Fever

by Carnal, MJ

  Shea comes up behind me and grabs my arm, pulling me into a hug. “I’m sorry, Bee. I just got a lot going on.”

  I nod against him. “Yeah, well, stop being a douchebag. I don’t care how big of a favor you think you’re doing for me. It’s hard for me to go back there.”

  Shea nods, his cheek brushing against mine. “I know. I know.”

  He lets go and walks into the recording booth, signaling to Nick that he’s ready.

  “I’ll see you, then,” I say to Nick, who looks up at me for a second before going back to what he’s doing.

  “Yeah. Until we meet again,” he says, gazing at me again for less than a second.

  I don’t know what it is about him that makes me want to grab his face in place so that he’ll never look at anything but me. I’m not sure what bothers me more: the realization or the fact that I can’t remember feeling this way about anybody before him.

  I keep hearing hype about this girl, Christina Ferucci, and have been dying to catch her performance. She’s supposed to be in a little place called The Bitter End tonight, which hosts a lot of open mics for new artists, and that’s how I find myself pulling up to the small venue on Bleecker Street. A lot of amazing artists have performed here in the past. I caught a Lady Gaga show here before she was “The Lady Gaga.” It’s always nice when you get to see people sing before they become household names. When somebody stood in front of Harmon the other day handing out flyers, I knew it was a sign for me to catch a show here.

  As I walk through the old wooden doors, I spot a small table in the dark towards the back and make a beeline toward it. I like enjoying shows from little dark corners, where I feel like I can prop a leg up and lay my head on my knee as I close my eyes and listen to the artist sing their hearts out. And that’s exactly what I do when Christina comes on stage—I pull my knees up so that my boots are touching my bottom, and wrap my arms around my legs, closing my eyes and letting her voice take me far away. She has great stage presence and a strong voice that can be heard even without the microphone, which I enjoy.

  When she’s halfway into a song she said is called “Fifty Foot Fire,” I feel the seat beside me dip. I don’t open my eyes because I don’t mind company as long as they don’t talk to me while I’m enjoying the music. But of course they don’t know that, and usually, they start talking. I don’t understand why people need to talk so damn much.

  “Hey,” the voice says, and my eyes spring open because the voice is Nick Wilde.

  “Hey,” I respond, wide-eyed, feeling my heart clogging my throat. “What are you doing here?”

  He chuckles and runs a hand through his hair. “What are you doing here?” he asks, his eyes twinkling.

  “Watching the show,” I say.

  “You’re not really watching,” he quips back as a smile spreads over his lips.

  I roll my eyes. “Listening. Do you come here often?”

  “When I’m in town I do. I got one of these and I figured I’d stop by,” he says, flashing me the same flyer I have.

  I nod in response, unable to tear my gaze from his. “Cool.”

  His lips twitch again. “Are you here to see her?” he asks, motioning toward the stage.

  I nod. “What about you?” I ask.

  “The act that follows.”

  “Who’s that?” I ask, wishing I had seen the entire bill. I just didn’t care because Christina was who I came to listen to.

  “Paige Chaplin,” Nick says simply as he takes a sip of the amber drink in his hand.

  I frown, not having heard of her. That bothers me a little, that he would know someone I don’t. He’s a producer, so I’m sure he knows a lot of people that I don’t, but it doesn’t bother me any less.

  “Shouldn’t you be working on Shea’s album?” I ask.

  Nick raises an amused eyebrow. “Keeping tabs on me? Or telling me how to do my job?” he asks as a slow smile spreads over his face. “I don’t mind either, in case you’re wondering.”

  It’s not even funny how much I want to smile right now, but I try to fight it. When I know I can’t win, and I’m going to smile because he’s looking at me with those freaking up-to-no-good eyes and his mouth is turned up and his words make me feel like he tapped my heart with Pixie Dust on speed, I place my head on my bent knee and turn it toward the stage. He laughs and tugs my hair, and I smile hard, but it’s okay because he can’t see me. Christina ends her set and we clap as she thanks us for listening.

  “So she’s good?” I ask, still facing away from him.

  “Very good,” he says, his raspy voice low and in my exposed ear, making me gasp and sit up straight. What is it about him that makes my insides feel like they’re charged with electricity?

  “How’d you hear about her?” I ask, looking at him now.

  He shrugs. “The internet.”

  “Have you worked with her?”

  “I hope to,” he says with a smile that makes jealousy bubble up inside of me, which is so stupid.

  He’s not mine for me to be jealous over. Nick laughs when I turn my face away from him, so I know it’s too late to hide my thoughts. I hate that my heart is painted in my eyes for all to see. He tugs my hair again softly and moves closer to me.

  “Professionally,” he adds, near my ear again in a way that makes my insides tingle at his voice.

  “I didn’t say anything,” I protest quietly.

  “You didn’t have to,” he responds just as low.

  I breathe out through my nose, pursing my lips, wishing that he would move away from me so that my heart can roll back into my chest from the place in my throat it’s perched on.

  We speak a little more about music, about siblings, about random things—nothing of real significance, even though everything is significant. And then Paige walks on stage with her guitar, introducing herself before she begins to sing, and I forget that Nick is beside me. The strumming of her guitar and her soulful voice make me want to smile, cry, and cheer at the same time. The combination speaks that much to me. It’s that beautiful. Nick doesn’t say a word; he seems as submerged as I am. We both, maybe out of coincidence, turn our faces to each other at the same time when Paige sings: You’ve tied yourself, through and through, my skin, my bones.

  Our hands inch closer together below the table as we look into each other’s eyes, the tips of our fingers barely touching. We listen to the rest of her song like that, looking into each other’s eyes, singers brushing against each other but not close enough to hold hands. And when it ends and the crowd begins to clap, he blinks, I blink, and we begin to clap as well. A moment gone, just like that. But the stupid seed of hope has been planted. Just like that.

  ***

  Even though it’s been a couple of days since the bar incident, I’m still smiling over it. Walking through the Harmon doors, I add a little speed to my steps and step into the elevators just before they begin to shut.

  “Close call,” Nick comments behind me, the sound of his voice making my blood pump faster.

  I let the strap of my oversized purse fall and position it between my legs so that it doesn’t bump anyone before letting myself turn to face him. His dark blond hair is styled into a messier faux hawk than usual and he has sprinkles of stubble along his chiseled jaw. My fingers twitch to touch his face, to let the tiny hairs prickle my fingertips, so I curl them tighter on the strap of my purse. Nick’s eyes have a seductive hooded look as he peers down at me, a look that makes my heart run marathons inside my chest. Jesus, that stare could make anybody crumble.

  “Hi,” I say, my voice barely audible over the chatter going on around us. The elevator stops and some people push to get out, making me stumble onto Nick’s chest.

  “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 times 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.