Every Breath You Take

by Bianca Sloane

  Not that he would have expected her to notice him. She’d never noticed him.

  That was all about to change, though. The plans were in place. All his patience—all those years—would pay off, and soon they’d be together.

  Forever.

  He took a sip of his club soda as he watched her laugh with her girlfriends and thought about the petite, half-moon breasts and tiny waist hanging together on the long, lithe frame. He was mesmerized as always by the sheets of long, shiny black hair, luminous hot-chocolate complexion, and brown doe eyes framed by fluttery lashes; her pink lips like a shiny bow on top of a mouth full of freakishly straight Chiclet white squares. It was an act of fate she’d never had braces. Good DNA. Of course, her mama had been pretty herself—practically perfect—so no surprise there.

  He shifted in his seat, feeling those familiar strains against his pants as he always did whenever he saw or thought about her.

  Beautiful, beautiful, Natalie.

  Chapter 3

  SHE

  Natalie rolled her head around to release the kinks in her neck as she fumbled to get the key in the lock of her door. She’d had one more glass of wine than she’d planned on—two more glasses, if she was being honest—and was feeling it. At least she could sleep in tomorrow.

  She yawned as she kicked off her black stiletto sandals and bent down to pick them up as she stumbled in the dark toward the bedroom. She removed her Donna Karan suit jacket and unzipped her pants, dropping both into the bulging dry cleaning bag she’d take with her tomorrow afternoon on the way to her Pilates class. She went into the bathroom, clad now only in a lacy black bra and matching panties, and commenced with the nightly ritual: contacts—out, face—washed, eye-cream—slathered. She finished with a few halfhearted pats of moisturizer onto her damp cheeks. She took the tank top and boxers she’d left hanging on the doorknob that morning and slipped into them, unhooking her bra and pulling the straps through the holes of her shirt as she headed back into the bedroom. She groaned a little as she flopped down on the bed, the faint horns and sirens from the street below wafting up to the thirtieth floor of the downtown high-rise she’d called home for the past two and a half years. She closed her eyes, but, surprisingly, sleep didn’t wrap around her as fast as she thought it would.

  The sharp points of Brandy and Christine’s words had hit their target. It was true she’d had only two real boyfriends in her twenty-eight years. There’d been a handful of begrudgingly accepted dates, a few well-meaning fix-ups, and some random conversations in bars that led to scribbled phone numbers and creaky, uncomfortable dinners. A couple of “we’re seeing each other” guys, but never for more than a month or two. A few who’d disappeared, never to be heard from again. Usually though, it was her with the same old story. If they got too close, she’d panic and just . . . run away, burying herself inside herself and reciting her long-held mantra that it was just better this way.

  And then she was alone.

  Again.

  But she knew her own tangled past, lonely present, and decidedly bleak future could always be traced back to that night ten years ago. . .

  Natalie squeezed her eyes shut, almost as though she could force him out of her mind. He was never far from her thoughts, though she tried to put him in some dark, invisible corner from which he’d never crawl out of. But he crept out all the time, dripping over her like a dark, dewy cloud. Try as she might, she couldn’t help but look at any man with skepticism, wondering what violent tendencies lurked beneath his shiny exterior.

  Sighing and now wide awake, she reached for her glasses over on the nightstand before flipping on the lamp and picking up the only picture she had left of her parents—their wedding day, one month after they graduated from high school and three years before Natalie’s arrival.

  They’d planned to conquer the world.

  Natalie took the photo out of its frame and ran her palm over the cracked and peeling tape that held the ripped shards of faded photograph together. A corner piece was still missing. Fortunately, it was only a sliver of dull brown backdrop and not the faces. She smiled at her father, Ricky: star quarterback at Georgia and a first-round draft pick for the Dallas Cowboys, the fluffy front of his Jheri curl dipping into a Flock of Seagulls V down the middle of his forehead. Her mother, Laura, was captain of the cheerleading squad and homecoming and prom queen. Her milk-chocolate skin, bright brown eyes, and cheerful, blazing smile that actually looked like she was laughing made her the envy of all the girls and desire of all the boys at Braxton High. She even made frosted pink lipstick, neon-blue eye shadow, and feathery, ratted hair look good. The superstar pair was voted “Most Beautiful Couple” among other superlatives by their awed classmates. Growing up, people told her all the time it was clear her mother had “spit her out,” but it was only in the past few years that Natalie had begun to see the resemblance.

