Hard Pass Page 15

  Oh shit.

  “…but this is going to fuck you up.”

  I scoff with a loud, “Pfft. We had dinner—nothing indecent happened. A few people took pictures, but that was it. We weren’t at a strip club, I didn’t get a lap dance, no one was drunk, we went to a nice place.”

  Side by side, we begin our walk toward the dugout, and I can feel Wallace thinking beside me; he’s that deep in thought, brows furrowed into angry slashes.

  “Hey pretty boy,” one of the guys says as we get closer.

  “Shut your fucking mouth, Gomez,” Wallace snaps and it’s then that I take his words seriously.

  “Wallace, what the fuck is going on?”

  We don’t make it to the dugout before he takes my arm and pulls back, leading me toward the tunnel for the locker rooms. Stops, shifting me to face him. “Bro. You know I think you’re fucking awesome. You know how the paps can be dicks and reporters are fucking worse—”

  I yank his hands off me, pissed. Frustrated. “Dude, spit it out!”

  “Shit.” Is Wallace hanging his head? “There’s no easy way to tell you this. Promise you won’t get mad.”

  Too late. “I’m already mad.”

  He inhales a deep breath and lets it all go with a stream of words. “Your picture with Miranda is out there and the press is calling you both ugly … there I said it.”

  Exhale.

  He physically sags against the cement wall behind him, the dark hall leading to the offices and locker rooms hollow and cold.

  Colder now that I’ve been dealt this blow, except I’m still not sure what it means.

  “What picture?”

  “The two of you eating.”

  Fuck that fucking guy who took our goddamn picture.

  “But it’s not the pictures, Baseman—it’s the headlines.”

  I lean against the wall next to him, running a hand through my hair after removing my ball cap. My hair is sweaty and wet and I slick it back away from my eyes.

  “What headlines?” What could they possibly say that has Buzz Wallace—the least sympathetic guy I’ve ever met—suddenly so goddamn sympathetic?

  My buddy tips his neck back, gazing up toward the ceiling, squinting. “The ones that say, ‘He might be a brownbagger, but I’d fuck anyone with even half his net worth.’”

  Oh. My. Fucking. God.

  I can’t stop the obscenities from pouring out of my mouth. Can’t stop myself from kicking the ground beneath my feet, from wanting to punch the hard wall behind me.

  “Are you going to go see Phil?” Wallace wants to know.

  “What the hell is Phil going to do about it? Tell me to stay home?” Fuck Phil. Fuck the paparazzi. Fuck phones with cameras.

  “You have to call Miranda—she’s probably flipping her shit.”

  No doubt.

  After we had such a great night. For once I had gotten out of my own head at her apartment and it was amazing. She was amazing. Now how will I face her. I know me-I won’t.

  “Harding. You have to call her.”

  I give a barely perceptible shake of my head. I can’t.

  “Dude, you cannot ignore her. I bet she’s called you a million times.”

  And I wouldn’t blame her, but I can’t talk to her right now. I need to think.

  I don’t want to be near Wallace.

  I don’t want to be near anyone.

  Pushing away from the wall, I head into the tunnel and away from Wallace, the sorry bastard who had to deliver the bad news. Into the dark, where the temperature matches my mood.

  “Harding! Bro, I’m sorry!”

  Not as sorry as I am for going on that date to begin with.

  I should have known better.

  14

  Miranda

  Noah didn’t sneak out of my place this morning, but he left wicked early—long before the sun came up, like a vampire might—kissing me on the forehead and covering me with the blankets I keep at the foot of my bed.

  Eventually, I manage to drag myself up, throw on a cute outfit, and get out the door at a reasonable hour with plenty of day left to accomplish some tasks.

  Ten o’clock.

  Not the best, but not the worst.

  I push through the door to my new offices letting the bright light cheer me up. The walls aren’t the shade I want them to be, but in time, they will be.

  My leopard print tennis shoes pad across the hardwood floors and I pull my wireless speaker from my tote, set it on the folding card table doubling as my makeshift desk until I can get my actual desk delivered.

  First comes paint.

  Then comes furniture.

  Humming, I swipe through my phone, pairing the device to my speaker, and set that down too, happy and tapping my feet to the first song that comes on, a playlist I call “Throwback” amping me up to be productive.

  Jeans. Cute t-shirt. Printed sneaks. Hair in a pony.

  Two orgasms last night.

  I am feeling good.

  Nothing can bring me down.

  I twirl, walking to the window and staring down at the street, marveling at the location I managed to score for my business. Midtown. Up and coming. Tons of foot traffic. Lots of clients living nearby with oodles of connections for more work.

  Busy, busy, busy is what I hope to be.

  Cars pass by. A woman walking a terrier, face buried in her phone—I admire her chic little polka dot rain boots and red coat with a smile. Cute.

  So cute.

  Blech, Miranda. Orgasms have addled your brain!

  “Time to get to work—quit dillydallying,” I say out loud to no one. No interviews are set up for this week. I do have three candidates scheduled to come in soon, but not until I have something other than a card table and a folding chair.

  I’m a startup, but no one wants to take a chance in an office that looks like it’s been robbed!

