Just One Lie

by Kyra Davis

  The thought terrifies me. If I can’t make this work, what do I have? Nothing but a perfect track record of failure.

  He leads me to a residential street on the very outskirts of Santa Monica . . . in fact I’m not entirely sure we’re not technically still in LA. It’s borderline.

  He parks on the street in front of a spot just big enough for my car. Great; as if I wasn’t jittery enough, now I have to parallel park behind a motorcycle. It takes me several minutes, but somehow I manage it without knocking over the Ninja or having a breakdown. He waits for me curbside, and as soon as I grab my flowers and lock the door he points to the parking sign. “I don’t have an extra permit, so just know if you decide to stay over you’ll have to move this by ten a.m.” He says the words so fast that it takes me a second to work them out. He shoves his hands inside his leather jacket and gestures with his chin. “This way.”

  I walk half a step behind him, my roses held in front of me. It feels like an odd procession, like a piece of performance art or something. But I don’t point it out. I sense that Ash isn’t in a joking mood.

  When he finally stops it’s in front of a relatively modest but perfectly decent house. It seems crazy that this would be worth the fuss of hiding. I’m about to say something along those lines when he speaks up.

  “I live in a guesthouse behind this.” His hands are still in his pockets and he’s staring hard at the ground. “We just need to walk down the driveway on the side there and then go through the backyard.”

  “Oh.” I try to catch his eye, but he won’t look at me. “Lead the way.”

  He takes me down the driveway, but before he opens the gate to the backyard he whispers, “Just be sure to be as quiet as possible. The woman in the main house is elderly, but her hearing is confoundingly good. Even closing the gate too hard will wake her.”

  I make a gesture of a zipper over my lips. He smiles gratefully and lets us in. We walk through a small patch of green grass and then, finally, get to his door. The way the house is situated, I can’t really get much of a sense of it from the outside, but as soon as he opens the door I begin to understand.

  On the plus side, it’s not a studio. Unlike me he actually has a bedroom, a kitchen, and a living room. On the other hand, it is the smallest one-bedroom I’ve ever seen in my life. The living room is large enough for the impressively sized, and probably very expensive, flat-screen TV mounted to the wall, plus a love seat and coffee table, but that’s about it. When he leads me to the kitchen I’m shocked to see he actually has less counter space than I do, and that’s bad. There is barely enough space to fully open the refrigerator door. There is a little breakfast area where he has put a small square table and two plastic chairs. If he wanted to host more than one person for dinner he might be able to fit in a third chair, probably not a fourth. He takes the roses from me and gently lays them on the table, then pours two small glasses of sipping tequila and gives me one to hold. Drink in hand, he leads me to the bedroom, which is barely big enough to accommodate his double bed, very small dresser, and medium-size desk. And the bathroom? If I were to stretch my arms out to either side I would almost be able to touch two walls. The counter space situation in here is even worse than in the kitchen. The only place to put anything is either in the medicine cabinet, the shower rack he probably bought at Ikea, or the top of the toilet. The shower curtain has seen better days.

  This is not new construction. There is no hill, no ocean view. It’s basically a pool house converted into a microscopic guesthouse . . . except there’s no pool. He stands in the four-foot area that constitutes a hallway and puts his hands into his back pockets. “So, not exactly Buckingham Palace, huh?”

  I smile and use my head to gesture to the front door. “Who’s the elderly lady with the superhuman hearing? Did you know her before?”

  A quick wince and again he averts his eyes. “She’s my great-aunt. I do pay her rent, and I sort of feel like I’m doing her a favor because I’ll go grocery shopping for her, get up on the stepladder and change the lightbulbs, change the batteries in her remote controls. She has arthritis so those little things are hard for her.”

  “So you’re staying to help her out,” I clarify.

