by Rachael Wade
But my head only feels more jumbled, messier than before.
I sit up in bed and glance out the window at the Space Needle. It’s no longer raining, but the grey sky remains. My gaze lands on the alarm clock on the bedside next. “Shit.” I throw the blanket off my legs and scramble to get up. It all starts to come back to me. The album cover—I finished it—and then the grand idea I had to plop down and nap the day away. I suppose I had a right to. I did finish the project. But something plagues me, like unfinished business.
I’m still not content.
I walk to the laptop and stare at the screen. The design is still open, on full display on the desktop. The resolution is perfect. The design is flawless. It’s exactly what the band asked for, and it’s exactly what I’d envisioned for them. So why do I feel like something is missing?
Out of habit, I bend and save the file, then close the laptop. I rise and pull on my jacket, grabbing the laptop to take it with me, then head out of the room and into the hall. I make my way to the elevator. My legs carry me to the front desk, as if they’re on autopilot, directing me which way to go. As I approach, I find Mira rustling through paperwork. She’s in a hurry, glancing at her watch.
“You about to get outta here?” I ask, tucking the laptop tightly beneath my arm.
She looks up. She’s distracted, her thoughts a million miles away. “Yeah, I’m off in five minutes. Just wrapping a few things up here. Can I help you with something?”
“You can, actually.” I present the laptop, setting it on the edge of the desk. One of Mira’s co-workers approaches from the other side, eyeing us.
“Can I help you with anything, Sir?” she asks, watching as I open the laptop and turn the screen toward Mira. She’s short, Latina, and curvy.
Mira immediately shuts her down. “It’s fine, Nance. Thanks. I’ll take care of it.”
“Okay. I know you’re trying to get out of here, so if you need me, just holler.”
“Will do. Thanks.” The girl leaves us alone, wandering back around to the other end of the desk to resume her work. “So, what can I do for you?” Mira leans over to scan the computer screen. I pull up the file and zoom in, showing her the album design. “What’s this?”
“I could use your opinion.”
“You did this?”
“Yeah. I’m a freelance graphic artist. I work on album and book covers, mostly. This is the latest project.”
“It’s amazing.”
“You really like it?”
“Definitely. What’s not to like? It’s epic.”
“Thanks. I’m proud of it.”
“But?”
“But I feel like it’s missing something.”
“How so?”
“The moon. I feel like maybe there should be a reflection somehow.”
Mira leans in closer, studying the image. The band sits side by side on a log in the moonlight, their backs to us. The sky is dark, with stars so bright, they litter the backdrop, drawing your attention to the title of the album: Resilience. “Hhmmm,” she murmurs softly. “You’re right. The moonlight should be casting its light on them from above, raining down on them. They’re looking up at it, like they need it to give them an answer.”
“Or maybe they already have the answer.”
“Resilience.”
“An epiphany.”
“Get rid of the stars.”
“What? Why would I do that? They make the title pop.”
“Because it’s all about the moon.” She taps the sky and lightly drags a finger over the ring of the moon, like an artist analyzing her work. “You don’t need all of this,” she adds, pointing to the stars. “Not when the moon holds the answer. Let it do all the talking. Let the title remain there, stark against the moonlight.”
I give the design a double take, following the path her gaze has set. I stare at it long and hard, considering her suggestion. “You want my job? You’d be good at it.”
“Ha.” She leans back and resumes stacking her paperwork, taking a deep, resigned breath. “It seems I’ve already chosen a career. Whether I’m good at it is yet to be determined, though.”
“Considering the workload on your plate, I’d say you’re pretty damn good.”
“Thanks.” She peeks at her watch again. “Well, I better get going. I have somewhere to be. Good luck.”
“When do you work again?”
She opens her mouth to speak, but hesitates, careful not to hold eye contact with me for long. “Tomorrow.”
“Date with your bathtub?”
