Wildcat Page 11

  Still, my daily life wasn’t just around the block from Cat’s.

  I thought about Cat and her shy smile and the way her hand had felt in mine.

  “Just a little,” I answered while my mind silently added, But most definitely worth it.

  The faint sounds of a garbage truck beeping its arrival and my upstairs neighbor Becky Mayes’s raised voice slid their way into my living room. Too curious for my own good sometimes, I shuffled my bare feet across the hardwood floor of my apartment and stopped in front of my living room window. With two fingers, I flipped two slats of the blinds out of the way and gave my best impersonation of a voyeur.

  Becky without the good hair stood in the middle of the small, fenced yard of our apartment building, her pink fleece robe and UGG boots showing signs of overuse and discoloration. A true sight to behold, it took a certain kind of strong, confident woman to give zero fucks about standing outside in her bathrobe, or the fact that she was wearing fleece in July.

  I admired her gall and self-assurance.

  “Oh my God, Bob,” she huffed. “Just go already. I have to get back inside.”

  Her face grew tired with frustration as her miniature schnauzer Bob refused to do anything but sniff the grass.

  Becky tapped her foot in quick succession. “Bob, you know I’m on a deadline. I don’t have time for you to dillydally. Piss or get off the pot, dude.”

  Bob was unfazed by her demands. His pepper gray beard shook at the ends as he continued to sniff his way around the entire yard.

  Becky and Bob. The dynamic duo of grumpy and obstinate.

  I never exchanged more than a few sentences with my neighbor, but from what I’d witnessed and overheard—via watching through my blinds—and what she’d shared with me, I knew she was a writer. A contemporary romance author who published several books a year and had a fairly big female following.

  I’d never read any of her books, though, but that wasn’t out of disinterest. I just didn’t know her pen name.

  While the Becky and Bob show continued to entertain, my phone pinged with a text message notification from my coffee table. I shuffled back to the couch and plopped my ass down.

  Dad: We need a business meeting soon, Caterpillar.

  To my dad, I’d always be Caterpillar.

  I smiled, nostalgia and memories glittering my thoughts, and savored the blanketed warmth of comfort inside of that constant.

  Me: I know. I feel like things are finally settling down. How about August when I take the training trip to Cincinnati?

  My dad and I ran a small—more of a hobby—business together. It wasn’t anything big, just a cute, personalized greeting card shop that mostly sold its goods through Etsy.

  Caterpillar & Co—a company established back in my grade school days. It’d all started out as Dear Santa letter responses to unanswered letters in my dad’s mail room. Not his own mail room, mind you, but the mail room of one of the postal offices in Cincinnati that he managed and oversaw.

  Somehow, someway, what had started out as a fun little Christmastime tradition had developed over time into something more as my interest in calligraphy and art grew.

  If anything was a passion of mine, it was art, any and all versions—paintings, sculptures, sketches, doodles. Any form of creative release and I was one hundred percent in.

  Honestly, it was exactly why doing the doodles and sketches for our greeting card line had become one of my favorite things to do. I looked forward to our quarterly plans, when I could finally put my pencil to paper and create something.

  And my dad—thank God for him—had been holding down the fort and doing most of the work for Caterpillar & Co while I’d experienced several life events—flight attendant school, starting my career, moving to New York. Almost. Hoboken might be in New Jersey, but it’s only across the river from the Big Apple and about a thousand dollars a month cheaper. It counts.

  Dad: Sounds good to me. I’ve got something in the works that I think you’ll be really excited about.

  Me: I can’t wait to see what it is :)

  Dad: Everything else going okay?

  Me: Yep. All is good in NYC. I’m currently enjoying a much-needed day off.

  Dad: Glad to hear it. Love you, Caterpillar.

  Notorious for keeping text conversations short and sweet and to the point, I knew this last text was his version of goodbye.

  Me: Love you too, Dad. Tell Mom I said Hi! And that I love you!