  Even after all these years, the hard knot of loneliness still rattled around her chest anytime she stared at their picture, and the familiar tears soon followed. There had been so many more photos and letters—even her mother’s diary. All gone now. Stolen from her, just like her parents had been. He’d left her with only this shredded photograph, painstakingly pieced back together by her—her lone memento of her past.

  Natalie sighed and put the picture back on the nightstand along with her glasses as she rubbed her scar, the other keepsake he’d left her with. She slid down between the sheets, sniffing now and wiping her hands across her eyes to make the tears evaporate as she turned off the light.

  She flipped onto her side, staring out the window at the moon shimmering across the city’s tall, skinny buildings, once again trying to wipe away the memories. Brandy and Christine were right. She would never move on with her life if she didn’t move on with her life. She couldn’t let her past hold her hostage forever.

  That would mean he’d won.

  Chapter 4

  HE

  He gripped the fat red marker in his right hand and tore the cap off with his teeth, getting lost, momentarily anyway, in the allegedly non-toxic fumes of the pungent, juicy tip. He stood in front of the desk calendar tacked up on a wall sticky with yellow nicotine tears from years past dripping down to the dusty baseboards. He drew a bold “X” through Friday before tapping the remaining empty white squares, counting to himself as he flipped through the calendar’s limp pages. He had the number of days memorized, but he was impatient and found a strange comfort in counting the days every day until the day.

  He exchanged the marker for the shiny purple tumbler of chocolate protein shake on the rickety nightstand. He gulped it down quickly, not even minding the trickle of liquid leaking from the corner of his mouth. He smeared the neck of his frayed black sweatshirt across his face and neck before he picked up his jump rope, the rough nylon cords humming against the sandy wooden floors as he picked up speed.

  He looked at the picture of her taped next to the calendar—his favorite—waiting for it to happen.

  “Natalie,” he whispered, never taking his eyes from her, lost in the sweet, shy smile, the hesitancy of her gaze.

  There. There it was. He knew it wouldn’t take long for the erection to start banging against his shorts. He kept skipping rope, wanting to bring himself to the brink then pull back.

  Save it for her.

  Then the pounding got to be too much, which was his cue to stop. He leaned over and kissed her lips, letting his tongue tickle her teeth before tracing the outline of her mouth with the tip. “I love you,” he panted. “Natalie, I love you. I love you, Natalie. Natalie, I love you. I love you, Natalie.” He pressed himself against the wall, his bulge thumping in time to his racing heartbeat. He ground against the tacky wall for a few moments as he continued to kiss the picture. He groaned and stepped back from the wall before taking the picture down and rubbing it against his chest, shuddering as he smeared trails of his own saliva across himself. He whimpered as he slid his gym shorts down to his ankles and dropped onto the
rotting mattress sinking into the floor. He wound the greasy photo square across his penis, allowing himself to cry out as the glossy paper made contact with the tip. He dragged the picture back to rest atop his chest as he pumped cool squirts of cocoa butter from the bottle on the floor into his palm. He slapped his hand against his penis, now pointing straight up. He writhed on top of the mattress, holding his dick in one hand, clutching her picture in the other, holding it up so she could see him. He tried to resist closing his eyes, wanting to maintain eye contact with her, but it was too much. He had to let the cloud carry him away.

  He twisted his palm around his penis and began to thrust and buck on the mattress, which slid across the floor. “Natalie, Natalie, Natalie, Natalie,” he whispered as his body tightened up and his mind went blank for a few seconds. He gasped and wheezed before finally shooting his load, crying out as he did so. He collapsed, sweat streaming across his face and body. He laid there, winded, unwilling and unable to move. He took the white-streaked-with-grey top sheet and wiped down his penis and his hands before rolling over onto his side and clutching the lumpy pillow to his chest. He stroked her picture for a few moments before dotting it with sloppy, sweaty kisses.

