by Liora Blake
“Is that a bike store?”
“Abe’s place? Yeah, that’s Crowell Cyclery. Why?”
A look of giddy delight crosses his face. “Can we go in there?”
“Go ahead. I’m just going to run to the post office for a second. I’ll be right there.” Before I really finish talking, he is jaywalking down the middle of Main Street, with his grubby Chucks shuffling loudly on the pavement.
After I leave the post office, Trevor is standing outside the bike store holding an unfolded topo map and gawking around like he’s looking for a landmark of some kind. I sidle up to him and shove him with my shoulders playfully.
“I can’t believe you, Mosely.” He sounds a little agitated.
“What did I do? Within the last ten minutes, no less.”
“How could you not mention to me that you have forty square miles of prime mountain biking terrain outside your fucking front door? Abe said it’s full of unbelievable single-track plus a bunch of killer pirate trails.”
He’s pointing to the east of town, where a national forest area gets overrun every summer with rugged young guys in their old Land Cruisers who spend all day crashing around in the mountains before they descend into town to buy up all the craft beer and energy bars. The only good thing about them is that they’re usually a delicious pleasure to look at, running around town all sweaty in their baggy cargo shorts and showing off their crazy ripped calves.
Trevor apparently expects an answer, because he’s staring at me with his eyebrows raised.
“I thought you came here to visit me, not to go mountain biking. It didn’t occur to me that I needed to play tour guide and reveal all the hidden recreational gems of the county. Maybe you should see if you can crash with your new best friend, Abe, for the duration of your stay. You guys can brush each other’s hair while you talk about pirates, or whatever the hell it is you’re babbling about.” I roll my eyes and flick the top of the topo map with my fingers.
“Being able to ride is the only thing that would have made this trip better. It’s like my perfect day. Get up, make you come, go ride for a few hours, head back to the house to clean up, make you come again, have you make dinner, and then screw again before we fall asleep.”
“Should I also call you ‘sir’ while I’m at it? Or, would you prefer me to be mute while I cook your meals, do laundry, and spread my legs for you?”
Trevor folds up the map and shoves it in his back pocket. He throws his arm over my shoulders and pulls me to him, placing a kiss on my temple.
“Come on, we both know you being mute isn’t even remotely possible. All that smart-mouthed sarcasm bottled up? Where’s the fun in that?”
The sound of shuffling wakes me and I open my eyes to an empty bedside. The vacancy is startling. Just a few days and I’ve gotten used to him there. He’s on the other side of the room, stuffing clothes into his bag and looking around for anything he might be forgetting.
“Are you leaving?” I pull the sheets up around me.
“Not quite, but I need to be out of here soon.”
I nestle back into the bed and watch him shoving his things into the duffel bag. Looking around, he scratches the top of his head and then starts to dig back into his bag before finally turning over his shoulder to me.
“Have you seen my watch?”
“I pawned it.”
“I hope you got a decent amount for it. Like ten grand.”
“You shouldn’t take something like that off, silly. It’s on the kitchen table.” Flopping back to the pillows, I push my hair back with both hands and let out a sigh.
“What’s wrong?”
I shake my head. “Nothing.”
“Come on, don’t give me that bullshit.” He walks over and sits on the edge of the bed next to me.
“Nothing. I don’t care that you’re leaving. In fact, I don’t even like you.” I narrow my eyes smugly. It helps to do that because it keeps the tiny bit of watering in my eyes from taking hold.
“Wow. Harsh. Do I even get to kiss you good-bye?”
“As long as you understand it doesn’t mean anything.”
I crane my body toward him and let the sheet drop. We barely get one hot kiss in when his phone starts to ring. Grabbing it from his pocket, he answers, and I curl closer to him, kissing down the side of his neck.
“Hey, Damien . . . Yeah, I’m practically out the door right now. . . . Calm down, I’ll be in New York tonight, just like I said I would. . . . You did good, you didn’t call me for four whole days. . . . You have no idea. . . .”
