration leading to the time and place we found each other. Then Simon says my name so softly it sounds like the only language he believes in, the only word he needs to know, the affirmation of all he’s ever wanted—and that murmur, just the quiet declaration of my name on his lips, becomes everything.

  Acknowledgments

  Many thanks to Victoria Lowes at the Bent Agency, for continuing to provide such perceptive guidance and gracious encouragement. Much gratitude to Elana Cohen for her patience, insight, and dedication—your spot-on editorial advice brought so much more heart to this book. Also, thank you to the entire Pocket Star team, for bringing this series to life.

  Thank you to every blogger, reviewer, and reader who took a chance on a new series from a new author. Each time a reader shares how much they’ve enjoyed and embraced these stories, I swear, it’s like my heart grows three sizes.

  And, of course, to Warren. For always knowing when to break out the 90 Shilling.

  Keep reading for a sneak peek excerpt from

  True Divide

  Book Three in Liora Blake’s True Series

  Out Fall 2015 only from Pocket Star Books!

  Chapter 1

  Babies are so unreliable. Can’t count on them for anything. Plus, they don’t seem to understand how arriving in the world two weeks ahead of schedule is sometimes a truly terrible idea. The worst.

  Lesson learned: I should have been more prepared. Reading up on things like early labor signs and calming breathing exercises, both of which would have left me better equipped for this situation. Instead, I’ve spent the last nine months shopping for cute footie jammie sets with elephants on them and tiny down-filled puffy coats I’m positive will make any baby look like an adorable little marshmallow. Unfortunately, neither of those things are of any help right now, no matter how fashionably precious they might be.

  But, as far as I know, no one’s written a book called What to Expect When Your Sister’s Expecting. Because that is what I need right now. If I had a copy of this yet unwritten book, I’d be driving with one hand and flipping through it with the other, looking for the chapter titled: “Early Delivery—What to Do When Your Former Rock Star of a Brother-in-Law Is Twelve Hundred Miles Away.”

  Instead, I’ve fastened both hands to the steering wheel at ten and two, grasping it tightly as my sister lets out another tense groan from the passenger seat. At the sound, my right foot presses down on the gas pedal even harder than before. Eighty-five on a county road in the middle of nowhere Montana? No problem. As long as I maintain my safety-first death grip on the wheel, we’ll be fine and arrive at the hospital in record time.

  “Lacey.” Kate sucks in a sharp breath, and I whip my head toward her. The jerky move means my hands betray me and we end up hitting the rumble strip on the shoulder of the road.

  Correcting, or rather overcorrecting, leads to another jerk of the wheel in the opposite direction. I give myself a silent reprimand and try to get my act together once more. I’m a strong, capable woman, dammit. I’ve got this. Dealing with my flustered state is the last thing my sister needs right now, so I take a centering breath and try to restrain the panic in my voice.

  “Jesus. Sorry about that. What? Are you OK?”

  Kate props her elbow up on th
e door trim panel and then leans toward the window so she can rest her head into her palm, eyes closed and her face oddly relaxed.

  “I’m fine. Just slow down and try to keep it between the lines, please. I honestly don’t know who would be worse in this situation, you or Trevor. Patience isn’t his strong suit, but your driving leaves a little to be desired.”

  And the fact that I’m behind the wheel driving my sister to the hospital, instead of her husband, is the real issue here. This wasn’t in the job description of awesome aunt. I’m pretty sure that being the cool aunt means you’re in charge of things like fun sleepovers with movies your parents might not let you watch, lessons on makeup, and navigating the perils of your first junior high dance. Husbands are supposed to take the lead on remembering your go-bag for the hospital and getting you there in one piece.

  Despite forgetting said go-bag and managing to kick Kate in the back of the leg while I “helped” her into the car, my sister still manages to look beautiful when she’s already a few hours into labor. With a face scrubbed clean of any makeup and her dark hair pulled into a low ponytail, the only embellishments about her are the modest princess-cut solitaire diamond studs in her ears and an unassuming gold wedding band on a still-slim ring finger.

  A slight slump in her shoulders is the only giveaway that she might be in pain right now. If it were me sitting there, a whole other story, guaranteed. The only thing that might stop me from wailing about the injustices of the universe and bawling my eyes out would be the avoidance of raccoon eyes. Because I definitely want to look as pretty as humanly possible in those inevitable postdelivery baby-holding photos people snap while you’re still in the hospital bed.