  “I love making love to you, Natalie,” he whispered to her smiling face. “I could make love to you all day long,” he murmured before drifting off to sleep.

  Chapter 5

  SHE

  Natalie fingered the edge of Jason Hudson’s card, debating yet again whether he was worth the phone call. He’d been hovering around the edges of her mind for the last week as she kept glancing at his card propped up on her computer keyboard, alternately disturbed and intrigued by his name peering back at her. About a half dozen times she was moved by the urge to psych herself up into dialing the numbers, but every time let the card drop through her fingers to rest across the letters of her keyboard for a while before returning it to its previous position between the number and function rows.

  She’d finally set an arbitrary deadline of today to put her fingers on the keypad and punch in the seven numbers. It had tugged at her brain all throughout her run along the lake that morning, through her daily cup of green tea and seven-minute walk to work. She thought about waiting until the afternoon, but she knew how she was; if she didn’t do it now, today would seep into tomorrow, tomorrow into the next day, and then she’d be sitting here a week later going through this lunacy all over again. She also didn’t want to face the Brandy and Christine firing squad. Sometimes she thought a pen through her eye would hurt less than dealing with those two.

  Natalie took a deep breath, picked up her office phone, and dialed his number.

  Voicemail, voicemail, voicemail, voicemail

  “Jason Hudson.”

  Her heart lurched and pounded against her ears. No such luck on voicemail taking over. She was on her own.

  “Um, Jason, hi, this is Natalie. Natalie Scott? I met you at that reception at The Spencer last week.”

  “Natalie, hey, it’s good to hear from you. I was beginning to think you wouldn’t call. Afraid I’d scared you off or something.”

  She gulped and turned to look out her office window at the shops along Michigan Avenue. “Oh, you know how it is. Work and everything.”

  “Yeah, no, I got you, I got you. So you having a good week?”

  “It’s going okay. Like I said, just busy.”

  “How were your big plans last Friday?”

  “What?”

  He chuckled. “When I met you, you said you had big plans for the night.”

  “Oh. That. I was just meeting my girlfriends for drinks and dinner. Actually, the big plans were the next night. It was my girlfriend Brandy’s thirtieth birthday, so a big group of us took her out.”

  “Uh oh,” he laughed. “Sounds like trouble.”

  “No, no, it was good. We just hung out on Rush Street, hit up some of those clubs over there. Nothing too crazy.”

  “Well, that’s good. Can’t go wrong with Rush Street.”

  “Sometimes.”

  “Good point,” he laughed. “Listen . . . okay, wow. I know this is last minute and everything, but you’re not free for lunch today, are you? If you’re not, I totally understand.”

  Natalie bit her lip and looked over at her Outlook calendar. Her one day not jammed with meetings and conference calls. She’d planned on grabbing a salad and eating at her desk. “As a matter of fact, I am. Free, I mean.”

  “Great. It’s a date. So, where are you? I mean, what part of town are you in?”

  “Michigan and Chicago.”

  “Oh, okay, I’m in the Loop, 333 Wacker, so maybe we could meet in the middle?”

  She nodded, even though he couldn’t see her. “How about Tavern at the Park on Randolph?”

  “Yeah, that’s a good spot, good spot. So . . . would twelve-thirty work?”

  “Twelve-thirty sounds good. I’ll see you then.”

  “Good, good. Looking forward to it. Oh, and if for some reason you can’t make it, my cell’s on my card, so. . .”

  “Oh, yeah, of course,” she said. “I’ll call if I’m running late or can’t make it. It should be fine though.”

  “Good. Okay, well, I’ll let you get back to work,” he said. “See you at twelve-thirty.”

  “See you.”

  “Bye,” he said, finally hanging up.

