In Case of Emergency

by Jenny Bunting

  Nothing happens.

  “This is not good,” I say.

  “No shit,” he says calmly, punching every button like Buddy the Elf with no results. The doors open a few inches, then freeze. No way either of us could squeeze our three-dimensional bodies through.

  He steps back, hands on his hips.

  “Well, this is not promising.”

  “No shit,” I serve back. “We’re stuck.”

  “We’re not stuck. Just momentarily stagnant.”

  Mr. Kennedy moves around, calm as a bomb defusal technician, trying the buttons, trying to open the doors while I stand in the corner, unable to move.

  “Some help would be appreciated,” he says. “We should try to open the doors.”

  “I asked my neighbor to carry a watermelon for me the other day,” I say. “I’m not your girl.”

  “Fine. I guess there’s a reason I pay for my trainer.”

  Mr. Kennedy takes off his suit jacket, and a tiny gasp leaves my mouth. His shoulders are so broad, the muscles straining against the fabric…

  No. I stare at the ceiling. The panels look movable. Will I have to crawl out of that like a blonde John McClane? Mr. Kennedy will have to hoist me up, so nope. I can’t have him touching me, even if it would be really cool to climb through an air duct.

  Mr. Kennedy takes his big hands and tries to pry the doors open and I watch like the weak woman I am. My head tilts as I study his triceps bulging against his shirt. His grunts transport me to an unwanted fantasy, him over me, moving in and out of me as I writhe in pleasure. I can see the shadows and crevices of his back muscles, defined and sinewy, and that ass in those pants…

  Cassie, stop objectifying this terrible man.

  I sincerely apologize to my gender for my lack of help in this situation and the fact I can’t stop staring at his arms.

  “Mr. Kennedy, I don’t think it’s working,” I say.

  “Please. Call me Smith,” he says, stepping away, out of breath with a light sheen of sweat on his brow.

  “Smith,” I repeat, the word foreign and intimate on my tongue.

  Heat swirls in my core, and I cross my legs like a high-end nineties model.

  “What are we going to do?” I whine.

  “I think we’re stuck, Ms. Gallagher,” Smith says, turning around. “There, I said it. Stuck. Do you have your phone?”

  I fumble with my purse and pull out my device. My hand is shaking so much, I almost drop it.

  I try to text. I try to call Nessa. Nothing.

  I hold it up. “No service.”

  “Perfect,” he says, rolling one sleeve up.

  Good God, his forearms. I shake my head. He pulls his own phone out of his pocket and checks. “I got nothing either.”

  He stands there, inactive. Has he given up?

  It’s up to me; I’m my only hope. I summon every spiteful bone in my body, because only my wound-tight, no-sex-in-three-years, vengeful ass can get us out of this fucking death trap.

  “Out of my way,” I say, exploding from my safe corner.

  Smith steps back, giving me space to try everything he did.

  I stab the open and close buttons like a middle-schooler at a crosswalk. While I can barely do a low-impact Pilates class without feeling like I was hit by a bus the next day, I still try to pry the doors open. My heels slide against the slick floor as I try to find leverage.

  “It’s not working, Ms. Gallagher.”

  “Call me Cassie.” Like you did after I quit. Say it like you wanted to bend me over the desk that day.

  Oh my God, what is wrong with me? I hate him, I hate him, I hate him, I remind myself.

  I spend at least three minutes trying to pry open the doors, and a light sweat breaks out across my forehead, joining the dark moons of armpit sweat on the silk of my dress.

  My panic has reached an eleven.

  “Fuck…this…shit,” I say, taking the chain of my purse and beating the door with my bag. A loud guttural scream comes from the depths of me, fueled by five years of work dissatisfaction.

  “I…cannot…be…stuck…in….here….with…him.” I say in between screams.

  When my voice has grown hoarse, when I have calmed down, I turn around to see Smith standing there. His steely eyes fix on me and I crumble in his stare.

  “Are you done?” he asks.

  My mouth gapes open.

  “Everything will be fine. We need to hit the button with the bell. Can you do that for me, Cassie?”

