by Amity Cross
The universe must’ve been listening because the elevator shuddered violently, and I fell back against the wall, my hands curling around the railing. My heart began to pound so hard I thought it was going to burst right out of my chest. We were totally going to free-fall right to the bottom and go splat. The light flickered, then everything went into total darkness before the light switched back on…but we didn’t start moving.
“Looks like we’re stuck,” Jude said, speaking for the first time. His voice was sexy. Deep and husky with an unmistakable Aussie twang to it.
I sucked in a sharp breath, my heart still beating double time. No shit.
Looking cool as a cucumber, Jude flipped open a compartment below the bank of numbers, pulled out an archaic telephone receiver, and pressed it against his ear.
“Hello? Yeah, we’re stuck.” He paused as whoever was on the other end replied. Glancing around, he said, “Yeah, number is two seven eight oh… Yep.” He glanced at me, and I flushed. “Just me and a woman.”
He turned back around, listening to the person on the other end. I looked him over, my gaze pausing on his ass—his tight, firm ass. Oh shit, I was in trouble.
Jude glanced back and caught me staring, and I felt my cheeks flare.
“Could be half an hour,” he said to me, a knowing smile on his lips. His lips.
Half an hour? Yeah, I was in big trouble. My heart began to speed up as reality set in.
I was stuck in an elevator with Jude Atwood.
Bloody hell.
Episode Two
Elevate
Jude hung up the phone and glanced at me.
“The cavalry is on its way, but it looks like we’ll be here for a while,” he said, watching me shrink back into the corner. “Do you have a thing with confined spaces?”
I shook my head. I had a thing with human interaction, and it flared up when people I’d fantasized over were close. Yeah, fantasized in the traditional sense that I had a crush, but it was all about his character in the show, not him as a person. I had no idea who Jude Atwood was in real life.
Sliding down the wall, I sat in the corner, pulling my knees up against my chest. I focused on the denim of my jeans, studying each thread intently so I didn’t have to look at him.
After a moment, he sat in the opposite corner, making himself comfortable. Taking a chance, I peeked up at him, and I saw that he was playing with his phone.
“No reception,” he said, catching my eye. “But there’s Wi-Fi.”
I shrugged, and he went back to his phone and typed something out on the screen.
“Twitter,” he said with a wink.
My mouth dropped open. “You tweeted that you’re stuck in an elevator?”
“So?” He shrugged. “It’s a good story. People are coming to get us, so whatever.”
I rolled my eyes. He was nothing like his character on the show, but of course, he wasn’t. He was an actor for heaven’s sake, and a part of his job was milking everything he could while his star was still shining.
“I’ve already got seven retweets,” he declared a moment later. “And a reply from my agent.”
“Glad your ass is covered.”
He looked me over with a raised eyebrow. “You’ve got bite for a woman who blushes a lot, but your type usually does.”
I didn’t grace his highness with a reply. I just crossed my arms over my chest and tried to disappear in my tiny corner. I wasn’t sure what he meant by my ‘type’, considering I never went to these things, but I reckon it had a lot to do with my exterior…and the lanyard around my neck wasn’t helping.
“What’s your deal?”
I shook my head. I already got wind of his deal. Jude Atwood knew he was hot stuff and didn’t mind rubbing it in. I’m sure it got him lots of places that were nice and naughty.
“Looks like we’re going to be stuck in here a while,” he said, prodding for a reply. “Or would you rather sit in silence?”
I was good with silence. I wouldn’t inadvertently humiliate myself that way, not that he’d be interested in a girl like me. There was nothing about me that said glamorous, not with my blue flannelette shirt, jeans, and combat boots.
“So…” Jude began just as things were becoming awkward.
“So what?” I sighed heavily and glanced at him. Here was my chance to not give a shit about what anyone thought of me and just say what I was thinking. The chances of him remembering me after we got out of this three-by-four death box was slim to none. Actually, it was just none. Plain and simple. If I could talk to Jude Atwood, then maybe I had a chance at being slightly less of a freak when I did get out of here.
He raised his eyebrows like he was surprised I wasn’t fawning over him.
“You don’t know who I am?” he asked. “Usually, by this point, there’d be selfies and autographed boobs and someone would try and grope someone…”
I snorted. He was the homegrown Aussie who’d made it big overseas and was on every hottest man list in the world. Of course, I knew who he was. He was always in the paper or in some gossip segment on the TV or in some ad for underwear. Thinking about the undies ad, I flushed.
“I’ll take that as a yes,” he said, leaning back against the wall and pocketing his phone. “Who are you?”
“A nobody.”
“Everyone’s a somebody,” he shot back.
I clamped up, a flush rising in my cheeks. I didn’t expect him to be so…quick witted.
“What do you do?” he asked, trying to get an answer out of me.
“Why do you want to know?”
“Just making conversation. You know what I do,” he said with a shrug. “Occupational hazard.”
“I work a shitty job at a supermarket,” I retorted, rolling my eyes.
“Is that all?”
“What do you mean?” I scowled, hugging my arms around myself even tighter.
“You must do something other than that,” he went on, not put off by my prickly exterior. “People usually work shitty jobs to earn cash while trying to get someplace better. Unless…”
I glanced at my lap awkwardly.