  “Yes . . . well, sort of . . . When I move I’ll still come here and help out. My good deeds aren’t really dependent on my living in a rathole.” He takes a long drink and then falls silent for a moment before continuing. “I really should be able to afford something better. Everyone who knows me would tell you that. Eva, my parents, my friends, everyone. If I was just better with my money I could live better, but . . . I have a hard time with it. What can I say, I’d make a lousy accountant.” He lifts his glass to his lips again as his eyes dart back to me. I can see the fear there. He’s afraid I’ll reject him.

  Or worse, he’s afraid I’ll judge him.

  “I’m not great with money, either,” I say with a little smile, gently placing my glass on the center of the coffee table, next to a small and disorderly pile of magazines. “I mean, I don’t think I am. I’ve never had any to test the theory with.”

  A spark of hope in his eyes, a smile that hints at relief. “I guess I exaggerated when I told you about this place. Thing is, I am going to have a fantastic place pretty soon. I’m making bank for this pilot. So I figured I’d just wait until the checks started rolling in, find a new condo, and then show you that. I . . . never wanted you to see this.”

  I flinch at that. I mean, yes, part of me is actually charmed by his sheepish vulnerability, but there’s something about this that’s just a tad . . . off-key, and . . . and it’s not the place. It’s his effort to keep it from me. It’s that he thought he needed to lie. “How could you think I would care about this?” I ask, trying to keep the hurt out of my voice. I let my eyes move to the television, which I now realize is just ridiculously large for this room. “It’s not like this is, like, a crack house or something,” I reason. “It’s just . . . intimate.”

  Ash allows himself an amused smile. “I think the Realtor’s term is ‘cozy.’ ”

  “Yes!” I agree. “A cozy opportunity.”

  “Yeah.” He walks over to the coffee table and picks up one of the magazines, a National Geographic with a cover photo of a space shuttle. “You know those pods the astronauts use when they land in the ocean? The ones they always show in movies?”

  “Yeah?”

  He smiles and throws back the rest of his drink. “My place is bigger than that.”

  I start giggling. I can’t help myself. Ash puts his finger to his lips. “Shh, you’ll wake up my great-aunt.”

  And that just makes me laugh harder. Ash looks irritated at first, and then he smiles, and finally he’s laughing, too. We’re both giggling like idiots. It’s not like there’s anything that funny going on. But it’s nice, sharing this moment, and when we both finally settle down I don’t feel that apprehension anymore.

  He sits down on the love seat and gestures for me to do the same. I hesitate a moment, but then accept the silent invitation. It’s not a big piece of furniture.

  “You were good tonight,” he says quietly. “You were happy.”

  “I was happy?” I repeat, not clear about where he’s going with this.

  “Yeah, you were having fun.”

  “Oh, I get it.” I pick my drink up and then fall back against the cushion, try to find a way to put another quarter of an inch of space between us. “You’re moving up in the world and I’m just having a good time. Right? That’s how you see it?”

  “Fuck, Mercy, since when is telling someone they look happy an insult?”

  “It’s not, but—”

  “I was wasted last night,” he says, cutting me off. “I didn’t mean the things I said.”

  “Alcohol doesn’t turn people into liars. It lowers their inhibitions.” I lift my glass as if using it as a visual aid before tossing some back. “It gives you the audacity to say the things you would otherwise keep to yourself.”

&nb
sp; “Yeah, but . . .” He throws his hands up in the air. “Will you at least agree that when you’re drunk you’re not always at your most articulate? That sometimes things come out wrong? Can we agree on that?”

  I take another sip and press my lips together as I stare at the dark screen.

  “Hey.” He angles his body toward me, puts his hand over mine. “You should be having fun. It’s a compliment. You’ve dealt with too much bullshit for too long. People trying to force you to behave in ways that have nothing to do with who you are.”

  “And who exactly am I?” I ask, my eyes still on the screen.

  “The girl who burns the candle at both ends. You’re the beautiful, sexy, edgy girl who gets up on a stage and sings into the early morning hours just because she can. And that makes you better than me.”

  Finally I meet his eyes. “I don’t get it.”