  His tone is patronizing, infuriating. Why didn’t he hit the bell button?

  Also, my name on his lips destroys me again.

  No matter how rude he was to me, no matter how much he ignored me, no matter that he yelled at me, I will always rise and pledge allegiance to the dumb bitch anthem with my whole heart.

  Instead, I stand there and cross my arms. Smith’s eyes roll hard as he reaches around me, his arm inches from my breasts, to press the button himself. I hold a breath. He glares at me as he hits the In Case of Emergency button.

  “We’re in this together,” he says. “You don’t have to act like such a brat.”

  I fire back. “Let’s not start on who the bigger brat is, Smith.”

  “Look, I’m not happy either. Being stuck in an elevator is not ideal,” Smith says.

  “With me, you mean.”

  His square jaw grinds, his lips rubbing together. Damn, those lips. I’ve never seen a better pair of lips wasted on a man whose personality didn’t deserve them.

  “I’m not a fan of being trapped. However, I do not regret being stuck with you. Seeing you scream was very entertaining.”

  “You are insufferable.” I fume as the corner of his lip flick to a smirk.

  “Why are you smiling like that?”

  “Like what?” His lips break to a full-teeth smile, mocking me. Daring me to react.

  “I will not engage. I will remain classy and in control of my volitions,” I say to myself.

  “What?” he asks, that cocky grin still there. His eyes, all sparkling and happy, clearly delight in my useless mantras. “You’ve always made me laugh.”

  “I’m glad my distress is amusing you.” I could never hide emotions well, so Smith definitely picks up on the disgust on my face.

  Smith crosses his arms, still smiling. “Oh, I knew it. You hate me.”

  Non-catastrophe Cassie would politely deny it. Catastrophe Cassie has no filter.

  “I hate you because you hate me,” I retort. My thumb bludgeons the call button so aggressively it hurts. “Why are they not answering the call button?”

  “Well, it’s good to see you have some fight in you. Reminds me of the woman who worked for me.”

  “You’re lucky I’m not in the mood to go to jail tonight,” I say to him.

  I’m still contemplating second-degree murder when the intercom saves me from a criminal record.

  “Uh, hello?” the voice from the intercom asks.

  “Hi, we’re stuck in the elevator. I think between the fourth and fifth floor. Can you get us out?” I ask.

  “Oh, okay,” the voice says. “Are there any medical emergencies?”

  Thank God I didn’t murder Smith and have to deal with the blood. I answer, “No, we’re fine.”

  The intercom crackles to silence.

  I look back at Smith, and he shakes his head at me. “You are handling it beautifully. I’ll just watch.”

  I fume as my eyes dart from the doors to the intercom. I slap the elevator for emphasis, but damn that really hurt. “Where did he go?”

  I start pacing. I jump up and down, which was a mistake. My heels are killing my feet just by standing.

  “What if the cord breaks and we plunge to our death because you’re jumping like that?” he asks, folding his arms. He leans against the wall, next to an advertisement for the restaurant on the ground floor.

  “That’s not funny,” I say in horror, pointing a finger.

  “I think it’s hilarious
,” he says. I roll my eyes.

  The intercom crackles to life again, and I stand directly in front of it.

  “So, I called the elevator technician, and he said it will be an hour and a half.”

  “An hour and a half?” I ask. “An hour and a half?”

  “Yes, ma’am,” the voice says. “It’s Saturday night in San Francisco.”

  “I know that,” I say. “Can’t you call someone else?”

  “I’m sorry, ma’am. We’ll get you out of there as soon as possible.”

  I stamp my feet like I’m five.

  A loud gurgle fills the elevator. My head snaps in Smith’s direction.

  “What was that?”

  “My stomach,” Smith says.

  “Tell your stomach to pipe down, Mr. Kennedy.”

  “Seriously, call me Smith. We worked together long enough.”

  Until you yelled at me.

  “What kind of name is Smith, anyway? You already sound like a law firm.”

  “Absolutely,” he says. “Smith Cooper Kennedy. My destiny secured.”

  “Of course that’s your name.”

  The intercom switches on.