“What?”
He really wanted to know?
“You’re not a hooker, you don’t have the look.”
I glared at him. Nothing about me said prostitute, the asshole. Everything said awkward. Dork. Nerd. Loser.
“What’s the big deal?” he asked with a lopsided smirk, a dimple appearing in his cheek. “We’ve all got dreams.”
I was sure he was taking it someplace dirty to get a rise out of me, but I was too darn stubborn to give him what he wanted.
“I write,” I murmured, my cheeks burning.
“Of course you do,” he said to himself. “Comic convention, volunteer tag…” I felt like bashing my head against the wall, but then he asked, “What do you write?”
I glared at him. Writing was my thing. It was personal. Sacred. I didn’t want to share it with him, and that was the problem. That was why I was floundering and getting absolutely nowhere. Lux Dawson was sinking because she couldn’t get out of her comfort zone and go out into the big bad world. That was the reason I was here, right? Maybe if he was interested he might… Damn it to hell. Epic fail.
“Supernatural Suspense,” I said after a moment.
His brow furrowed in thought. “Like the show.”
It was a statement, but I nodded.
“So you have seen it,” he said, clicking his fingers to punctuate the end of his sentence.
I nodded. “Supernatural detective agency.”
“Do you like it?”
Blinking hard, I realized he might actually be a nice guy. He seemed interested in a roundabout way. “I haven’t seen it all, but I liked what I have.”
“We just wrapped on season two,” he said with unashamed pride. “Just heard this morning that the network picked us up for a third.”
“Good for you,” I drawled. It was hard to be chipper about his outrageous success when I wa
s barely keeping my head above water.
He narrowed his eyes. “What about you? Not going so well?”
“It’s hard to get noticed.”
“Well, I wasn’t an overnight success, you know.”
“Sorry, I…”
“Don’t worry about it,” he said, waving me off. “I get it.”
I let the conversation peter out, but it didn’t look like he was finished making observations about me.
“Do you need to wear those glasses?” he asked.
My head snapped up, and I glared at him. “What’s that meant to mean?”
“It means I think you could be pretty underneath all of that.” He gestured his hands absently, referring to my…well, my everything.
I sucked in a sharp breath. I couldn’t tell if he was being genuine or patronizing. Maybe he was that good of an actor.
“Don’t get pissed,” he went on. “I can tell you’re shy. You don’t need to be.”
I narrowed my eyes, feeling one hundred percent inadequate. He didn’t know a thing about me, he was right on the money, but he didn’t know that he was. My first reaction was to lash out and lash out hard. “Do you read romance novels so you know how to moisten women’s knickers?”
“Shit.” He shoved a hand through his hair.
“I’m not like the women you undress with your eyes, so just quit it.”
Jude shook his head, looking bewildered. “If we weren’t stuck in an elevator, would you say the same thing to me? Or is the heat getting to you?”
I rolled my eyes and retreated further into my corner. “Gag me.”
He leaned forward, and a lazy grin pulled at his lips. “Gladly.”
“God, you’re a pig.” I wanted to slap the stupid smirk right off his perfectly chiseled face. Then I wanted to bang my head against the wall for being turned on at the thought of touching him there.
“Stop rising to the occasion,” he retorted. “Don’t be so hostile, you might miss something great.”
My cheeks began to feel hot yet again, and I turned my gaze onto the doors, willing them to open. The air was growing warmer with every minute that passed. Didn’t these things have ventilation?
He was right, wasn’t he? I was being unreasonable. He was just trying to make conversation in his own way, but it didn’t mean he had to be a smart-ass about it.
“Do you like that stuff? Is that why you’re volunteering?” he asked, and I had to give him points for still giving it a go.
“Not really,” I replied.
“Then why are you volunteering?”
Wasn’t that a loaded question.
“I’m sure you don’t care,” I replied, staring at my knees again.
“Why wouldn’t I?”
I glanced at him out the corner of my eye. He was interested? In me? I was beginning to think this was one of those hidden camera shows, and any moment now, the doors would open and a laugh reel would sound. In what world would Jude Atwood be interested in a highly-strung nobody like me?
“Because I’m me, and you’re you?” I replied uncertainly.
He snorted and shook his head before pulling his phone back out.
“Ahh, shit,” he said.
I raised an eyebrow at his tone, already not liking where this was going one bit.
He gave me an apologetic look. “We’re on TMZ already.”
“Obviously,” I retorted, trying to squish down a panic attack. “You were the one sticking it up on Twitter.”
“Sorry,” he said, shoving his free hand through his hair. “Hey, at least—”
“Hello? Sir? Madam?” We both turned our gazes onto the doors as a new voice echoed through the metal, and whatever Jude was going to say was swallowed up by the promise of rescue. “I’m with the Melbourne Fire Brigade. Can you hear me?” The fire brigade?
“Yo!” Jude called out, climbing to his feet. “I hope you’re here to crack us out of this nut.”
“We’ll have you out in a few minutes,” the man replied. “Stand back against the far wall, please.”