  “We, all of us, should be able to celebrate our lives as they are today. But most of us can’t do that, I can’t do that. I’m living in the future, thinking about what’s coming rather than what is, and then I see you and, you know, you’re all about the moment.”

  “Yeah,” I say uncertainly, “that’s me.” I finish the rest of the tequila and put my empty glass next to his. What he’s saying isn’t all that different from the things I told Brad in the back room of Envy. But it’s still not comforting to hear and I don’t exactly know why.

  “I want to learn from you. I want to absorb just a little of that vitality. I want . . . I want you to show me how to be happy with my life.” He takes a sharp breath. “Will you do that, Mercy? Will you teach me how to just be?”

  I study his expression and then turn away. I know the ocean isn’t that far, but I can’t hear it. All I can hear is the traffic a few blocks over on Santa Monica Boulevard, and all I can see is this claustrophobic little space and Ash, looking at me with all that hope and need, asking me to give him something I don’t have and something that he may only want in theory. Because sometimes when we’re not clear about what we need we’ll just ask for anything. At least I do, and Ash and I are so very much alike. I hang on to my silence for some time, maybe a minute, maybe two. It’s only when I feel Ash’s mood shift, when I know he senses something is off, that I speak up. “Last night, after I got home, I broke a bottle and I cut myself. I cut myself on purpose.”

  “What?” he asks, confused.

  “The girl you see onstage,” I continue, “that’s not me, at least it’s not me all the time.” I pull my feet up on the couch, sit cross-legged, resting my forearms on my thighs. “Sometimes I’m not this life force or this . . . this source of light. Sometimes I’m just . . . numb. I don’t want to be numb. I want to feel. And sometimes the only thing to feel is pain. That’s all that’s available, and what’s weird is the pain sort of helps, because when you hurt you’re not numb. When you feel that pain you know you’re alive.”

  Again the room grows quiet. I wait for Ash to lecture me. To throw me out. To tell me how disgusted he is with me.

  “Did you cut yourself badly?” he asks, sounding somewhat bewildered.

  “No. It’s just . . . more like a scratch, I guess.”

  “Oh.” He studies the ceiling for a moment. Perhaps he’s silently asking for advice from God. Or maybe he’s just trying to think up a way to politely get rid of me. “Well,” he finally says, “my last roommate was into branding. He had this big branded eagle across his upper back. And I had this girlfriend who had her tongue pierced.” He shakes his head. “That had to hurt, but it was her choice and she got what she wanted out of it. So as long as you’re not doing any real damage . . . You’re not, right?”

  “No,” I say softly. Not yet.

  “And it makes you feel better?”

  I nod.

  “Well then,” he says with a sigh, “who am I to give you a hard time about it?”

  My mouth drops open. In a million years it never occurred to me that he, that anyone, would react like that. “Are you actually telling me that you’re cool with me cutting myself?”

  “It doesn’t exactly sound like you’re describing a habit, Mercy,” he points out. “It was a one-off. All I’m saying is that you should live your life the way you want to live it. I’m just hoping you’ll still let me be part of it.” He runs his hands over my unkempt hair. “I’m never going to judge you. I like you the way you are.”

  My heart leaps to my throat. I feel tears stinging my eyes.

  “Can you forgive me for last night?” he asks.

  I lunge forward, placing my mouth against his, holding his jacket in my hands as I pull him to me. He seems surprised at first, but soon yields to my desire. He grips my shoulders and adds his weight to our kiss, pushing me back even as he moves forward, making it his own. His mouth moves to my shoulder as one of his hands moves back up to my hair, and the other one pulls the fabric of my shirt aside so he can graze my skin with his teeth. There’s a new kind of urgency now. A new kind of need. This man who wants me as I am, he needs me. And just knowing that makes touching him more intense and more erotic than ever before. Gently I pull his jacket from one arm and then the other before slipping my hands under his shirt. I’m caressing him, learning him, caring for him.

  “I want to be inside of you,” he whispers, his hands moving to the bottom of my tee, pulling it from me, his hands rough against the softness of my skin. I feel him fumble with my bra before freeing me, removing all the impediments that separate us. And now his hands are woven into my hair, on either side of my head. He’s holding me still as he moves in for another passionate kiss.

