Page 36 of All Twerk, No Play

“I’m sorry, ma’am,” a polite voice crackled from the speaker. “I’ve alerted the local fire department, but since nobody present has an urgent medical condition, we used the non-emergency line.”

“I’ll develop a heart condition if you don’t get me out of this elevator,” she said, voice dripping with venom, her sky-high heels clicking against the tile floor as she paced. “Can you call my office to let them know about the delay?”

“Company policy dictates that I can only contact emergency services and the building maintenance department.” Victoria’s anger redirected towards me, silver irises boring into my skull. “The contact person on file is …” Her voice sweetened. “Oh, you’re in Cruz’s building?”

“Hey Tracy, I’m stuck in here too,” I spoke up past the lump in my throat. Victoria had been so frustrated she’d taken control, not letting me speak. “My cell isn’t getting service so I’m afraid I'm no help. If I weren’t here, I have Victoria’s business partner as her emergency contact”—which is wild, didn’t she have any family?—“so I’m unable to support my tenant. Maybe you could make an exception to call her office?”

“I’m not supposed to, Cruz.” Her voice was tense.

Yeah, after that tongue lashing I wouldn't want to help her either. “Jorge insists nothing’s wrong, but you and I both know these shafts are haunted. My mom sent holy water from Guadeloupe but I haven’t booked the priest yet for an exorcism,” I said, which elicited a chuckle through the speaker. “Ms. Blackstone is new to our building, she hasn’t made her annual sacrifice to the elevator poltergeist yet.”

The building itself was built in 1894, and about ten years ago, a historic preservation builder renovated all the luxury apartments to add modern upgrades while keeping the original doors, brick fireplaces, and stained-glass windows.Residents found it charming … except when the elevator shit the bed. Which is why Tracy and I had become well acquainted.

She relented. “Fine, give me his number.”

Victoria rattled it off from memory, checking her phone again for the nonexistent signal.

I shifted back and forth, but it wasn’t pacing. It wasn’t! Pacing would imply that I was nervous, and I definitely wasn’t.

Cool gray eyes assessed me. “Don’t tell me you’re claustrophobic.”

“Okay, I won’t tell you,” I said as her lip curved slightly. “Not claustrophobic exactly. I’m ok in small spaces as long as I can get out.”

“What’s the other one? Not being able to escape?” She tapped her forehead twice, then after a moment, snapped her fingers. “Cleithrophobia.”

My mouth dropped open. “How do you know that?”

"Alexander’s brother Nick tutored me one summer. It's from the Greek for 'to latch closed,'” she said like it meant something. Was Nicholas Clarke a famous ancient linguistics scholar?

This was why I usually took the stairs … except for when a sexy redhead steps into the elevator and I want to see her scowl when I wish her good morning. Guess that backfired. “Sounds right, for being trapped in a small metal death trap hanging from a wire that might plummet to our death.”

“New York building code dictates each elevator has six to twelve cables, each able to hold the weight of a full car.” She gestured calmly to the elevator ceiling, her expression oddly affectionate. I tilted my head in surprise. “It was on the New York brokerage exam. We won’t fall to our death,” she said with such cool confidence that my fear began to subside. It still prickled at the back of my skull, but her measured rationality eased the tightness in my chest. “The real danger isn’t the fall, it’s heat stroke if the fans don’t circulate air.”

The fear returned … tinged with a vision of a sweaty redhead as my last sight.

There were worse ways to go.

“Well, if I’m going to suffer heat stroke with anyone in the building, I’m glad it’s you and not Mrs. Samuelson from 406. Her breath smells like fish sticks and bleu cheese.”

She smirked. “Were you locked in a closet as a kid?”

“Close. Spent a few years on a ballistic submarine, which is a windowless metal tube with no contact with the outside world.” I looked around our shiny coffin. “Promised myself that when I got out, I’d never have another day without the sun on my face.”

She checked her phone again then sat down on the cold tile floor, brows lifting higher as she clocked my fidgeting. I gripped the hand rails, forcing myself to stop pacing.

“Can we do something to take my mind off this …” I gestured loosely to the death trap.

“Like what?”

“Truth or Dare?”

“Are we twelve?”

“Nah, by then I’d moved onto Seven Minutes in Heaven,” I grinned and folded my arms across my chest, looked at my reflection, realized how nervous I looked, unfolded them, but it didn’t help so I refolded them.

She sighed. “Fine, truth or dare?”

“I asked you first.” I said. She glared at me, always in control. “Fine, truth.”

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