She grins that shy, secret smile that I’m beginning to love and hate at the same time. It intrigues and draws me in, but leaves me wondering. Leaves me with questions. “Actually…no. I’m really going out tonight. Like a normal, single twenty-something in the big city. Wild, huh?”
“Oh, yeah? Where’re you headed?”
“To see a show by one of my favorite local bands.”
“You’re into music, too, huh?”
“That would be an understatement. It’s kind of my life.” She shrugs and stuffs the stack of paperwork she’s been handling into a folder on the desk.
“Well.” I nod to the laptop and then close it, tucking it beneath my arm again. “That explains a lot.”
She watches me for a moment, biting her lip.
“What?”
“Nothing.”
“You’re sure.”
She taps her fingers on the desk, glancing around for a moment. Cursing beneath her breath, she suddenly moves, digging her hand into her back pant pocket. “If you’re bored later,” she hands me a piece of paper, “come out.”
“What’s this?” I unfold the paper, a flyer of some sort.
“The show I’m seeing tonight. Maybe I’ll see you there. I have to go.” She grabs her bag from beneath the desk and makes a move for the back office.
“You’re inviting me out?”
“Don’t get carried away.” She rolls her eyes and smirks over her shoulder, and then she’s out of sight, leaving me with the flyer and my laptop, leaving me to stew in my thoughts. Did she change her mind? Does she want to hook up now? What in the hell is up with this girl? What is up with me? Why do I even fucking care? I shove the flyer into my pocket and turn for the elevators, tossing the invite back and forth in my mind. To stay cooped up in my hotel room for the rest of the night or not to stay cooped up. Tough question.
As I step inside the lift, I recall the taste of her mouth. The feel of her hips. My mind lingers on her eye for design, and her strange trip to the thrift shop in the middle of the night. The doors close on me, and my restless mind ponders the decision. It doesn’t take long for the answer to come. Just like the moon shining down on the band on the album cover, it sings to me.
I guess it’s not a tough question at all.
FIVE
I’ve never seen this club before. In all the months I spent zipping around these city streets, I never once stepped foot in this place, and it’s definitely not new. Apparently, it’s one of the best kept secrets in the city, as far as live music is concerned. The plaque in the entryway hall says it was founded in the late 60s. Vinyl lines the walls; there are shelves and shelves of it, from ceiling to floor. Even the ceilings are plastered in vinyl flyers, like wallpaper. The bar top is nothing but old, rustic wood, probably a splinter hell just waiting to happen. There’s no band playing yet, but there is music, of course, and it’s loud. The Decemberists “Make Me Better” sounds on a loop throughout the club, and I instantly fall into its mellow hypnosis.
Her smile catches my eye from across the room, and I move toward it, working my way through the throng of people that litter the floor. As I approach, I realize she’s not immersed in conversation with anyone. She’s not engaged with anyone at all, actually. She’s just smiling to herself, sipping what looks to be rum and coke, swaying to the song and singing along. Her eyes are closed as she mouths the words, rocking lightly in her stool. My body slows as I grow closer, my st
eps faltering as I study the contentment washing her face. She’s not really in this room, with this crowd of people. She’s in another world, surfing on her very own planet, where everything makes sense. Where lyrics can explain the fucked up place we live and melodies can soothe our aching souls.
“This is possibly one of the best songs on the planet,” I say dryly, saddling up to her side.
Her eyes fly open and they’re still glazed over for a second as she returns from her trance. Her smile grows even wider and she hops off the stool to throw her arms around me. “You came!”
“I did.” I blink and stumble as she tackles me, taken back by her enthusiasm. “I guess this means you wanted me to come?”
“Yeah. I mean, no. I mean…I guess so?”
“Wow. Don’t hold back, or anything.”
She gives my shoulder a playful slap and steps back a hair. “What I mean is, it’s good to see you.”
“Is it?”
“Grant, can we not do this?”
“Do what? Pretend? I’m one hundred percent fine with that.”
“No. Can we just…skip all the bullshit?”
