Page 59 of Satisfaction Guaranteed

Cyrus’ face pales. His mouth opens and closes, and when he realizes he has no lie to aid his case, he relents, arms crossed in a ridiculous pout. “That no good snitch,” he mumbles under his breath.

A snort of laughter escapes Alana despite her best efforts. She looks at him, this ridiculous man, and her heart feels so full she can’t stand it. This had been what she was waiting for. This spark in her chest. Bright and blinding, it threatens to burst like a dying star. “Well,” Alana says softly, “I hate that it nearly took breaking your nose to get here, but I’m glad we can have this conversation.”

“Me too.” When Cyrus looks at her this time, it’s with an affectionate chuckle. He opens his knees for Alana to resume her position, slotted between them. She goes easily, pressing up against his chest as his arms wrap around her.

Grabbing his hand, Alana traces the lines in his palms once more. Where his paw pads would be, she presses inward. She half expects claws to extract, but Cyrus curls around her hand, revealing well-kept, undeniably human nail beds.

“What were the other reasons?” she asks. “You said there were a lot of reasons you didn’t want to say anything. What were the others?”

Cyrus’ chest expands with a slow exhale. “I make it a point to keep romance out of the picture most of the time, especially with clients. Keeps things from getting muddled, and people’s feelings from getting hurt. Mine included, I guess,” he explains. “I’m not what most consider a ‘steady relationship’ kind of man, sweetheart. I know what my strengths are, one of the primary ones is sex. I figured I didn’t have much more to offer that you’d be interested in. So I guess I didn’t want to get my hopes up.”

Alana’s heart falls. Immediately, she’s reminded of how defensive and upset he’d gotten at the thought of her only checking on him to fulfill some kind of fantasy. She can feel Cyrus tense, feel his heart beat a little. When Alana glances over her shoulder, he meets her with a shrug. As if he doesn’t see a big deal with what he’s said. It’s a trait of his, she’s noticed. To downplay his grief as if it’s just life.

“You really don’t think you have anything else to offer people?” Alana asks. She places a hand on his cheek. “What on earth would make you say that?”

“Experience,” he replies quietly. He doesn’t withdraw from her touch, but doesn’t lean into it either, his attention off to the side. “I stumbled into this whole escort thing to keep stuff afloat after my folks passed. Started as just a means to take care of myself financially, but as it turns out, I’m good at this. I enjoy it, taking care of people. Making them feel good. Even outside of work, sex makes me feel like I’m doing something right. But…” Cyrus leans further back against the tub. “It can make trying to have real relationships rough. Why, I remember this woman I really liked a few years back. We were goin’ steady, and it felt like she could be the one. Felt like it could be the end of the line for me. I even gave up sex work on account of her wanting to be exclusive. Things were good for a while, but eventually, being introduced to her friends felt like I was being presented as their favorite walking toy. They’d all look at me like they knew every dirty detail of our lives—which I assume they did based on the questions they’d ask me when she wasn’t lookin’. There was a point one of them asked how much it cost ‘em to have a night with me themselves. I remember talking to her about it, asking if she saw us as anything more than physical. Turns out, she didn’t. Never really did. Just didn’t want to risk losing her access to me by saying otherwise.”

The color bleeds from Cyrus’ eyes as he recalls the memory. It sends a sense of overprotective rage simmering below the surface of Alana’s skin. She releases a forceful breath. “I’m so sorry, Cyrus,” she says. “That’s awful. And sounds incredibly violating.”

There’s no hesitation to lean into the touch this time. He turns to kiss her palm, then offers another dismissive shrug that makes her desperately want to shake him like a rag doll.

“It’s fine, Miss Alana. Like I said before, it doesn’t matter—”

“But it does matter,” Alana argues. Eyes of rich mahogany and gold sunlight widen at her, and his throat bobs with a swallow. She knew a thing or two about not feeling good enough for people. Being manipulated or coerced until doubt outweighs any sense of self. “It’s okay to acknowledge when someone’s hurt you, you know. I don’t think being an escort or stripper or sex worker or whatever else entitles people to objectify you in every area of your life. Especially not a romantic partner. It sounds like you really liked this woman, and she used you for her own gratification. That sucks, Cyrus. We don’t have to pretend it doesn’t.”

