by S. E. Rose
“Go shower and get over there,” he says.
“Sure thing.” I don’t bother asking more questions because he’s back on his phone the second I stand. The man is more straightforward than Lanie. There’s no flowery conversation with him. Not that it’s a bad thing, because I don’t feel much like talking at the moment, and I sure as fuck don’t want a heart-to-heart with my manager.
Chapter Four
The building is an old warehouse of some sort. It’s not in the best shape compared to the recently renovated buildings surrounding it. I walk in through double doors and find myself in a lobby. There’s a board on the wall listing the businesses and their associated suite numbers. I see Tabitha Crane Photography, Suite 325. The building is so quiet that it almost feels like a residence. I walk up the two flights of stairs and down a hallway. I pause at the door, or should I say, “doors” because there are two of them, one on either side of a small placard with “325” written on it.
I look from one door to the other. Shrugging, I open the door on the right, feeling a little like Alice in Wonderland, a story Di used to force me to listen to her read over and over again.
I no sooner have the door cracked open when there’s a screech on the other side. I don’t have time to process the noise as a sink and then...a toilet with a woman on it comes into view. Oh god. I’m frozen in place. She’s beautiful in a very artsy way. Her hair is a mix of blonde and reds. Her eyes have dark eyeliner around them, and her lips are painted a deep shade of red. She has a nose piercing, and a tattoo peeks out from under the arm of her shirt. Her mouth is open in an “o” of surprise and her pale skin color is pink with embarrassment. She’s the type of person that would prompt my dad saying, “there’s a story behind this one.” And I’m pretty sure he would be spot on.
“Hello?!” she says, shaking me from my catatonic state. I realize this is the second time she’s said it.
“Sorry,” I mutter, shaking my head and wondering why the hell the bathroom isn’t marked and why the hell it isn’t locked. I quickly close the door and look at the other one.
I decide to knock on the next door. There’s no response, so I tentatively push it open. Bingo. It’s a photography studio. Giant photographs line one wall. There’s a desk by the door. The space itself is open with exposed beams and ductwork. Giant windows fill the space with natural light. There’s a space set up with multiple lights framing a white floor and white backdrop. A camera sits on a tripod in front of it.
I walk over to the photographs, examining each one. They’re good. There are a few black-and-white ones of various buildings around D.C. There are a few portraits, some of local celebrities and some of people I don’t recognize. And there’s one shot of a panda playing with a ball.
“Hello?!” I call out as I approach the wall of photographs. No response. I shrug and figure I’ll wait a few minutes before bailing. The old fifteen-minute rule from college ought to work.
I’m standing by the panda photograph when the door opens and in steps the woman from the bathroom.
“You’re early,” is all she says as she walks over to the camera on a tripod.
I turn to give her a snide answer about locking bathroom doors, but she beats me to it.
“Knocking before you enter a bathroom might be a good idea, for future reference.”
I roll my eyes. Of course, she knows who I am. I’m contemplating my response when she speaks again.
“You coming over here?” she asks, glancing over her shoulder at me.
I walk over to her slowly, examining her in the bright natural light of the room. She’s short and curvy in the best way possible. She has a light smattering of freckles on her nose and cheeks. Her eyes are indescribable, a mix of blues and greens with flecks of other colors in them. I’ve never seen anything quite like it. She has a few ornate silver rings on her fingers. Her shirt is flowy and black and she wears purple leggings and Converse sneakers with little paintbrushes on them in multiple colors.
She turns more toward me and her gaze meets mine, her head cocks to one side and her hands come to rest on her luscious hips. My mind momentarily wanders to a place it shouldn’t as I imagine gripping those hips. I shake my head slightly, forcing myself to focus and be professional.
“Let’s do a few headshots, and then I want to take this outside,” she announces with a nod of her head.
“OK,” I reply slowly. She motions for me to sit on a stool in front of the white backdrop. I comply. I study her while she faffs with the camera. It’s not my first photoshoot and won’t be my last. She pays me no attention for a long moment until her camera settings are just how she wants them. When she finishes, she grabs a remote and stands next to the camera.
“Let’s start over. I’m Tabitha Crane. My bathroom is out of order and the lock on the door on the hallway one is broken. Unless you’re into bathroom hookups. Then, I’m Tabby. I’m an Aries. And I like blueberry mules,” she says with a smile and a wink that seems to transform her into a completely different person than one minute ago.
A grin forms on my face as I laugh. I hear the camera fire, and I realize she’s been doing her job this whole time. She takes a few more shots, asking me to move in certain directions. We continue our playful banter. As we talk, I begin to realize that there’s much more to this woman than meets the eye.
“You are really good at this,” I say as she looks over at her computer screen and smiles.
“Thanks. All done in here. Let’s go outside,” she announces. I stand as she turns the screen so that I can view the photographs. Damn. She’s good. She has a great one of me smiling and a few ones of me laughing. They are awesome headshots.
“Come on,” she prods as she grabs her camera. I follow her down an alley until we reach the river. We walk along the sidewalk. I get a few glances, but everyone is seemingly transfixed by their cell phones, so I escape a potential fan shitshow. Normally, I don’t mind stopping for an autograph or selfie, but it can get a little overwhelming, especially when I’m trying to get somewhere.
