Catch Me

by Claire Contreras

  “Hi,” he whispers, holding my arms as he steadies me. I hear an apologetic mutter behind me but can’t turn away from Nick’s eyes to acknowledge it.

  “Hi,” I respond again, stupidly. How many times can we say hello to each other in six seconds?

  Nick chuckles and I close my eyes, relishing the sound of it. I realize, as I have my eyes closed, that even though I’m not looking at him anymore, I’m still completely immersed in him. His scent overpowers my senses and for a moment I feel like I can’t possibly in New York City because I’m breathing such fresh air. He tugs on my hair once, making me open my eyes and I see him watching me with a bemused expression. He grins at me after a moment.

  “What are you doing for lunch?” he asks.

  “Nothing of importance,” I respond as the elevator opens again.

  Nick moves out of the way, his body switching places with mine so that he can get out. He lowers his face to mine, brushing his lips against my cheek and I think he’s going to kiss me goodbye, but his lips continue to my ear. “Lunch at one.” He doesn’t ask, he tells, and then he steps out, not turning back around to see my face or hear my answer. He knows I’m going. I don’t know whether to smile or frown, so I do both.

  I’m having a shit day. My father ripped me a new one for not being able to close a deal with one rock band. The band was fine, but the lead singer was a complete jerk off and wouldn’t agree to anything. He stormed off after Hendrix told him that he needed to use a bus for his tour just like everybody else. The rest of the band stuck around for a while with their manager and decided to reschedule when they could get on the same page. As soon as I leave the conference room, I get a text from Allie telling me that the last microphone we were waiting on doesn’t look anything like my design.

  So by the time my office phone rings, I’m practically crying at my desk.

  “Hello?” I answer, wondering why Stacey let any call go through after I asked her not to.

  “Hey, beautiful, it’s one o’clock,” Nick says on the other end, his voice low and husky. My heart speeds up.

  “I don’t think I’ll be good company right now,” I mumble helplessly.

  “Bad day?” he asks.

  “You have no idea.”

  “I can make it better for you,” he says, his voice dropping down a notch, making my breath hitch.

  “Yeah? How?” I ask, humoring him.

  “Hmmm … so many ways. Do I have to pick one?”

  God, I wish I could just record his voice. Record it and make a podcast out of it so I can listen to it every morning. And afternoon. And evening. Definitely evening.

  “Just one,” I whisper, my voice a little breathy.

  “First, I’m going to pick you up, even if that means I have to wrap those sexy legs around me and hitch up that tight black skirt you’re wearing up to your waist. Then, I’m going to take you,” he pauses. I close my eyes at the idea. “Downstairs. I’m going to toss you in the back of a cab and squeeze myself inside.” He pauses again and his voice is deeper, more sensual. The way he’s accentuating every word he speaks is making it hard for me to breathe. “Beside you. And last, I’m going to take you to the best little Indian restaurant I know, where they have the most delicious curry you will ever have. So good, you’ll be licking your fingers. And if you’re really lucky, I’ll be licking your fingers.”

  I swallow loudly. “Okay.”

  I can hear the smile in his voice when he says, “Okay. See you soon.”

  There’s a knock on my door shortly after and Nick walks in, his eyes sweeping over my space quickly before they land on mine and stay there.

  “Ready?” he asks.

  “Ready.” I nod with a smile as I get up and grab my purse.

  When we step outside, we catch Hendrix and Shea talking in the hallway, and before we know it, it turns into a part of four. Instead of Indian like we originally planned, we end up going for pizza, Hendrix’s favorite. Nick tells Hendrix where his apartment building is, which is right by Hendrix’s place and that gets my brother to go off on a tangent about the real estate market right now. Shea is looking at his phone, Hendrix is talking like he swallowed a parrot and Nick and I continue to steal glances at each other throughout our walk.

  We take a stroll by Central Park when we’re finished and stand by some of the carriages. Shea is going on and on about how the only time he rode one of the carriages was with me and how cold it was that night. I vaguely remember the night he’s talking about, so I just nod and smile. When I look at Nick, he’s staring at the horse in front of us, his jaw clenched. The horse sneezes a little too close for comfort, and we back away immediately.

