Pull Me Close: The Panic Series

by Sidney Halston

“You can stay if you want.”

  “Damn it—I don’t have a car. He drove. And I have a lot of shit to do,” Nico says.

  He wants to leave but doesn’t have a ride. Well, just because I’m an anxious mess most of the time doesn’t mean I don’t have a backbone. And with the day I’ve had, I don’t need anyone’s unwilling company. “You can call a taxi,” I say, not bothering to look up. “And you can wait outside. No one’s forcing you to stay here,” I add for good measure.

  Nico

  Shit.

  One fuck-up after the other.

  “Katherine, I wasn’t implying I had to stay because I don’t have a car,” I correct her and take a step closer. “You know how we ended up here? Matt and me?” She doesn’t reply, busying herself in the kitchen instead. “While I was texting you, a bartender screwed up on a shipment and Matt was arguing with him. My head was in the conversation you and I were having. The guy was a shit bartender, so I didn’t think—I just fired him.”

  “Anyway, Matt blew up. He was the maddest I’d ever seen him. But even as he was chewing me out, I was thinking about what you’d said about not being able to go to the doctor. When he realized I wasn’t paying attention, he grabbed the phone out of my hand to see what was so important. Anyway, he read our texts and then announced he was going to visit you. I thought he was…” He shrugs. “I don’t know. Trying to set us up, I guess. He doesn’t get that men and woman can be friends. At any rate, I didn’t want him to come over here without me and badger you into going out with me. So I came along.”

  It’s true, every single word. I was worried that she was at home sad about missing her appointment and I wanted to finish the conversation, but the fucking bartender issue got in the way. And then I just wanted to stop Matt from annoying her, so I came along. But when she opened the door, dressed in jeans and a tank top, her cute little feet bare, I was speechless.

  Every time I see her I get the same punch-to-the-gut feeling. It’s as if I’m seeing her for the first time every time. It bothers me because this is the opposite of what I need in my life right now. But, damn, she’s beautiful in an understated, natural kind of way that I rarely get to see. It’s as if I’ve been living my life in a world where women wear masks—literally. Heavy makeup, teased hair, uncomfortably tight clothes. She’s the opposite in every single possible way. And she’s older. Not that it’s a problem, but it’s new to me. I mean, I’m thirty-four, and she’s only thirty-two. But usually the women I meet at the club are in their early to mid-twenties. Naomi was twenty-five. I like that Katherine seems comfortable in her own skin. I mean, I know she’s not comfortable with her emotions, but she seems okay with herself in every other way that counts, like the way she lets it all hang out is refreshingly honest. Also an anomaly in my life.

  Even when I was being a dick that first night at the club, I noticed her; how could I not? But I was so blinded by my stupid conclusion that she was a junkie that I didn’t take a moment to appreciate those long-as-fuck legs, those big brown eyes. I did notice the hair, though. That fucking hair. I’ve never seen so much hair. It goes down to her ass, and there’s a lot of it. Right now I’m standing behind her as she makes every effort not to look at me, and I want to touch her. I’ve never wanted to touch a woman so much.

  The weird thing is, meeting women and getting them to sleep with me has always come easily. I’ve never been scared or nervous around a woman. I’m usually determined and confident. But with this obviously inexperienced woman, I’m fucking terrified.

  “Can you look at me, please?” I ask.

  She doesn’t, though. She continues stirring and seasoning.

  “I’d like to stay for dinner. Can I stay?” I want to reach for her, but I don’t want to scare her, so I keep my hands at my sides.

  She drops the spoon she’s holding into the sink with a loud clank. Still not looking at me, she says, “I’ve had a bad day. Don’t stay because you feel sorry for me. I don’t need your pity. Especially not today.”

  Fuck it. I put my hand on hers, unclasp the death grip she has on the counter, and turn her around. With my other hand I reach forward and take a strand of her hair between my fingers. It’s soft and silky, and I can’t help but imagine it wrapped around my fist as I fuck her senseless, which is absolutely not something someone should be thinking about their friend. I release her hair quickly.

