Catch You If You Fall (Burnouts Book 2)

by Karen Gordon

  It was four-twenty when she left her office. The downtown streets were already filling up with afternoon commuters that would bring everything to a crowded crawl in the next hour. She checked the time on her cell phone and debated how long it would take her to reach the apartment by subway versus how much it would cost her by cab, if she could get a cab. The subway won. Visions of her and MG running out of food before her first commission check put power in her walk to the station.

  Chapter 2

  Steve’s afternoons with Carrie were the highlight of his week. Since his dad refused to get a phone for their apartment (“Don’t want anyone to call me”) he had to just hope he would see her pull up in Ben’s jeep on Tuesdays and Thursdays at three.

  They watched reruns together, she brought him food from the restaurant where she worked, and being around her reminded him of high school, and MG. There was no way to justify how much he missed MG. She was never really his girlfriend so she never broke up with him, but she left him behind, just the same. Now she was in New York, with her mom, chasing some dream of big money and a big life. And he was here, hanging out with her best friend, clinging to the way he had felt when he was around her.

  His dad wandered into the kitchen, which could easily be seen from the living room. He and Steve worked the night shift together at Tricon, so he was just getting up and, as usual, he hadn’t bothered to put pants on.

  “Put some god-damned pants on,” Steve yelled. He had to tell him this every time Carrie was coming over.

  “Why? That lil cutie comin’ over again?”

  Steve glared at his dad. It almost seemed like he wanted Carrie to catch him in his underwear. Like she’d be interested in some sorry-assed, middle-aged man. Steve looked at his dad, slumped over the door of the refrigerator, searching the contents for anything edible. He was tall, lean, and lanky; just like Steve. And like his son, he was also a lot stronger than he looked. Steve had seen him heft some seriously heavy boxes at the warehouse. But time and bad living was definitely taking a toll on him. He had blotchy skin on his face, some from too much sun, some old scars. His hair was starting to recede from his forehead, particularly on the sides. And he had the nastiest smoker’s hack when he woke up, like now. Coming up empty on his search of the fridge, he scoured the cabinets, lungs rattling, working up to a vile-sounding coughing fit.

  Steve snubbed his own cigarette out in the overflowing ashtray on the floor next to the couch. “Her name’s Carrie and she doesn’t want to see you in your underwear.”

  “How do you know? She smiled at me last time she was here.”

  Shit! Sometimes his old man just drove him insane, maybe because they were too much alike. At one point in time, Jim Shrader was a charmer and a flirt and a ladies man. Then he met Steve’s mom, his waterloo. He fell hard for her and was actually thrilled when she got pregnant their junior year of high school, the result being Steve’s older brother, Tony. To this day he kinda wondered if Tony really was his full brother. They were nothing alike, in looks or personality. He wondered if his mom had just decided Jim Shrader was most likely to marry her. A marriage that lasted all of ten months before she bolted, leaving Jim with a newborn. The other thing Steve never understood was why his dad took her back five years later, when she had Steve then left again. His best guess was that his mom was a drug addict and Jim thought he could save her, or she was reformed briefly, or something like that.

  Not that he would ever know those answers. Neither he nor Jim was much for talking. They were both so laid-back they could be home together for days and never say more than two words to each other. Yep, him and his dad, two mellow-assed saps for women. It depressed the hell out of him how much his life was starting to look like his dad’s.

  Carrie knocked on the door. Steve pleaded with his eyes for his dad to go in his room. Jim reluctantly complied.

  “They were out of chicken fried steak, so I got you meatloaf.”

  She spoiled him. She went out of her way to do things to make him happy. With her boyfriend Ben away at basic training, it was like she needed someone to dote on as much as he liked being doted on, so it worked.

  “Meatloaf’s great, thanks.” He held the door then closed it behind her.

  “I grabbed a bunch of plastic forks and knives from the take-out bin too.”

