Page 64 of Wild Catch
Asswipe. I don’t know who I’m referring to, if him or myself. Maybe both.
I press my fingers against my scalp and do a little massage, trying to bring me back to zero. I get that all my reasons to not pick any of the teams he’s been working with seem irrational, especially when I won’t go into the details of why I’d rather retire and become a llama farmer or whatever. From his perspective, I’m probably a more difficult client than the one who is facing a PR nightmare right now.
Yet I can’t bring myself to talk.
I’ve even stopped going to therapy. It gets harder and harder to talk about something that was a big issue but is not really an issue right now, yet is still affecting me. I feel like an immature brat who can’t get over himself.
The chair produces another protest as I get up, but manages to stay in one piece. As I step out of the conference room, the first thing I notice is a bunch of curls peeking from over a cubicle wall.
My lips twitch.
I press them tight, killing the smile before it forms.
Tucking my phone in my pocket, I keep tracing the path to the right cubicle and find the two women whispering to each other. Of course they stop the second I show up.
“What’s the verdict?” Winters asks.
The verdict is that my agent suspects I’ve lost the plot. Unlike him, IknowI have.
“We’re game,” I answer.
“Awesome. I’ll reach out to their team and get this arranged. Thank you both for your support,” she says, glancing at her roommate and at me.
“Right.” Rose springs to her feet, salutes down at her friend, and squeezes out of the cubicle in front of me. Her eyes lower for a second before returning to my face. “Guess I’ll see you around.”
I fold my arms and this time her attention glues there. “First of all, we’re headed down the same direction. Say that when we really part ways. Second, what are you staring at?”
She coughs. “You do recognize that your tattoos are eye catching, right?”
I look down at the full sleeve tattoos of both of my arms. They’re plentiful but the least intimidating art ever.
On my right are vines of Korean roses, their pink petals stark against the red roses that are considered the flower emblem of the US. My left arm is similar but with a mix of small bluebells and red roses, the former being the flower of Sweden.
This tends to attract a whole lot less attention than guys who have skulls or something even more sinister printed on their skin. If anything, it gets me a lot of shit for the girly motif—as if guys also couldn’t admire flowers.
That’s not even the case here—I just want to pay very obnoxious homage to the heritage both of my parents try to escape. My father likes to pretend that since he’s spent all his adult life in the US, he’s now more American than Korean. My mother has actually lied to people that she’s French, as if her favorite music act wasn’t ABBA.
I almost smile again remembering how pissed both of them were when I got my first tattoo, the one on my back.
Returning to the present, I say, “I thought you were used to them already.”
“Not really. Most of the times you’re wearing long sleeves,” she argues back.
“This is fun and all that, but I actually have to take a work call now,” Audrey says from her cubicle, shooing us with her hand.
“Sorry, Audrey.” While Rose waves at her friend with one hand, she grabs one of my arms. “Let’s go, you beefcake.”
“Beefcake?” I repeat, letting her drag me out. How dare she call me that way when she hasall that?
I allow myself one more second of appreciating her tiny waist flaring out to the most amazing behind I’ve ever witnessed with my own eyes. Her black leggings deserve an award for clinging so perfectly. But then I force my eyes up to her hair and the most curious thing happens.
I don’t cool down in the least.
From this close, I’m one hundred per cent sure that her hair is softer than silk, just like the hand that’s branding my skin. Everything about Rosalina Mena is soft—except for her tongue. That’s the only part that’s sharp as a knife.
I bite my lip. Maybe I should break the contact. Her skin on mine is doing things to me that have no business happening in the middle of our workplace.
Gently, I tug my arm free and she lets go. We’re alone now, out in a corridor outside of the offices. There’s no need for her to keep dragging me.
