Page 26 of Destroyed

“I’ll be damned if something happens to you when Sebastian explicitly gave me instructions to watch you,” Xavier says, sighing as if he too could think of a million different things he’d prefer to do today. Six weeks ago, I would have loved to bring Xavier to the gallery with me on a Saturday. It’s quiet and the usual hustle and bustle of the weekday is gone. Saturdays at work are one of my favorite things. Which is why I want to go to work today and am currently having an argument with this stubborn amnesia-wrecked asshole.

“Fine,” I say. “But not until you make me pancakes.”

“Excuse me?” he says. “Why would I do that?”

“Because,” I say, pointing to the Bisquick in his cabinet, “that’s what you do on Saturday mornings.”

“Oh,” he says, turning away from me. “I guess I could eat.”

I watch him as he grabs a bowl and begins making pancakes. When I first slept over here, he insisted we eat together in the morning. Naked. In bed. And ithadto be pancakes. I smile now, thinking of him drizzling syrup into my belly button.

“Gross!” I shouted. “That’ll be everywhere!” He had simply leaned down and slid his tongue over my belly, lapping at the sticky substance all over me. Then he’d pushed me up higher onthe bed, grabbed my legs, and spread them apart before diving head-first into my pussy.

“Whip cream?” he asks.

“What?” I’m in another world, remembering the heat of his breath on my body.

“Do you want whipped cream? Or syrup?”

“Oh. Um, syrup is fine.” I mean, theoretically, syrup is great, wonderful even. But right now it seems sad.

We eat in silence, me making a mental list of things to do at the gallery, and it’s not long before I’m standing at the front door, waiting to see what he does.

“Let’s go,” he grumbles. As soon as he steps out I realize he has no idea where I work. This must be lost in the “before-amnesia” memories.

“Oh,” I say. “I’ll get a cab,” and raise my hand to flag a cab.

“A cab?” he asks, incredulous. “You know we can upgrade a little, right? Uber? The firm’s driver? My car?”

“Don’t be an ass,” I say. “We’ll survive a cab ride.” With that, we hop into the yellow taxi as it idles at the curb and I give him directions. But instead of going to the gallery, I have him stop a few blocks away. I try to pay the driver, but Xavier practically shoves me away.

“Don’t be an ass,” he says, mocking me. “I can pay.”

I know at this point he’s just following me wherever I’ll take him, so I begin walking down the sidewalk to a corner store. “Let’s just go in here first,” I say, before ducking left toward the store.

“For what? If there’s something at my place that you need then I can make sure we have it for the weekend.”

“No, it’s not that,” I say. “I just wanted to show you something.” With that, I pull him into the store. From the outside, it looks like a simple corner shop, where you’d findmini liquor bottles, chips, and cigarettes. But inside there’s so much more. It’s a tiny, discreet sex shop tucked into the heart of Gallery Row.

We reach the row of vibrators, all sizes, shapes, and colors on full display, before Xavier connects the dots. “Is this a sex shop?!” he practically shouts.

“Yes,” I laugh. “You and I used to come here a lot! I thought maybe it would be familiar?”

He looks at me then, and the corner of his mouth twists up. “I don’t remember being in here, but I think I would like to remember what we did with the …. Items purchased here.”

I can’t help it, and I blush fully. That’s the man I knew, at least a hint of who he was.

“Let’s look around,” I say, trying to hide my smile at his flirtatious comment. “I need a new rope.”

“To add to your collection?” he jokes.

“Yes,” I say simply. He looks surprised and honestly, impressed.

“Lead the way.”

We meander through the store, picking up things and simply making eye contact before setting it back down. I giggle when he picks up a lacy crotchless panty set and holds it up to himself. “Not my color,” he says, and winks.

Before long, we left, and I led him toward my gallery, pointing out cafes where we’d met for coffee or drinks. “That place has the best-grilled cheese in the city,” I say, gesturing to a small shop on our right. He nods, understanding that at some point we have bonded over a shared love of greasy sandwiches.

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