  Laptop comes out.

  Sketchbook too.

  Pencil.

  Through the wireless speaker, still playing my favorite songs, my phone pings once.

  Again.

  Again.

  Three notifications back-to-back can only be one person, and I leave it be for now, because I don’t have time to sit and chat with Claire—not until I’ve gotten something done for work.

  “No,” I say. “I don’t have time for this right now.”

  I do, however, scoop up my phone, and the tiny red icon in the corner of a social media app has my brows rising.

  One hundred two.

  Weird.

  “Huh.” I poke it open and my jaw drops.

  Last night when I went to sleep, my social media profile—the one I recently created for my design business—had 893 followers. This morning?

  15,724.

  Wait—15,725.

  “What the hell?” This makes no sense.

  There must be a glitch—that can be the only explanation since I am a nobody with no ad budget and barely a business page.

  I click over to my personal page.

  4,082 follow requests.

  “Eh?” I literally say that out loud: Eh. “What is going on?”

  Of course, no one responds, because I am alone.

  Ding.

  Ding.

  Claire texts me again, twice—at least I think it’s Claire? but when I actually look at the messenger notifications on my phone, I notice 44 unread texts.

  “What the…”

  It rings: a girl I went to college with, one I haven’t spoken to in over a year and with whom I have no desire to speak now.

  I decline the call and tap open my inbox.

  Claire: 12 texts. A group chat lighting up. Some guy named Will I dated briefly my freshman year. Emily. My cousin Gwen, who can be a real bitch sometimes—she wanted me to give her a job, but has no work ethic.

  My dad.

  And several other people I haven’t spoken to in ages.

  Honestly. What is happening?

  Is it the apocalypse? Is the wo
rld coming to an end and suddenly everyone is texting to say they love me?

  My phone rings again and this time it is Claire, so I accept.

  “What the heck is going on,” I say by way of greeting, walking toward the bathroom in my cute office space.

  “Um hello, have you been online this morning?”

  “No, why would I?” I don’t sit and look at gossip columns or read the news like she does—that’s what I have her for, to give me the daily tea. No need to go snooping myself. Besides, who has time for that? I might have been late as shit this morning, but that’s not normal for me. I do not spend the beginning of my day being idle, orgasm hangover notwithstanding.

  “Good, good,” she replies and I can picture her nodding. “That’s good.”

  She’s being weird, but speaking of which… “Claire, my Insta is blowing up. It’s the strangest thing. Like, overnight it went crazy—I don’t know what’s going on.” I tuck the phone under my chin and start washing my hands. This new almond and shea foaming soap is just the yummiest and my fave. Wash. Rinse. Grab at the black hand towel on the counter. “Is the whole site down? What’s going on? Did you see anything about a glitch?”

  “It’s not a glitch.”

  “Well if it’s not a glitch then some freaky shit is going on, because I literally gained 15,000 followers overnight, and my phone was blowing up this morning.”

  “Yeah, well—I have two words for you.” She pauses dramatically and I roll my eyes, waiting for her to continue.

  “What two words?”

  “Noah. Harding.”

  “Oh my god, Noah—I forgot to tell you about our date last night, but Claire, he spent the night, and before you ask, no we did not have se—”

  “Would you stop talking! This is serious!” Claire demands. “Randi, listen to me: do not go on the internet.”

  “Uh…” I look at myself in the mirror, irritated skin on my neck and collarbone visible at the neckline of my t-shirt. I blush at my reflection. “Why?”

  “Trust me. Just don’t do it.”

  Since when has that ever worked to keep me from doing something? In fact, it has the opposite effect.

  “Okay, but now I want to.”

  “For once in your life, would you listen?”

  I laugh and leave the bathroom, flicking the light switch down. “I don’t know what I’m even listening to—what is your problem?”

  I go to the table-desk and plop down in the metal chair, cringing at how hard it is on my ass. Power up my laptop and let it come to life.

  It’s as if my bestie knows what I’m about to do.

  “I said don’t do it!” she shouts—yes, shouts—and I laugh again.

  “Relax! I’m just going to check my emails!”

  Not.

  I fully intend to investigate, despite not knowing what the Sam Hill she’s squawking about.

  “You don’t think it’s weird that I have a billion new followers?”

  And what does Noah have to do with any of this? We went on one date.

  “Yes I think it’s weird, but Miranda, it’s not good.”

  I stop what I’m doing, which is pulling up a browser. “What do you mean ‘It’s not good’? I have no idea what you’re talking about.” Besides, how can all these new followers on my business page be a bad thing?

  I should scroll through some of them to see if any are local and potentially in the market for a decorator!

  My heart races with optimism.

  “There’s a picture.”

  A picture? “Of what?”

  “You and Noah. Him.”

  “Okay…” Finally, I lean back slowly in my ungodly uncomfortable chair, crossing my arms, ready to listen. “Explain.”

  “In the tabloids.”

  “What tabloids?”

  “All of them.”

  Huh? “That makes no sense whatsoever. No one saw us out.”

