Staying True - A Contemporary Romance Novel

Staying True

By Suzie Carr

Edited by Trish McDermott

Copyright © 2013, Suzie Carr. All rights reserved.
This book, or parts thereof, may not be reproduced in any form without
permission from the publisher. All characters appearing in this work are fictitious.
Any resemblance to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.

Also by Suzie
Carr:

The Fiche Room

Tangerine Twist

Two
Feet off The Ground

Inner
Secrets

A
New Leash on Life

The
Muse

Keep
up on Suzie’s latest news and projects:

www.curveswelcome.com

Follow
Suzie on Twitter:

@girl_novelist

Cover photography by
Trisha McDermott

For you, Grampa. Bless your
sweet soul.

Acknowledgements

Many thanks to everyone who had a
part in this book, particularly Joanna Darrell and Cassie Davis for your
insights, support, and trust. This story would not have been possible without
your contributions. Also, to Bethany Meservey and Felicia Haggerty for your
advice, generosity and incredible gift to see what my eyes didn’t see. I’d like
to thank JG for helping me to brainstorm the title of this book. I will never
forget the day you tossed out those two words,
staying true
. They
clicked and became the central force in telling this story. I also want to give
enormous thanks to my editor, photographer and best friend, Trisha McDermott,
for your inspiration, intelligence, and patience. I am also grateful to my
Grampa for your wisdom and advice. Thank you for teaching me some of life’s
most valuable lessons and for encouraging me many years ago to go write a book.
This one’s for you! And lastly, I’d like to thank my special love, for putting
up with my crazy addiction to the written word.

Chapter One

Ruby

I never set out to be ‘that girl.’
You know, that girl who lived out of her car, borrowed money from her grampa,
or fell in love with a married woman.

Yet, there I was, all of that and
more.

I curled up next to her, admiring the
way her hair fell in gentle waves over her tanned shoulders and spilled onto
the mattress. I should’ve run away. I should’ve torn myself from her, gotten
dressed, picked up my pocketbook and gone to the other room at the other end of
the hallway. Instead, I swept my leg around hers and inhaled her delicate
scent. My inner voice screamed at me to back away. I ignored it. I justified
that we deserved this moment, that we could control our emotions, and that we
could frolic in freedom within this wind tunnel and then fly away from it all
at will, like free birds.

Chasing freedom in a wind tunnel
played tricks and created illusions though. Just like in life, our desires
tossed us around and landed us in these unimaginable places where we risked all
for the sake of love.

* *

Many Months Earlier

For several years, I worked as a
masseuse at an upscale spa. Then, one Thursday morning, I walked into work, and
my bosses fired me.

I loved being a masseuse. I loved my
bosses. I loved my coworkers. So this hurt.

The spa, with all of its
richly-textured walls, amber-hued lighting and museum-quality art, comforted
me. My bosses never failed to spoil us with pastries, bonuses, and flattery.
They grew this little hair shop into a full-scale, destination spa, and
welcomed us all into their business, mentoring us, educating us, and creating
many opportunities to grow.

I considered them my family, and
never expected they’d turn their backs on one of their own.

Then one day Mrs. Jean Nuay entered.
She was a regular pain in the butt. She always complained about stale bread,
sour fruit, old coffee and the cold air. Usually, I could calm her down and
bring a smile to her face by the time she left her visit. Not this particular
day. I could not please the bitch.

The session started on this day just
as any of them did. She questioned if I washed the linens and my hands. She
insisted on Bach music and fresh sage to be lit. Once I got started on her
shoulders, she barked out orders on how I should slow down, speed up, dig in,
and lighten up. She tossed out gripes, smacked my hand away when I hit a nerve,
even cussed when I told her I ran out of her favorite massage oil. Then, she
brought up my predecessor, the infamous Lilly who picked up and moved to Hawaii
one day and left everyone sad and shocked. She said, “Lilly massaged so much
better than you.”

Bells rang in my head. Then, things
got fuzzy. I dug into her shoulders so deeply that she screamed out and called
me a bitch.

Well, I snapped. I flung a towel at
her and walked out on her.