Cyrus rests his hand atop hers, his chest expanding with a quiet exhale. “I suppose you’ve got a point.”

“You’re damn right I do.” Alana pokes him in the forehead. His face crinkles, though she takes satisfaction in the twitch of his smile. “What was her name?”

Cyrus hesitates for a brief moment. “Uh, Sam. Samantha.”

Samantha. Alana lets her name roll around her tongue. A bitter taste follows. “Well, for what it’s worth… Samantha is an idiot,” she says curtly. “And should you feel hypothetically inclined to ruin her day, I know some ways. Give Connor a beer and twenty bucks, and I’m fairly certain he’ll leave a crap on her front door.”

A booming laugh barks out from Cyrus. The kind that brightens the room. “Well now, I appreciate that offer. But I think I’ll let sleeping dogs lie. Besides,” he murmurs. “Had it not been for that experience, well, I may not have met you. And if I never met you? I reckon I’d never experience what real love is supposed to feel like.”

The vengeful spirit inside Alana, spring-loaded and ready to snap, dies out. Her mouth drops open. “What did you just say?” Cyrus cocks his head to the side, confused. “Uh, that if it weren’t for meeting you, I never would have experienced what real love—”

His words seem to register. A flicker of panic washes over him; eyes wide, the tips of his ears an unnatural shade of red. He clears his throat with an awkward laugh, and Alana swears she can hear his heart hammering. Cyrus, the fool that he is, sinks into the water until it covers his nose and mouth. He looks up at her, mumbling something that only comes up as gurgled sounds and bubbles.

Gods, he’s as adorable as he is infuriating.

“Cyrus!” Alana’s hands dive beneath the suds to poke and tickle at his sides. Water sloshes around them and spills over the sides of the tub onto the tiles, creating a mess they’d worry about cleaning later. “Are you serious? C’mon, just say it again!”

When she manages to coax the wannabe siren out of hiding, a shy smile tugs at his cheeks, and he swipes a hand down his mouth and chin to wring the water out of his beard. In place of his usual confidence is a note of apprehension. There’s more to him now. He’s a man who’s been scorned and heartbroken, but a man willing to expose the poorly mended fragments of himself to her.

“I don’t think I knew what love was until we crossed paths, Miss Alana,” he confesses once more. “It ain’t lost on me that it’s a little, uh, soon to be saying such things. But my heart feels full when I’m around you. As amazing as those coffees of yours are, it’s really you that gets me up in the mornings. Your mind, your kindness, that light I sense in you? I don’t want to be a day

without it, if I don’t have to. I…I love you, Miss Alana.”

Alana’s throat constricts. Then, a laugh. Hoarse, like the sound struggled on its way out. “Yeah?” Tears gather along Alana’s waterline; they cascade down the swell of her cheek, and she darts to wipe them away. “Well, that’s good. Because I think I love you too.”

Before Alana can register it, Cyrus moves forward and pulls her in, lips pressing to hers, thumbs brushing against the high points of her cheeks. The kiss is all things passionate and warm and intimate. It’s laughter that bounces between the two of them in unabashed spurts and tail wags that add to the ever accumulating mess of soapy water on the bathroom floor.

“By the way,” he murmurs, gingerly placing another kiss on a strip of her vitiligo. “That stunt in the woods is going to cost you about $1200.” His bark of laughter is viciously interrupted by the splash Alana sends his way.

It isn’t until the water has gone cold that the two of them pull apart. Which, even then, doesn’t last long. Cyrus drains the tub and scoops Alana into his arms, wet and bare, her shoulders shaking with giggles she can’t control. When they’ve dried off, he carries her to bed like a bride on their wedding night, limbs entangled with one another as the sun slowly rises from outside.

Sexuality and love had always been taught to be concurrent, never mutually exclusive. If Alana wanted sex, she’d have to wait until she fell in love. And if she didn’t wait? She’d be a lonely spinster for the rest of her days. For years, neither option seemed right. It left her at a loss.