  Natalie followed suit, feeling a bit better. He didn’t seem nearly so trite and ridiculous on the phone as he had when they met last week.

  Maybe this would be all right after all.

  • • •

  Natalie fluffed out the ends of her hair and adjusted her sunglasses against the glare of the summer sun as she turned the corner onto Randolph and headed toward Tavern at the Park.

  He was waiting by the host stand, his hands in the pockets of yet another expensive suit, this one charcoal-grey with a purple pocket square and multicolored tie, his eyes peeled for her arrival. As he smiled and walked over to her, she was astounded to discover flutters racing up and down her stomach. She remembered him being cute, but the guy standing in front of her was gorgeous. Movie-star gorgeous. Soft toffee skin, twinkling dark brown eyes, and teeth so white they might have actually sparkled like some stupid toothpaste commercial with a hunky man wielding a magic toothbrush. And he smelled amazing. Just the right amount of cologne. Some men had a bad habit of slathering themselves with their scent of choice as though assaulting your nose would somehow make you fall in love with them. Or into bed anyway.

  “Natalie, hey. How are you?” he asked.

  She gulped, trying to keep her composure, already proving to be a losing battle. “I’m all right, thank you. You haven’t been waiting long, I hope.”

  “I probably walked in the door about two seconds before you did.” He smiled. “It’s good to see you again.”

  “Thank you,” she said, not sure if she was supposed to say it was good to see him again, too. Instead, she tucked a chunk of hair behind her ear and cast a quick, nervous smile his way. “I guess we should sit.”

  He nodded at the hostess and held up two fingers as he gestured toward the dining room. “After you.”

  Natalie tugged a bit at the collar of her silk green print blouse and smoothed down the front of her black pencil skirt, aware of him behind her and hoping she was having a good ass day, as she followed the hostess to a table in the back.

  “Enjoy your lunch,” the hostess said, handing them menus.

  He held out her chair and made sure she was seated before sitting across from her. “I haven’t been here in a while. What’s good here these days?”

  “I like the grouper.”

  He flipped the top of his menu down to look at her and smiled again. “I think the grouper’ll work.”

  She bit her bottom lip and nodded as she looked over the menu, even though she pretty much knew what she was going to have. “Good choice.”

  He took a sip of water. “What about you? What looks good?”

&nbs
p; “Chicken Caesar salad,” she said, closing her menu and taking a sip of her own water. She vacillated between not being able to take her eyes off him and being too afraid to stare at him, lest he think she was the freak. How had the tables turned while she wasn’t looking? She cleared her throat and took another sip of water, relieved when the waitress came over to take their order, because now she really was nervous.

  “So . . . where’d you go for your birthday party? I mean, not your birthday party, but when you were out with your girlfriends,” he said, chuckling. “You know what I mean.”

  “Oh, gosh, let’s see. Well, we started at Hugo’s for some apps and cocktails, popped into the bar at Gibson’s for a few minutes, then the Hunt Club and, uh . . . this is so embarrassing. We ended the night at the Hangey Uppey.”

  He laughed. “Hangey Uppey. I like that. Everyone I know calls it the ‘Hangge Uppe.’ You know, hang up the phone.”

  “Well, they should spell it that way,” she giggled.

  “Good point.” He grinned. “Sounds like you did the Viagra Triangle proud.”

  She giggled over his invoking the nickname for the stretch of the Gold Coast where State and Rush converge in a whirl of high-end bars and restaurants crowded with wealthy older men squiring around barely dressed, barely twenty-something tits on a stick. “Well, we tried. Anyway, we had a great time and Brandy, my girlfriend, said it was a good send-off to her twenties.”

  “And what about this past weekend? Do anything good?”

  “Ah, no. I worked all weekend. What about you? How was yours?”

  “Yeah, it was all right,” he said as he took the sweetener packets out of the white porcelain holder and rearranged them by color before placing them carefully back inside. “I had to work on Saturday, but a buddy of mine had a bunch of us over to watch the game on Sunday, so pretty chill.”