  Dad: Will do. :)

  I clicked my phone to lock it and tossed it down onto the couch beside me. Normally, I loved that my dad always kept conversation concise, but today, I wouldn’t have minded the distraction.

  I’d been home for four hours. My apartment was clean. My carry-on was unpacked. My laundry was done. And the clothes that required dry-cleaning—my RoyalAir uniform—had been dropped off at Park Cleaners, a little family-owned, neighborhood business that I’d pretty much fallen in love with the second I stepped into their shop.

  If you ever want to meet the nicest woman in Hoboken, go there. You won’t be disappointed. Maria will greet you like you’re already best friends, and treat you like you’re family. Seriously, Hoboken natives, if you’re taking your dry cleaning somewhere else, you’re missing out.

  Oh, and I’d watered my ficus.

  Considering I’d started the day on an early flight from Birmingham, and it was only a little after six, it had been a productive day.

  But now, I had no idea what to do with myself.

  My brain, on the other hand, seemed far too content with thinking about him.

  Quinn Bailey.

  Mr. Quarterback.

  Possible flight stalker.

  I still didn’t really know if he’d purposefully been on my flight, but the fact that he’d waited for me after said my gut instinct was right.

  A man that seemed to have attention following him everywhere had wanted my attention via a lunch date, and when I’d abruptly declined, he’d demanded a cab ride together instead.

  I didn’t want to be self-deprecating about his apparent interest in me, but still, it was a bit of a mindfuck.

  His life was worlds apart from mine, and I wasn’t sure how I felt about that.

  How was a simple flight attendant from Cincinnati supposed to compete with the hordes of enthusiastic fans following him around?

  I imagined even a simple trip to the grocery store turned into a photo and autograph session for his fans.

  My mother would chastise me for sounding insecure. I could literally hear her voice in my head. She’d probably say something along the lines of, “Catharine, get it together, girl. I don’t want to hear that garbage coming from your mouth. You are a strong, beautiful, and confident woman. Any man, no matter how famous he is, would be lucky to have you on his arm.”

  My mother, Alexa Wild, was a special kind of person. A confident, African-American woman who lived her life with strength, beauty, and grace.

  It was times like these that I missed living under my parents’ roof. Missed the ability to just walk downstairs and sit at the kitchen table and savor the comfort that only home could provide.

  Sure, I didn’t have regrets about my current life choices. I loved living near the city, and the traveling capabilities my job provided were unreal. Last month, I’d managed to fit in a four-day trip to Paris just because I’d felt like it.

  Not many twenty-four-year-olds had that kind of freedom.

  But every once in a while, even though things were pretty fucking good, it was normal to get a little bit homesick, especially when your family was hundreds of miles away.

  With a rerun of The Kardashians playing on the television, I grabbed my laptop off the coffee table and set it on my lap as I nestled my back and shoulders against the cream pillows of my sectional. A few taps to the track pad and my eyes started browsing the home page of Vogue.

  Meghan Markle and Prince Harry’s engagement photos.

  An article about Rhianna’s
Fenty makeup: Why is Rhianna’s Red Lipstick Line so Groundbreaking?

  The 13 Best Celebrity Hair Transformations.

  Eventually, when I spotted The 15 Best Fashion Instagrams of the Week headline, I clicked the track pad with my index finger and scrolled through the celebrity pictures. Salma Hayek, Bella Thorne, Alton Mason, and then, to my surprise, when I reached photo number fifteen, Quinn motherfucking Bailey.

  Jesus Christ in a peach tree, I felt like he was following me around. I had been mindfully avoiding anything sports-related, and yet, somehow, some fucking way, his face pops up on my laptop, in a Vogue article, mind you.

  Dressed head to toe in a sleek suit designed by Calvin Klein, a throwback Thursday photo of Mr. Quarterback himself filled my screen. He stood outside of a gas station, pumping gas, while a beautiful, older woman with sleek hair shaped into a bob smiled from the driver’s seat of the SUV.