Sliding my hands up under his shirt, I love the way his skin feels, warm and smooth, so I pull him back to the bed where I can really let myself go at him. Trying to grip the phone in one hand and use the other to touch me, he gives up and just watches me as I start unbuttoning his jeans.
“Damien, I’ll see you tonight. . . . I’ve got one last thing to do before I leave, then I’m out the door. . . . Yes, exactly. . . . See ya.”
Under the covers again, I lie motionless listening to him brush his teeth, staring up at the ceiling and trying to quell the wretched feelings brewing in my chest. He emerges and grabs his bag, looking around one last time to make sure he isn’t forgetting anything. I want to tell him not to worry about it, that he can just come right back if he forgets something. He can come back here, where I’ll be waiting for him.
“I have to go. I’ve got a plane to catch in Denver and if I’m not in New York tonight, Damien will lose it.”
“I know.”
“I wish I wasn’t leaving.”
“Me, too.”
“Walk me out?”
“No.”
“Why?”
“I don’t want to watch you drive away. Then that’s all I’ll think about.”
“It’s the rental car, isn’t it? You think I look like a loser in it. I get that.”
I laugh until he kneels down next to me on the bed, stroking my hair back with his hands.
“Go. Before I do something rash to keep you here.”
He grabs his bag and walks backward down the hallway, giving me one final wink and grin. When I hear the front door close and then the sound of gravel crunching, I bury my head under the pillows and take a deep breath in. Then his scent crashes in all around me, because he’s everywhere: the linens, the pillows, and on every inch of my skin.
18
Monday morning, I suffer through the Spanish Inquisition with Rita and even have to answer to Herm, who wants to know what everyone is gossiping about when they should be working.
I feel a little bit like I’m describing my new boyfriend to my dad, with Herm looking at me studiously but giving no indication of his opinion. When I finish, he looks past me and mumbles.
“As long as you’re happy, KitKat. That’s all that matters,” he says, using my childhood nickname.
I’m grateful for his blessing, because even if he doesn’t realize it, I sometimes look to Herm for a paternal kind of approval. Losing my dad, Duke, happened quickly once the cancer took hold, but there was still some time to prepare, time to adjust to the concept of living without him. I still wasn’t ready when it happened, even though I watched him disappear before my eyes.
The day he died, he faded away slowly, as the clock moved in deliberate ticks. The last time he blinked, I locked my eyes with his and then it was over. I walked out and sat in the hospital chapel for hours, weeping in the warm and dark silence. Eventually James found me curled up on a small pew, where I was waiting for him to gather me up in his arms and make my heart stop breaking. Our marriage was still young then, and we didn’t quite know how to hold each other up when things were harsh and painful, but when I saw his face in the glow of the prayer candles, James was the only person who could make the agony momentarily bearable.
I was my father’s girl, and when he died, I felt like a twenty-four-year-old orphan. So when Herm, my father’s oldest and dearest compatriot, tells me to be happy, it means more than he will ever
understand.
Officially, four people in Crowell now know about Trevor. Sharon, Lacey, Rita, and Herm. Only seven hundred and ninety-six left to go.
Is there a female version of being pussy-whipped? I’m not sure, but whatever it is, my picture appears under it in the dictionary. Maybe the word is: “typical.” Because when Trevor calls me only two weeks later, imploring me to come to him, I protest for approximately seventeen seconds and then book a flight for the weekend.
As I stand in the baggage terminal at the Seattle airport with my sunglasses on, looking every bit the part of an obnoxious whirlwind traveler, my leg is actually jittering a little because I want to get to him so badly. I lock my knee, admonish myself for being a cliché starry-eyed woman, and then let out a whispering exhale. It works for one long minute and then I start cursing in my head, wanting to know why it is taking so goddam long to unload a few bags from the belly of a plane. I mean, really, is it so hard to throw some bags into a bin and wheel them up here so I can go get naked with a guy?
Cripe.