Eventually, she pauses, and I look around. The stadium juts out in the distance.
“Lean against this railing,” she commands. She positions me how she wants and steps back to examine her work. She shakes her head and changes my posture, moving my hands on the railing. She steps back again and nods.
Pulling the camera up to her eye, she snaps a few photos.
“You can smile, I promise I won’t tell anyone that you can,” she says to me with a wink. I roll my eyes and smile.
“Seriously,” she mutters.
She snaps a few more photos. Then puts the camera down and stares at me as though she’s trying to figure me out. It would normally be unsettling to have someone staring at me like this, but something about her makes me at ease. “Tell me about your favorite memory.”
“My favorite memory?”
“Yeah, your happiest memory.”
I shrug but comply, telling her about the first baseball game I went to with my family and how at the age of five I just knew that’s what I wanted to do. She snaps a few more photos as I speak, but otherwise doesn’t interrupt me.
“OK, I have what I need.”
“That’s it?” I ask, my eyebrows shooting up in surprise.
“Yep, for now,” she replies as she turns to head back to her studio. I start to follow when a kid who can’t be more than fifteen comes running at us from out of nowhere. He grabs Tabitha’s camera and starts to take off in another direction.
“Oh, hell, no!” I curse as I sprint after him toward a nearby alley. He turns and sees me, his face growing pale as I approach him.
“Fuck that,” he yells and tosses the camera on the ground as he sprints off down the alley.
I pick the camera up, examining it as Tabitha runs over to me.
“Are you fucking insane?”
I shrug as I look back in the direction of the kid. “We probably ought to call the cops.”
She sighs as she
examines the camera that I’m still holding. “Right. No one is bleeding, so our chances of us getting a cop here anytime soon are not great.” She has a point. The cops have better things to do than worry about a minor attempted theft by a kid. Sometimes I forget that D.C. is a major city and not like my hometown of Banneker where this would never happen, and if it did, I’d know the kid and our sheriff would be there in a minute, and we would all end up going to said teenager’s house and talking with his parents. Yeah, it’s definitely not Banneker.
I look down at her. Her eyes are wide as she glances between the camera and my face. I hold the camera out to her, and she slowly takes it, further examining it as she holds it up to get a closer look.
“Well, it seems to be OK...uh, thanks,” she murmurs.
“You’re welcome.”
She places the camera around her neck, and we walk back. I notice her glancing up at me occasionally as we walk.
“What?” I finally ask her.
“You’re fast.”
I chuckle and shrug. “My career sort of depends on that.”
A smile forms on her face and it’s like she morphs into another human being right in front of me.
“You’re funny, too. I wasn’t expecting that.”
I raise an eyebrow. “What were you expecting?”
She shakes her head. “I don’t know.”
We start walking again, but as we turn a corner, she freezes. I nearly collide with her as my eyes follow the direction of her gaze.
There’s smoke coming from her building and three fire trucks outside. Tabitha starts sprinting toward the building, but I’m faster than she is.
“Whoa!” I yell as I grab her arm and stop her mid-stride. She jerks forward and crashes into my chest.
“Let go!” she cries as she tries to get to the building.
I spin her around and grab her upper arms, giving her a little shake. She looks up at me, her eyes wide with fright.
“Breathe!”
She lets the breath that she was holding go and takes another. Her eyes water and her lower lip trembles.
“Everything I have...is in there,” she says slowly, pointing toward the building.
I nod. “OK. Let’s go ask what’s going on. Maybe it’s not your studio.”
She nods but I can tell she doesn’t believe me.
I take her hand and walk over to a firefighter.
“Excuse me, sir, can you tell us what’s going on? This woman’s studio is in the building.” I motion to Tabitha.
“My apartment,” she whispers. I jerk my head to stare down at her. Her apartment? I’m about to ask this when the firefighter answers me.
“There was some sort of fire stemming from a unit on the top floor. There was a fair amount of damage to the unit. As you can tell, we are still containing the fire, but the rest of the building is intact. What unit is yours, miss?” he asks, looking down at Tabitha.
“Three-twenty-five,” she says with hope in her voice.
His look tells us the answer before he speaks. “I’m sorry to inform you, but that’s the unit where the fire originated.” He motions for a police officer.
“This is the resident from the apartment.”
I feel Tabitha’s body trembling, and I pull her against me on instinct.
“It’s going to be OK,” I assure her.
“Miss, I need to get some information from you,” the officer starts as he ushers us to the side. There’s a bench outside the building, and I lead Tabitha to it. I sit next to her as the officer explains what they know so far, which isn’t very much. He fills out some paperwork, asking about insurance, which Tabitha has. He explains that once the firefighters have the fire contained and the area secure, she will be able to go inside and assess what can be salvaged.
“Do you have a place where you can stay?” he asks her.
Before she can answer, I turn and announce, “Yes, she does.” I have no idea why I just said that.