  “We’ll get you out of there as soon as possible, ma’am,” the voice says. There is a pause, but the intercom still buzzes with energy. “We’re really sorry about this.”

  Then, the voice is gone, and the silence wraps around us like a poisonous vapor.

  I slide to the ground. The fight has left my body.

  I am stuck in an elevator with Smith Kennedy. Oh excuse me, Smith Cooper Kennedy. The man smug enough to have a law firm for a name when his name is literally part of a law firm.

  I almost cry for the seventh time today, but I shake my head. No, we’ve made it five years of not crying in front of this cocky salt-and-pepper-haired asshole. He doesn’t deserve my tears.

  Especially when I only cry at animal shelter commercials. Those dogs deserve every bit of liquid from me. This man does not.

  Closing my eyes centers me, and when I open them again, Smith is sitting as well, one leg bent, his other leg out straight. His suit jacket is draped over the handrail.

  I unstrap my shoes. If we’re going to be here for a while, might as well get comfortable.

  “Are you ready to talk now?” Smith asks.

  “Sure,” I say. My eyes close again. If I don’t look at him, maybe it will be easier.

  “I’m really unsettled with the way things ended,” Smith says. “Between us.”

  It sounds like we ended a relationship, not that I quit as his employee. Smith, all gruff and no-nonsense, sounds soft and vulnerable. I’m so confused.

  My eyes snap open. "It was nine months ago. It's all worked out. I have a very successful YouTube channel. People appreciate me there. I get hundreds of emails saying I cured their insomnia, that they can relax with my videos when they usually can’t otherwise…”

  “I know,” he says. My eyes narrow on him. Has he watched my videos?

  “You don’t watch ASMR,” I say with a laugh. “That’s what my videos are. I’m sure you’ve never heard of it.”

  “Oh, I have. I watch ASMR videos every night. I’m highly receptive to the response,” he says. “Also, it knocks me right out.”

  “Huh,” I say. He definitely comes off as someone who would make fun of it or not understand it.

  I’ll give him a half point for that. But he’s still terrible.

  “I’ve actually watched some of yours,” he says.

  My head balloons with anxiety. I feel naked, exposed. “Oh, really. What do you think?”

  He shrugs.

  Aaaand his half point is taken away.

  “I’m proud of you, though,” he says.

  My jaw drops. I’ve never heard him say those words.

  God, he is such a dick.

  “Why did you never say nice things like that to me at work?”

  Smith looks away quickly. The gears turn in his head. “Let’s not talk about that.”

  “Well, you brought it up.”

  “Let’s talk about something else,” he says, staring off to the corner.

  I roll my eyes as I sift through all my typical getting-to-know-you questions. “Favorite TV show?”

  “Buffy the Vampire Slayer,” he says without skipping a beat.

  Excuse me, what?

  3

  I love Buffy the Vampire Slayer. As a mostly unmonitored eight-year-old, I watched it religiously and was convinced I would be called upon to be a slayer. I asked my mother for heeled boots and held long pieces of bark like a stake. I used to dedicate time every morning to practice my vampire slayer moves.

  Buffy’s influence even followed me to adulthood. It’s why I have three pierced holes in my right ear and two in my left. It’s why I wear gray polish too much and I’ve always been open to a large age gap with a partner.

  It’s why I’m snarky.

  Now this man I detest holds the same affection for arguably the best paranormal TV show ever made. Excuse me, best show ever made, period.

  “I’m shocked,” I say.

  “Yeah, well,” Smith says, standing up and folding his arms. His triceps pop against his white shirt, and I swallow…hard. “That program was revolutionary, and the comedy writing is some of the best of its time.”

  He’s pacing now, like I paced earlier. Is it nerves?

  “It’s not weird,” he says, nervous of my reaction.

  “I have an important question,” I say. He turns, his face pale. “Angel or Spike?”

  His shoulders relax. “Angel, without a doubt,” Smith says. “I also watched his show. When I say I’m a fan of that whole world, I meant I may or may not have been to a Comic-Con wearing a long trench coat.”

  Smith, my cool and collected former boss, went to Comic-Con. He cosplayed at Comic-Con.

