Catch Me (3 page)

I read somewhere that by the age of twenty-five, women are more sure of themselves, more comfortable in their own skin. Sometimes I want to find the person that wrote that and stab her in the eye with a rusty fork. I’ve been twenty-five for six months and that sureness of myself hasn’t hit me yet. I hope that when it does, it washes over me like a wave, hard and fast, taking all of my insecurities with it to a place unknown. I’m not an idiot, I know why I feel this way about myself and I know I need to suck it up and get over it because nobody cares, not that they should. The only people that should care are the reason I feel this way to begin with.

I sigh and rest my head on the headrest of my car. Seven years ago I couldn’t wait to get out of LA and now I’m hesitant to leave. I run a mental checklist through my mind of the pros and cons of moving to New York, not that I’ll change my mind at this point. Pros: my brother Hendrix is over there most of the time and I love him to pieces. My uncle Robert lives there with his husband. My cousin Nina is over there. Her mom, Mireya, lives there and can brainstorm with me on new designs on my “free time”, as my father calls it. Getting away from all the memories of things I shared with Ryan and finally getting a fresh start.

Cons: My niece, Melody lives here with her mom (my brother and Sarah have been separated for almost a year now and she works out of LA). I’m going to miss my little monster to death if I make New York permanent. My best friend and business partner, Allie, also lives here with her husband and she wouldn’t leave for anything in the world.

My parents travel between New York, LA, and Miami constantly, but I don’t even consider them when I run through my pros and cons list because they don’t count. Other than Allie, the few friends I have here are either married or socialites. They won’t really miss me, even though they pretended to be sad when I called to tell them I was leaving. Truth is, for the past four years I’ve kept a really low profile, opting to go to parties and small gatherings instead of clubs. I’ve been focusing my time on expanding my knowledge of fashion, which is how Fab came to be. It’s not much yet, but the microphone line and possible headphones could definitely be going somewhere. Baby steps.

When I get to the airport, I drive into the private entrance, where the hangers for the private jets are, and park in the lot. My heart feels heavy as I get my things out of my two-door Audi. It’s stupid, missing something tangible like a car, but I can’t help it. I lock it and drag my suitcase to the small building. I notice that the airplane is missing from the runway and wonder where it could be. The Harmon jet is used mostly by my father, but I know he lends it out to the artists signed to the label here and there.

Once inside, I hand my bag to the nice lady at the front desk and take a seat to wait for the plane to arrive. As I scroll through my phone and check my email, I type a message to Allie letting her know I’ll call her when I land. Then I call my brother because I still have no idea who’s picking me up.

“Hey, BK,” Hendrix answers on the second ring.

“Hey, are you picking me up at the airport?” I ask. I wish I didn’t sound as hopeful as I know I do, but I haven’t seen my brother in a couple of months and I truly miss him.

He pauses and I hear him shuffling papers in the background. I begin to twirl the skull and anchor rings on my fingers out of habit as I wait for a response.

“It’s okay if you can’t,” I offer quietly.

He sighs after a moment. “Sorry, Bee. I’m gonna try. If I can’t, I’ll send a driver. Love you, sis, can’t wait to see you.”

“Love you too,” I reply as he hangs up on me. Staying in the same city as my brother again will be interesting. We were never close growing up, even as kids we both did our own things. He’s only four years older than me, but our parents had us both in completely different things. While Hendrix went to karate, I was stuck in piano lessons. While he was in fencing, I was in ballet. Even as children our parents made sure to always keep us busy and out of the house which meant little time together. As we grew up and developed different interests, we drifted our own ways. I think Hendrix regrets that now and wishes that he would have been there for me more than he was, but we both know it wouldn’t have made much of a difference. My demons are my own and they would have probably developed regardless of his presence.

“Sorry, Miss Harmon, the plane should be here soon, then it refuels and we’re ready for you,” the nice lady says, interrupting my thoughts.

I thank her and glance down at my watch. It’s eight forty-five, which means the flight will be late. I wonder who’s using the plane this time. Dad didn’t mention anything about any bands or my mom using it, but somebody must have.