  “Please look at me.”

  She slowly looks up. Her eyes are wet, and I can tell she’s trying to hold back tears. The depth of her sorrow and torment are laid out bare on her face in a way that takes my breath away.

  “Matt told me I hadn’t smiled in a year, except when you and I were texting. He said I should check up on you. That you would never willingly ask me over.”

  “That’s true,” she whispers. “I wouldn’t have.” She shakes her head. “I don’t even know if I want you here now.”

  And there’s that honesty again.

  “Ouch.”

  “Sorry—that came out harsh,” she says quickly. “Not what I meant.”

  “Given all the stupid shit that comes out of my mouth when you’re around, I think we can call it even,” I tell her.

  She heads over to the couch, sits down, and gestures for me to sit too. I sit down at the other end, my body turned toward her.

  “I…” She opens and closes her hands. “It makes me nervous that you’re here.”

  “I wouldn’t hurt you. Never,” I say quickly.

  “Oh, I know,” she says just as fast. “I’m not scared because of that. I’m scared because I’m always scared. I don’t do well with change.”

  “I get that. Although two men barging into your house and fighting in front of you shouldn’t be strange at all.”

  That gets a laugh out of her.

  “So, how about you feed me, woman? And then I’ll leave. Of course, if you want me to leave now, just say the word, and I’ll go, no questions asked. If you want to talk about what happened today with the doctor, we can do that too. Or not. Up to you. We’ll use a safe word if you’re uncomfortable at any time.”

  She snorts. “A safe word?”

  “Yeah. That way there’s no confusion or weirdness.”

  “I think a safe word makes it weird in and of itself.”

  “Nah.”

  “Okay, then, what’s the safe word?”

  For the next half hour, while I drink a beer and she finishes cooking, I throw out word after ridiculous word.

  “Maybe eggplant?” I say.

  “No! What if I’m making eggplant parmigiana and I say that? You’ll think I want you to leave, but I’m just offering you dinner,” she says.

  I throw my head back and laugh. “Good point. How about dishwasher?”

  “Dishwasher?” She shakes her head.

  I look around her apartment, saying the name of everything I see. “Table. Laptop. Red. Blue. Window.” I grab a box she has on the counter. “Are you going to bake a cake?” She looks over her shoulder at the cake mix box I’m holding in my hand. “This looks good.”

  “I wasn’t planning to do it today, but I can if you want.”

  With the box in my hand, I jump up to sit on the counter and start reading the ingredients as she finishes cooking. “Eggs, water…Oh, this is a good one: dextrose. That’s not something that comes up in everyday conversation. That’s a perfect safe word.”

  She snorts in laughter. I can’t remember the last time I laughed so much or felt so at ease.

  “I will never remember that.” She takes the box from my hand. “Let’s see…oil, flour, bake, easy, chocolate, oven, moist.” With a disgusted face she looks at me and then begins to laugh uncontrollably. “I hate that word,” she says between fits of laughter.

  “Moist?”

  “I always change it on the manuscripts I edit,” she says as she starts serving the salad. “It should only be used when describing the consistency of baked goods. It should never be used to describe any part of a woman’s anatomy.”


  “You mean…” Inadvertently, my eyes drift to her crotch and then I shake the thought away. “Wait? What?”

  “Yes, I’ve seen it used to describe women who are…” She looks up, apparently trying to think of the best word to use here, but I see where this is going. “Turned on.”

  “They must not be that turned on if they are just moist,” I point out as I place the two plates of salad on the table. “A man should be able to get a woman wet. Drenched. Not moist.” I want to add that I’d give my right nut to see how wet I could make her. But I keep my thoughts to myself, because we’re supposed to be keeping things friendly. But fuck friendship, I think. Maybe I want a little complication.

  Turning a pretty shade of pink, she looks away. “So moist will be my safe word?” She scrunches up her face.

  “Nah. I won’t be able to take you seriously. And even though we’re messing around now, I want you to feel safe. How about tequila? That’s a good safe word.”

