Page 81 of Dropping the Ball

“Elevator SWAT,” he repeats. “Not sure that’s a thing.”

The mellow way he says it puts my teeth on edge. The calmer he gets, the higher my frustration climbs. “Can you pry open the doors?”

His laugh dies when he realizes I’m not being funny. “For real?”

“Yes, for real! I’m late.” I try, but my nails are just long enough that I can’t slip my fingertips into the crease where the doors meet. I shift, pressing my chest and face against one of the doors, then brace my feet and sort of . . .

“What are you doing?” Micah asks.

“Getting this thing open.” I push in the opposite direction as hard as I can, trying to slide it by force of will, maybe, but I’m also holding my breath, which explodes in a whoosh when my forearms give up on a feat of strength they weren’t trained for.

“Could you do something?” I snap at Micah while I pull off a shoe then wobble on my bare foot while I yank off the other one.

“I’m thinking.”

“That doesn’t seem to be getting the door open.”

“Your way won’t work either. I know enough about elevators to know that.”

“It works on TV.”

He doesn’t comment.

Frustration is building a head of steam so dense I can’t believe it’s not giving me super strength to yank the doors open. I look at the ceiling. “Can’t we go through there? That’s how people always do it on—”

“TV?” He shakes his head. “If I can get up there, I still won’t be able to pry open the doors, but I guess it’s worth figuring out where we are between the floors.”

It takes two steps for him to cross to the rear corner beneath the panel. I don’t like the frown on his face. He reaches, but he has to go up on his toes to touch. His shirt rides up, exposing his abs, lean and long as he stretches.

I drag my gaze to the ceiling hatch. Nothing happens when he presses, so he works his fingers around the edges.

After a minute, he drops down and points to the center of the hatch. “Locked. That cranny is for a key. Can’t do anything without it.”

“This is stupid.” I have never sounded less calm, cool, or collected, but I don’t care. Why is it so hard to try to do a good thing like make it to a meeting that will give me the momentum I need for this auction? Why do even the things that work out take five extra steps, like Gabriela Juarez’s demands?

Helplessness buzzes under my skin, and I’d rather be standing naked on an anthill. At least I could kick it and walk away.

“Could you move over this way?” I ask.

Micah makes the two steps a saunter. “You want to try?”

I bend down and swoop up my shoes. “No. I want to dothis.” I stalk to the corner beneath the hatch (it takes me three steps) and jump, shoe in hand, trying to swat at it. I don’t even get close, which only makes me angrier.

“This escape room sucks!” I yell, throwing my shoe at the hatch as hard as I can. It bounces off with a dull thump and falls to the floor. I have never been so disappointed in a Louboutin, and I don’t care at all that it’s scuffed now.

“What are you—” Micah starts to ask, but I slice him with a death look so fast that he presses his lips together.

“I’m not trying to open it. I’mpunishingit.” I throw my other shoe. The heel hits, making a slightly louder noise before it falls. I scoop them back up, ready to chuck them again, when Micah steps in front of me, squatting slightly, arms out in the universal sign for “piggyback ride.”

“If you want to get the point across, you probably need to smack the snot out of it.”

I climb on and he straightens. I take a half-dozen serious whacks before I drop the shoes and press his shoulders.

He lets me down. “Did it help?”

I go sit in the control panel corner. “No. But thanks for the lift.” I rest my head against the wall and close my eyes, listening to the rustle as he sits down too. “How are we going to get out of here?”

“Might have to wait until morning, when the crew comes in.”

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