  The first time she showed up with a meal for him they had to look under the couch for one of the three forks he and his dad owned. It took a lot of hot water to get the gunk off it. She had been bringing plastic utensils ever since.

  “Good idea.” He dropped his voice a little. “My dad’s here and awake, so let’s just go in my room.”

  Carrie set the bag containing his dinner on the floor and plopped on his mattress, which sat on the floor. Her Swiss-themed uniform skirt poofed out in a circle around her. Steve shut the door, retrieved the bag of food, and propped himself up against the wall, sitting on his pillow, to eat his meatloaf.

  “You will not believe what I heard today.” Carrie lay down, her head on his out-stretched legs. This was something new, touching each other—nothing sexual, just touching in some way, filling the gaping affection void in both their lives.

  “Rat-boy got busted.” Rat-boy was their nickname for a kid from their class who, well, had a rat face. He opened a pizza place right after graduation, but everyone knew it was a front for his drug dealing.

  “Fuckin’ moron, probably sold to a cop.”

  Carrie smirked and nodded. “If he names names, would you be in trouble?”

  Steve popped another chunk of meatloaf in his mouth and shook his head no. He never bought from Rat-boy because he was a stupid fuck who cheated his way through high school. He doubted he’d changed much in the seven months since they graduated.

  Carrie rolled onto her back and picked at a torn cuticle. Steve finished his dinner. He set the plate on the crate he used as a side table, almost knocking the card off of it. It was a graduation card from MG and her mom, the only one he got. He set the card upright again.

  “Are you going out Friday night?” It would be New Year’s Eve, 2000. People were going crazy all over the place with big parties or fears of the world ending.

  He shrugged. “Party at Chuck’s house. I might go. You?”

  “Probably just stay at Casey’s and hang out with her and Gina.” Carrie looked up at him and smiled. “So tonight I’m gonna party like its 1999,” she sang. Steve chuckled softly and tugged at a tendril of her hair that was lying across his knee. He stretched and grabbed an ashtray with a half-smoked joint in it. He lit it, held the smoke in his lungs then blew it away from Carrie.

  “I definitely thought life after high school would be more exciting than this, didn’t you?”

  He shrugged.

  “Is this what you want to be doing? Ten years from now?”

  He shook his head. “But I don’t have a fucking clue what else I could do.” He thought about his old man. Twenty-five years at Tricon, hefting boxes, moving crates, night after night.

  “What do you say we just take off, start driving, see where we end up?”

  He smiled at her. “In what?”

  She smirked. “Good point.” Neither of them owned a car. He used his brother’s motorcycle while Stony was in jail and Carrie was using Ben’s jeep while he was in basic training.

  Carrie thought about asking him where he would want to go, if they could just take off, but she pretty much already knew the answer, New York.

  ♪ ☺ ♥

  On Friday night he thought about staying home ‘til his dad showed up with a bunch of his buddies and some rank looking women around ten o’clock. They gave him a beer and a shot of some nasty sweet liquor before he set off on foot. Chuck’s house was only three blocks away so he could walk there and not worry about getting too wasted and driving home, but he had to make a stop first at the gas station pay phone five blocks in the other direction.

  He was still shaking off the cold from walking so far, standing in the doorwa
y between Chuck’s living room and kitchen, when she approached him. The party was so loud there was no reason to attempt conversation. She held a torn-off piece of plastic plant over her head and looked at him with anticipation and waited.

  His eyes questioned if he was supposed to know her or know what to do.

  “It’s mistletoe,” she shouted.

  He chuckled. He wasn’t one hundred percent sure what mistletoe looked like, but the leaf over her head probably wasn’t it. He had to give her credit for creativity. She was kind of cute - petite, brown hair that hung to her shoulders, and a slightly crooked front tooth that she was not afraid to show when she smiled. He still shook his head no. She looked at him with sulking eyes, then walked away to try her mistletoe trick on someone else.

  A half hour later he was standing in the back yard, freezing his ass off, sharing a joint with a few people when she appeared again. She joined the group, standing next to him. She took a hit when it came to her, then said, “You’re Steve Shrader, aren’t you?” when she passed it to him.