“Excuse me,” I say as I walk over to the counter. “Do you know where it’s coming from?” I glance at her nametag: Farrah. She looks like a Farrah with her blonde hair and fair skin.

“San Francisco,” she responds with a smile. “Should be here any minute.”

Even though I haven’t been there in years, a shiver runs through me at the mention of that city and the awful memories I have there. I push my negative thoughts away when I see the blue Harmon plane approaching the gate. I haven’t been excited about my move to New York until this moment, and I allow myself to smile and revel in it. I am moving to New York City! I’m starting over. I’m going to give talented people the opportunity to make a name for themselves. I should be ecstatic about this change, and I will be. I pick some lint from my sweater off of my black skinny jeans and stand up to walk to the window, in hopes of catching a glimpse of who used the plane. It doesn’t matter, and I figure that it can’t be anybody too famous since there were no paparazzi or fans waiting outside. This part of the airport is definitely hidden, but not enough that the vultures won’t find you.

As soon as the staircase is settled in front of the plane and the doors open, my phone signals a text message. I sort through my purse to look for it.

Nina: When do you get here? Get ready to party, bitch.

I laugh at my cousin’s message and type in a response as I look up to see who’s walking down the stairs of the plane. A blonde girl, about my age, is wearing a black maxi dress and her hair is tied up in a messy knot. I squint my eyes to see if I recognize her, but I don’t. Walking behind her is a tall well-built guy, maybe a little older than me, wearing dark washed jeans and a fitted black V-neck shirt. Aviator sunglasses sit on top of his light brown faux hawk, which he snaps down to shield his eyes as he drapes an arm on the girl’s shoulder.

I notice that she’s much shorter than he is, and they both have amazing tans. He drops his arm from her as quickly as he put it there and stretches over his head. My eyes drop to his exposed torso, which is freaking ripped and has musical notes tattooed along his ribs. I wonder what the notes are for. Does he sing? Does he play? Who is this guy?

My phone rings in my hands, making me jump. I look away from the couple and frown when I see my cousin’s face on my screen.

“What happened?” I ask, confused, looking back up as I wait for her response.

“What the hell was that message?” she asks.

“What message?”

“Your text back to me! It was gibberish, you dork.”

My frown deepens as I try to figure out what she’s talking about, not that I’m really paying attention, because I’m still looking at the hottie in black and his girlfriend.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” I murmur.

“Are you on the plane?” she asks. “Brooklyn! What the hell are you doing?” she shouts.

“God, Nina, what do you want?”

“Rude. I was just calling because you’re taking so long to reply and I want to make sure you’re still coming today!”

“Yeah, soon,” I respond distractedly.

“Okay, I can tell you’re busy. Call me later!” she says, sounding annoyed at my lack of interaction.

I don’t pay much attention to it because Nina is the type of person that constantly needs undivided attention. I swear, she picked the perfect career for herself: Broadway actress.

“Yeah, bye,” I respond aimlessly after she hangs up on me. My eyes are still glued to the couple outside.

They’re still standing right by the door, and I’m assuming they’re waiting for their bags, until I see two more people get out of the airplane. This time my jaw completely drops, along with my heart and every other organ in my body. Another guy walks out, wearing a baseball cap, a white T-shirt and worn jeans. He tucks his hands into the pockets of his jeans, leaving his heavily tattooed caramel arms exposed. A huge smile breaks out on his face as the guy in the black shirt yells something at him. It’s not his good looks or his tattoos that get my attention, it’s the fact that I didn’t expect to see him. I usually like to prepare myself before seeing an ex-boyfriend. You know, give myself the whole “you can do this, you’re totally over him” pep talk. I hate being caught off guard like this. It makes the inside of my brain turn into complete mush. It’s stupid, really, since Shea and I are still friends and talk often. I am completely over him but I would’ve preferred a little warning. I bury my face in my hands and take a deep breath.
I can do this. I’ve seen him a million times before. I’ve seen him with a million girls before. I’m fine.