“Same thing.”
“How about a drink? I think you could use a drink.”
“I think you might be right.” I lean over the bar and order a beer, letting my eyes wander as I wait to be served. Mira’s resting casually against the edge of her stool, her gaze on the stage across the room, while she continues to mouth the words to the song. Her long hair is wild and sexy, and smudged, smoky liner enhances her almond-shaped eyes. She’s wearing tight, grey jeans, the same combat boots from the other night, and an edgy, black jacket that makes her rack look fantastic.
“This is the best part,” I say, drumming my fingers on the bar.
“But we’re not so starry-eyed anymore?” She turns to me, looks up, and nods, her grin bright and wide, from ear to ear. “This song makes break-ups and endings so bittersweet. I want to feel sad, want to grieve the closure, but I just can’t. Instead I smile and feel peace. Kinda backwards, yeah?”
“That’s why it’s brilliant. What it’s saying and what it makes you feel are two very different things.” I take this as an opportunity to pry into her mind again. I want to reach in, want to dig deeper. But she has a barrier there. One I know way, way too well. I bet a million fucking bucks mine’s ten times tougher than hers. “Kind of like you.”
“I’m not sure whether I want to know what you mean by that or not.”
“Sure you do.”
“Why do I get the feeling that this is a trap?” Her gaze sparkles as she glances at me. She shakes her head and looks away.
“Not a trap. Just an observation.”
“I thought we weren’t going to do this.”
“We’re not. Which is why I’m cutting straight to the chase. Your body language is telling me you don’t want it, but your actions—and your words—are telling me something very different.”
“My body language? What, are you some kind of behavior analyst now?”
“Nope. Just a damned good judge of character.”
“Is that so?”
“Yep.”
“If that’s really the case, then why haven’t you figured out by now that I’m not the type of girl you want to get involved with?” She delivers a sly grin, and this time, I don’t let her break eye contact. I step right in front of her, blocking her between me and the bar. She squirms a bit, the intimidation tactic working.
“Keep talking like that, and I’m going to assume you want me to come after you. I have no problem with a chase, Mira.”
Her thick lashes blink as she looks down, then sweep back up. It’s then that I notice the small, caramel flecks in her deep, brown irises. Just like the highlights in her hair, they shimmer when the light hits them just right. “That’s not what I’m saying.”
“Then what are you saying?”
“I’m damaged goods. You’re looking for a fling. And I’m not…I’m not in a good place for something like that right now.”
“So, what? You’re looking for Mr. Right? You want to plan a wedding, make baby collages? I’m not asking for forever. I’m just asking for tonight. There’s no pressure here.”
“There’s plenty of pressure, Grant. More than you know.” Her fun-loving, carefree attitude is suddenly drenched in irritation, and she pushes past me to move across the club. I watch as she shoves her way through the crowd of people and out the front doors, reaching for her cell phone. She talks to someone, pacing back and forth as she falls into what appears to be a serious conversation. I can’t count how many men check this girl out as they pass by her on the sidewalk. Can she really blame me for my pursuit? She’s a fucking head-turner, everywhere she goes.
She hangs up a few minutes later, but doesn’t come back inside. She’s lost in thought, still pacing. I toss coasters on top of our drinks and head outside. When she sees me, her irritation returns full throttle. She stops pacing, and I walk straight toward her. “Grant, can’t you just give me a few minutes?”
“We can keep doing this, if you want,” I say, continuing to stalk forward, until I’m running her backward into the building’s brick wall. “This whole cat and mouse thing. But you invited me here tonight. So you can’t avoid the fact that eventually, the pursuit is going to lead somewhere. The cat is going to catch the mouse.”
“I invited you here because I wanted you to see this band. I was going to introduce you to some people. I figured it might give you some inspiration for your designs, or something. I don’t know.” She crosses her arms and leans back against the wall, allowing me to cage her in. She sighs in frustration, but she’s listening. I have her attention.
Good.