  Well…that’s not entirely true. I think about the men and women who were at Mason’s last night, slyly taking photos of us. The man who approached our table for an autograph, the one Noah politely snubbed. The young woman in the bathroom with me who clearly wanted to ask me questions, but was too afraid to actually do so.

  Leaving early. Sneaking out with our leftovers. Ducking into the car as a few cameramen stood across the street waiting for a rare shot of Noah Harding on a date.

  He explained that to me after we got into the car—how someone inside must have called the press, or paps, and probably got paid for the tip, which happens too often. More so if he’s caught out with a woman, which almost never happens.

  “I haven’t been on a date.”

  “Since when?” I asked.

  “Since ever.”

  “You’ve never been on a date? Ever?”

  “No.” His eyes were glued to the road, listening for the navigation system’s directions, fingers clenching the wheel.

  “But you’ve been out with women before.”

  “Sure. When I go out, there are almost always women.”

  I wasn’t sure what he meant by that, but I assumed he meant groupies, though neither of us spoke the words.

  He glanced over at me then. “They just show up. I don’t date them.”

  “You just…” Sleep with them? I didn’t have the courage to ask—but then I didn’t have to, because he nodded.

  “Yes, but I’m not… I don’t like it.”

  “You don’t like sex?”

  He shook his head. “I like sex, I just don’t like how women act.” His grip on the wheel got tighter.

  “How do women act?”

  His wide shoulders shrugged. “Like…I don’t know. They don’t want relationships. They just want what they can get from me. Or not.”

  He sounded sad and jaded and lost.

  It made me think he’s only been used because of his career, and my heart broke a bit listening to what he wasn’t saying, my arm reaching across the space so my hand could slide across the smooth plane of his deltoids and brush the hairline at the nape of his neck.

  “So do you want a relationship?” Is that what he’d been saying? I wondered.

  “I…” He tightened his lips, pressing them together, the small scar on his jawline turning rather white against his tan skin. “I…”

  He couldn’t finish his sentence.

  “You don’t have to talk about it.”

  I didn’t want to press him—it was only our first date and it was none of my business.

  “Someone must have seen you out, because there’s a not-so-nice write-up on some trashy blog, with a picture—you look gorg, by the way, love that dress—”

  “Aww, thank you!”

  “Focus, Miranda—this is not about the dress.”

  “Sorry.” Jeez.

  “And it’s not the picture that’s terrible because it’s you and him, but it’s the caption and I don’t want you to see it yet. So please just don’t go searching hashtags or looking for it.”

  “But—”

  “I’m serious.”

  “Okay, but wouldn’t you want to see it if it were you?”

  My best friend pauses. “Look, I’m trying to do you a favor and maybe now is a good time to hire me as your publicist.”

  Publicist?

  The thing is, she sounds dead serious. “Are you high?” What the hell do I need a publicist for?

  “Of course I’m not high! I want to make this go away for you!”

  “Make what go away?! You won’t let me look at the internet!”

  “Because it will make you sick!” She practically yells it into the phone. “God I want to crush somebody’s balls for this—that’s what I want to do!”

  Drama queen.

  “Oh come on, how bad could it be? So they published a picture of us—so what?” I do my best to come off as blasé, though that excited flutter that was growing in my stomach earlier is starting a slow spiral of dread.

  Claire is incensed. “Did you not hear what I said
? I said the picture is fine—you both look adorable, all cutesy-giggling at each other.” She makes a gagging sound in her throat. “It’s the captions and the story that go along with it that I don’t want you to see.”

  This gives me pause. “Do you think Noah has seen it?”

  “I guarantee you he has.” She scoffs. “Please, that dude has people working for him whose job it is to keep up with this shit.”

  “Then…” I glance out the window to my right, out at the red brick building across the street, the one with the bright blue door. “Why hasn’t he called me? Because I haven’t heard from him since this morning when he left.”

  “Maybe he’s waiting.”

  “For what?”

  Claire is quiet. “I don’t know.”

  “How bad is it, dramatics and hysterics aside?” I need to know because I’m going to look and nothing she can say will stop me, but I do want to be prepared.

  “Bad.”

  “On a scale of one to I want to curl up in a ball and die.”

  “Nine.”

  “What!” I shout back. “What on earth could possibly have been published?” I rise from my chair so fast it almost topples over. “We had dinner, for Christ’s sake—we didn’t bang at the dinner table!”

  “Calm down! In fact—where are you? I’m coming over.”

  “No—don’t, I’m fine. It’ll be fine.” Whatever it is because I haven’t seen it yet.

  “What’s the address of your new place Miss Independent?”

  “Ugh.” I have to get out the envelope for my electric bill and read it out loud to her, not having memorized it yet. “But honestly, I will be okay. You don’t have to race over here.”

  “Okay. Just…don’t look, okay? Please.”

  “I won’t,” I say, fingers crossed behind my back.

  * * *

  It’s bad.

  Worse than Claire said and I want to curl up and die, just like she said.

  Why did I look?

  Why didn’t I listen?

  It took less than one minute to find the first post about Noah and me, right there in the center of the search engine, my face—along with his—sitting at Mason’s, smiling across the table at each other, completely oblivious to the fact that someone was taking our photo. Without my consent.

  Without his.