  I linger a moment, then pull away from his grasp, lowering myself as my fingers quietly unfasten his belt buckle, then pulling the leather strap away and dropping it to the floor. My hand moves under him and pulls his wallet from his back pocket, holding it up for him to see before looking inside and pulling out what I want. “You’re learning,” I say sweetly as I hold up the little packet. “And,” I whisper as my hands go to the waist of his pants, “you’ve won.” I pull the denim fabric from him with a jerk of my hands, throwing it behind me with little care or consideration. “In a matter of weeks you’ll have the future you’ve always wanted. You’ll have your new home, your new celebrity, the success you’ve been craving. This should be the best year of your life.”

  “Yes.” He sits up and I watch as he removes his shirt, then close my eyes as he cups my breasts. “I’ve won. And you’re my prize.” He leans forward and his teeth pull gently on my earlobe. His hands are now unbuttoning my own jeans, reaching inside them, inside my panties. “You’re wet,” he notes.

  “Yeah.” My voice has a different cadence now, more needing. “I am, for you.” I feel the pressure of his hand, his fingers, and then the scrape of the fabric against my skin as he peels it off me—jeans, panties, it all has to go.

  “Prepare me for you, Mercy.”

  Ah, I do love hearing that name on his lips. It has the ring of victory. I get down on the floor as he turns to me, allowing me to once again unroll the condom with my tongue, covering him, preparing him for his conquest.

  And that’s me. He’s conquered me, overwhelmed me, and it’s what I want. I straddle him slowly, holding myself above him as he strains for me, curling my back into a comma as my mouth finds his shoulder, as my teeth gently graze his skin. “I’m ready to take you, Ash,” I whisper, and then I lower myself onto him, feeling him enter me, his strength, his pain, his accomplishment—I want it all. He’s holding me with his hands and then he lowers me, my arms slip down to my sides, then even farther back until my back is flat against his lap, my arms dangling down so my hands are pressed into the floor. I let my head fall back as I use the strength of my arms to move me, thrusting myself against him, seeing nothing but the cream-colored ceiling above me. And what does he see? My body, stretched out and on display for him as I take him in over and over again. Me, his prize, his fate.

  But then in a moment he’s pulling me up again, pressing my chest
against his, and with a series of swift movements he has us on the floor, turning us until we’re on our sides, my back pressed against his chest. I slide my legs forward, under the coffee table, stretch them out in front of me, pressing myself into him, and I feel him enter me from behind as he places his arm in front of my breasts and uses the floor to lift himself, giving himself a deeper and more satisfying angle. My legs are pressed together, making me even tighter than before as he penetrates me. He’s controlling our rhythm now, and my position allows him to fill me and touch me in ways he hadn’t before. I stretch my arm above my head, steadying myself against each thrust; it looks and feels like the whole world is shaking.

  And then suddenly I’m repositioned onto my stomach. The change comes so fast I barely know how it happens. But the welcome burden of his weight is on me now, his legs on either side of me, and our connection has not been broken. I cross my legs at the ankles, once again tightening my embrace. I hear him moan as I scratch my fingernails against the frayed carpet, as if clawing it away, destroying its flaws.

  But it’s only when he pulls me up onto all fours that I find that I am about to completely lose control. Now at our most primal, feeling him claim me like this, one hand on my hips as the other reaches around to toy with my clit—it’s too much. “Ash!” The name bursts from my lips with such force I’m sure his aunt must have heard it; the whole neighborhood could have heard and I still don’t care. His energy is savage; I feel his passion, his desire, sense his anger and his pride, and when I climax I am overcome with pure and all-embracing pleasure, a beautiful and complete release. And then it’s his voice that fills the room, his volume lower than mine, but his tone no less insistent. His release comes before I’ve had a chance to even think of recovering from my own, and the sensation of him pulsating inside me is just . . . fucking awesome.