Jude leaned against the wall next to me as I stood, and he caught my eye. “You’ll be rid of me in two shakes.”
I sighed, sinking into my hair. It was so damn hot in here.
“Do you have a card?” he asked as the sound of machinery echoed loudly through the doors of the elevator.
“Why?”
He rolled his eyes. “Do you have a card or not?”
I blinked hard, totally dazzled, and fumbled for the little rectangle that held all my info. He reached out, and I placed my card into his palm, careful not to let our skin touch. He smiled and shoved it into the back pocket of his jeans, not even glancing at the bit of paper I’d spent hours agonizing over. Should I put my Twitter on it? Should I change the design? Did I have any typos?
I bet he’d forget it was there the moment the doors opened. Tomorrow, some maid or minder would put his dirty clothes in the wash, and that would be the end of Lux Dawson’s business card. There go her dreams, tumbling around and around in the washing machine and dissolving down the drain.
The doors wedged open slightly, revealing that the elevator had stopped right at the level one lobby area, and the floor was at knee height. Unfortunately, it was a part of the hotel that was still accessible to the public, and as soon as the doors slid the rest of the way open, a million camera flashes went off with a pop, click, pop, momentarily blinding me like a wild animal caught in the middle of a busy highway.
Paparazzi? Bloody hell.
The firefighter at the front of the pack held out his hand and beckoned. Jude nudged me forward and mouthed the word ‘sorry’.
Burning a billion shades of mortified, I grasped the firefighter’s hand, and he hauled me up the step while someone shouted at the throng of vultures to stay back.
I just came over to the hotel to fetch some guy’s Chewbacca flash drive, and now I was that chick who’d been stuck in an elevator with Jude Atwood. I could already imagine the speculation about what had happened in that three-by-four metal death box, and all of it was dirty.
The firefighter helped me up the gap, but at the last second, my foot caught on the edge, my hand slipped from his, and I fell.
I could see the floor rushing up to meet me, and I knew it was going to sting…and I knew this pivotal moment would be captured on film and uploaded directly to YouTube where it’d get a million plays by dinnertime. The thing was I couldn’t do a bloody thing to stop any of it.
My knees connected with the tiles, and I wasn’t sure what was more painful—the look on Jude’s face as I caught his gaze between my legs, the camera flashes, or the actual throb that seared through my skin.
“Miss, are you okay?” the firefighter asked, and I nodded, tears of humiliation welling in my eyes. I needed to get a grip…and get out of here.
He helped me to my feet, and a paramedic came forward, her arm out. Great, they’d rolled out the five-star rescue squad for Mr. Popular.
The woman guided me to a squishy leather bench as the cameras went off while Jude climbed out of the metal death box behind me. At least they weren’t interested in me anymore, and I could disappear as soon as the woman had done her job.
“Are you feeling dizzy at all?” she asked as I watched Jude shake hands with each of the firefighters as the paparazzi had a field day with their trigger fingers. They were shouting questions at him while hotel security was attempting, and failing, to get rid of them.
“I’m fine,” I muttered, cringing slightly as they asked who I was. Jude turned and cast his gaze around like he was looking for me.
“Your knees?” the paramedic asked.
Jude’s gaze met mine, and I shook my head. I didn’t want them to know who I was. All I wanted was to fade into the background. I wasn’t a star, I just wanted to write the scripts that made them famous. I didn’t need to be on the cover of a trashy magazine to make that happen. Anyway, I didn’t think my confidence could handle a spectacle like that.
“Keep an eye on them. That was a hard fall, so you may have done more damage than that.”
I snorted at the irony. Sometimes emotional pain was far worse to deal with than physical wounds.
As I sat there and let the paramedic finish checking me over, the perfect tag line for my author brand came to mind. Lux Dawson, desperado dork.
When I looked back, I was surprised to see that Jude was still watching me. He smiled and nodded…and that was it.
It wasn’t until he turned away and melted through the crowd of paparazzi that I realized he hadn’t once asked me what my name was.
I’d blown my chance, and now I was nothing more than a reject on TMZ with my humiliation destined for worldwide syndication.
Best birthday ever.
Episode Three
The Spiral and the BOOM
Luckily, the elevator incident was over before it began, but that didn’t stop it from rolling around in my brain for weeks after the fact.
Every time I closed my eyes, I’d see the floor rushing up to meet me, and I’d die of embarrassment again and again like it was on an endless loop of shame.
Melody got a huge kick out of it and told me not to worry about it. She was totally jealous that I got to spend some one-on-one time with Jude Atwood. When I told her that I’d blown it, she was disappointed but was her usual supportive self.
Next time, she’d said, but she and I both knew there probably wouldn’t be a next time.
Life went on, and I went to work every morning at the ass crack of dawn to bake prefrozen, thawed out, mass-produced bread, then I went home and worked on my next story. Just because nobody wanted to read them, didn’t mean I was stopping. I was on book number five and up to the make or break part where Scar was in mortal danger. The killer was stalking her through the streets of New York’s seedy underbelly, but she was using herself as bait as her boyfriend of the moment, a buff dude who could shift into the form of a panther, watched from afar. He was going to take out the bad guy the moment they revealed themself.