Despite my hesitation for seeing him, Shea is more than just an ex-boyfriend to me; he’s one of my closest friends. He’s seen me at my lowest point and stuck by me, which is something I’m forever grateful for. Nonetheless, when I’m caught off guard and see him out of the blue, my heart skips a beat, mainly out of habit. It’s a habit that’s been fully explored in the past nine years, which is how long I’ve known him. After our second break up, we both realized that we didn’t want to be in a relationship, but that didn’t mean we didn’t continue winding up in each other’s beds-or dressing rooms, for that matter. Still, it doesn’t erase the fact that I don’t trust him turn down groupies and he doesn’t want to make me the main object of his affection.

In hindsight, the smartest thing I did was putting an end to the whole friends with benefits thing we had going. He has a gazillion fuck buddies all around the world, and being with him was hazardous to my health in more ways than I care to think about. I know Shea doesn’t miss me in that way, in fact, he has an arm draped over his newest conquest right this instant. A very pretty and very famous one whom I’m still unsure how I feel about. Gia Reynolds was actually one of the first reasons I wanted to end things with Shea.

I’ve been around the music industry my entire life and have always known the pressure and temptations it brings. I was with Shea before he hit it big, hell, I was one of the reasons he made it there to begin with. I know he loves me in his own way, but I’m not a moron, I know what a twenty-something year old is going to be offered on the road. Especially one that looks, sings, and moves like Shea.

As for Gia, she’s going on tour with Shea soon, but she’s been trying to sink her claws into him for a long time. I was in the studio with him one day when she barged in there like she owned the place. She’d been recording her own record in a neighboring studio and took it upon herself to go introduce herself to Shea. It took everything in me to step out of the room that day. When I close my eyes I can remember it vividly.
Gia had her wild dyed blonde hair down to her waist and was wearing cut out shorts that she probably bought at Justice. Her mile-long legs looked perfect in them, not one ounce of cellulite, which made me hate her a little. I remember looking down at my own legs that looked chubby in comparison and noticing that unlike my thighs that had a never-ending love affair with each other, hers didn’t even touch. The way she looked at him through her lashes and laughed loudly as she slapped him playfully on the arm made my stomach sink. She looked like she was ten seconds from offering him a blow job and he looked like he was two seconds from asking for one. I knew then that I couldn’t do it. I just couldn’t be with him anymore. I had known throughout our little fling that he had other women, but I never saw it. That day, seeing them, I just knew I couldn’t
stomach it any longer.

Maybe it was for the best. Who knows, maybe Shea would actually settle down with somebody like Gia.
The thought makes my stomach turn because it would only prove, once again, that I’m not good enough. And even though I don’t want him anymore, in that way, nobody wants to acknowledge that they’re not good enough for somebody.

Plopping down on my seat, I look around, wondering if I should go to the bathroom while they check in so that I won’t have to face them.
That’s stupid, he’s your friend, dammit.
As I mull over my options, two more guys step out of the airplane and my shoulders drop at the thought of not saying hi to them. Leo and Fern are part of Shea’s band and I’ve known them since I was a teenager. I can’t pass up the opportunity to say hi to them just because he’s with Gia freaking Reynolds. I can’t hide from him every time he has another girl on his arm just because it makes me feel like I’m in an uncomfortable situation. It’s funny how things are, I can speak to him on the phone and hear girls giggling in the background and it doesn’t bother me anymore, but seeing him actually show affection to another girl in front of me is off putting.

I groan loud enough that Farrah turns her head toward me. “Just a couple more minutes, Miss Harmon.”

“Sure.”

The door swings open and the guy in black walks in with the blonde. He looks around the room, one of his arms curled upward showing the cuts on it. I can see a scripted tattoo in his inner bicep, though I can’t read it. My eyes trail his folded arm up to his defined jaw that has a shadow of hair on it. His eyes, the bluest of blues I’ve seen, continue to scan the room until he spots me. He looks at me for a moment too long. In that moment, the way his eyes burn into me, my entire body hums. Swallowing loudly, I tear my gaze away from his and notice his forearms flex as he drops his hand from the bag over his shoulder and tucks the tips of his fingers into his pockets. I dare myself to look into his eyes again, just for a second and find intense eyes still on me, unmoving, unnerving.