  “Tequila,” she says, as if she’s testing the word. “Okay. That works for me.” She begins to eat her salad. “So, are you really mad at Matt?” she asks.

  I lean back, stretching my legs. “Am I mad at Matt?” I roll the idea around in my head. “Yes. I’m mad that he aired out our dirty laundry here. I’m mad that he thinks I’m doing a shitty job.”

  “I don’t know exactly what he’s talking about, but it didn’t sound as if he thinks you’re doing a shitty job.”

  “He thinks he could do better. Ergo, I’m doing a shitty job.”

  “Ergo?” She lifts an eyebrow and smirks. “I think maybe you both just need to cool down. Or maybe you’re together too much and you need a little space.”

  “That’s a great idea. Space. I’m going to give my ungrateful brother all the space he needs.”

  “That’s not what I mea—”

  “I’m going to let him hire whomever he wants to hire. Fuck it, I won’t go in tomorrow. Let him figure shit out. He’s right—I took the reins, and all the burden fell on me. Let him see if he can do better,” I say, feeling smug about my decision. “Once he falls flat on his ass, I’ll have to fix everything. Then he’ll see he was taking me for granted.” I’ve been talking and eating and when I finally look up, Katherine’s looking at me and shaking her head. “What?”

  She holds her hands out. “I didn’t say a word. I don’t know the whole story,” she says, standing to take away the empty salad plates.

  “I don’t want to talk about Matt.” It just gets me in a bad mood.

  “I understand,” she says, and brings the main course to the table.

  I like that she listens and doesn’t seem to judge. I haven’t had any experience with women listening. They definitely talk. And talk and talk and talk. But listen? No, never. Katherine, however, seems present and engaged in what I’m saying. She’s not interrupting me. She doesn’t change the subject or make it about her. She’s actively listening, and it’s refreshing.

  “Do you mind if I grab another beer?” I ask.

  “No, of course not. I should have asked if you wanted another—I’m a terrible host.”

  “You’re not. Not at all,” I tell her, and get up to go to the refrigerator.

  “Hey, Nico?” Katherine says from the table, and I look over my shoulder. “Thanks for not acting like I’m strange.”

  It didn’t really occur to me until now just what my being here probably means to her. I mean, I knew it’s not a normal everyday thing for her, but I guess it’s much more than that.

  “Are you feeling better? I know you were upset earlier when we were texting, and then when I came in you looked like you’d been crying.”

  “I’ll be fine,” she says as I look down at a huge plate of fantastic-smelling paella. I don’t remember the last time I ate a real home-cooked meal.

  “I’ve been told I’m a pretty good listener,” I say, because I’m hoping it’s her turn to unload some of her shitty day on me.

  She nods shyly and begins to eat. It’s funny—she seems so reserved at times, like now, but I can tell this woman has a real backbone. It’s obvious by the way she stood up for herself a few minutes ago and the way she went to the club those two times.

  I take a bite of the paella. “This is so good.”

  “Glad you like it,” she says, delicately cutting a shrimp and carefully mixing it with the gooey yellow rice.

  I, on the other hand, am shoveling it in my mouth like a starved man. “You cook a lot?”

  “Almost every day. It’s a hobby, and it keeps me entertained.”

  “How do you get all the ingredients if you don’t go out?”

  “There’s a kid, Roberto, who delivers food for me. I have a standing order with the grocery store, plus I’ll add things if I want to make something special that week.”

  “So you plan your meals weekly?”

  “For the most part,” she says, as if it’s the most natural thing in the world. “Don’t you?”

  I snort. “No, Katherine, I don’t. I ate a leftover donut for dinner yesterday, and the day before, I probably went to a drive-through or ate whatever take-out Matt brought in. Which reminds me”—I point to the brown paper bag I left by her door—“that’s the tequila I promised to bring.”

  “Now that I have that tequila, I’ll add some other things to the list for next week.”

  “Planning’s good,” I say, taking another delicious bite. Then I change the subject. “You have Netflix?”

  She laughs. “Of course I have Netflix.”