  He nodded his head while he took a hit then passed it to his left. “Do I know you?”

  She laughed a nervous laugh and wrapped her flannel shirt tighter around herself. “No, but I was here before, a long time ago. I met a girl who told me you’ve got amazing fingers and a magic dick.”

  Steve choked on the smoke in his lungs and started coughing and laughing at the same time. There was only one girl who would do that, MG. Fuck if she wasn’t trying to make sure he wasn’t alone after she was gone. He shook his head. “Yeah, well the girl who told you that is a pathological liar.”

  She boldly looked him right in the eyes. “Yeah, well, I heard it from more than one girl.” She stuck out her hand like she wanted to shake his. “I’m Amanda.”

  He moved his beer to his left hand so he could shake hers. Just as they touched the countdown started from inside the house. “Ten, nine, eight, seven, six, five, four, three, two, one.” Amanda moved in close and tilted her head up, her look daring him to turn her down. He couldn’t be an asshole and leave her hanging at midnight on New Year’s Eve. He leaned down and touched his lips lightly to hers. She snaked her arms around his neck and pulled him lower and deeper into the kiss. He dropped his nearly-empty beer and rolled with the momentum, wrapping his arms around her, sliding his tongue into her mouth, feeling for the cute, crooked front tooth. She went on tiptoes, sliding her body up his along the way, hoping she would feel him getting hard for her. He was. That was all the incentive she needed. She broke the kiss and took his hand, pulling him toward the front of the house. “Come on.”

  He followed willingly, smiling at her boldness. “Where we goin’?”

  “My apartment.”

  Chapter 3

  It was New Year’s Eve, 2000, the start of a new Millennium and she was in New York City. The ball would drop less than two miles from her apartment. So what was MG doing? Puking.

  It had taken her two months of waiting to see a doctor, then four subway trains to get to his office, but she finally had a diagnosis for her headaches – migraines, stress induced migraines. And now she had some medicine that could get rid of the pain, the problem was that she had to take the first pill as soon as she started to feel a migraine coming on or they wouldn’t work. So much easier said than done.

  This one had started at work. On really busy days, the smell at the nail salon would become overwhelming and bring on a migraine. Everyone wanted their nails done today because everyone was going out tonight for New Year’s Eve. She’d felt it starting, knew she needed to get to her purse and take a pill, but couldn’t stop to take a break fast enough. By the time she left, two hours later, her head felt like it was ready to explode and she was way past the pills working. Now she could add a new symptom to the list, puking. The pain actually got so bad she threw up.

  She felt her way out of the bathroom in the dark. Light stabbed her eyes when she was having a migraine, so every light was off in the little apartment. She crawled into the kitchen and worked up the guts to stand. She needed a bag of frozen vegetables and she would have to stand to reach them. The movement was almost too much and she felt another wave of nausea as she grabbed the bag from the freezer and slid back onto the floor laying the peas against her forehead.

  Her cell phone rang on the kitchen counter, the sound piercing her brain. She moaned and tried to scoot away from the ringing. Who the hell would call her now? Everyone should be out partying. Even her mom had gone out. MG insisted she go because it was an important work-related party and it was easier for MG to keep the apartment dark and quiet if she was alone. Amber wouldn’t call her, knowing she was in pain.

  The ringing stopped then the chiming started. Whoever it was had left her a voice mail. She rolled slowly back into the kitchen and reached up to grab her phone off the counter. She had to stop the chiming. She pressed the code to access her voice mail, turned the volume way down, and listened.

