Preston Brooks Jr.
With about 400 square feet you wouldn't think my room could feel small. But with a view over Central Park, a more than decent flat screen and a walk-in wardrobe full of designer clothes you would also think there is nothing I could wish for, right? I lay down on top of my black silk sheets and stare at the ceiling, spinning my phone around in my hands while spinning thoughts in my head: Usually I would just go out after a scene like that. Blow off steam with some random girl who thinks I will make her the next Upper Eastside princess and almost begs me to disappoint her, too. But I know I should call her. And at the same time I really shouldn't because after the encounter with my dad I'm in no state of mind to make any good decisions.
The funny thing is, even if I made a decision for myself, it would be of little consequence. If I try to break up with her, I'll face trouble with my dad. If I am honest with her, she'll probably refuse to let me burst her pink bubble of fake happiness and pretend I was joking. Let's be honest: Whichever way I choose I am screwed. My throat constricts around the feeling of impotence I try to swallow down. That's what I hate the most about this situation: Feeling powerless. Feeling like I have endless opportunities but no alternatives. Like I can go wherever I want in the world just to end up right where I am. I might have the world at my finger tips, but I'm too paralysed to reach for it.
I am about to just throw my phone against the wall when I hear my door click open. For a second I am afraid my father has decided I didn't already feel enough like a worthless disappointment and came to make sure he really got his point across. Then she comes in: She carries a basket of freshly ironed clothes in one arm and tries to open the door with her other, almost stumbling into my room, pretty head first. Her hair in a messy bun, white blouse only half way tucked into her short black skirt that hugs her curves like a second skin. She catches herself at my dresser, regaining her balance but sending the clothes flying through the room. "Fuck!", I almost laugh at her little enraged curse and slowly stand up, keeping my eyes on the brunette present that just walked straight into my room and doesn't even see me yet.
"Careful there. We don't want you to break your neck in your first week, do we?" I know she didn't count on anyone being here at this time of day. Much less did she count on me standing right behind her. She jumps, almost loosing her balance once more and I cannot stop myself: A low chuckle escapes my lips as I reach for her waist. Only to stop her from falling, of course. She spins around. "Shit, I didn't know .. sorry. I mean. Excuse me, Mr. Brooks. I thought you would still be ... I just wanted to. And then the door. Shit ..." I let her babble, enjoying the way her face heats up under my carefully controlled, serious face. Crossing my arms in front of my chest I wait for her to realize it would probably be better to just shut up. When she does, I raise one brow and look to the floor where my once fresh clothes ended up. She hesitates for another second, just staring at me, then she blushes again. "Sorry, I should probably ...", she bends down to reach for one of my white button downs and I can really not complain about the choice of uniforms my mother made for our staff. "Ana, right?" She stops mid-movement. "Yes, Ana—" "Blane," I finish for her.
She annoyedly brushes a loose strand of hair out of her face, that has freed itself from her sloppy hairdo and looks back up at me, her face still blushed. "Don't look like that. I help my mother pick staff," I shrug. "Well, then thanks for the job," she says, reaching for another piece of clothing. I don't know what it is. I'm too busy watching her. "Thank you for the fresh clothes," I move one corner of my mouth into my most charming half-smile. She rolls her eyes at my teasing comment. "No need to thank me, it's my job," she has almost regained her confidence. "Well, you obviously don't plan on keeping it for long, do you?" I take a step closer, forcing her to arch her head back, to be able to look at me, while she picks the last shirt up off the floor. Her hand freezes in mid air as the meaning of my last sentence finally sinks in. "What? Please, no. I ..." I will straight out admit that seeing her getting all nervous makes me hesitate for a second longer before I smile again, rolling my eyes at her. "Because I bet you would rather work somewhere related to your major. Law, right?" She swallows and I can see, she is still recovering. "I am very grateful I found this job," she is picking her words carefully now. But so am I. "You know, if you are looking for a job in, let's say, one of the biggest law firms in Manhattan ... I could help with that."
YOU ARE READING
Being Perfect
Romance"There's no such thing as perfect," he says while softly brushing a strand of loose hair out of her ridiculously perfect face, smiling at the irony of his own words. "But if there was, you'd be pretty close." I had the perfect life. Until he destroy...