  The caption on the Instagram photo: Mom (my date) got me pumpin’ gas before the show. #ESPYAWARDS

  I had no idea what an ESPY Award was, but that didn’t matter. He’d brought his mom to an awards show.

  Thick, sculpted muscles covered by smooth, gray, and expensive-looking material, he was wearing that suit. My eyes had never experienced an easier sight to digest.

  Mamma Mia. No wonder the editors of Vogue knew who Quinn Bailey was.

  I was starting to feel a little stupid I hadn’t known who he was until after I’d taken a four-hour, midnight train ride to Birmingham with him.

  My eyes stared off into a distant corner of my living room, focused on nothing in particular, while my brain tried to comprehend what the odds of meeting a man like Quinn Bailey in the middle of the night on a train actually were. I’d probably have more luck getting my own Instagram pictures to be spotlighted by Vogue.

  Kim Kardashian laughing on the television caught my attention, and I watched as she chatted with her sisters about how hard their life was before they had their own chef.

  Sheesh. Not everyone is fed via a silver spoon, Kimmy.

  I glanced back at my computer screen to find sleek-suited and handsome as hell Quinn still front and center, and then the questions started flowing in like cold water from an open faucet. Did Quinn have his own personal chef? Did he know the freaking Kardashians? Holy hell, what does his place look like? Is it crazy elaborate with gold furniture and a Lamborghini in the garage?

  How much did an athlete like Quinn Bailey make?

  I wasn’t proud of it, but I found myself pulling up a new tab and typing Quinn Bailey net worth into the search bar. But when the results filled my screen, I didn’t have the strength to actually click on anything to find the answer.

  I didn’t want to know his net worth.

  But I did want to know a little—okay, a lot—more about him.

  So, I tapped the track pad, following the hyperlink from the Vogue article to his actual Instagram profile, and browsed like a little secret stalker. The small verified blue check beside his name stood out instantly, and then, his follower count.

  3.1 million.

  Holy guacamole. That was a lot of fucking people.

  I cruised through his pictures—various shots of him in game situations, a ton of candid videos, and other various things that showed Quinn Bailey truly did reach out to his fans.

  Should I follow him?

  I hesitated, my index finger hovering over the track pad.

  Would he know if I followed him? Would that be weird?

  The man has 3.1 million followers. Surely, he won’t notice one little fish in his sea of millions.

  That was true. I mean, the odds of Quinn even noticing that I, a random girl with all of fourteen followers, was following his Instagram profile were minuscule. Pretty sure I’d just blend in with the other three fucking million.

  I shut my eyes and clicked follow. When I opened them again, the world still looked the same. My living room hadn’t changed, and my laptop hadn’t blown up.

  See, that wasn’t so bad.

  I smiled to myself at how ridiculous I was being about this whole thing, but before I could relax back into the sofa and browse more of Quinn’s Instagram, my laptop chimed with a sound I’d honestly never heard before.

  A notification popped up on my screen: Quinn Bailey is Live Now.

  “Oh my God,” I muttered and shoved my laptop halfway down my thighs.

  With my heart pounding erratically inside my chest, I assessed the screen and quickly realized it was just live video notification, as in, a live video for all three million of his followers.

  Relax, crazy pants. He’s not going to pop out of your laptop and yell “Gotcha!”

  Holy hell, that had scared the crap out of me.

  Like a kid being caught with her hand in the cookie jar, I had to place a hand to my chest and wait for my heart rate to slow back down to a normal, less erratic rhythm before I could even think of doing—stalking—anything else.

  Fuck, it’s stressful social media stalking someone.

  Despite my better judgment, and without any concern for my heart’s well-being, I clicked on the Live Now notification and found myself face-to-face with Quinn Bailey.

  Behind him, televisions hung from the walls, and as he turned the camera toward the right and left of him, he appeared to be hanging out with a few of his buddies—possibly fellow football players.