  Silence. Well, someone breathing, but no message. The light from the screen made her squint in pain as she checked the number on her list of missed calls. It was a St. Louis area code, but it wasn’t Carrie’s number, besides, she would have left a message. Steve … had to be. She replayed it and listened again to the sound of breathing, the long hesitation before he decided not to talk to her and hung up. Shit. He must have gotten her number from Carrie. She rolled back over onto her bag of frozen peas and tried to fight the tears wanting to form. It physically hurt to cry and she wasn’t sure if she was crying because she was so happy he called or upset that he still couldn’t talk to her. She pressed talk, dialing back to the pay-phone he might still be standing at. After it rang fifteen times, she gave up.

  ♪ ☺ ♥

  Her New Year’s puke party for one inspired her to keep her headaches under control, which she did, until a Saturday in March when she was hung-over and working at the salon. She was armed with migraine pills in her pocket and a bottle of water under the receptionist desk. If she even felt a twinge of pain behind her right eye she was going for it. The pills made her a little sleepy, but she figured she could hold it together long enough to finish her shift.

  She was working the front desk with Tiffany, not her favorite person. She was Asian, really pretty and petite and spoke in the quietest voice. MG felt like a country bumpkin who shouted everything next to her. Tiffany also never gossiped with the rest of the staff; a huge transgression that made sure no one really liked or trusted her. At the salon, gossip was the commodity that bought you friends. It took MG about a week to figure that out, and then realize that she held a ton of cards in her hand once she knew how to read the appointment book. Between the lines were clues to the whereabouts of all of Manhattan’s elite. No appointment booked the day of a big charity ball, equaled not invited. Add the overheard gossip from the nail techs and the girls who worked with MG at the salon knew where all the hottest parties were in town, even if they were never invited.

  Last night MG, Krystyna and another nail tech, Demi, had used their intel to try to crash a swanky birthday party. They never got into the actual party. It was in a private room. But they got into the club through a back door left open by Demi’s old roommate who waitressed there.

  The décor was sleek and modern and shimmered as much as the A-list, young New Yorkers crowded inside. MG decided that tonight she was a Busch, since they were the richest people she knew of. They owned Anheuser-Busch and there were a ton of them all over St. Louis. She figured no one would know for sure that she wasn’t really one of them. She slid in close to a cute guy wearing a super expensive watch and introduced herself.

  “Hey. I’m Arianna … Busch.” She waited for him to recognize the name. “As in Anheuser-Busch.”

  He nodded slowly and looked at her like she was strange before walking away. Whatever. He wasn’t that cute.

  She wasn’t getting the kind of attention she was used to getting from guys. In fact, it was almost like she was invisible and with each pilf
ered cocktail it was starting to get more irritating. A trip to the bathroom only made things worse. She came out of a stall before Krystyna or Demi and walked into a group of girls gossiping near the sinks. Two she recognized as clients from the salon. They noticed her noticing them and stopped talking. With obvious disdain they turned and looked at her and waited ‘til she left to resume. What bitches! Did they really think they were better than her? Could they tell she didn’t really belong there? She was wearing her best designer knockoff mini dress and stilettos that made her look rich and hot (or so she thought, before now).

  Not knowing what else to do she left the bathroom and waited in the hall for Krystyna and Demi, hating herself for letting them intimidate her. Krys and Demi refused to leave, so MG found a bar stool in a dark corner and sulked and studied her prey. How did they know she wasn’t one of them? There were so many people here and it was such a huge city; there was no way they all knew each other. It’s like she was giving off some au-du-trailer-trash scent and they could all smell it. The night was a bust.

  ♪ ☺ ♥

  Today was about to be a bust, too. Her headache started around eleven-thirty. She took two pills right away. The script called for one as soon as she felt pain, then another two-to-four hours later, but she was pulling out the big guns to beat this thing today. It was now almost one-thirty and she still hadn’t had a lunch break and she had skipped breakfast. The pills were strong and with no food in her stomach she was starting to feel light-headed and fuzzy-brained. At least her headache was gone.

  “Grace, you know you can’t put Mrs. Goldfarb with Krystyna Monday night.” Tiffany was frantically erasing the entry on the computer screen. “She always books only a manicure, then wants a pedicure too. Krystyna can’t fit that in.”