Page 118 of Not Just a Trick Play

“Easy. Pencil Dick’s head in a box,” Helena, ever bloodthirsty, jumps in.

“I’m thinking Pencil Dick’s dick,” Yvonne adds. But then wrinkles her nose. “But that would be too gross.”

“The heads of all her enemies!” The relish in Carla’s voice tells me I better get back in charge before we’re all wearing matching orange jumpsuits.

“I’ll figure it out,” I tell them, already backing away. Who knows what wild ideas they’ll cook up? “I gotta go.” Because I need to track down Amelia. I need to look her in the eyes and tell her I’m hopelessly, stupidly in love with her. That I can’t breathe, can’t think, can’t do a damn thing without her by my side. She’s it for me.

“Okay. Well, let us know if you need anything. We got your back.”

And who has Amelia’s? As the chorus of support follows me out the door, it strikes me now how Amelia’s never had anyone to cheer her on like this. She’s always been a team of one, and there I was, mad that she didn’t just fall into my arms without a second thought. So maybe I should have spent a little more time earning it versus being pissed that I didn’t have it handed over.

CHAPTER FIFTY-ONE

AMELIA

A faint whistlein the wind turns the urban hum into something resembling the soundtrack of a low-budget horror film. I swallow as I stand before the towering glass-and-chrome monstrosity Jake calls home. Better not count the number of windows to the top if I don’t want to lose my lunch.

Very well, then. Time to breach the first portal to hell.

Yvonne texts that Jake’s at dinner and in a foul mood, probably not sticking around. Anxiety spikes in my chest, but I push through the revolving doors—only to be stopped by a different doorman than before.

“And you are?” he asks, pure gatekeeper. My stomach drops.

“Amelia Stevens,” I reply with feigned hauteur, attempting to sound like I was expected and not on a quest that could very well end in a restraining order. He peruses the visitor list with all the urgency of a sloth, then finally tips his chin in a nod, granting me passage.

My strides slow as I approach the lifts until I’m all but dragging my feet. A ping, the harbinger of doom, is followed by a sly whizz as the doors open. And then there I am, face-to-face with a distorted version of myself in the mirrored interior.

Am I truly doing this? The character staring back has her doubts.

The car pings again. And again. My red heels have grown roots.

Come on. You’ve done this before. One small step for man, one giant leap for sheer and utter madness.

I cross the gap from solid ground to the coffin on a string.Breathe. Breathe.Yes, fat lot of good that does when I’m tasting bile on my tongue.

Slowly, I spin to face the opening. My fingers reach for the side panel, trembling as they hover a bare millimeter from the topmost button.

I squeeze my lids tight and suck in another lungful of air. They rise again on the doorman, watching curiously from his desk.

I can’t imagine what he must think. But only when he moves toward me do I manage to finagle enough courage to hit the “P.” Panic now.

As the steel doors slide shut, my eyes beseech his. “Come find me when I’m gone.”

I believe the response in the wanker’s is, “Girl, you be crazy.”

And then I’m alone with nowhere to go but up. I back myself into a corner and clutch the rails on either side as the ascent begins.

Vibrations, ever so slight, wrack my body. I dig my heels into the lush carpet, searching for traction.

This is so much harder without Jake to distract me.

Pings sound for every floor we pass, and each one sends a jolt through me.

Ping. What will he say?

Ping. What if he tosses me out?

Ping. What does it matter? I’ll be dead before I make it.

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