  I honestly didn’t know who they were, but none of that should come as a surprise at this stage in the game. I mean, I didn’t even know Quinn Bailey was a fucking NFL quarterback. Hell, I don’t think I really realized the Mavericks were a professional football team until I’d Google searched his name.

  “I just wanted to say a quick Instagram hello,” he greeted into the camera, that handsome smile of his causing my heart to flitter inside of my chest. “And let you guys know that Cam Mitchell and Sean Phillips just finished up the hot wing challenge.” He waggled his brows, and then his full lips creased down at the edges into a disappointed frown.

  The background noise filled with cursing and shut-ups, but Quinn just laughed a toothy grin and continued talking into the camera.

  “It was pathetic, guys. Mitchell didn’t even make it through six, and Sean required five glasses of water just to reach ten. Let’s just hope they’re saving their A game for the Mavericks preseason.”

  Several pretty girls behind him started jumping up and down, their boobs bouncing dramatically underneath their skintight attire, and chanting Mavericks! Mavericks! Mavericks! behind him.

  The comments section of the live feed starting blowing up with various versions of Go Mavericks! but my eyes couldn’t stop themselves from finding their way back to the gorgeous—and extremely busty—women standing near his table.

  Of course there’re just a bunch of girls hanging around him…

  Hell, this was probably a daily occurrence for a man like Quinn.

  “All right, friends,” he announced into the camera. “It’s been real. But I gotta get off of here to check in on my kitten.” He grinned, wide and proud, before waving goodbye with his left hand and ending the video.

  And the comments section of the video switched gears, leaving their Mavericks victory calls behind and going straight for everything kittens.

  @therealdiva Quinn Bailey has a kitten?

  @unicornMaverick OMG I want to see Bailey’s kitten!!!

  @hollylovesmavericks Post pictures, Quinn!!!

  @MrsQuinnBailey Awwwww he has a kitten! That’s so cute!!!

  Eventually, once I spotted the Instagram handle of @MrsQuinnBailey, I clicked out of the video and shut my laptop screen.

  It was all a little too much for me to take in.

  How could I compete with all of that?

  Instead of fixating on things that were beyond my control, I decided a distraction in the form of a drink and a snack was much-needed.

  As I headed into the kitchen to grab a can of Mountain Dew, my phone pinged and vibrated across the counter. I picked it up and al
most choked on my own saliva when I saw the text message.

  Quinn: Hey, kitten, how’s the ficus?

  After the cab ride home, a good thirty minutes of pictures and promises for my cab driver, and a quick shower, I’d jumped in my car to head over to the bar, Doolan’s, where at any given moment—when we weren’t at work—you could find at least one of the Mavericks hanging out.

  Noise buzzed around me as the bar got busier by the minute.

  This always happened after I posted on social media, essentially confirming to droves of local followers that I was somewhere they could come see me.

  It never stopped me, though, from posting when I felt like it, telling it like it was, or even giving away my location.

  I lived a public life, and I knew full well that I’d signed on for it. I didn’t resent it like some people did, and I certainly didn’t think I was above the consequences. Instead, I embraced it. I lived at the center of my bubble and did my best to look out for both my interests and those of the people around me.

  Unfortunately, sometimes, my cavalier attitude about social media etiquette and personal privacy led to fights with my publicist and agent and even Jilly from time to time. Apparently, she was tired of opening packages with women’s panties inside at my home address.

  Thankfully, Sean and Cam Mitchell were doing a good job at distracting the droves while I focused on my phone as it buzzed with a response from the woman I wished would stalk me the most.

  Catharine: He’s watered and sleeping like a good boy.

  Me: Is sleeping the only thing good boys do?

  Five minutes passed without a response, and the fans started to infiltrate the invisible barrier around me. I was good at staring at my phone, keeping my focus, and doing my thing until I was good and ready to interact with the public, even when people were staring at me, but having nothing to actually do on said phone while waiting for a response from someone that might never come made it a hell of a lot harder.