  “Did you have fangs?” I ask. He turns to me with an icy stare.

  Oh, he totally has that shit.

  “That’s so…nerdy,” I say.

  Smith’s pale cheeks collect red. His eyes do not look at mine as he says, “That show kept me company when I went away to college. I used to tape it on VHS in my dorm room and watch them when I got lonely. Fandoms give people more than you know. It gives people a sense of connection, a sense of community.”

  Smith’s fists clench while his resolve crumbles. This man, who I thought had no feelings, whatsoever, is a bona fide sensitive dork underneath it all.

  A dork who owns fangs and a trench coat.

  That…is so hot.

  I’ve never been into roleplaying, but I totally could get into some Angel and Buffy scenarios.

  I’ve also never been into biting, but damn, I could get into that, too.

  Smith sits down again in a huff, his arms draped across his knees. I scoot closer to him so our backs are pressed against the same wall.

  I knock his shoulder with mine, a split decision I instantly regret. The touch sends tingles down my arms, more than any ASMR video could.

  “Confession time,” I say. “I used to watch it, too.”

  “Oh yeah?” he says and he pauses. “Do I want to know how old you were when it was airing?”

  I laugh. “I remember getting into it in first grade.”

  “Jesus,” he says. “How old are you?”

  “Thirty,” I say. “You?” I already know, but he doesn’t need to know that.

  He chuckles, looking away. “Much older than that.”

  “I just thought the gray hair was from being an attorney.”

  “I wish,” he says. “My dad went white at forty-eight. I’m not quite there yet, but it’s going to happen.”

  “I think aging hair is great.”

  “Ouch,” he says, a smile breaking his façade.

  “No, this is a true story. I’m being dead honest when I say this,” I offer. “I figured since you offered up Buffy, I could give you one of my most embarrassing nuggets.”

  His eyes dance with amusement. “Go on.
”

  “I thought I was in love with Alex Trebek but it was just a teen crush.”

  “Seriously?”

  I nod. “I used to watch Jeopardy! every night, and my mom had no idea why. I never cared about trivia, and I was an average student. It was that salt-and-pepper hair, man.”

  Oh my God, I just called my former boss hot in a roundabout way. A man I hated like a half hour ago. I’m losing my edge.

  “So, I’m just the hair to you,” he says. “I see.”

  “You’re more than the hair. It’s your sparkling personality.”

  He laughs out loud, from deep in the recesses of his throat. His laugh makes me giggle, one of those laughs that you can’t help join in on.

  “Rapid fire questions. You game?”

  “Go for it. What else are we going to do?”

  How about you take this dress off with your teeth—

  “Favorite weekend activity?” I fire off.

  “Brunch.”

  “Me too,” I say, smacking him on the shoulder. “Bloody Mary or Mimosa?”

  “Mimosa. Just leave the bottle,” he says.

  My cheeks warm. I love bottomless mimosas.

  “Funniest thing to happen in the office since I’ve left?”

  Smith looks to the ceiling for a thought. “Nessa messed up my birthday cake.”

  “You got a birthday cake? You’ve never wanted one before.”

  “This past year has been rough, okay?” He smiles wistfully, and I turn to a puddle. “She actually picked up the wrong one at the bakery. The cake was a huge eggplant emoji with a fondant Band-aid on it. It said, ‘Congratulations on your vasectomy, Hank.’”

  I cover my mouth at the image of this stoic, serious man receiving a penis cake.

  “Did you eat it?”

  “I did. I can’t turn down cake,” he says. “It was delicious.”

  I’m dying now, flopping over in laughter.

  “The floor is disgusting, Cassie.” I turn onto my back, convulsing in laughter. We catch eyes, and my giggles halt. His gaze shows that more than his stomach is hungry.

  I sit up immediately, getting off my back. The less I remind either of us of sex, the better.

  Now that Smith might not be that bad.

  “Most embarrassing story?” Smith asks.

  “I have many, but the most recent was when I fell off a Brew Bike,” I answer with a laugh, remembering the fun Saturday activity I did with my friends. Until I broke skin.