“That’s not the only reason you invited me.”
“Maybe I invited you to hang out, like normal people,” she snaps. “Not so you could fuck me and then toss me aside by morning.” A flicker of hurt flashes in her eyes before they harden. She glares up at me with so much intensity, it nearly knocks me back. I should step away, should back the hell up and give her some space, but instead my hand comes up to grip her shoulder. I lean in.
“That’s fair,” I say, my tone measured and sincere.
“You should go. This was a mistake. Again.” She wiggles against the wall, tightening the guard she’s created across her chest. She can’t escape the grip I have on her shoulder, though. I’m not letting go. Not that easily.
“Maybe I can give you that.” I shrug, because I really don’t know what the fuck I’m saying. I can’t give this girl anything but an orgasm. But right now, tonight, the truth pricks at my skin, carving its way inside, straight to my gut. I don’t want to be alone. I don’t want just a quick fuck with Samantha. It’s not doing it for me anymore. Mira’s right. I do want a new plaything. That’s exactly what I want. And unfortunately, I picked one that clearly has issues of some kind. But fuck it, because so do I. Don’t we all?
“Give me what?” She raises a skeptic brow.
“Normal people stuff. Hangout time.”
“Without trying to get me naked.”
“I’m always going to try.” I continue to stare down at her, rubbing small circles into her shoulder. Her muscles are so tight, I’d give anything to loosen them up. “If memory serves me right, you seemed to like the idea of me getting you naked.” Her head rolls back a bit, resting on the wall. Our mouths are inches apart, but I don’t try to close the space. I remain still and stern, leaning inward. I know what I want, and I’m not backing down. But I also know that at any moment, she can—and will—dart again. I have to meet her half way, so this time, I let her lead.
“You get one more shot,” she says, her tone lightening. “Come inside and watch the show. Just be present.”
“What the hell is that supposed to mean?”
“Don’t form anymore expectations tonight. Don’t think about ten minutes ago or six hours from now, or whether or not I’ll be in your bed in the morning. Just hang out, have fu
n. Expectations are what fuck things up. They’re what hurt us. Why we hurt each other.” Her gaze falls on her shoulder, where my hand rests. It’s still squeezing lightly, my fingers massaging the delicate curve of her arm.
“No one is ever really present.”
“That’s not true. It takes conscious effort. Practice. But it’s one hundred percent possible.”
“Hold up. Are you some kind of New Age type? Do you meditate and commune with Mother Earth? Because that right there could be a deal breaker.” I’m joking, of course, but my expression is incredibly earnest, as is my tone.
“Nope, I’m just a realist. We can’t live in the past or the future. It’s common sense.”
“If being present was so easy, we’d all be walking around peachy fucking keen twenty-four hours a day. The world gets in the way of all that bullshit. It’s just not possible.”
Her eyes narrow and she suddenly leans forward, gently resting her forehead against mine. “You like a good chase?” I nod, wanting to taste her so badly, it’s fucking painful. “Well, I like a good challenge. Come on.” She finally uncrosses her arms, dropping them from her chest, and ducks from my grasp, reaching out to take my hand. I let her lead me back inside the club, where the music is even louder than before. The band is on the stage now, setting up while pretty groupie types flock around them to flirt.
We return to our little spot at the bar, and the bartender flags Mira down as she reaches for her drink. “Next one’s on the house, too,” he says, pushing the cash she’s left for him back in her direction.
“No, Garrett. I have this one. Really. I’ve been…” she glances my way, “getting good tips at work lately.”
“Front desk receptionists get tips?”
“We wear many hats,” she laughs, shrugging.
“Well, use them for groceries or something. I’m not taking your money. Not tonight.”
“At some point, you’re going to have to have to stop treating me like a charity case.”
“At some point, you won’t be a charity case anymore.” Garrett the bar tender grins. It’s a good natured, smart-ass grin. He’s familiar with her. A little too familiar. “That’ll be the day I start taking your cash.”