  “Totally not how I planned on this going,” Nick says under his breath.

  I laugh. “I’d say. Pizza is a far cry from that delicious curry you promised.”

  He turns to me; the hungry look in his eyes making my insides clench. “I would’ve licked the grease of the pizza off your fingers if I didn’t think your brother would start a fight.”

  My heart stammers in my chest and I’m rendered speechless.

  “How’s the microphone thing going?” Shea asks, interrupting us.

  “Good,” I say with a shrug.

  “Do you only design microphones?” Nick asks as we fall into an easy stride.

  “Really nice ones,” Shea offers, pretending to be nonchalant, but I know he’s following our conversation because I can feel his eyes on us every time Hendrix stops talking to him.

  “For now. I want to work on headphones too,” I say shyly. I’m not sure why talking about this with him makes me feel like a schoolgirl telling her science teacher she wants to work for NASA.

  Nick cocks his head as he studies me and a sly grin spreads. “Really? Are you going to custom make one for me?”

  I raise an eyebrow. “You’ll have to wait in line.”

  He playfully pouts his lower lip and I have to force myself not to look at it for too long. “I’m not one of your VIPs?” he asks, his voice soft, making me squint my eyes against the sun to look at his face again, to make sure that his question is just a joke.

  I smile, seeing the small smile tugging the corners of his mouth. “Not yet,” I answer, shaking my head.

  “We’ll have to work on that then. I don’t like being just a regular customer,” he says, his voice low again, with a hint of seduction. The way he’s looking at me makes me think he’s talking about something else entirely.

  “Maybe you’re not just a regular customer,” I counter, not knowing what the hell I’m talking about or doing.

  We stop walking at a red light and Nick moves closer to me so that his chest touches my arm when he turns to me. “Yeah, but how do I get the VIP status?” he asks, over my ear now, making me shiver.

  I purse my lips as if I have to think about this really hard. As if he’s not affecting me the way he knows he is. “You have to work for it.”

  “Oh, I plan on it,” Nick says, stepping back so that I can see the mischievous streak in his eyes.

  Somehow I manage to whisper a “we’ll see” that makes him laugh.

  “It’s the banter, that’s what it is,” Allie, whom I haven’t spoken to in days, tells me about Nick and my attraction to him. “The newness of it. You know how it is in the beginning.”

  But that’s the thing, I don’t know how it is in the beginning because the only “real” thing I have to compare it to is Shea. Other than Shea, I’ve dated two guys and they weren’t what I considered to be boyfriends. There was no “let’s get to know each other” phase with them. It was more like we liked the same things, hung out with the same crowds, so we hooked up. Literally. That’s all we did. I can’t even give you an example of a real conversation I had with either one of them other than “So, is your dad looking for new talent? Because I’m in this band and …” That’s usually how it goes, so I’ve always been cautious to let guys in. It’s not that I think they only want to be with me for who my father is, but more ti
mes than not they don’t even try to hide it. I’m not interested in being anybody’s pretend girlfriend. I already did that once and that didn’t turn out so well in the end.

  “Maybe. I dunno,” I answer, taking a bite of my apple and holding the phone away so I can chew.

  “Will you be able to make it to the meeting?” Allie asks hopefully.

  I try not to groan outwardly. I had completely forgotten about the damn meeting we have scheduled with a company that’s interested in selling the microphones in their store. It would be huge for Fab so I know I need to make the time. With my job at Harmon and now this tour thing with Shea, I’m not sure how I can do it.

  “I’m really going to try, Al,” I promise quietly.

  I know this is the last thing she wants to hear right now. As it is, she’s been taking the brunt of the workload. I don’t even bother to tell her all the stuff I’ve had going on at Harmon. The only thing worse than having to hear an apology one hundred times is listening to the lame excuses it comes with. Seriously, if excuses are butts, apologies are like the whores they belong to: overused.