She rushed out with a towel around
her body screaming at me. I headed for the break room, passing my two bosses.
Then, I heard a gasp and some giggling. I sneaked a peek over my shoulder at a
naked Mrs. Nuay bent over, red-faced, squirming for the towel that had fallen
to her stubby feet. My bosses scurried to her side, wrapping her in the towel
and hugging her like a child rescued from raging waters.

“If you don’t fire that Ruby girl,
I’ll be sure to file a complaint with the Better Business Bureau,” she said.

My boss, Betsy, turned to me and
asked me to go home for the day.

“But, I have a full appointment
load.”

“I know, honey,” she said. “We think
it is best.”

I walked out of the spa that day
feeling justified in my reaction, confident my bosses had my back on this. They
just needed to calm down and digest the disaster. The next day, I’d go in and
explain my side of the story. Simple as that.

So, there I stood the very next
morning, not at all prepared to have to defend myself.

“Ruby, we need to let you go,” Betsy
said.

“But she bordered on abusing me,” I
said.

Betsy cradled her arms around her
chest. “She’s threatened us. We can’t take that kind of chance.”

I turned to Janet, my other boss.
“But, she was out of line. She cursed at me. She whacked my hand. She insulted
me. She was wrong.”

Janet avoided me, shuffling her eyes
down to the floor.

“We can’t risk our spa over this,”
Betsy said.

Just like that, because some snobby
lady threatened them, they turned their backs on me and tossed me into the
wild.

I should’ve stepped back from them,
smiled and been straight on my way out of their spa, leaving with a shred of
dignity. Their blessing didn’t cross my mind. My rent did. My utilities did. My
car repairs did.

Anger overthrew my sense of sanity. I
tossed their hot waxing machine off its trolley table, and it splattered all over
their granite floor, and on the bottom half of Betsy’s Paul Mitchell apron.

I ran out on them. I swept past the
clients with foils in their hair, past the product displays, and past my
friends, Marcy and Rachel, at the receptionist desk.

A moment later, I climbed into my
bright yellow Camaro with its new tires and transmission, and settled into its
black leather seat. The needle on the gas gauge teetered on the empty line. I
had five dollars and eighty-three cents in my pocketbook. I had drained my bank
account reserves on repairs just the other day. Now I didn’t even have enough
gas to break away from this neighborhood. I sat for several minutes staring at
the willow tree in front of me. A bird sat lonesome on a drooping branch. She
chirped in vain, probably hoping for a friend to join her, but instead remained
alone amidst a flurry of sad weeping willows. We were one in the same, both
hanging around in a big world to fend for ourselves.

Fear sucked. I would never choose
fear over a friend. Ever.

Marcy opened the spa door and walked
toward my car. Her wild, curly hair fought with the strong summer wind. She lit
a cigarette mid-gallop and flipped off a truck that sped by her and beeped the
horn.

I lowered my window.

“Are you okay?” She hugged herself in
the breeze. Her cigarette dangled from her long fingers.

“No need to worry about me.” I
shouldered a smile. “I’m free now. I hated my long days and strict schedule,
anyway. I needed this change.”

Her face brightened. “You are so much
better off.”

“Yes.” I smiled to mirror hers. “I
am.”

“We should celebrate.” She took a
long drag. “Rachel and I will take you out.”

Rachel and Marcy were the only couple
I knew who could work and live happily together. I could never stand to be
around someone every hour of the day like that.

I smiled up at her. “Sure, give me a
call.”

She kissed my cheek. “You got it,
friend.” Then, she ran off.

A few nights later, I sat in a booth
at the lounge of the Gateway Suites, across from Rachel and Marcy. They treated
me to a Cobb salad and a glass of Merlot.

Our waitress walked past carrying a
tray full of fresh burgers and golden french fries over one shoulder. She
smiled and rushed past. Lots of men with graying hair huddled around cocktail
tables, one elbow bracing their overweight bodies, the other cradling the neck
of a beer bottle or glass of whiskey. The stress they carried right between
their husky shoulder blades hurt me.

“Janet and Betsy feel so bad,” Marcy
said, forking a mouthful of brown rice between her chubby lips.

“They said they didn’t have a
choice,” Rachel said.

“That’s because they live in fear.” I
stabbed my romaine lettuce. “It’s better for me. I have time to read now and
get through some cleaning. I can catch up on lots of things now.”