Fortunately, because I got in late, Trevor isn’t able to pick me up. Since he would already be at the venue getting ready for his show, he sent a car for me instead. If he had been in the airport terminal waiting for me, I might have made an entirely embarrassing commotion while attacking him.
The driver is nice enough, but he keeps staring at me in the rearview mirror, like he isn’t quite sure why Trax would be sending fancy limos for someone like me. I want to do that whole thing where you send up the privacy glass and look coolly annoyed, but I can’t figure out which button to use.
In the backseat, there’s an envelope with my name on it, and when I open it, I find a hotel room key and a backstage pass. I’m not sure if this is a practical gesture or if I should feel like a two-bit whore. Arriving at the hotel, a bellman escorts me to the elevators and when I pull the key out of the envelope, he immediately stands up straighter. I flip it over in my hand and look at him out of the corner of my eye. This must be a very, very special key.
He stammers a little and then steers me toward another elevator at the end of the hallway. He punches in a code, the doors open, and we step in. I didn’t know that elevators could be posh, but this one does its best to look fancy. Covered in glimmering burnished steel with crushed-velvet panels along the bottom, the thing actually has a Chihuly chandelier in it.
We step out of the elevator and into a wide vestibule covered in white-and-gray marble, and at the end are two oversized doors of intricately carved dark walnut. The bellman clears his throat and I step out of the elevator, hoping I’m not about to try to use this key and find out it’s a fake. My history with hotel keys involving Trevor isn’t great.
This time, the door opens on the first try, and I take a few tentative steps beyond the foyer and land in a suite that is right out the glossy pages of the kind of magazine that Lacey would buy. The living room is enormous, and to the right is a full kitchen with glimmering appliances and a stove that belongs in a restaurant. In the opposite direction, a hallway leads to another set of double doors that are ajar, offering a teasing view of a huge master bedroom. Muted colors and luxuriously modern fabrics mean the entire suite reeks of hipster elegance.
“Ms. Mosely?” The bellman is standing at the end of the foyer, his hands clasped behind his back in deference. To me, apparently. I have no clue how he suddenly knows my name and, frankly, it’s disconcerting. “Do you require anything else?”
I let out a snorting laugh. Really? What more could any reasonable individual ever need? I shake my head, find my composure enough to dig some money out for a tip and step toward him. “No. Thank you.” I almost say, “You’re free to go,” but I don’t want to sound like a complete entitled ass.
With only the barely audible click of the door behind him, he slithers out silently. I don’t normally fall for this stuff, the over-the-top kind of things that shout “I have lots of money! Look over here! More money!” but even I’ll admit that this is pretty awesome. How I got Trevor into my pathetic little hotel suite in LA or my home, I’ll never know. I’m surprised he was willing to sleep at either place, without the benefit of a wine cellar or a butler’s pantry. Or a bidet.
In the master suite, there’s a white box on the bed with a scrawl across the top in Trevor’s hand.
“DON’T TOUCH!!!! I’M GOING TO MAKE YOU EARN THESE!”
I lift the lid and find three cronuts, glimmering with sanding sugar and embellished with edible pansies on top. Running my finger over the top of one, I notice they’re still warm. How in the world do you get fresh-from-the-oven pastries in your hotel suite at six o’clock in the evening? Then I remember all those heaping mounds of money.
They smell delicious and I’m hungry, so I pick one up and take a huge bite, devouring half of it before setting it back in the box. I dig out my phone, snap a picture of the open box with the half-eaten delicacy in the middle of the frame, and chuckle to myself as I send the image to Trevor.
I’m not scared of you. Punish me if you must. Please.
As much as I want to polish off the rest, I resist and strip off my clothes to take a shower instead. Just as I start the shower, my phone chimes.
One simple request. You don’t take direction very well, do you? I can’t fucking wait to teach you a lesson about that.
I step under the showerhead and let the water cascade over me. Even the bathroom is opulent, covered in more marble, with fixtures that look like they probably cost more than my car. Something about the abundance of it all stops me unexpectedly. I’m in his world now, one where this is supposed to be normal, not a crazy fantasy or a one-time indulgence at best.