  “Do you want to watch something after we finish eating?” I ask, looking down at my plate. I don’t want to leave yet, but I don’t know if I’ve overstayed my welcome. And I don’t know why I’m so concerned about it.

  “Um, sure.” She smiles, and the tension starts to leave my body.

  Katherine

  He’s in my house, eating my food.

  I’ve never cooked for anyone besides my sister before, and I’m a little nervous but also excited. This must be what the doctor describes as good anxiety.

  Anticipation.

  Hope.

  Not all nerves are bad, or so the good doctor keeps saying.

  The conversation is a little stilted, but I think it’s mostly because I don’t know what to say. I used to be social. It’s as if all the years of staying inside have turned me into some sort of cavewoman who’s forgotten how to act like a normal person. I can’t help but look at him as he eats.

  It’s not just that he’s handsome, although he is. Not in the traditional sense of the word, but in a sexy and dangerous-looking way. And even with his moodiness, he’s also a little laid-back. Like he just hasn’t had a chance to get a haircut, so he simply twisted it on his head without giving it a second thought. It’s the “I don’t give a fuck” attitude that intrigues me. He obviously gives a fuck, though. A lot of fucks, judging by the argument he just had with his brother.

  “You and Matt look so much alike and yet so different. I think it’s the hair.”

  “He can’t grow a beard. He’s tried.”

  “I guess only one of you can be in style,” I say, pointing my fork at his beard.

  He leans forward. “Do I look like someone who’s trying to be in the front lines of style, corazón?” he says, and the endearment makes my heart race—but not as much as his next statement. “I’m a man. I can grow a beard, simple as that. Not trying to prove anything to anyone, and definitely not aiming for fashionable.”

  I’m a man.

  The last time I dated, it was a guy. Mostly because I was young, and when you’re in your twenties you date guys, not men. I don’t think I’ve ever been around a man before. An honest-to-goodness man, through and through. And because he is in fact a man, and he’s here in my space looking the way he does, I have to turn my flushed face away.

  Nico finishes eating and sits back for a minute, rubbing his stomach. His shirt inches up just a little, and I can’t help but look. “That was so good,” he p
ractically moans. He’s so manly and sure of himself, and I don’t want to sit here thinking about how long it’s been since I’ve had male attention. So I stand and begin to clear the table, but he grabs my wrist. “Wait. I’ll help,” he says, and then looks at his hand on my wrist and lets go. “Is that…you have an issue with touching?” It’s a genuine question, and I think about it for a moment before I answer.

  I lied when I told him I want to be friends. You can’t be a woman and be friends with someone like Nico. Someone who exudes sex appeal the way he does. It’s not like I want a husband or anything, but every time I look at him, my skin tingles. He’s brought out all the sexual frustration I didn’t realize I had.

  “To be honest with you, I have an issue about most everything. But my mysophobia—or germophobia, as you’d probably call it—and even my agoraphobia worsen when my anxiety levels are high. The touching,” I say, looking at where he just touched my wrist, “was okay.”

  “Agoraphobia is fear of crowds, right?”

  “Yes,” I say.

  “I thought that was your main thing. What you fear most.”

  I shake my head. “No. My biggest hang-ups are being in an enclosed area and not being able to escape. Claustrophobia. That’s what makes me really nervous. Also, the dark scares me.”

  “So you’re afraid of the dark too? I figured that when you didn’t want to use the stairs in the club that had the broken light.”

  “Terrified. I sleep with the lamp and the bathroom light on. The elevator scares me more; that’s why I went with the dark stairs instead.”

  “So it was the dark that scared you at Panic when you were there for your sister’s party? It is kind of dark in there.”

  “No. It was the claustrophobia,” I say, and he looks at me funny because Panic is a huge place. Most people don’t understand that it’s not just being in a tiny room. No, it’s the fear of not being able to get out. “All those people packed together tightly made me feel claustrophobic. I couldn’t find the door. There’s no windows. I needed to escape and couldn’t. Add the darkness to that, and it was a recipe for disaster. And then also everyone touching me didn’t help.”