Page 94 of Passing Ships

Fuckity-fuck-fuck.

I dust the sand off as best I can and stomp over to the harvested ranunculus and gather them up.

Mission accomplished.

“Amiya,” Lennon calls, and I turn to him.

He’s wiping at his slacks and eyeing me warily.

“It’s fine. So my split’s a little higher now. I needed something to make me stand out from the other bridesmaids anyway. I’m gonna have to roll with it,” I state.

Lennon’s gaze travels from my bare feet, up my leg, and to my hip, and he shakes his head. “Your pussy is going to be purring at the guests.”

That should make me stand out for sure.

Amiya

After dropping off the ranunculus for the new, improved bouquet to Naomie and deftly avoiding her having a hissy fit over my ripped dress, I meet Lennon at the stairwell to help him return the ladder.

Why is it harder, carrying it back down than it was carrying it up?

He’s holding the front and leading the way, bearing most of the weight. Once we make it to the bottom of the steps, I guide him to the third door down.

“I think that’s the one we borrowed it from,” I say.

He uses his elbow to press the handle down and his foot to wedge the door open.

He takes a step inside and stretches as far as he can to hold it open for me.

“I’ve got it,” I say, and he moves deeper into the dark space.

I, however, do not have it, and the heavy steel door starts to close on my leg as I hold on to the bottom of the ladder with one arm and feel around on the wall for the light switch.

“Owwww,” I cry.

Lennon lets out a string of curses as he drops his end and turns just in time to pull me into the pea-sized space before the door crushes my shin.

“Thank you,” I gasp.

We’re now wedged between the wall and the ladder that barely fits the length of the small closet.

“Are you sure this is where it’s supposed to go?” he asks.

I blow a loose curl from my eyes and look around. “Yeah, no. This doesn’t look right. It was hanging on a set of hooks. And the storage room was much bigger. I must have miscounted the doors.”

He sighs. “Okay. Get the door and hold it open. I’ll back this thing out,” he instructs.

I do as he asks, but when I try to open the door, the handle doesn’t move. I begin to frantically jerk at the metal bar, but it doesn’t budge.

“No, no, no, no, no,” I chant as my chest grows tight.

“What’s wrong?” Lennon asks.

“It’s locked,” I cry.

“It’s probably just stuck. Let me try.”

I let go and back up. Trying to make myself as small as I can, I press my body against the wall so he can squeeze past me.

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