When I step out of the shower and wrap one of the impossibly plush towels around me, I catch my reflection in the mirror. Cocking my head to the side, I inspect my face to see if I look different. Maybe, for my own sanity, I had to forget how to feel this good after James died. Now, with the benefit of hindsight, I don’t know how I survived so long feeling impossibly hollow inside.
My phone chimes again.
Don’t fuck around at the hotel. I want you here with me before the show starts. I need you.
Warmth runs up my spine and heats my face. I text him back to keep his pants on until I get there. As seriously as I might consider jumping in the limo with only this towel on, simply to get there sooner, I need to look just right.
Because I can barely dress myself these days without thinking, WWKD? I called on Kellan a week ago to impart his wisdom on what a girl should wear when jetting off for a hasty weekend with her big-deal rock-star beau. Instead of just giving me a few tips, maybe e-mailing some pics for inspiration, Kellan overnighted a box of hand-selected outfits to my doorstep. And in his infinite need to control all my fashion decisions, he actually included written instructions with each outfit. As if I wouldn’t be able to figure out how to put pants on properly without him.
I slip into a tiny, dark denim skirt and pull on a sexy, tailored, white button-down. The shirt is just bordering on too tight and too short, and I leave one more button undone than I should, so that when I bend just so, Trevor will be able to see a heap of cleavage. Based entirely on Kellan’s guidelines, of course. He actually specified the cleavage thing as a footnote in the directions. Paired with knee-high black boots and a few pieces of chunky modern jewelry, the outfit makes me look like an edgy girl who just might be able to seduce Trax for the night. Even if I would rather be with Trevor.
I finish my makeup and let my hair fall around my shoulders in loose waves. Taking a final look in the mirror, I decide it’s now or never. I dial up the front desk and ask them to arrange a cab.
“No need, Ms. Mosely, your limo is waiting. I’ll send the driver up right away.”
Of course. Of course my limo is waiting. My limo. That driver has been sitting there, twiddling his thumbs, for the last hour while I sent dirty texts, noshed on cronuts, and took a long shower. I would hate me if I could.
A sha
rp knock hits the door and I stride toward it, confident again because Kellan can work his magic even from hundreds of miles away. When I open the door, the limo driver actually lets out a slight grunt and his jaw drops. I’m tempted to do the bend thing and give him an eyeful, just to make him swallow his tongue. But instead, I smile and act like this is where I belong.
When we arrive at the venue, the driver opens my door and extends his hand to help me out. I’m sure he got a decent look at my cleavage that time, because when he holds open the back door on the building for me, he does so with a lingering smile.
Yep, that kind of dopey-guy grin means he absolutely, positively got a good view of my breasts.
I start down a long hall toward a serious-looking woman holding a tablet computer and tapping at it with her fingertip with exaggerated force. She asks my name and demands to see my pass, inspecting it with what seems like an unnecessary amount of concentration. Once satisfied, she presses a button on her headset and whispers something into it.
Before I have a chance to ask any questions or just knock her down and bolt down the corridor, a tall skinny guy in his forties comes jogging down the hallway. With his own headset on, wearing jeans and a hooded sweatshirt, he has a full dark beard and round rimless glasses, a look that oddly reminds me of my high school English teacher.
“Kate?” He stops in front of me and stretches his hand out. “Rob Shaw. I’m Trevor’s tour manager. Nice to finally meet you.”
I offer my hand back and his palm is a bit sweaty, like he’s been clenching his fists together for hours. His job must be extraordinarily stressful.
“Nice to meet you, too.” I decide to love him immediately, mostly because I register that this man is my golden ticket right now. He has the power to get me to what I want. Reaching out to put his arm around my shoulders, he starts to guide me down the hallway.
“Let’s get you up there. Trev’s been a complete pain in the ass all day. It’ll make the rest of our lives easier once you’re with him.” He rolls his eyes and laughs.