  Allie exhales loudly. “I know you’re busy, Bee, but this is supposed to be a partnership.”

  My shoulders slump at that and I nod slowly, tossing the rest of my apple aside. “I know,” I whisper. “I swear I’ll try to be there.”

  After discussing the earphone line we want to launch soon, we change the subject and start talking about lighter things, which takes a huge weight off my chest … until she brings up Shea’s tour again.

  “So you’re really going to do it?” she asks hesitantly.

  “It’s only a couple of shows. I don’t know why everyone is so worried about it,” I say, sounding a little annoyed. I’m not annoyed at her, and I’m sure she knows it. It doesn’t matter, she’s used to me being a bitch sometimes.

  “I’m just saying,” she starts.

  “Please don’t,” I groan. “I swear, if I have to hear the drug talk one more time I’m going to shoot myself. I mean, seriously, I feel like I’m in fifth fucking grade and going through the damn TRUTH program all over again.”

  Allie laughs. “You’re such a clown. It’s true though, Bee. It’s scary—you know why we’re worried,” she says seriously.

  I sigh. “I know. I get it, but why isn’t anybody worried about Shea? He’s around crazy things all the time and he gets by.”

  “Because nobody cares about Shea, Brooklyn, we care about you,” she chimes.

  It breaks my heart to hear her say something like that about Shea. He’s been friends with Allie almost as long as I have and she knows that he doesn’t have many people that care about him at all. Shea’s mother is there for him, but mainly to collect a paycheck. She’s as big of a gold digger as my mother, which is probably why they get along so well.

  “Yeah, thanks,” I mumble half-heartedly. “I’ll email you the designs I owe you tomorrow. We’ll talk soon. Sorry about the workload, Al.”

  “You know I’m fine with it, Bee. I’ll let you know when it gets to be too much,” Allie says and I can hear the smile in her voice.

  I am so thankful for this girl it’s not even funny.

  After hanging up with her, I get moving and sort through the demos I have yet to listen to. I took the day off from working at the office so I could listen to them at home instead. I like being holed up in dark places while I listen to music with my eyes closed, it’s the only way I can truly feel it. Even when I go to concerts, I find myself closing my eyes the majority of the show. You would think that defeats the purpose of the ticket price, but it makes it more enjoyable for me. It emphasizes the tone in their voice and the way they hit each note. I live music when I listen to it that way. I click the button to lower the motorized shades in my room. I can tell it has rarely been used by the squeak it does when it begins to descend. I’m sure most people would rather bask in the sun and enjoy the sense of hope you’re supposed to feel as you look out into the perfect New York skyline from this high up.

  It’s a view that has been painted and photographed countless times. Postcards are adorned with this view and sent all over the world with all kinds of messages: mainly happy, hopeful, and probably delusional messages. That’s the lovely thing about big cities—the thing that I love most about them—they have this way of wrapping you up and comforting you in their blanket of beautiful lies. I guess I can relate because that’s much of how my own life has been: a basket of beautiful lies. One I’ve learned to carry around, even though I don’t like to pick from it. The moment I do, I become anguished, and when I become her I lose myself.

  Closing my eyes, I fall back onto my bed, letting the darkness cocoon me while I listen to the woman I’ve decided is my new favorite artist, thanks to Nick: Paige Chaplin. Her voice is so melodic and filled with a sorrow that matches my own. I take a deep breath and get lost in her lyrics, letting her take me back to a time where there was very little light left in me. A time that I thought I wouldn’t survive. A time where I didn’t care if I did.

  I was holding Ryan’s hand when we barged through the door of my house that afternoon. I swung the door carelessly behind us, letting it shut with a loud thump that made us both jump and laugh.

  “Brooklyn!” my mother reprimanded from down the hall.

  Groaning, I rolled my eyes. “Sorry, Mom!”

  Ryan rolled his eyes back at me, mimicking my annoyed face. I let go of his hand and pinched his cheeks the way he hated, and he moved away, laughing.

  “Ryan?” my mother called out.

  I nearly shrieked my frustration at that. She loved Ryan and loved it when he came over to our house. His parents were wealthy, old money, and that was enough to impress her.