I don’t have time to ponder my actions, as she looks up at me in confusion. “You can stay at my apartment. I have one near the stadium. I only use it when I’m too tired to drive home. It’s not much, but you’re welcome to it.”
“I-I…that’s, uh…I…” She trails off.
“I can call the Red Cross to get you into a hotel for the night,” the officer offers her.
Tabitha looks between him and me. “I’m OK,” she finally states. He nods, hands her his card, and some paperwork and walks back over to check on the status of things.
“Thank you, but that’s really not necessary. I can find somewhere to stay.”
I ignore her comment. “You live here?”
She nods and sighs, her lower lip trembles. “I should call my brother.” I nod, and she pulls her cell phone out of her pocket. I stand and walk a few feet away to give her privacy.
“Brix?” I hear her say, her voice breaking. The fixer in me wants to make this all better, but I know that’s not possible. From the amount of fire personnel here, I’m guessing the damage is pretty significant. And why the fuck is she living in this building. It can’t possibly be safe. It’s questionable for a studio let alone a home.
I study Tabitha as she talks softly into her phone. She blinks away some tears, and something in me wants to hug her. I only catch every few words. Grandma and PopPop. Bad. Server. A client.
She nervously chews on one of her nail polished-chipped nails. Her eyes constantly scanning her surroundings. She is cute, but not in a girl-next-door type of way. She’s cute like the artsy girl at the coffee shop on Main Street. The type of cute that you want to shelter from the world because there’s something unique about her. She’s intriguing as fuck, and I’d love to get to know her better, all of her. I practically slap myself in the head. Pull yourself together, Kent. This isn’t the fucking time to sexually analyze this woman.
My phone buzzes in my pocket, and I realize that I’m late. I should have left ten minutes ago to head over and start warming up in the gym. Ugh, every second of every day is planned for me. But here I am running late as I try to fix things for Tabitha. I just wish I could fix myself. I need something or someone to knock sense into me. I half-laugh at Di’s earlier suggestion. As I watch Tabitha on the phone, waving her hand around the air as she speaks, it dawns on me. Maybe, Tabitha could break my monotonous schedule.
I look down expecting to see a text from my teammate Ward, but instead, it’s a text from Mom.
Mothership: Honey, are you sure you’re OK?
I groan and run a hand over my face. I love that woman but she’s a little overkill at times. If I was a betting man, I’d wager that Lanie or Di called her post-coffee shop chat.
Me: Yes. All is good.
Mothership: I have an appointment this week in D.C., want to grab food?
I smile. My mom is always trying to feed us. Maybe it’s her part-Italian heritage or maybe it’s just her, but she forces food upon us at every chance she gets.
Me: Sure, Ma. Text me deets.
Mothership: OK, sweet cheeks. Love you!
I can’t help the smile. Something about my mom using an old family nickname forces levity upon me in any situation. I shoot a quick text to my pitching coach, explaining the conundrum.
A firefighter walks over to us. “Miss?”
Tabitha looks up at him.
“We have your property secured. I can escort you inside if you’d like to get some things.”
She nods and I follow her. The smell of smoke is thick as we enter the building. Firefighters in their gear walk past us as we take the stairs up to the third floor. The smell grows with each step we take. I wonder how these guys breathe even after the fire is put out. The door to her unit is open. She freezes in the doorway, and I nearly run her over.
I’m about to say something when my eyes follow her gaze. Well, shit. Clearly, the fire started in her studio. Besides the phenomenal amount of water damage, the photographs I had admired earlier are all but gone and her equipment is
…not salvageable.
“Fuck,” I hear her mutter.
I put my hands on her shoulders and squeeze. “You OK?”
She shakes her head. “Nope,” she says dryly.
I want to smack my forehead. Of course, she’s not OK, asshat. Her place of business and home are destroyed.
She slowly walks inside. “We think the fire started over here,” the man says as he points to what looks like charred...I don’t even know.
She nods. “And the apartment?”
He gives her a sympathetic look. “It’s not livable right now. I am sorry.”
She walks past him and through a door. I follow and realize that she has a small studio apartment in the back. The wall between them is charred and small patches of light shine through. She walks to the far side of the room, past a small galley kitchen and eating area, and a sofa and a burnt...bed, I think. She opens a small door and sighs. Her closet. I lean over her head and look into the small walk-in closet. The clothes aren’t burnt, but they are wet.
She sighs again and grabs a suitcase in the corner. Fortunately, it’s made of plastic and hasn’t melted. She throws some wet clothes into it and two plastic shoebox-sized bins that look to hold photos.
“You can come back tomorrow. Here’s the fire chief’s card,” the man says, holding out a business card to her.
She nods. “Any idea what started the fire?”
He shakes his head. “There will be a full investigation and report on it. You’ll get a copy once it’s done.”
“Come on,” I say as I place a hand on her arm. She follows me, letting me lead her back out of the ruins that were once her home. I help her place the suitcase in my car.
We drive in silence. I don’t even turn on the radio. This day has not gone as planned. It doesn’t take more than a few minutes to get to my apartment. I pull into my reserved spot in the garage. I note Amery’s car is here. Amery’s one of my best friends and a former player who now scouts for the team.