Marcy pointed her fork at me. “I envy
you. And not just because of your long, wavy blonde mane.” She winked.

I arched my eye at her. “My hair is a
mess. I need a trim and a highlight.” I tossed it over my shoulders and
shrugged, then fought with a cucumber. “The timing of getting fired couldn’t
have been any worse.”

“So, what are you going to do now?”
Rachel asked, flipping her long red hair over her shoulder.

“You should reinvent yourself.” Marcy
sat up tall. “Go out there into the world and spread your wings. Freestyle it
for a while.”

“Freestyle it?” I swirled my glass of
Merlot and inhaled its oaky aroma.

“Yeah, just freelance your services.
Be like one of those “ten-minute massage” girls in the middle of the mall. Take
a client when you want one and walk away when you don’t.”

I considered this and loved the idea.
I continued to consider this idea even later on as I entered my apartment. Why
not?

Freestyle masseuse. It had a nice
ring to it.

I flipped through my mail and landed
on my electricity bill. I panicked when I saw how much the bill had increased
over the past sweltering month.

Fuck freestyle anything. I needed a
job.

The next day I dressed up in a pretty
sundress, curled my hair in big waves, dabbed on some bronzer and lip gloss and
started hitting the streets.

I filled up my gas tank with the
little I had left on my credit card and drove around all day, completing
applications in countless reception areas across the greater Providence area.
How could I explain why I left my previous place of employment? Not one good
reason came to mind. So, I settled on the vague ‘seeking a better opportunity.’

Well, twenty three spas later, an
empty tank of gas, and a maxed-out credit card, I panicked again. What if no
one called me?

I pondered a Plan B. When I lived
with my Grampa, I would walk dogs for ten dollars. I could walk dogs if I had
to. I could walk three or four at a time. I could make up flyers and pass them
out to people in my neighborhood. Better yet, I’d be better off in a wealthy
neighborhood. I could charge more and walk two dogs at a time instead.

I could do this.

I chopped a tomato and salted it. “I
could definitely do this if I wanted.” I bit into the sweet and salty fruit and
contemplated my future.

Who was I kidding? I didn’t want to
walk dogs.

I wanted to massage.

Days passed without a ring. I checked
my phone every five minutes just in case by chance I had missed a call. I paced
my living room. I broke out into yoga poses. I rearranged my couch and end
tables. Then on the fourth day, I walked into my kitchen, and my phone rang.
Marcy. I flung the phone at the couch and stomped back off to the kitchen to
make some tea.

I filled my teapot and pulled out my
box of green tea. “Freestyle masseuse or dog walker?”

I loved the idea of saving worthy
people from demise, of taking their wilted souls and of bringing them back to
life. I’d love to offer this kind of relief to hard-working people who never
considered treating themselves to such luxury because they couldn’t afford to
take the time to indulge.

But what if they could?

I poured some honey into my teacup.

Success in life didn’t come from
taking, but from giving people something of value, something intangible that
would leave them spellbound.

No one needed hour-long massage
therapy to benefit. A ten-minute massage could offer equal value. I could
charge a fraction. I could work on volume instead. Who needed a spa with a
waterfall, marble, and custom drapery? I just needed a portable chair and some
willing clients.

I took to the streets the next day
and considered this more. I sat on a park bench in downtown Providence and
people-watched. Potential massage clients lurked everywhere. Turn a busy street
corner, and faces swollen from too many tears stared back. People needed to
unwind. They needed to have their knots kneaded out of their bodies before the
stress wreaked havoc on their health.

The world overflowed with
stressed-out people in need of my services. They carried boulders on their
backs, worrying about deadlines and client satisfaction and all of that yucky
stuff business people worried about.

I could open up a portable massage
business right here in the middle of town. I could start off working corporate
wellness fairs, ushering people to my portable chair where I worked out the
kinks in their necks. In ten minutes, I could potentially earn the same amount
of tips I earned from the rich spa snobs after kneading them for an hour. These
ten-minute clients would breathe sighs of relief and ease out of the chair with
relaxation dancing on their faces. My job would be to sweep in and dislodge
them from this misery and leave them refreshed in just ten short minutes.

I could add real value to people’s
lives.

Right there on that park bench under
the hot, sizzling summer air, I determined my future.

I would become the ten-minute
masseuse.