Page 7 of Catch Me
“My fitting is soon. I have to go. We’ll talk next week.” I disconnect the call, not wanting to hear the rest of that bullshit conversation. Stan is a great manager, who’s worked with some of the best, but I have final say in the direction of my career.
“Rebecca?” the woman in the closet calls, catching my attention.
I peer up to see she’s on the phone. When she pivots to look toward the doorway, I take a step back. I don’t want her to see me yet. For now, I want to watch her.
“There was a problem with—” She cuts off like the person on the other end of the phone interrupted her. “But …”
A pause.
“Yes, I’ll be right up.”
There’s urgency in her voice, and I don’t like it.
“We’re going to have to trade this one out,” she says as soon as she hangs up the phone.
“What are you going to do?” the other girl asks.
“There’s another top at the back that’ll go better with this scene. I just need to make a few adjustments.”
I watch as she pulls a different shirt off of one of the rolling racks and then dashes to the sewing machine that sits on the large table in the back of the room. Within seconds, the loud hum of the machine whirls around the room.
I watch as she focuses. An errant curl spills from the topknot she’s tied her dark brown hair into, but without stopping she blows it out of the way and continues the sewing.
She’s perfect.
The same thought I had that night a few weeks ago. I study her coffee brown skin, a small oval face that I’m betting would fit perfectly into the palms of my hands, and cat-like shaped eyes narrowed in concentration.
Soon, she orders the younger girl to bring over a needle and thread.
“Rebecca just texted me,” the younger girl looks worriedly at …
Dammit, I still don’t know her name.
That won’t do.
Just like that, I have a new obsession.
Books, cars, homes, my career. I’ve had more than a few obsessions in my life. At least that’s what my family jokingly refers to it as. I can get wrapped up in something for weeks at a time, not coming up for air until I’m good and damn ready.
I like to think it’s what makes me a good actor. I get completely consumed into a role. Never has this tendency ever occurred where a woman’s concerned, though. Not even when I dated Amber Jones, arguably one of the most beautiful actresses in my age group in Hollywood.
But it looks like something’s changed.
“We have to go,” the younger girl tells my obsession.
“Just another minute. I have to get this collar right.”
My phone buzzes in my hand. The name that flashes across the screen makes me curse.
“Michael,” I answer.
“Andreas, are you still here? Marilyn said you showed up early. We’re up in the meeting room with everyone else.”
“On my way,” I tell the famous director.
I give one last look to the woman I’ve coined my new obsession, reluctance weighing on me, but I know that this is the beginning. Not the end.
I turn and head in the direction I came to head up to my fitting.