  “Yes, Mrs. Harmon,” he responded, shrugging at me when I shot him a dirty look.

  For the past three years Ryan and I had been a pretend couple, and it had been the most fun I’d ever had. We went to parties together and the movies, he came over to my house, and I went over to his house. His parents were very uptight about the company he kept, but somehow they approved of me, probably because of who my parents were. We never gave them a reason to question what we were doing in our bedrooms, not that there was anything for them to question. There’s not much trouble a gay teen can get into with a straight teen when they’re in a bedroom together, not sexually anyway.

  “Call me Roxana!” my mother insisted, appearing at the threshold looking like her normally prim self. She was wearing an emerald dress that fit her like a glove. It had a low-cut bodice that enhanced her cleavage, and the material made her already shapely figure look more pronounced. Her face was radiant, her light caramel eyes bright and her dark brown loose waves piled up into a knotted bun. The gold heels she wore clinked against the marble floors as she strode toward us in the foyer of the house.

  She leaned in and gave me a quick hug and kiss on the cheek before turning to Ryan and doing the same.

  “You’re coming to the party tonight?” she confirmed with Ryan.

  “Yes, ma’am,” Ryan said with a smile. His face always flushed when he spoke to adults, making his strawberry freckles blend in with his cheeks.

  “Good,” she said then turned to me. “Brooklyn, you’re going to dye your hair one color for tonight, right?”

  “Yes, Mother,” I responded.

  My hair was blonde at the time, which I could pull off because of my green eyes, but I had streaks of pink all throughout. She tried to get me to dye it back to just blonde or my natural chocolate brown as soon as she saw it, which was two weeks after I’d dyed it the shades of pink to begin with.

  “Good, because it’s embarrassing. I don’t know how such a good looking kid like Ryan puts up with it,” she said with a tsk.

  I ground my teeth together, my eyes downcast.

  Ryan put his hand over mine and threaded our fingers together, squeezing. “I actually really dig the pink, it’s cute.”

  “For Halloween maybe,” my mother retorted.


  “It doesn’t matter. I’m dying it back by tonight,” I said with finality.

  “Okay. I’ll send your dress up for you in a couple of hours. Ryan, you remember it’s a white party, right?” she said as she took down the pins that were holding her hair up.

  “Yep. I’ll be here in all white,” Ryan said.

  My mother nodded at us, seemingly happy enough with our conversation and pivoted to leave, swaying her hips and her arms like the true model that she was.

  When Ryan and I were in my room I went to my en-suite bathroom and took out the box of hair dye I had under my sink, deciding I should do that first.

  “Your mom is a bitch, but she’s still better than mine,” Ryan commented, knowing I was still brewing over our encounter with her.

  I let out a loud breath. “I know. What the hell did we do to deserve them as parents?”

  Ryan shrugged. “Be born, I guess.”

  I walked up to the bed where he sat shaking my old Bambi snow globe. I lay my head on his shoulder.

  “It sucks,” I said.

  “Yep,” he agreed.

  He helped me dye my hair as we danced to Britney Spears. Ryan loved Britney. When Nina, who was staying with our Uncle Roy in San Francisco for the weekend, got to my house, Ryan went home to get dressed.

  “Such a shame,” Nina commented. “The cute ones are all gay. You should see how many hot guys there are in San Fran. Do you think they even look at me?” she asked in dismay.

  I laughed, knowing it was true. I’d gone to visit my uncle and his boyfriend a couple of times and noticed the same thing. It was just funnier when Nina said it because she thought everybody was supposed to admire her beauty.

  “Did Uncle Roy come with you?” I asked distractedly as I dried my hair.

  “Duh. How would I have gotten here? Oh my god, and if I had to hear one more old Spanish song I was gonna die. He says it reminds him of his mom, but holy shit, Bee, the music is like lullaby music putting me to sleep,” Nina said, groaning.

  “Maybe that’s what he wanted, to shut you up so he could drive in peace,” I said, laughing when she threw a pillow at me.